Finding Myself in Fashion (20 page)

I rummaged through my drawers for my old black bikini with the leopard trim and quickly stuffed it into my purse just before I left the house. I'm taking it just in case, I told myself, though I honestly didn't think I would have the nerve to wear it. On the way to the hotel, I stopped at the drugstore to buy a big bottle of Mr. Bubble. Couldn't take any chances with dissipating bubbles this time around! I arrived at the hotel in a little black dress, still not sure exactly what I would be wearing for the interview.

Andy was sitting in the living room of his suite, picking away at an acoustic guitar, when I arrived. We set up a laptop and popped in a DVD of the original 1980 bathtub interview. He was transfixed as he watched the folly unfold. We had a good laugh, and when the segment
was over, it was time to get down to business. Andy disappeared into the bedroom and donned a T-shirt emblazoned with the American flag and a drawing of a two-fingered 1960s peace sign. This time, though, his maturity showed: He put on a pair of plaid boxer shorts, evidently shy of the kind of exposure he'd toyed with in his youth.

I disappeared into the bathroom, and was charmed to see that Andy had arranged the exotic brocade fabric from his dressing room, as promised, and had placed an assortment of candles around the edge of the tub. This was bikini time! I quickly put it on, wondering all the while where this unfathomable chutzpah could possibly be coming from. Trust me, I was faking any confidence I may have exuded: I was totally freaked by the whole experience! Still, I wrapped myself up in the terrycloth bathrobe that was hanging on the door, put my hair up with a clip, removed all my jewellery, and took a very deep breath—as ready for my closeup as I would ever be. I emerged from the bathroom, and the crew crowded in—my cameraman, Jeff Brinkert; his assistant; and Paul, the photographer. The boys were impressed that I was actually going through with the wacky plan. I was feeling at once encouraged and crazy.

Andy entered the room and turned on the taps. The big moment was approaching. I got my pink bottle of Mr. Bubble and started pouring. As the sudsy clouds erupted, Andy gingerly entered the tub. “You coming?” he asked. Suddenly, the diminutive sixty-four-yearold rock star looked like a little boy. With every ounce of cool I could muster, I sucked in my gut and disrobed. The guys cheered me on. It was all so thoroughly outrageous that I could only laugh. Hurriedly stepping into the tub, I prayed that my body would become instantly invisible. Right on cue, the cosmopolitans we had ordered from room service arrived. I definitely needed a drink.

“Just don't drop the mic,” warned Jeff. “And try to hold it way above the suds.” This wireless microphone was much hipper than the old hard-wired mic I had used for my first Andy-in-the-tub encounter. Andy rested his cosmo on the edge of the tub and produced a joint, which he proceeded to light as the camera started rolling and Paul started snapping. Our giddiness soon gave way to a surprisingly comfortable
feeling. This was by far the most intimate setting I had ever conducted an interview in, and strangely, it felt like the most natural, relaxing, cozy place to be. Andy took a toke as I launched in to my first question. I was luxuriating in the heady conversation and pressing Andy about what he had learned about himself from his whole 1980s rise to fame. “To be an artist of any kind, you have to operate in a raw, bleeding way,” he told me between sips of his cocktail. “You have to be vulnerable and creative in any sphere. You have to go to a place that's open … It's a balancing act to walk that tightrope of keeping on an even keel, yet remaining emotionally vulnerable so you can be creative.”

Somewhere in his opining about the meaning of art and the meaning of life, Andy threw his head back for a second. When he brought it back up, I screamed with horror: Flames were dancing on top of his head! His hair had caught fire from the candle! I panicked, dropped the mic, and forgetting my modesty, immediately jumped up to help. “His hair's on fire!” I yelled. Two seconds later, before Andy even knew what hit him, the fire had been put out, and my invincible subject just kept on talking, while I had flashes of Michael Jackson's horrific misadventure on that infamous Pepsi commercial shoot. Fortunately, Jeff kept his cool the entire time and kept on rolling, which resulted in YouTube gold—a video watched by thousands.

By the end of our interview, Andy and I and the crew knew that what had just transpired was magic—an intimate, intelligent, and animated interview with a bona fide rock star, conducted in a preposterous setting, with a totally unexpected drama cropping up in the middle. The fact that I'd had the guts to don a bikini—and actually allowed the cameras to capture me wearing it—was the icing on the cake, and certainly won me the “good sport” award with everyone present. On a more personal note, though, although I knew I was bound to cringe when I saw the resulting images, I felt as though I'd risen to the occasion, abandoned ego, and thrown myself wholeheartedly into the moment. I had walked on the wild side once again! It made me proud to know I was still very much in touch with my inner teen.

