The Chiffon Trenches

by André Leon Talley

Karl went to Gianni’s funeral out of respect.

  Perhaps Karl thought contemplating death was a waste of time. Truly, there was no one with a more robust schedule in all of fashion than Karl Lagerfeld. He ran three of the biggest fashion brands in the world simultaneously for decades: Chanel, Fendi, and his eponymous Lagerfeld label. And still he took on various anonymous freelance work.

  While other designers were driven to drink and madness and sometimes suicide by the pressures of one fashion house, Karl made it all seem so easy.

  Karl was like a brother to me for forty years. And then five years before his death he cut me out of his life. I have gone over and over in my mind the deep loss of Karl in my life. With great happiness, I can focus on the good times with Karl, not the dark hours of the final years. I will always have the golden memory of walking in the forest at midnight, behind the château in Brittany, with Karl, Patrick Hourcade, and Jacques de Bascher, carrying huge torches of twigs and branches for light, as we glided along rough paths. It was like a fairy tale, complete with a castle.

  In the halcyon days of my early years, Karl and I went by car through the Black Forest to a hotel, just the two of us, where he was launching a beauty product. The softly falling snow covered the highway. The forests were beautiful. Karl was happy, and it shows in a photo someone took of us, me in a beautiful long, black broadtail coat he had designed for me, suede gloves, and a Tyrolean hat with a very beautiful badger’s brush.

  Every moment with Karl, I now realize since he has been gone, was an amazing tutorial. A face-to-face dialogue between the Socrates of high fashion and his best student. Since his death, I have come to the realization that our relationship was as lustrous, as smooth, and as rare as the Peregrina pearl. There was no other man in my life who gave me so much and who shared so much.

  It was a wonderful relief to be told by Amanda Harlech and Anna Wintour that after he and I had stopped speaking, every time they saw Karl, he asked after me and how I was doing. Truly he could be as lethal as a black mamba snake. But I am sure now that he cared for me, even after our falling-out. I loved him, and he loved me right back.

  XIX

  The day Karl died, Naomi Campbell called me from some remote place in Africa. She knew how close I was to Karl and that I’d need a friend to lean on. Naomi is not in my life every day, she goes AWOL for weeks, months at a time. But she is there, just when you need a friend, with no personal agenda.

  These days Naomi’s life is all about Africa, crisscrossing the continent to support global awareness of the business potential of African fashion designers. When she called me that day, she asked me to come with her to Lagos, Nigeria, where she was due to attend Arise, the Nigerian Fashion Week. She suggested that I come with her and premiere my documentary there.

  It is the wish and desire of every black human being to see Africa at some point before they die. But at seventy, highly overweight, and in poor health, it seemed a tall order for me. If only one person on God’s green earth could pull it off, it would be Naomi Campbell. I said yes and she said she would be in touch soon to sort out the details.

  Weeks later, I was seated at the closing day of Tina Brown’s tenth annual Women in the World Summit at Lincoln Center, waiting to hear Tina in conversation with Anna Wintour (Anna and Tina were estranged for a while, but now they’re friends again).

  My phone rang. I knew those sitting around me would not appreciate my talking on my cell phone but it was Naomi, and one cannot just decline a call from Naomi Campbell.

  “Are you coming with me to Africa?” she said.

  “Yes, Naomi, but I have to hang up the phone, I am at a summit with Tina Brown. I am not supposed to be on this cell phone!” People were looking at me.

  “Ring my agent and they’ll arrange the details.”

  With that I hung up. By the end of the summit, I was listening to former secretary of state Hillary Clinton, and my phone rang again. Naomi.

  “We are leaving Monday,” she chimed.

  “What, I can’t possibly leave Monday, what about the visa?!”

  “Don’t worry,” Naomi said, and hung up.

  The next day, I had a final fitting appointment with Anna Wintour for her 2019 Met Gala dress. It was to be held in the vast fashion closet at Vogue, which meant I would be in the Vogue offices for the first time in three years. The directrice of Chanel’s couture, Virginie Laubie, came all the way from Paris to supervise.

  The 2019 Met Gala dress, designed by Karl Lagerfeld just before his death, was a masterpiece. A pale pink wool long strapless dress, embroidered with beautiful small flowers, simulating eighteenth-century porcelain.

