The Chiffon Trenches

by André Leon Talley

  Fred always wore bespoke everything, including tennis-stripe jackets and skinny jacquard silk ties. His shoes were polished, the way English dukes polish the same pair of shoes for decades until they become like soft gloves for the feet. Fred’s apartment was decorated with first-rate antiques, and he let his house become a bed-and-breakfast for all the young ladies who wanted to be part of the scene. Some would stay indefinitely.

  Everything was kept in a state of pitch-perfect perfection, including Fred’s highbrow fake English accent, hysterical considering he was from Houston, Texas. His mannerisms, his dandyisms, his snobbism were toxic to my budget but auspicious for my aspirations.

  Casual dress was the regular uniform, which made it easy for me to create a distinctive imprint. I wore fine vintage topcoats, found in a local thrift shop on Fifty-fifth Street for ten bucks, and tweed trousers, never jeans, as I never felt comfortable in a pair of jeans.

  Mrs. Vreeland would often take a taxi down to the Factory for lunch. On those days, sandwiches would be ordered from Poll’s on Lexington Avenue: chicken on brown bread, and a small shot of Dewar’s for Mrs. Vreeland, her healthy tonic. Just a shot glass at lunch and that was it. It was a different time.

  One day, Mrs. Vreeland came to the Factory with Gloria Schiff, a great beauty and twin sister to Consuelo Crespi, Italian editor for American Vogue. I overheard them having a highly pitched debate: “Gloria, what do you mean you discovered Marisa Berenson at a debutante ball!” exclaimed the imperial Vreeland. It was, in fact, Vreeland who had put Marisa Berenson on the map, having seen her at Elsa Schiaparelli’s house in Paris! Elsa was Marisa’s grandmother, and Elsa never forgave Mrs. Vreeland for introducing her to the world of high-fashion modeling.

  For all that I made seventy-five dollars a week; the social life that came along with it was surely priceless.

  —

  When it came time to assign fashion stories, I was the go-to fashionista in the office. My knowledge and passion in this area were recognized and I was quickly promoted to fashion editor. I now had the opportunity to interview some of the most exciting stars of society, fashion, and international jet-set acclaim, including Carolina Herrera, the elegant designer from Caracas, Venezuela, who later dressed Jackie Kennedy when she lived in New York. I did Carolina’s first official interview, in a lavish spread.

  Bianca Jagger was my favorite stylish subject. It was her time; she had wed Mick in the south of France, wearing an Yves Saint Laurent suit and a sweeping portrait hat with a veil. The Rolling Stones were playing at Madison Square Garden and Andy sent me to the Pierre hotel to pick up Bianca, and her wardrobe, and bring them to the studio to be photographed for a cover. Bianca answered the door and motioned to me to walk quietly. Mick was asleep. We tiptoed around the rock star to the huge walk-in closet off the bedroom suite. Quietly, we piled up her beautiful clothes and her favorite shoes that season, Charles Jourdan espadrilles on a high wedge sole. She had a half dozen of that same ankle-wrap wedge platform sole, in an array of colors.

  All of this was packed in tissue and layered in extraordinary Louis Vuitton cases, unlike any I had previously seen. They were actually custom-made hunting cases, used to pack guns for grouse shoots. Because of the length, she could pack her Zandra Rhodes crinoline evening gowns flat, no folds, in these coffinlike cases. She had bought them in Paris, at the avenue Marceau Louis Vuitton store.

  Bianca and I took a taxi, piled high with her Vuitton luggage. We bonded over our deep admiration for her friend the shoe designer Manolo Blahnik, and we went on to become friends.

  —

  When it came to having access to the elite echelon, Andy provided it, taking me everywhere I wanted to go, from dinners at Mortimer’s to movie premieres in subway stations. I met everyone at some movie premiere—C. Z. Guest, Caroline of Monaco, Grace Jones, Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  With Andy, anyone could be anyone and everyone was equal—a drag queen or an heiress. At the Factory, if you were interesting, you were “in.” And while he could be seen out and about at night, Andy also went to church every morning to thank God for his life, his money, and his mother.

  Andy could be naughty. He could also be vicious, but never to me. From time to time he would put his pale white hands in my crotch (always in public, never in private) and I would just swat him away, the way I did annoying flies in summer on my front porch in the South. Once, we went to see an afternoon movie with Azzedine Alaïa on the Upper East Side and Andy kept grabbing me. Every time, I would scream out, “Andy!”