BROKEN PROMISES

HIGH SARTORIAL STYLE and good manners do not necessarily go hand in hand. I'm not sure at what stage of life a person can afford to be so self-involved that others simply don't matter. But sometimes, the unimaginable happens, and those of us who want to believe in the best in people are in for a very rude awakening. Case in point: Sean Combs, the former Puff Daddy, now commonly known as Diddy. But I still call him Puffy.

I first met Puffy in November 1998, when the entrepreneurial rapper/producer/actor turned his talents to design and launched a small men's hip-hop clothing line called Sean John. The line, at that time, consisted of little more than a group of oversized shirts, some with a Hawaiian-style motif. My cameraman and I had an appointment to meet Puffy at his West Twenty-first Street eatery, Justin's (named after one of his sons). Almost two hours into our wait, our main man sashayed in with his posse. I remember being a little agitated at how late he was, but he was such a striking figure that I knew our wait was worth it. He was dressed to the nines, complete with white satin tie, like some old-time movie star—as sartorially suave and debonair a subject as I had ever encountered.

I may not have been that impressed by his clothes line back then, but I remember thinking that this guy was scary smart in terms of knowing his fans and understanding the market he was going after. This ostentatious man had swaggered in to romance the urban jungle, and he made no bones about the powerfully glamorous vibe he projected. He was unquestionably poised to make his mark in fashion.

“Big business—that's what I would like to think I specialize in,” he told me. “Presentation is everything, you know, from the way your phone is answered, the way your cards look, the lawyer you have behind you, your accountant. The way you present yourself to the world is the most important thing … There's nobody who can represent you like you, and [nobody who can] take you where you got to go but you.”

Puffy's business observations were sage. I asked him where he'd learned all that.

“A lot of this stuff is just in my head, you know what I'm sayin'? I'm just bursting with information. Like God truly blessed me,” he answered.

He was blessed all right. Two years later, the clothing label he'd founded scored over $100 million in sales. And he was adamant about giving credit where credit was due. In February 2001, at his big Bryant Park Fashion Week show, he actually conducted a mini prayer session backstage for his hunky models just before they hit the runway. I suspected it may have been partly for the benefit of the cameras, but you can't blame a guy for trying to set an example.

“I mean, to be honest,” he said to me, “I had to put different priorities in my life, and God is definitely first, you know. It's important for people to know that, 'cause without God, we would not be here. You would not even be talking to me. And sometimes, we're moving so fast, we take that for granted. So we have to slow it down and give Him His praise.”

Puffy needed God's help more than ever that season: He was on trial for illegal gun possession and bribery, charges that had been laid following a Manhattan nightclub shooting. If convicted, Puffy was facing up to fifteen years in the slammer. But he had retained the famed attorney Johnnie Cochran, and everybody—media and fans alike—was
giving Puffy the benefit of the doubt and praying that this icon would be able to carry on. So with his trial looming, Puffy wanted to stage a brash, sexy, and in-yer-face show in New York, and he arranged for it to be broadcast live on
E!
in the U.S. Besides the ghetto-fabulous collection he was presenting—which was packed with over-the-top stud-wear like mink-lined ostrich trench coats, lynx-tail scarves, and coyote stoles—Sean Combs had a spiritual message to impart: Be proud. Be tough. Fight back. Make your voice heard. And above all, don't ever give up.

The attitude on the runway was militant, with some rapper ranting and raving about “motherfuckers” every two seconds. Then Michael Jackson's old hit “Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough” started blaring. And as models strutted in the opulent clothing, some in Che Guevera T-shirts and others with bare chests emblazoned with “Black Power” slogans, a frenetic video played, spewing images of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, disturbing documentary footage of race riots, and a healthy helping of Puffy's ex, the babe-acious J.Lo, thrown in for good measure. (The show was dedicated to her.) The finale was a poignant quotation from Maya Angelou, the great poet and activist, about fighting back against lies and oppression.

Then out walked a subdued Puffy, looking more like a college student than a bad-boy pop star, to the tune of Elton John's “I'm Still Standing.” It may have seemed like bullshit to some, but I liked Puffy and found the personal theatrics rather inspirational.

