After traveling with São to Saint Petersburg, I sensed that she was keen to be perceived as a personality. Who else could look at a Jack and the Giant–sized lapis lazuli urn in the Hermitage Museum and say, “Everything is relative,” when everyone else was swooning? Content to be admired, São was also a beautiful woman and prominent couture client who had been painted by Salvador Dalí and Andy.
“Amongst the ladies in Paris, São was the closest to Andy,” says Bob Colacello. “She was a genuine lover of artists and liked hanging out with bohemian types. Whenever she came to New York, we always had a lunch for São and a dinner for São. She went to crazy gay clubs with us. She was funny. Nothing could shock her.”
I knew that she had financed Robert Wilson productions and attended Andy’s shows such as the Hammer and Sickle exhibit in Paris and Drag Queens in Naples. At the time, however, I didn’t realize that she helped finance Warhol’s retrospective at the Beaubourg in Paris in 1990. “The museum was short of money and São was singled out,” says Vincent Fremont. This led to her insistence that her portrait be used for the exhibition’s poster. “There was more than one poster,” adds Vincent.
There were those who were scared of São. She could be blunt, even bitingly rude. But she was always nice to me, sensing that I was on her side. To my mind, São was an adventuress and cultured gypsy in couture who shared my horror of mixing with stiff, conventional Parisians.
With this in mind, I suggested a portrait of São in her favorite room. She immediately agreed. Looking resplendent on a sofa in her bright emerald-green library, the Portuguese-born socialite was photographed by Christopher Simon Sykes wearing a Saint Laurent haute couture suit. Everyone was amazed by the coup, particularly Graydon.
A clandestine meeting was arranged with Monsieur Carter in Paris. I was flattered and excited by the idea of working at Vanity Fair. Finally, I would be out of the Fairchild orphanage, I thought. The only potential fly in the ointment was a meeting with Hamilton South, Graydon’s acolyte and socially connected editor. I’d made inquiries about the handsome Hamilton, who was alternatively described as “so charming” and “Little Miss Evil,” a line from All About Eve. Our meeting felt as if I had been put into a cage with a tarantula. First, Hamilton asked who I knew. My list of friends sounded pathetic. I forgot about Lynn Wyatt, DVF, Éric and Beatrice de Rothschild. However, it prepared me for Hamilton’s next question: “So, does W magazine know that you’re here?” Looking at him straight in the face, I replied, “Er, I guess they do now, Hamilton!” Ten days later, I returned to Paris to be informed by Kevin Doyle that I was getting a forty-percent pay raise. So I guess I should thank dear, dear Hamilton and Christian Louboutin, who had pushed me to meet Graydon.
Right from the start of our friendship, Christian drilled the necessity of being more up front and taking everything less personally. On one occasion, I had been complaining about running after the actress Hanna Schygulla for an interview. The former muse of German director Rainer Werner Fassbinder, she was either impossible to get ahold of or would telephone at midnight and propose the interview then and there. I said, “It’s so embarrassing, I’ve called her about fourteen times.” And Christian replied, “It’s hardly embarrassing, cherie, you’re just doing your job. You’re being professional. She’s not. But there’s no reason to take it personally. Separate the two.” Sound advice that I’ve never forgotten but rarely keep to.
At the time, Christian’s shoes were sold only in the first arrondissement. There were naysayers who hinted that it couldn’t last. He and his business partners did choose to launch the brand in 1991, a catastrophic year financially. However, I would have bet my last penny that Christian was going to explode and that his brand would become famous. He thought on an international scale—rare for a Parisian—was photogenic, and a delight for all journalists, yet he had a grounded attitude toward his business.
Naturally, I wrote about Christian for W. It was his first article in the American press. However, it was another W article, written a year later by my fellow editor Heidi Lender, that would actually attract buyers. As usual, Christian arrived late, and as Heidi waited, Princess Caroline of Monaco appeared. The mention of Grace Kelly’s daughter led to interest and sales.