  The theme of the exhibit, curated by the Met’s Andrew Bolton, was Camp: Notes on Fashion. Bolton was inspired by the essay “Notes on ‘Camp’ ” by Susan Sontag.

  Anna’s dress had nothing at all to do with camp. It was elegant and expressed the highest standards of Chanel technique and refinement, as designed by Karl. The last of his mind’s creations Anna will ever own. She also chose a Chanel pink feathered cape, which I was not a fan of to begin with. It was a riff on Armani Privé couture 2018 (which was included in the Met exhibit), imposed into a Chanel cape, as no one other than Anna Wintour could demand.

  Anna does not have the deportment to make such an elegant cape move with éclat.

  In pictures, she looks frozen, like a hieroglyphic image on a tomb wall.

  There was polite talk about the devastating news that after three decades, George Malkemus and Manolo Blahnik (who had made the pale, pale pink glossy snakeskin sandals to match the dress) were dissolving their partnership. The jewels were brought out from the vault to try on with the evening dress. In my humble opinion, the nineteenth-century diamond necklace she chose to wear (and shipped from S. J. Phillips in London, on loan) was a bit too Marie Antoinette. That’s all the commentary I gave. I was trying to be diplomatic and get across the point that her neck seemed to be strangled by this and, symbolically, it was wrong. She wanted it worn high on the neck and was asking if two of the stones could be extracted from the necklace to make it sit high on her throat.

  The fitting was fast, and I have to admit, I wasn’t entirely there mentally. I was thinking about Africa, the continent from which my ancestors made a passage in the hulls of ships, tortured, chained, beaten, lost, refound, and survived.

  —

  I’ve known and supported Naomi since she was discovered as a teenager in Covent Garden in London by a model scout. Quickly, by the time she was eighteen, Naomi pranced out of the paddock with great style, appearing on the cover of British Elle and skyrocketing to supermodel status. Yves Saint Laurent went to bat for her, threatening to remove all advertising from French Vogue if they did not put her on the cover. And so in August 1988, she became the first black woman to be featured on the cover of French Vogue. One year later, she again made history, as the first black woman to appear on the cover of American Vogue’s September issue. Over thirty years later, Naomi has appeared on endless covers of Vogue, as well as in endless moments of melodramatics.

  I was front-row center in Paris in 1993, at the Vivienne Westwood show, when Naomi fell as she turned at the end of the runway. She had on nine-inch lilac chopine lace-up ghillie oxfords. Like a colt, she fell to the ground and simply bounced back up, resplendent in her authenticity, and walked in those impossible towering shoes. I witnessed this and it was a miracle to see her natural gifts at work. That image went around the world; she was simply Naomi, in her power.

  Early on Naomi realized that as a woman of color, she had to work harder than her fellow supermodels to maintain her position at the apex of high fashion. She has this something, this je ne sais quoi, that allows her to maintain numerous and countless lives restored and renewed. Her life has been a topsy-turvy ride, from rehabs for cocaine and alcohol abuse to raising money for the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund, as well as organizing benefits for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Naomi goes out every day resplendent in the latest fas
hion. Being in her entourage is like being in a film; she’s larger than life, like Elizabeth Taylor. And like Elizabeth Taylor, Naomi has managed to parlay her celebrity image into a world-class brand of goodwill.

  Naomi wears the most expensive dress Karl Lagerfeld had designed since he became designer for Chanel.

  She is posed as Scarlett O’Hara, about to be taken down at Melanie’s birthday party, to which she was forced to go by Rhett Butler. In the film, Vivien Leigh wore a ruby dress in a cloud of ruby tulle. Naomi wore gold and black. The set was Lagerfeld’s residence in the landmark Hôtel Pozzo di Borgo in Paris.

  Able to work miracles, Naomi arranged for me to make it to the motherland. I brought with me Chase Beck, my “homeboy” from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, who for this trip would be my assistant. All I had to do was show up with my bags packed.

  Chase and I had a smooth flight to London. Our transfer was hell, largely due to a demonic golf cart ride across terminals, but I was pleasantly surprised at the gate to see Edward Enninful, or should I say Sir Edward, as he’s been knighted by Queen Elizabeth II. He was on the same flight from London to Lagos, with his wonderful husband, Alec Maxwell.