  Azzedine was in hysterical tears. Andy was naïve; nothing he did offended me. He saw the world through the kaleidoscope colors of a child. He was a kind person, and I considered him a very dear friend, too.

  When Andy was in a good mood, he created small, signed pieces of art for his staff.

  A silkscreen print from one of his series, or a small painting, like a candy heart in lace on Valentine’s Day. It was a quite generous perk.

  While creating his so-called Oxidation paintings, aka the “piss paintings,” Andy asked me to participate.

  Instantly I said, “No thank you, Andy.” All I could think of was my grandmother, or my mother, or father, hearing about me. Peeing for art? It would have broken Mama’s heart to think that although I was living a successful, adventurous life in New York, I was spending my time creating paintings with urine.

  Andy also asked me to participate in the Sex Parts paintings. We were in Interview editor Bob Colacello’s office and Andy said, “Gee, André, just think, Victor Hugo is doing it. You could become famous, make your cock famous. All you have to do is let me take a Polaroid of you peeing on the canvas. And I will give you one as a gift.”

  Victor Hugo the writer is not whom Andy was referring to, but rather Victor Hugo the male escort, who was Halston’s lover. Handsome, from Venezuela, notoriously well-endowed, and possessed of beautiful skin, he was also a window display artist for the Halston boutique and had apparently now somehow gotten a gig at the Factory, doing these outpourings of overt sexual exploration.

  Was his name really Victor Hugo? No, of course not. There was nothing really remotely Victor Hugo about Victor Hugo. He never quoted the literary giant. He never spoke about him. He didn’t subscribe to literary brilliance. But he did piss on a canvas for Andy Warhol, and his penis did indeed become famous.

  Andy loved hanging around with Victor and often included him in his Factory workshop life. I knew him well, but I was not witness to his thrusting full, erect penises into his mouth in a working session with Andy, while others were going about their duties, putting out Interview.

  As ghastly as it seemed, at some point Andy did indeed elevate pornography, or pornographic interests, through Victor Hugo. (For the record, I have no doubt: Andy never had sex with Hugo, except with his Polaroid and his art.) Victor invented himself as an artist, as a disrupter, as a unique individual in New York’s cultural mix. One of his Halston windows featured a hospital tableau, with a woman giving birth in a Halston dress. He once had a live chicken dipped into liquid the color of blood and left it alone to walk along the corridor, the white-carpeted corridor, of Halston’s East Side Paul Rudolph townhouse. Just to “shock” Halston. It worked; he was shocked.

  American designer Norma Kamali worked on Madison Avenue and befriended Victor. He would pass by nearly every day. One day, Norma was draping a new swimsuit; the next day, the design had been leaked and ended up as a Halston original on page 1 of Women’s Wear Daily. Norma confronted Victor, who responded like a naughty child, caught doing something forbidden.

  Later, he was forgiven: Victor arrived in Norma’s studio with a gift—huge surplus silk parachutes. She skillfully turned them into high fashion, jackets, shirred trousers, ball gowns, and jumpsuits, with the pull releases intact. Diana Vreeland later insisted they be included in her Vanity Fair Costume Institute exhibit. Norma turned defeat into victory!

  One night around this same time, Reed Evins and I were houseguests of Calvi
n Klein at his home on Fire Island, in the elegant Pines section. We ended up sharing a bed, and as we were falling asleep, Victor came in and crashed on top of us. Uninvited.

  He fell asleep like a bear in winter hibernation. Reed and I, curious about the legendary size of his penis, pulled back the white sheet and exposed the family jewels, which Reed described as the size of “a Schaller and Weber salami.” It was uncircumcised is all I remember. That night, we slept with Reed in the middle, Victor on one end, and me on the other.

  —

  In 1975, Karl Lagerfeld was already head creative designer at Chloé and perched to take his place at the top of the fashion world. Chloé had been a staid, bourgeois house for housewives who could afford good ready-to-wear in Paris. After Karl got there, Chloé became extremely influential. Grace Mirabella, who had replaced Mrs. Vreeland as editor in chief of Vogue, was married in a Chloé white turtleneck blouse, embroidered with pearls. That was a big thing—to pick a Chloé look, as opposed to an Yves Saint Laurent.

