The Chiffon Trenches

by André Leon Talley

  Everywhere Anna Wintour went I followed, in my official Vogue capacity. On Mondays she had a brief staff meeting in her office. One week I showed up a bit late, wearing a jumpsuit, perhaps not the thing I should have worn. I walked into the room and she looked at me, observed me, but made no comment.

  Shortly thereafter she called me at my desk and said, “You’ve got to go to the gym.”

  I wasn’t offended, and it wasn’t out of nowhere. Fashion at the time was obsessed with thinness. I’d gained weight in Durham and brought my binge-eating habits back to New York with me. My clothes fittings made clear to me exactly how big I was getting, and Anna Wintour’s concerned glances did not go unnoticed. I was still wearing beautiful suits but it was becoming quite obvious that I was gaining weight.

  If Anna Wintour wanted me to go to the gym, I’d go to the gym. Plus she offered to pay for it, so I had to take it seriously. The gym, located close to the Vogue offices, was a very expensive, tony setup. I had a private trainer, but I didn’t practice the right eating habits at home, so I wasn’t losing any weight. A friend suggested I try the cabbage diet, which I did for a little while. It’s very easy; you just cook cabbage and eat it. People do it when they prepare for heart surgery. It worked, and I lost a lot of weight quickly, right in time for Milan Fashion Week.

  In Milan, I would wake up early each morning and go for a walk, then spend some time at the hotel gym. I paid attention to what I was eating during the busy day of shows. I felt more in control of my weight.

  Giorgio Armani’s show was in the early evening, and I felt great wearing a gray cashmere turtleneck sweater and a Prada alligator balmacaan coat. I was standing in the waiting queue for entrance to the show, where a seat on the front row was reserved for me. On an upper level, there was a small VIP room, from which Lee Radziwill emerged and slowly came down the stairs.

  At that time, we were not frequently on each other’s radar. Lee worked for Giorgio Armani, as an adviser, high-level ambassador, and events specialist, based in Milan. And it must have been that the last time she saw me, I was showing a little pillow of a stomach. Lee gently sidled up to me and gave me the most sensual rub across my stomach. And then she whispered to me for my ears only, “Ohhhhhh, André, you’ve lost weight. I am so proud.”

  I will always remember the way she made me feel in that moment. For a year, I went to the gym consistently, three times a week, but I couldn’t keep up with the dieting.

  I’d buy all the right foods but they’d sit untouched in my refrigerator while I ordered takeout from the local deli. My weight continued to climb, and I developed asthma, something I’d briefly experienced in childhood but had long since grown out of. My breathing became labored, which was visibly distracting to Anna, especially when we had to walk up the many stairs outside the Met.

  While I do think at a certain point my weight got in the way of my career, Anna didn’t mention it again. And as my body grew and I no longer wanted to be harnessed into a suit—button-front, suspenders on the pants—I transitioned into a more extreme, original fashion point of view, in the tradition of Anna Piaggi and Isabella Blow. It wasn’t just about the weight, however; it was the confidence Vogue gave me to be who I am. All the clothes I wore, my evolution of fashion, became a personalized reflection of my cultural knowledge of fashion, the history of fashion, as well as the history of fashion through paintings and literature. I began to dress based on research, in the highest-quality creations I could afford.

  —

  Anna depended on my views about the success or failure of a fashion collection and leaned on me for advice about how a couture dress looked on her, as did her daughter, Katherine, who went by “Bee.” She was aware of the social ladies in my life, so many of them, who would take me to lunch, then to their fittings of important dresses: Anne Bass, Deeda Blair, Nan Kempner, São Schlumberger, Lee Radziwill, and Lynn Wyatt. Women love to have friends who are not a sexual threat. Someone who listens.

  The experience of having clothes made in Paris is unique. I’d learned it early on from Mrs. Vreeland, who was passionately devoted to her clothes from Paris couturiers.

