For the Vogue cover meeting with Valerie Jarrett, Anna was more than prepared.
Over a delicate luncheon, she presented her idea to Valerie, to have Mrs. Obama’s first Vogue cover in March, after her husband’s inauguration. March is Vogue’s “Power Issue.”
Anna pulled out huge ring-binder notebooks with all the previous First Ladies’
Vogue appearances. Eleanor Roosevelt, Mamie Eisenhower, Betty Ford, Hillary Clinton — Vogue had acknowledged all of them.
Valerie was impressed. Anna said, “We want to do this story in a very meaningful way. Annie Leibovitz will photograph and our talented editor Tonne Goodman will be on hand to style. And André will come down and do the interview.”
That was an extraordinary moment for me. Anna could have picked anyone else, any of her favorite writers, but she chose me. She knew the historical significance of sending me, and I appreciated that.
The weekend of the inauguration, Obama had a ceremonial train depart from Philadelphia and ride into Washington, D.C., the same way President Lincoln had. I took a car from my house down to Philadelphia, just in time to load up all my luggage and make my way to a holding room before boarding.
The train was to be divided into sections for the media and the Obama family. The press were all seated together, waiting to be called onto the train. I sat down among them.
“Oh, I know you,” a woman approached me and said. “I’m Yvonne, a friend of Michelle’s. When you get on the train, just follow me or you’ll be stuck with CNN and all those people.”
As the train started to board, I indeed followed Yvonne to the family-and-friends car, one car ahead of the Obamas and their two daughters, as well as the Bidens and their security and staff. The woman charged with Mrs. Obama’s scheduling saw me enter and came behind me to let me know I did not belong on that car.
Yvonne said, “Leave him alone, he’s with me.”
That’s the power of Vogue.
During the train ride, Joe Biden came to say hello, and then Michelle and Barack.
There was also a birthday cake for one of the Obama daughters. Just before we pulled into Union Station in D.C., Mrs. Obama came in and said, “You know you all got to clean up this mess!” She didn’t want the Amtrak cleaning staff to be burdened with picking up our refuse from the ride.
The January morning of the 2009 inauguration in Washington, D.C., was icy cold.
Diane von Fürstenberg, with whom I would be sitting, met me at my hotel and together we walked to the Capitol.
As we made our way through the frigid air, we reminisced about how much the world had changed. “You were my first black friend, but now I have so many,” she said. I have known DVF since 1975; I used to sit on her bed in the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, me in a navy sailor cap and turtleneck, while she talked long-distance to her wealthy boyfriend, now her husband, Barry Diller.
“Remember when we walked down the avenue Montaigne?” she asked.
“Yes, and people used to say, ‘Look, it’s Princess Diane von Fürstenberg with her friend the African king.’ ”
“You dressed the part,” she said.
“I was young and handsome then.”
We took our seats, in a VIP section just behind Yo-Yo Ma. Diane’s good friend Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi arranged them for us. The Obamas had not yet emerged center stage, but a crowd stretching as far as the naked eye could see stood behind us.
Diane turned to me and said, “Call your mother. Call her right now on your cell phone and tell her where you are.”
I couldn’t do that. I hadn’t talked to my mother in years. We had barely spoken at all since my grandmother’s funeral.
“You are her only child. You have to call her. I am a mother and I know what I am talking about. It is important to her.”
In Diane von Fürstenberg’s suite at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, Paris, France, circa 1978. She took this photo of me wearing a navy sailor cap, seated on her bed, where I used to sit while she spoke on the phone long-distance to her boyfriend, now husband, Barry Diller.
Reluctantly, I rang the Carver nursing home in Durham, North Carolina. I reached the switchboard and asked for Mrs. Alma Talley.
The operator asked: “Who is calling for Mrs. Talley?”
“Her son.”
There was a brief pause. The operator came back and said, “Your mother does not wish to be disturbed by anyone.”
I hung up and told Diane they were unable to reach my mother. She took my hand and didn’t say anything else about it. She’s always been a patient and tolerant friend.