  Prêt-à-porter, aka ready-to-wear, was taking off, and Karl always had a knack for delivering bizarrely innovative clothes that were unanimously acclaimed by retailers and press alike. He’d make a print with robots and space mobiles and turn it into a $1,000

  dress. His jewelry could be big plastic red roosters or chickens, or plastic Magic Marker– colored tulips on a necklace, over a luxurious foundation, like a black redingote wool coat, exquisite and expensive, made to last through generations.

  The clothes were surreal and sophisticated, but most important, they were youthful and inspired. This was represented in Karl’s approach to the Chloé fashion shows. They purposefully didn’t have an assigned lineup of models and outfits. Backstage, Karl would tell the models to pick whatever they wanted to wear from the rack. That is unheard of even to this day, where shows are micromanaged down to the smallest details. After the show, he’d tell the models to keep the clothes they’d worn. They didn’t make that much money at that time and this was a way of saying thank you.

  Interview was planning a Paris-themed issue, and Karl was due in New York to promote his new Chloé fragrance. Karl had never been profiled for Interview before, and Andy suggested that I conduct the interview, for which I am forever grateful.

  I did everything I could to prepare for meeting Karl. Serious research. I knew Karl was influenced by eighteenth-century French style and that he was emulating it in his own personal life. As a longtime Francophile I knew the basics, but I dug deeper to prepare. I read every interview he had done and researched as many of the references he’d made as possible.

  When we arrived at the Plaza, we were directed upstairs to a large suite. I sat down across from Karl in the living room, my notebook ready. Members of Lagerfeld’s entourage floated in and out of the bedrooms. Seated next to him was his boyfriend, the handsome and debonair Jacques de Bascher. Andy and Fred Hughes had accompanied me, as well as famed fashion illustrator Antonio Lopez and Juan Ramos, friends of Lagerfeld’s who had just returned from Paris to take up residence in New York. Antonio was creating visuals for the Paris Interview issue. In previous years, Antonio’s creative energy had helped drive Karl Lagerfeld. Now there was a noticeable chill between them.

  I wondered what the story was but focused instead on what I had come to do.

  Lagerfeld was bearded and dressed in a bespoke crêpe de chine shirt and a six-foot-long muffler. I had on khaki Bermuda shorts, a pin-striped shirt and aviator glasses from Halston, knee socks, and moccasin penny loafers. We spoke about the eighteenth century: the style, the culture, the carpets, the people, the women, the dresses, the way the French entertained, set a table. It wasn’t labored or anything especially deep, but I learned a lot in that conversation and was grateful for the knowledge.

  “Fashion’s fun and you can’t really take it too seriously. Frivolity must be an integral form,” Karl said to me. As we spoke, Antonio drew us, while Juan directed him on the right position and attitudes to convey. Andy and Fred sat quietly, the minutiae of proper attire in an eighteenth-century court likely going right over their heads. How exhilarating, being able to prove myself to Andy and his team as they sat quietly and listened. Karl seemed impressed by my desire to learn and gave me a great interview. My Southern manners helped, I’m sure. It would be easy to imagine how cocky and brash a young editor at Interview had the potential to be.

  Afterward, we all had high tea. The whole thing was so elegant. Then, quietly, Karl asked me to follow him into his private bedroom.

  Andy smiled widely and shyly, as though he couldn’t imagine what this was. I smiled too, nervously. I could imagine, but I was trying my hardest not to.

  I followed Karl into the huge bedroom, crowded with Goyard jacquard trunks and suitcases of every possible size and dimension. He opened the trunks and, out like a geyser spitting forth toxic ash, he threw beautiful silk crêpe de chine shirts in kelly green and pink peony, each with a matching scarf.

  “Take this. It will look good on you. Take that. I am tired of these shirts! You should have them.” He’d had these shirts specially made by the gross at the Paris firm of London haberdashery Hilditch & Key. They had long sleeves and beautiful buttons, like smocks. I took them happily.

  Those shirts were the stars of my wardrobe; I wore them like a badge of honor, until they wore out. That’s how Karl and I first met. We would stay friends for forty years.

  Until we weren’t.