  When I first met her, Anna was wearing those cone heels by Maud Frizon. Manolo Blahnik was back then the rising superstar of shoes. Now, I can say with all authority, Anna’s had a lifetime of Manolo Blahnik custom-ordered footwear given to her by our mutual friends, Manolo Blahnik and George Malkemus III. George was the owner, with his husband, Anthony Yurgaitis, of the Manolo Blahnik label in the United States until 2019, when the relationship folded. It was upon my recommendation that George had landed the lucrative empire three decades ago. They had made millions, if not several accumulated billions, from Manolo’s genius mind for women’s shoes.

  Manolo Blahnik holds back nothing for Anna Wintour. In turn, Anna Wintour has not worn any other shoe but Manolo Blahnik—except for little Chanel ballerinas on the weekends—since 1989. I would meet Manolo and tell him what colors and styles Anna wanted, then he would create eight or nine versions for her to choose from.

  What an incredible perk, to receive a lifetime of shoes, expensive, luxurious shoes.

  A signature cross sandal (not unlike the sling-back sandal the late Queen Mother Elizabeth and Princess Margaret of England frequently wore) was her favorite for years.

  This uniform cross sandal would be ordered by the dozen, and after a season of wear and tear, tossed out, then reordered. All those shoes were stepped into after climbing into a Chanel couture, or rare Prada, or John Galliano, evening gown.

  During much of my time at Vogue, the company would provide a town car to and from work. Those were the days of generous expense accounts; if a fashion editor wanted to go to Austria to photograph the new fur collections for ten days, there was no concern about cost. Hotels, flights, food, the expenditures of the models, tips, etc.—it was all paid for, very few questions asked.

  There were expense accounts for everything: lunch, dinner, custom dry cleaning; every single thing Anna Wintour wore was sent to the dry cleaner except her personal lingerie. I am not privy to how that is handled. Her two assistants, including the one who wrote The Devil Wears Prada, must take a sedan to her home every workday to deliver the big book (a mock-up of the current issue of Vogue), flowers, gifts, and huge piles of plastic-covered, fresh custom dry cleaning.

  Sometimes I would piggyback and send my suits or formal white dinner shirts to Ernest Winzer or Madame Paulette by throwing them in the pile of Anna’s daily dry cleaning. She has always been addicted to dry cleaning. When she was a young beauty in London, she would spend every morning before work dropping off the last night’s clothes at the dry cleaner.

  Nothing is left out of order in Anna’s office or her homes. She is an advocate for cleanliness; you could literally eat off the floors in her home. Her kitchen was always spotless, which is directly related to the fact that I’ve never seen her cook anything. I have experienced her going into her small kitchen to make an espresso, when I might have been there for a late-afternoon fitting, just before a big event.

  XI

  When in a good mood, Karl could be the most generous man in the world, showering his friends with countless gifts of diamonds and precious stones, a sports car and expensive watches for his personal bodyguard, even providing black American Express cards for unlimited travel to and from Paris to his closest friends.

  Karl invited me to stay the entire month of August 2000 in Biarritz, in his incredible villa. I hadn’t taken a real vacation since coming back to New York. I told him I’d love to go, of course, but there was also a ball of dread in my chest. How was I to impress Karl Lagerfeld? It would require a minimum twice-daily wardrobe change. I had to quickly scramble for some clever idea.

  Didn’t Julius Caesar wear something akin to skirts, togas, and robes? Why did religious men in Bhutan wear robes that flow over their bodies? I researched indigenous dressing in North Africa, courtly dressing, theatrical dressing, and capes. This sense of sartorial style wa
s my inspiration to assemble a wardrobe of caftans. Caftans are a simple way of being, easy to maintain, and bold. The loose fabric is dramatic and suited my height as well as my increasing girth. I told Karl and he loved the idea.

  Yes! It seemed so right: comfortable, floor-length, cool shirts in the hot August summer. It is so much better than being trussed up in a pair of trousers and a chiseled, bespoke jacket.

  Barbès, an African neighborhood in Paris, had numerous stores that sold beautiful, yet inexpensive, African woodprints in brilliant colors. I went on an exploratory trip, filled with the smells of live chickens and exotic vegetables. I found a store in a dark, unlit hole in a wall, sandwiched between a barbershop and a live poultry supplier. Three men sat at sewing machines, with piles of fabric behind them. The main tailor was Nigerien, Monsieur Sy. He told me where to go to find the highest-quality fabrics and said to bring them back to him. By the end of the afternoon, I had ordered seven caftans that would be ready in a week.