Today, we can proudly say we’ve had our first African American president and First Lady. Yes, Obama embodies the audacity of hope. Yes, there has been great progress and we all are proud to recognize this. But in the end, due to the sustained role of the status quo, from films, to politics, to the arts, a black man must still be smarter than any white person to ascend to the top of his field. He must also be smart enough to navigate through all the storms, the tornados, the earthquakes. The struggle for black equality is a constant challenge; it takes daily individual skirmishes to survive by hope and faith, to conquer all the inbred race problems through the power of love. President Barack Obama and brilliant Michelle Obama gave me a renewed optimism, faith, and a determination to continue to survive with the usual force and fanfare and aplomb I have sustained throughout my life.
I wish my grandmother had lived to see that. To feel that.
XIII
Two nights before Anna Wintour was to receive the Légion d’honneur, she asked me to pick a dress for her to wear.
It was the summer of 2011 and we were in Paris for the Chanel show, staying at the Ritz, as we always did, Anna on the first floor and I on another. We went to Chanel together and she tried some things on. I told her I wanted to wait to see the show the following morning before making up my mind about what she should wear.
The next day, as I watched the clothes on the runway, I made mental notes. What would be the perfect dress for such a prestigious honor as the Légion d’honneur? I selected a short blue sequined handmade trompe l’oeil couture Chanel dress. She liked it; I oversaw the fitting and had it sent back to the Ritz. The event was the next day.
At quarter to five in the afternoon, I met Anna in the lobby to make sure she got into her car. “Come with me,” she said.
Mr. Newhouse, chairman of Condé Nast, was in town for the ceremony; why would she want to go with me and not the big boss? I wasn’t expecting to ride with her but gladly jumped into the back of her waiting car.
We got to the Élysée Palace and were driven into the courtyard and to the palace steps. Anna had a small, soft evening handbag, a pochette, that she thrust at me and said, “Here, hold my handbag.”
I can’t think of a single designer who wasn’t there. Everyone from Milan, Paris, New York. Karl was there, Donatella Versace, Alber Elbaz—anyone who was worth their weight in gold. There was some champagne passed around by butlers, and we all waited until President Nicolas Sarkozy began his speech and gave out awards. I sat in a chair along the wall, holding Anna’s bag and reveling in her unabashed joy as the highest accolade France can bestow was pinned to her handmade Chanel. Anna was immensely proud; it was one of the pinnacles of her career, without question.
Afterward, there was a cocktail party at the American embassy. At this point I was due to leave; I had a dinner to attend at Valentino’s house. I said good-bye to Anna and handed her the pochette. She looked in her bag and said, “My cell phone, what did you do with my cell phone?”
“Anna, you never gave me your cell phone.” She had only given me the bag, which was too small to hold a phone.
“What did you do with my cell phone, you’ve misplaced my cell phone, what did you do?”
“You never had a cell phone in the car, you never used it! It was never in the car, I never saw you on a cell phone, not once.”
I went out to search the car anyway, though I knew it was not in there.
I called the front desk at the Ritz and asked the manager to please go to Anna Wintour’s suite and see if there was a cell phone on her desk. He called me back two minutes later and said yes, it was right on the desk, where I said it would be.
I told Anna her cell phone was in her room where she left it. Silence. Then, “Oh, okay,” and she kept going through the party. I made my exit for my previous engagement.
That night, Anna penned me a loving thank-you on the back of a large, used Ritz envelope. On it, she wrote by hand: “Thank You André for helping me.” It was the last sincere handwritten note, a true gesture of appreciation, I ever received from Anna.
I kept the note and sent it to a local framer in White Plains. Thinking it was trash, he misplaced or lost it. I verbally assassinated that framer for weeks, months, until he retired.
—
Karl started dating Baptiste Giabiconi, a model signed with DNA in New York. He was not a dandy like Jacques, and I don’t think Karl loved him like he did Jacques, yet he piled attention upon him. Baptiste became one of the top Paris-based male models.