India Hicks, a model and the daughter of David Hicks, the interior designer, introduced Christian and me. At first, I found Christian invasive and controlling. Then, at an Italian playboy’s house, we bonded over the story of François, my first beau in Paris. I had been bored. So was François, actually. So one night, I just wrote Au revoir, François with my red lipstick on his gilded eighteenth-century mirror and then caught the Métro home. The telephone was ringing off the hook when I arrived. ’Twas François, who was furious. Not because he missed me—the Gallic charmer—but because how would he “explain the lipstick mess to the maid”?
Before meeting Christian, my social life in Paris was determined by my lack of French speaking skills. Occasionally, I did think, Is that all there is? Where were the bohemian Parisians, the Jean Cocteaus of the day? But thanks to Christian, I was suddenly thrust into a fascinating world that was composed of famous French actresses and directors, fashion muses, decorators, gallery owners, antique dealers, and journalists.
Christian transformed my existence in Paris. I can only compare it to sitting in a poorly lit room and turning the light on. Being part of his gang meant rushing after work to his tiny flagship on the rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau. There always seemed to be action, either in his boutique—trays holding coupes of champagne would waft down the Galerie Véro-Dodat from the nearby café—or general silliness at the Galerie du Passage, owned by Pierre Passebon, one of his best friends.
Behind my back, Christian had painted my childhood as very Wuthering Heights meets Gormenghast. Depending on his mood, he described my family as either scrounging herbs off the land or drinking one another’s blood. “They wrote notes as opposed to speaking,” he would whisper. So when I turned out to be a straightforward loudmouth with a healthy appetite, his friends were pleasantly surprised. True, my French was pretty good rubbish, but I got the jokes.
Many nights with Christian ended up at Natacha’s—the Parisian version of Elaine’s, and the “in restaurant” of that period. He knew Natacha Massine, the feisty owner, who served questionable food but was responsible for the winning ambience. “Christian, tell your friends to quit making so much noise,” she would yell. It didn’t stop us. Meanwhile, I would totter around on his high heels, with Minnie and Mickey—his nickname for my cleavage—on prominent display.
Suddenly my articles were infiltrated with a refined sense of Paris. Jacques Grange became the main feature of “Le Chic Rustique,” my article about the “gauche caviar” (champagne socialist) mood in 1992. It described how elegant Parisians like the interior designer were no longer holidaying in Saint-Tropez but choosing the bucolic bliss of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence instead. Wearing velvet carpet slippers, a seductive Jacques was snapped among a herd of sheep. Mr. Fairchild was delighted. It was everything that W aspired to: capturing a new trend and showing an exclusive talent in an astonishing setting.
Paris was changing. On the one hand, there was the small but powerful contingency of couture clients where Hubert de Givenchy ruled supreme. Relied upon for his approval, the revered designer advised on their eighteenth-century interiors and was the type to insist that full makeup was de rigueur on vacation. In force, such dames turned up for the retrospective of Le Grand Hubert’s work at the Palais Galliera. Since they defined stiff and unapproachable, it was more exciting to meet Yves Saint Laurent. “Bye-bye,” he said mischievously, imitating Mr. Fairchild. Then to interview Audrey Hepburn, whose voice and manner were as enchanting as her face. Finally there was my attempt to chat up and quote Bunny Mellon, the American grande dame. Dressed in Givenchy, she flew off mid-sentence when realizing that I was from WWD.
Meanwhile, there was the other side of Paris where la vie b
ohème was beginning to seep in. Dinners were given in the kitchen as opposed to stiff affairs around the dining room table, and W was the first magazine in America to reflect on the changing social phenomenon. There was also a growing interest in gardens, or so Mr. Fairchild sensed. One Friday afternoon, I was sent off to the countryside to cover Courson, France’s relaxed equivalent of the Chelsea Flower Show. It was pouring rain, someone informed us that Jackie Onassis had died, and just when I was thinking that it was a wild-goose chase, Italian style icon Marella Agnelli appeared. Andy had done her portrait in 1973.
Occasionally, Mr. Fairchild could get it wrong. Writing about a Ferrari-crazed dentist in Germany who claimed to have done Liza Minnelli’s choppers as well as a mild-mannered plastic surgeon in Belgium were probably a little off kilter. Yet in general, he had a sixth sense about social events and fads. He did not like divas among his staff. Occasionally, I was put back in my basket. Well, major attempts were made.