  I called Karl and told him I could not wait to see him in Biarritz but I was concerned my current luggage wasn’t on par with my new wardrobe. “I simply need a Louis Vuitton oversized trunk to travel with!”

  Karl said to go ahead and pick it out, along with whatever else I wanted. I didn’t ever ask Karl for money, nor did we ever talk about money. But I was always taken care of. It was all part of the performance and exactly the kind of thing Karl enjoyed being generous about. He then had his chauffeur-driven, customized Jeep drive me down from Paris to Biarritz in the south of France, with a new Louis Vuitton trunk and my new wardrobe. Karl followed by plane, as he finished up his collection for fall.

  The massive Biarritz villa had an Olympic-size pool where you could hear music underwater. I never saw Karl in it, but he claimed he swam alone at night. A bit like King Ludwig II of Bavaria, floating through the grottoes in his swan boat, listening to Wagner.

  Karl received several other visitors while we were there, and each was greeted with the utmost luxurious hospitality: beautiful linens, flowers, newspapers, and elegant Diptyque candles burning in every corner.

  Élie and Liliane de Rothschild came for four days (Karl sent a private plane to whisk them and other wealthy friends in and out of Biarritz). The grande dame Liliane and I bonded immediately—she loved my caftans—and Élie asked me to take his wife to Barbès, to buy fabric, which I did, later that year.

  While my weight had been creeping up, this was the last time I was thin enough to sit by the pool before and after lunch, with the baron and his wife, where we discussed Marie Antoinette (Liliane was a royalist; Marie Antoinette was from her native land, Austria). Liliane would wear a full-corset one-piece maillot de bain, while Baron Élie would emerge from the musical pool completely nude. I never saw such long-hanging fruits as his.

  I was about to depart after nearly three and a half weeks when Ingrid Sischy and her wife, Sandra Brant, arrived to take over my grand guest suite. Ingrid dismissed me most of the time and had no problem interrupting a conversation, thereby occupying and orbiting around Karl. No one else could get in a word after Ingrid arrived.

  One morning, Ingrid woke up with a tick bite or spider bite, whatever, and insisted Karl take her immediately to the emergency room. She lowered her sweatpants to show Karl the big pink splotch, in front of his luncheon guests, including Bruno Pavlovsky, the CEO of Chanel in Paris.

  It was time to go back to New York. I couldn’t be there with those people. Karl hadn’t said a word about my caftans, but he never really complimented the way others looked. Instead, you always had to compliment him. I suppose the fact that he didn’t dismiss me completely was compliment enough.

  I offered to tip the household staff and chauffeur, but instead, Karl had 12,500

  French francs sent to my room, for me to hand out to everyone, from maids to cooks to the ladies who ironed the luxurious linens for all the beds in the house.

  After so much generosity, I had to come up with an appropriate gift for Karl, something suitable to his grandiosity, but within reason. He loved four-leaf clovers as symbols of good luck, so I thought it was particularly good luck when a jewelry dealer showed me an antique eighteen-karat-gold stickpin with a four-leaf-clover diamond embellishment.

  It was, for me, a very expensive gift, even on a solid salary. I bought it and was proud to give it to Karl. At last, as a gesture of friendship, I could offer him a gift worthy of his vast collection of jeweled stickpins.

  How hurtful it was when I found out soon after that he had regifted it to Eric Wright. No one could ever give Karl anything. He controlled his court. Victoire de Castellane (who designed the amazing costume jewelry at Chanel from the time she was a teenager) had once given Karl a small, beautiful mirror, designed by Christian Bérard, as a birthday present. She gave it to him at work, in the Chanel studios. By the time he got home and unpacked his car, he had regifted the mirror to me. It was hopeless.

  —

  Most of the twice-yearly special couture photoshoots for Vogue were overseen by Grace Coddington. These prestigious assignments were like a special award and Grace was the go-to genius editor for them. Sometimes, Tonne Goodman was assigned.

  There were only two occasions when Anna Wintour trusted me to do a full couture shoot, for which I was honored. One was a collage of designer diaries and swatch books of inspirations for that season. And the other was with Renée Zellweger, who had just won her first Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy, for Nurse Betty.