  First class was half empty, so Chase spent the last two hours of the flight with me.

  The flight attendant did not complain. I woke up from a nap and found him standing in the middle of the cabin, eating the complimentary chocolates left on a stand. Edward and I talked about Karl a little bit. He told me Karl had seen my documentary, which I was shocked to hear.

  We landed in Lagos by the end of the day. The hustle-bustle of the terminal had none of the modern high-tech seduction of terminals all over the world. My wheelchair (now required for airport travel as my weight had affected my mobility) almost tumbled off a hydraulic lift that connected one level of the airport to the other. It was primitive to say the least. By the time our luggage came down the chute and our visas were arranged, it was getting dark.

  It slowly dawned on me that we had been abandoned. Chase and I huddled with Edward and his husband. People were gazing at us, focused on our foreignness. Men surrounded us, offering currency exchange. I nervously yelled out, “Chase, do not get lost in the crowd.”

  Finally, we were deposited into taxi vans, and fortunately mine was air-conditioned for the hour-and-a-half drive through the seventh circle of Dante’s hell.

  I prayed out loud for most of the ride. Chase sat calmly, balancing out my hysterical demonstrations of panic. The nighttime traffic was a mix of unmarked lanes, horns honking, and no streetlights. Old, rusted Volkswagen buses, which could literally have been the same ones that once carried hippies to Woodstock, were used as public transportation and packed like sardines. People on foot darted in and out of traffic, selling everything from fruit juice to lemons, beautifully arranged in towering pyramids, carried and balanced on top of individual heads.

  I thought to myself, I have come from New York to Africa to die in traffic. How ironic.

  We arrived at the Seattle Residences hotel, on embassy row in downtown Lagos, and I was shown to a massive three-bedroom suite, all Westernized to within an inch of any first-class hotel accommodations in Europe. The impeccable beds, adorned with plush white linens, were equal to those at the Ritz in Paris. Chase took the second bedroom, and the third was given over to my enormous wardrobe of Tom Ford caftans, bespoke Dapper Dan–Gucci–collaboration custom caftans in rich brocades, and Ralph Rucci taffeta and gros de Londres caftans, all unfurled from my army-navy surplus bag, to be ironed the next morning by an educated male butler, a native of Lagos, who spoke perfect English.

  Around ten P.M., Naomi Campbell stopped by my suite to welcome me. She was resplendent in all her regality and her divaness. She was on her way out and invited me to join, but I was not up for an adventurous night on the town.

  Attendees present at the Arise Fashion Week were well-heeled, educated, and highly Westernized Nigerians, usually in Louboutin stilettos and carrying authentic Gucci bags. Men were dressed in the last word in Prada sandals, slim jeans, and very original shirts, cut by two talented Nigerian designers, Joseph and Ola. Every person was polite and they loved, adored, Naomi. Nduka Obaigbena, the media-mogul founder of Arise, had Naomi on the cover of This Day every day during her stay. Each and every time Naomi walked down a runway in Lagos, the entire room erupted in verbal awe and applause. She has never lost her cool on the runway. Never. Ever!

  Naomi participated in a panel on the future of the fashion business, and I was asked to give a few words. I took the opportunity to thank Naomi and remarked how her activism and charity work had sustained her powerful legacy, surpassing her celebrity image. I also told a story of a time I had to babysit her in my suite at the Four Seasons in Los Angeles, where she fell asleep in a long Jean Paul Gaultier evening dress and heavy eyelashes. Naomi has always been a true and loyal friend. She was in tears after I spoke.

  I always woke up thankful I had come to Nigeria, which was questionable to me at first. I couldn’t let Naomi down. And she proved to me she was grateful, taking my hand when I stumbled and attending the panels she had me participate in.

  If Naomi were music, she would be Saint-Saëns’s “The Swan,” from his suite The Carnival of the Animals, or she would be Scott Joplin’s “Gladiolus Rag.” She has majestic drama on a professional runway, and her personal life is itself reminiscent of “Triumphal March” from the second act of Verdi’s Aida. If she were a poem, it would be “Correspondences” by Baudelaire.