Expensive gifts were lavished on Baptiste, who reminded Karl of himself when he was young. Top-of-the-line Rolex watches were one of the young man’s obsessions (I learned from Amanda Harlech that Baptiste would accept the watches and send them to Corsican relatives in Marseilles). Karl rented an apartment for him and provided a full-time butler to take care of his needs. He was Karl’s only official boyfriend.
Karl’s taste in houses changed during that period. In an attempt to be more hip, he started renting villas on the Riviera, in gated communities. Very modern, very nondecorated, no period pieces, just things covered in white spreads and linens, all for this Baptiste and his group of friends.
The one time I visited Karl in the Riviera, in a rented villa, Baptiste was there, as well as his mother, on a visit. Baptiste pranked me by hiding in a closet and howling like a German shepherd, as though some guard dog were lurking in the vast series of rooms.
Karl was generous with material luxury, but more than that, he was a good friend. I could tell him anything, ask him anything.
While Karl Lagerfeld could be extremely generous, he could also be dreadful—like a bloodsucking vampire, absolutely “wicked,” as Anna Wintour so aptly and diplomatically put it. The most important woman in Karl’s early years, the woman who served as his muse and alter ego, was the Italian fashion journalist and editor Anna Piaggi. It was Anna who served as the official chatelaine of all of Karl’s houses. She arranged suppers, dressed up to amuse him, and because of her intelligence and her incredible collection of vintage clothing, Karl supported her for nearly twenty years.
Then one day, out of the blue, Anna Piaggi was exiled from Karl’s kingdom.
Perhaps Karl grew tired of her complaining. Sometimes, Karl just got tired of people. When Karl excised you, the luxury stopped. Anna Piaggi had lived in comfort due to Karl for over two decades, and now, recently widowed (her husband and her lover died one right after the other), she was left to pick up the pieces of her life, suddenly all by herself. If Karl saw her socially, he would be polite, but he would no longer have dinners with her.
I’m happy to say that before her death, Anna Piaggi was back in Karl’s good graces and privileged to be back on Karl’s list at the Chanel shop on rue Cambon. Anna Piaggi is remembered as one of the legendary and iconic fashion muses, along with the Marchesa Casati and Nancy Cunard. Her memorial took place in Milan during Fashion Week in 2012. Karl was in town but did not attend. Once again, he couldn’t stand the idea of going to someone’s funeral. He avoided anything to do with death.
The following year, Chanel hosted their twice-annual Métiers d’Art show in Dallas, Texas, showcasing the work of the specialized craftsmen whose expertise makes Chanel possible. Past Métiers d’Art show locations included Venice, Tokyo, and Manhattan.
Chanel paid for first-class travel, hotels, and cars for all the big editors. Even though I was no longer at Vogue on a daily basis, I loved the privilege and honor of being on Karl’s VIP list, as a friend. I was still important to him, it seemed.
Anna Wintour’s flight to Dallas was delayed due to bad weather. She e-mailed me she might not make it in time for the show. “I am sure you will make it but I will let Karl know you are delayed,” I responded. Then, soon after, I wrote back: “I have spoken to Karl and he insists he will not start the show until you are present.”
Finally, Anna arrived around five P.M. She dashed into her fabulous handmade bouclé blanket tweed redingote, from the couture, and made it to Dallas’s Fair Park, causing only a minimal delay.
The evening began with the premiere of a Karl Lagerfeld–directed short film, The Return. Karl created an open-air movie theater with vintage convertible cars lined up in front of a jumbo screen, like a drive-in. Very American.
The Return was a narrative of Coco Chanel’s 1950s comeback, which depended on her own trip to Texas, to firm up the support of Stanley Marcus, president of Neiman Marcus. Geraldine Chaplin, daughter of Charlie Chaplin, starred as the great Mademoiselle Chanel. Amanda Harlech made an appearance as well, as a journalist friend of Coco’s. It was all very period, and shot in Paris, which probably cost a fortune. I didn’t understand the plot development, but that didn’t matter. I was seated in the most important viewing car, a roadster once owned by Rita Hayworth. I sat in the front, beside Geraldine Chaplin. Karl and Anna were seated in the back.