Fortunately, he was not around for my Reine Margot adventure. And I think the beady-eyed Kevin Doyle must have been crazed from handling all the foreign editions of W Fashion Europe—a new magazine that was published in French, Italian, and German—because it was left unnoticed that I slipped off for three days to be filmed among French stars such as Isabelle Adjani, Daniel Auteuil, Jean-Hugues Anglade, and Pascal Greggory.
Naturally, it had happened through Christian, who egged on his girlfriends to be audacious in much the same way that Andy did. At Natacha’s restaurant, we were often bumping into Patrice Chéreau, La Reine Margot’s director. One night, I pushed myself onto Patrice—flaunting Minnie and Mickey in customary fashion—and said, “My white skin is perfect for your film set in the sixteenth century.” It was, and—true to his word—I was contacted.
I was accompanied by Suzanne von Aichinger—a top catwalk model—and we both behaved shamelessly. Wearing elaborate Renaissance-style wigs and corseted to the nines, we unabashedly flirted with every straight man or gay cutie who crossed our path. I particularly gave the baby-blues goo-goo treatment to the gorgeous camera operator.
Our main scene was with Anglade and Auteuil. Although devastatingly attractive, they were so serious about their craft that both Suzanne and I became rather tongue-tied. My favorite moment was actually watching Patrice in action. For one long scene, he spoke Italian to Virna Lisi, then French to Isabelle Adjani, then German to Ulrich Wildgruber, and then Italian to Asia Argento. The way he used his hands, the way he spoke, it resembled a linguistic dance. Alas, Patrice is no longer with us. He was gruff but a great.
27 Fashion’s New Guard
In the 1990s, cocaine had hit Paris again. And certain friends and acquaintances would crowd around the recognized providers. Personally, I didn’t need the white powder. I was totally high on working at Fairchild. Empowered by the reputation of the Ayatollah of Fashion, I was in the eye of the storm as well as belly flopping with a series of delicious but ultimately disastrous love affairs.
In total denial of my “Faster, faster, James, and don’t spare the horses” existence, my main concern was my hair. An adorable Spaniard called Katie would straighten my bob with flounce in a local salon. “Natasha, you look like Liz Hurley,” Patrick once screeched. The married Mr. Fairchild, on the other hand, was impressed that I had found a hairdresser in spitting distance of the office. “Good for you,” he said.
Actually, it wasn’t particularly “good” to base my entire mood and existence on the state of my hair. But it was my one bid at being Parisian, or so I convinced myself. During the period, I bumped into an Italian ex-admirer. “Where are your curls?” he said, clearly dismayed. Away with the birds, like her good old-fashioned common sense, someone might have answered.
“Mon dieu, you and your colleagues were pests,” remembered Caroline Laurence, who then worked at Ralph Lauren. At the time, everyone else seemed more serious. Heidi Lender was the fashion editor, Godfrey Deeny and Katie Weisman were covering the business beat, and Sarah Larenaudie and Alev Aktar were writing about beauty. Nevertheless, the Fairchild credence was instilled in all of us: a door slammed shut meant a window. When Women’s Wear Daily released financial figures concerning French fashion or beauty, complaints were directed to Godfrey or Sarah. Complaints about the social coverage, however, were my department, and rarely happened by telephone.
Just as I was feeling rather chic at Sybilla de Luxembourg’s royal wedding—I had squeezed into a vintage Saint Laurent suit and was about to hop into a chauffeur-driven car with a Belgian prince—a Parisian socialite stood in my path. Screaming like a fishwife: it concerned my article about her ball. “How dare you not publish pictures of Sally Aga Khan?” she said. “She came with Amyn Aga Khan,” the crazed blond continued. It was embarrassing for three reasons. I didn’t realize that the Aga Khans had been at the party (a serious Fairchild faux pas), it felt as if my waistband was slicing into my stomach, and I was worried about missing my lift. Fortunately, the explosion swiftly blew over. Or rather, her sensible husband whisked her away with a fixed smile plastered on his face.