Backstage, Puffy seemed as earnest as ever. “We know you for your music, and your flash, and your own personal sense of style,” I said to him, “but what would you want to be most remembered for?”

“Hopefully … I'll be known as being a great entertainer, [a] child of God, and a nice human being. It's a long road to get to that point. But you know, I'm up for the journey,” he said. God must have been on his side, because a few weeks later, a jury found him not guilty on all charges.

By July of that year, Puffy was tripping the light fantastic once again, this time in Paris during couture week. It was moments before the Versace show at the Théâtre National de Chaillot, and Puffy made his
grand entrance with date Emma Heming (now Mrs. Bruce Willis) in tow, enveloped by an entourage of security heavies. Shutters clicked, bulbs flashed, and I made a beeline for Puffy, microphone in hand. But it was impossible to get to him. He was being guarded like royalty, or some precious, paranoid politician. I had a post-show invite, however, to a party he and Donatella were hosting for a couple of hundred people at Cabaret, the newly opened Paris nightspot at the Place du Palais-Royale. Maybe I'd see Puffy there.

Cabaret was a basement club that felt like a glam 1970s rec room. The space was decorated with countless twinkling votives and huge roses. Donatella's brother Santos was sitting at a table near the door with some beautiful blonde. The Champagne flowed. The Hilton sisters were cruising. I was munching caviar canapés when I noticed Puffy sitting at the back of the room with Donatella, Rupert Everett, Kevin Spacey, and Naomi Campbell. All the models and stylists and other assorted fashion types were crowded in front of the table, gawking at the celebs. Heath Ledger walked by. Chloë Sevigny posed for pictures. When Puffy got up from the table, I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked happy to see me and grabbed my hand. We did a little jive to the funky music, and then Puffy went over to start deejay duty. My pal Tim Blanks, the
Fashion File
host, and I started dancing like crazy with Amber Valletta and Shalom Harlow. It was a million degrees in the club, and we were all dripping with sweat. Puffy was on the mic, urging everyone to “have another shot of tequila” and “take your clothes off and get naked.” It was another one of those hedonistic moments that will stay with me forever.

I started running into Puffy more and more in the years that followed. In 2004, around the time he won the coveted Council of Fashion Designers of America award for best menswear collection, Puffy and his “Sean John” company bought a 50 percent interest in Zac Posen's label. Zac was a young designer whom
Fashion Television
had followed from the very beginning of his career, just after he graduated from Central Saint Martins. Because Zac was always so grateful for my support, I was treated with great respect at his shows, and Puffy seemed especially pleased to see me backstage. No matter how many
crews were fighting to get to him—the mood was electric whenever he entered the space—he always came directly towards us and never failed to give us great sound bites, forever thanking me on camera for being the first to recognize him as a design force to be reckoned with.

In February 2008, I managed to secure an intimate one-on-one interview with Puffy to be used for both
SIR
, the men's magazine I was editing, and
Fashion Television
. Puffy was relaxed and eloquent, with the controlled chat taking place in his large studio space. His design team was readying the fall/winter Sean John collection for its impending Fashion Week presentation, the first big show he had staged in five years, on the tenth anniversary of his label.

Puffy's income had been estimated at $346 million a couple of years earlier, making him one of the richest men in hip hop. Now, with all his successes and a new huge billboard towering over Times Square, he admitted that he felt as though he was living a dream. “I wish we all could,” he told me, characteristically conscious of the countless fans who'd helped him make it. “I worked hard to get to this point,” he said. “I want to keep living it. I want to keep dreaming.” He had carved out his role as an urban folk hero, and I was impressed to see that as grandiose as his persona had become, he still stayed focused on his goal. “I'm not just doing this for myself,” I remember him telling me ten years earlier. “My motivation is that I'm trying to make history. I'm just doing things that show younger people what you can do if you keep your eye on the prize and you have fun with your life.” Now, Puffy was advocating social change. He was very much behind the power of the youth vote and was committed to helping get Barack Obama elected. He credited his past with preparing him for his success. “Growing up in Harlem,” he said, “growing up without a father, watching my mother and grandmother work multiple jobs to make sure I could go to college, I grew up watching a certain type of work ethic. And it makes me a person that really believes he can achieve whatever he puts his mind to, because that's how my mother brought me up. Failing, for me, is not an option.”