  The screening of the documentary was well received, and the corresponding Q & A was robust. Audience members lined up to meet me after. By the time I finished, I was happy to go back to my hotel room and watch Beyoncé’s Homecoming on Netflix. I was in for the night. The humidity was overwhelming.

  I arose on Easter Sunday morning to attend services with Naomi and Nduka Obaigbena, at the Cathedral Church of Christ, the largest Anglican church in Lagos.

  We arrived late, Naomi wearing a pale blue Chloé dress of silk crêpe to her midcalf and Givenchy high heels. As the church doors opened, the choir was singing out, “O

  death where is thy sting? ” from Handel’s Messiah.

  Nduka quietly turned to me and said, “This is your home.” And with great discretion, he handed me a wad of the local currency to give during the offering.

  Ladies of great refinement had pulled out all the stops for Easter services. It was akin to Easter services in my childhood. I sat there, respectful, as Naomi participated in a traditional dance, accompanied by an orchestra of percussion and voices. As the service came to an end, she was mobbed with requests for selfies. Nothing got out of hand as we recessed down the aisle to exit to waiting crowds of people outside.

  That afternoon, Naomi took a spin on some Nigerian magnate’s luxury yacht in the marina. My focus was to be on time for an eight A.M. departure the following morning.

  Naomi was taking us home in a private jet and if I missed the flight I would have to go back to the dreaded airport in Lagos. I woke up at six to be downstairs, not wanting to hold up the motorcade to the private jet, which seated six, along with a makeshift double bed for Naomi. Of course, Naomi overslept and forgot to pack, so we were rushed by police escort, horns honking, to the private airport and arrived by quarter to ten.

  We waited on the sweltering tarmac as the plane was prepared. Like a movie star, Naomi got out of her big black SUV and took her time applying her lipstick, combing her hair, and smoking a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the heat slowly melting us all.

  It was so hot I was about to pass out. But I couldn’t simply board, as it was her private plane. I’d need permission to board before she did.

  “Do you mind if I climb aboard the plane? It’s so hot,” I said.

  Naomi threw me a look that, if it were a poison dart, would have been a fatal blow.

  “Wait, I have to film my departure,” she answered definitively.

  As we waited on the hot, humid tarmac, I whispered to Chase, “Don
’t say hello to her. Don’t speak until she speaks. Don’t even look at her! We don’t know what this mood might be.”

  Naomi got her footage, boarding the luxurious private plane, and Chase and I were finally allowed to board as well.

  After we took off, Naomi mentioned that she had slipped and eaten gluten at the hotel. “Eating that croissant was like having a sleeping pill,” she said. I shot a look at Chase, reminding him to keep quiet.

  It was a ten-hour flight to Teterboro. Chase never once talked to Naomi. She appreciated this and was polite to him. Most of the time, she watched television on her computer.

  Toward landing, we talked about the upcoming Met Gala, the first ever I was opting not to attend. I told Naomi this, and my reason why. That Anna had unceremoniously flung me out with the garbage. She said she thought my decision was right.

  Outside, Naomi smoked a cigarette and waited until everyone was accounted for and in an SUV on their way home. I thanked her profusely for her generosity. I was transformed. It was, to me, better than any trip I had ever taken.

  Naomi’s elegance permeates in so many ways. Her spirit is fierce. It’s her God-given gifts that astound one as she walks for the best talents of the world. Karl Lagerfeld selected her for the highlights in many of his couture collections, especially in the halcyon days at Chanel. She was a John Galliano favorite in his great moments at Dior and Givenchy and Galliano. CEOs of Gucci listen to her every recommendation. She has represented beautifully, and with elegance, Ralph Lauren in his campaign advertisements. Saint Laurent loved her. Gianni Versace never did a show without her, and Azzedine Alaïa treated her like a daughter. These designers considered her the proverbial muse, not only for her individual walk, but also for her distinct personality.

  In those four days in Lagos, I saw Naomi talk to CEOs about offering scholarships to countries in Africa, and I saw her push for an African Vogue. She has always been for people of color and fights the good fight behind the scenes. As I screamed at her on one of our finest fashion shoots, “Éclatante! Éclatante! ”