  III

  Andy poached Rosemary “Armenia” Kent from Women’s Wear Daily ( WWD) and made her editor in chief of Interview. Rosemary lasted about a year, but Mr. John Fairchild, whose Fairchild Publications owned WWD, held a grudge for much longer. A mandate had been handed down—no pictures of Andy or Fred would run in WWD.

  Everybody from Interview was exiled.

  John Fairchild, the king of fashion journalism, the master of WWD, and the inventor of W, could be cruel. Downright bloodthirsty. His rancor was all-consuming.

  For example, Valentino, early in his career, gave Rosemary Kent exclusive access to cover his vacation. Subsequently, Valentino decided not to invite her back. For that, Valentino and his partner, Giancarlo Giammetti, were airbrushed out of photographs at parties. If Mr. Fairchild couldn’t get Valentino’s face out, he would resort to assigning the generic label of “an Italian designer” to the caption.

  Carrie Donovan, who was now the fashion editor of The New York Times, called me and said I should get over to Women’s Wear Daily. There was an opening. I was interviewed by WWD’s Michael Coady on a Friday and was offered a job as fashion accessories editor, covering scarves, belts, earrings, jewelry, and ancillary social nightcrawling of New York fashion society.

  With Oscar de la Renta, in his showroom. Back then, I didn’t have a lot of money for fashion. I wore Bermuda shorts and knee socks to make my style statement. That hat is by Karl Lagerfeld and the shirt also. We are drinking white wine, which was served after fashion presentations in the Golden Age of Fashion.

  Photograph by André Leon Talley for WWD page one. Betty Catroux, Thadée Klossowski, and Loulou de la Falaise in New York.

  The following week I started at a super salary: $22,000 a year. A massive leap from my $75 a week at Interview. I called my grandmother, my mother, and my father to share the good news. They were extremely happy, even if they didn’t quite understand what my job was.

  Mr. Fairchild poached me, his revenge for losing Rosemary Kent; that’s how the fashion world runs. I’d worked at Interview for eight months and experienced some incredible moments in that brief tenure. I was grateful for everything Andy had done for me, but I knew this was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down if I wanted to pursue a career in fashion journalism. While I knew it might anger Mr. Fairchild, I planned on staying friends with Andy, knowing we would have to keep it on the down low if I wanted to keep my new job.

  My first day at WWD, I arrived confidently wearing my hand-me-down silk tunics and mufflers from Karl, with a Fruit of th
e Loom T-shirt and gray custom-tailored glen plaid trousers, with zoot suit–sized cuffs and wide hems. Mr. Fairchild didn’t say hello or acknowledge my existence. I would have to earn his greeting.

  WWD was considered the fashion bible by most, which therefore made Mr.

  Fairchild a kind of god. He could destroy a designer by refusing to cover them. Pierre Bergé, Yves Saint Laurent’s business and life partner, would pick Mr. Fairchild up himself at the airport when he came to Paris. No chauffeur-driven ride would do. And Saint Laurent always gave Mr. Fairchild an exclusive private preview of his collection.

  For some (Bill Blass, Saint Laurent, Oscar de la Renta), Mr. Fairchild was a kingmaker.

  But many others (Geoffrey Beene, James Galanos, Pauline Trigère) had long-standing feuds with him, and their careers suffered because of it.

  He was cruel and vicious to the late Marie-Hélène de Rothschild, the undisputed social queen of Paris. Marie-Hélène, always elegantly dressed in Saint Laurent or Valentino couture, suffered from a rare debilitating disease, resulting in crippled and deformed hands. It was savage, his personal revenge. Maybe she snubbed Mr. Fairchild at some grand Paris social gala; who knows? For his revenge, he had her body printed on page 1 of WWD, with her face airbrushed out and her deformity in clear view.

  During my first few weeks at WWD, I was receiving handwritten letters from Karl Lagerfeld in Paris almost every day. We had bonded during our interview and now kept in touch regularly. Surely that would have gotten Mr. Fairchild’s attention, but still, he did not acknowledge my presence.

  Finally, nearly two months after I’d started, Mr. Fairchild started asking me about who I’d seen the previous night, what parties I had attended. He eventually realized I had something to offer and could analyze, report, sum up, and write clean copy, fast. I had no choice. We had daily issues, and content needed to be generated to fill the pages.