  Arthur Elgort was assigned to photograph the shoot.

  Renée came to Paris and Anna Wintour gave her a big party at one of Vogue’s select favorite bistros, Chez George. Oscar de la Renta, who designed for Balmain at the time, came to the dinner. So did John Galliano. In walked Renée, fresh from Hollywood, with a vintage Hermès Kelly handbag, alligator in black. She had treated herself to this bag, purchased in Los Angeles, but she was not sure of its authenticity. I assured her I would go with her to the grand Hermès shop to ascertain whether the bag was real or fake.

  Over three days, Arthur Elgort and I escorted Renée all over Paris. We had fourteen pages to fill and each photo had a different location and setting, most of which were outside. It was a physically challenging shoot, running around Paris with quick clothing changes, especially since Renée was not a professional model, but she was totally cooperative and full of energy, style, and class. Arthur knows how to engage his subjects and make them comfortable in order to ensure his work is a success, and he got along with Renée like fireworks.

  After the last shot was done, Renée and I headed to Hermès. I had a personal salesman there at the time, Monsieur Tessier, who sported a very rococo moustache, hand waxed and curled on the ends. Eric de Rothschild had personally introduced me to him and asked him to take care of me, which he did every time I went in, and I went in a lot (to buy printed scarves to line my suit jackets and to cover scatter cushions for my sofas in my home in North Carolina).

  Monsieur Tessier inspected Renée’s bag and disappeared with it into another room.

  Minutes later, he came back and told us this bag was indeed one of the finest examples of Hermès from the 1930s, in tip-top shape. “The skins used for this bag are the best examples of Louisiana alligator,” he said. “We don’t use these skins now. But it is a great buy.” Renée was thrilled.

  That year for the holidays, Renée sent me a live Christmas wreath of a scale so big I had to pay two men to climb a ladder and hang it on the front exterior of my house. It looked like a wreath you might see on a door of a Fifth Avenue store, like Bergdorf

  Goodman. A truly impressive gift.

  Of all the Hollywood film actors I ever met, Renée is the only one who has the eye and mental agility necessary to be a serious fashion editor. She adheres to the mantra of Diana Vreeland: “Elegance is refusal.” Or as Chanel once said, “Simplicity is the keynote of all true elegance.” We speak the same language of style. She dresses with clean lines, strong fabrics, no e
xcess. No bling bling, real or fake, on her neck or ears. Makeup made to look like she simply washed her face and put on a moisturizer. Heels are always high stilettos, bare legs. One simple gold bracelet on her left wrist.

  Photograph by Arthur Elgort

  Renée Zellweger in a Chanel couture look by Karl Lagerfeld, for a Vogue couture shoot styled by yours truly. The Hermès Kelly is her own vintage; a present she bought upon receiving her first Golden Globe.

  Shoes: Manolo Blahnik. Photographed at Lagerfeld’s bookstore 7L, on rue de Lille, Paris.

  Renée and I first met some years earlier on a shoot in California, when she was an emerging talent and I was with Vanity Fair. Two years after this couture shoot, Tonne Goodman and I again worked with Renée, on a Vogue cover shoot. Rarely do two editors go on a cover shoot, but Anna asked me to go because Renée and I had bonded. We remain friends to this day, regularly exchanging details of our lives by e-mail.

  —

  Anna Wintour liked to assign me house sittings. She knew I could charm the snakes from the trees, which is a good quality to have while traipsing through the dressing rooms of socialites.

  Normally it would take four to five days to properly shoot a house to Vogue’s standards. You don’t go in there and shoot a house layout in one day. Instead, you’re there for several, from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, shooting bathrooms, artwork, etc.

  Back in the 1980s it took two editors, Anna Wintour and me, to photograph Paloma Picasso’s apartment. Paloma was then married to Rafael López-Sanchez and had just bought a large duplex on Park Avenue and decorated it. It was a major coup for us to get that apartment in the pages of Vogue. Horst P. Horst was the photographer. Anna, then creative director, would go up and sit there one day and I’d go the next day. We were there for a week.