After the film, we moved across the hangar-sized exposition hall to a makeshift Western bar. Anna and I exchanged glances as we slowly walked past a mechanical bull.
The runway was like a rodeo, there was sawdust on the floor, and models walked out in themes of American Indians and cowgirls. Karl’s godson Hudson Kroenig, a young boy of five or six, walked out in his little Western look, holding the hand of a model. In the other hand he held a small gun, which he pulled from a holster belt made just for his size. Nothing was missed. All details were impeccably turned out. The Chanel handbags had a Western theme and were later sold in Chanel stores across the world.
Anna left Dallas early the next morning but I stayed behind. There was something I had to talk to Karl about. The photographer Deborah Turbeville had just passed away from lung cancer, and I needed his help to fund a retrospective. Looking back on it now, knowing Karl never liked to discuss anything to do with death, my afternoon was doomed to failure.
Deborah Turbeville was one of the great visionary photographers. Her book Unseen Versailles was published by Jackie Onassis. Karl had commissioned Turbeville for a special photographic essay of Chanel’s couture archives, the oldest dresses dating to 1927, in Gabrielle Chanel’s apartments, which remain intact above the 31 rue Cambon couture house. It’s the apartment where Chanel sat on a huge boxcar taupe suede sofa, and where rare gilt and morocco-bound volumes were displayed on plain wooden shelves above the sofa. The eclectic mix was the forerunner of the modern interior décor, often seen in swanky, affluent houses in New York, designed by Henri Samuel, François Catroux, or Jacques Grange.
Karl paid me thirty thousand dollars to be the editor of the shoot and installed me in my favorite suite at the Ritz. (I stayed for three extra weeks after, and the whole thirty thousand dollars went to paying my bill.) This Chanel assignment to photograph the archives was Karl’s idea and he gave me the great gift, the great honor, of working with Turbeville. He appreciated her and never interfered on the set during those three days.
She presented the photographs about four weeks after she completed the session.
Turbeville and I remained in contact throughout the years, but I was surprised, shocked really, to receive a call from her agent telling me she was on her deathbed and one of her dying requests was for me to curate a retrospective of her life’s work.
I was so moved by this. I went to her private funeral service and met with her agent, Marek. We tried to get an exhibit going in Saint Petersburg but it fell through. I went to the Museum of the City of New Yo
rk; they told me it could be done but would cost over a quarter of a million dollars.
I met with Maureen Chiquet, then president of Chanel, and asked for money to support the exhibit. I showed her Deborah Turbeville’s custom prints in a beautiful black box. She understood. “Convince Karl and if he says it’s a yes, you will have the money.”
This same box of photos came with me to Dallas. It made so much sense at the time; the Dallas show was a celebration of Chanel’s history, as were Turbeville’s photographs.
Surely grandiose generosity would be afforded to Turbeville now, in honor of her life? It was up to me to convince Karl.
To get to Karl, one now had to go through Sébastien Jondeau, his driver and personal security man. Karl had hired him from a moving van service; Sébastien had driven a delivery truck from Paris to Frankfurt, Germany, when Karl furnished a house.
The day after the show, I arranged with Sébastien to meet Karl for a late lunch in the Rosewood Mansion on Turtle Creek, where more than one hundred rooms had been reserved by Chanel. At the table were Eric Pfrunder, director of all Karl’s photography at Chanel; Sébastien, the aide-de-camp; and Brad, an über male model, who had two sons.
The eldest, Daniel, was Karl’s godson and was treated like the grand dauphin. (Karl also bought a house in Maine and signed the deed over to Brad. Karl never saw the house in person.)
I sat at the end of the table, and Karl sat next to me. I presented the idea, showing him the beautiful, haunting, and respectable poetic images of Deborah Turbeville. He raised his dark glasses, peering with curious owl-like eyes, as I leafed through the entire collection of about thirty images.
Karl went radio silent and then said, “Let me think about it.”
I knew that moment by the look on his face, and his body language as he moved away from me toward other people at the table, that Karl was not going to do one thing to honor Deborah Turbeville.
The Chiffon Trenches Page 18