Paris had become such a heady swirl. I was out every single night and could be counted on to expose Minnie and Mickey in a snug Rive Gauche top or Azzedine Alaïa dress and wearing my Louboutin heels that were medium height then. The European fashion scene had also livened up with a changing of the guards. I lucked out and met two individuals—John Galliano and Tom Ford—who became pivotal to the movement. They were completely different. John was a flamboyant romantic who designed his own label, shown in Paris, whereas Tom, promoted to Gucci’s creative director, was a mean machine and brilliant strategist striving for perfection in Milan. Yet both were to light slow-burn candles in the industry and gradually go from strength to superpower.
I’d heard about John from my London friends. He was then the unruly boyfriend of Jasper Conran, a designer I’d worn in London in the 1980s. Viewing him as “the real deal,” Malcolm McLaren had used John’s design for his Fans album cover. After seeing John’s collection in September 1991, I understood the fuss. The show defined charged. Outlandish for the period, there were models sporting ringlets and/or vast galleon-type hats on their heads. Rigby & Peller bras and panties peeped through the long transparent white dresses, but there were also superbly crafted jackets. I was sitting next to Godfrey, and we both turned to each other afterward and agreed that it was different and incredible.
There was a new talent in town and he was called John Galliano. That often happens in fashion: one show can be enough to start the tom-tom drums rolling in Paris. Still, when we got back to the Women’s Wear Daily offices, our enthusiasm was ignored. Writing a few lines for the paper would be enough.
And there marked the gap between my generation and that of Patrick McCarthy, Kevin Doyle, and Etta Froio, who was Patrick’s accomplice and a top editor at WWD. They were interested in power and advertising via Gianfranco Ferré at Christian Dior, Hubert de Givenchy, and Yves Saint Laurent, whereas Godfrey and I recognized that a sensual and feminine rock-and-roll rebelliousness was needed in the fashion ranks. John Galliano understood that like few others. It was an exalted mix of lightness of touch and fantasy.
He also managed to win over the discerning Parisians immediately. They were moved by his savoir faire—crafting a jacket in a tiny attic—and his obsessiveness, such as holding a wedding dress under the full moon to change the fabric’s tone. It also appealed that his financing kept falling through. He was an artiste, after all, and that happened.
For one mythical collection in 1994, São Schlumberger lent John her former home—a seventh-arrondissement hôtel particulier—while supermodels such as Linda Evangelista, Christy Turlington, and Cindy Crawford worked for free. Seventeen looks were achieved in three weeks using remaining stock fabric and fusing 1940s tailoring with Japanese Kabuki. Deemed a hit, it would eventually lead to Galliano’s signing a contract with LVMH’s Bernard Arnault and getting the house of Givenchy.
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The Kabuki collection was exquisite, but I was more stirred by his 1992 collection at the Salle Wagram. Put together with spit, the models appeared shimmering with lilac powder. Accompanied by Christian, I felt this extraordinary experience. Mr. Fairchild referred to it as a tingling in the toes. The conditions were lousy. Most of the seats were broken. Yet the artfully lit stage highlighted the delicate artistry of the bias-cut clothes and it became a moment.
A few weeks later, I saw John in quite different circumstances. Out with the fairies, he had scrambled down onto the floor of a friend’s brand-new BMW and was wailing, “I want Christian, I want Christian.” Louboutin was his comforting self. John did not barf and there was a sigh of relief all around. Well, particularly from my friend’s husband.
This wasn’t a situation that would ever occur with smooth operator Tom Ford, who had first gone to Studio 54 with Andy in 1979, was acquainted with the Factory, and, with the help of Paige Powell, had even started writing a screenplay about the artist based on Bob Colacello’s book Holy Terror. We were introduced by Cristina Malgara, who did Gucci’s PR and was one of my best friends. It was difficult not to be charmed by Tom, who was good-looking, funny, and a delicious flirt. Still, I could not believe what a perfectionist he was.
At one point, our talk had turned to the supermodels. “Some of them really need to change their voices,” he said. “I mean, they look so beautiful and then they open their mouths and it’s a disaster.” He had a point, but was it really worth it, I privately thought. Then we discussed a film star he’d seen topless on the beach in St. Barts. “She should get a tit job,” he offered. Considering her romantic success, it sounded unnecessary.
After Andy Page 27