Finding Myself in Fashion (24 page)

One rainy afternoon in 2003, I was invited to the elegant upstairs office of his 7L bookshop, gallery, and studio space, at 7 rue de Lille, where he was having a tête-à-tête with his close friend Ingrid Sischy, the savvy former editor of
Interview
magazine. Lagerfeld talked about his drive and relentless creativity. “The brain is something you have to train,” he explained. “The more you work, the better it works. I always have the feeling—and it may be childish at my age—that the best photo will be my next one, the best collection will be my next one. I always have the feeling [that] I've accomplished nothing, that I have to start again and again and again.” Lagerfeld said his biggest problem in life is that nothing satisfies him, that he always thinks he can do better. “It's hopeless,” he lamented. Ingrid suggested that his generosity is the reason Lagerfeld can do so many collections. “He has the capacity to really give and really put it out there,” she said. “But there's nothing else I want to do,” countered Lagerfeld. “I don't want to go on holidays. I don't want to go on boats. I don't want to go to beaches. I did all that when it was time. Now I can concentrate on my work. And I'm lucky
I have people who like my work, and who I can talk to. That's very important. Otherwise, you have no echo. It's an empty thing.”

In the summer of 2009, twenty years after our first encounter, he agreed to yet another exclusive sit-down interview. It was slated to take place right after the Chanel fall couture presentation at the Grand Palais. I knew I would have to wait, of course. Lagerfeld customarily chats with all the press post-show, and there are usually dozens of international crews clamouring to get to him. But like Gaultier, he always has time. If one is patient, one eventually gets to Lagerfeld. As Ingrid Sischy pointed out, the man is incredibly generous. He talks to everyone, switching effortlessly from English to French to German. Once in a while, a reporter may get snubbed—but only because he or she has asked a stupid question. Lagerfeld does not suffer fools easily and is quickly bored by people who display ignorance. That being said, he always responds to reporters backstage, often patiently repeating the same things over and over again. And he does it tirelessly and with great aplomb.

On this occasion, I was feeling quite pressured because we planned on turning our promised twenty-minute tête-à-tête into a half-hour special. We had hired an additional crew for the occasion so we could shoot the interview from two different angles. In fashion, nothing is ever for certain—things can change on a dime—so you always have to be on your toes, and just pray for the best. This is especially true when you're dealing with a volatile artist—especially one who is verging on exhaustion after sending out a breathtaking collection and then entertaining the hordes of media for about two hours straight.

It was getting close to midnight, and my crews and I were patiently standing by. Even Chanel's efficient Canadian PR head, Virginie Vincens, who had helped to orchestrate the interview, wasn't 100 percent sure it was going to happen. It was always possible that Lagerfeld would bow out suddenly if he decided he just wasn't up to talking anymore. Chanel's always-helpful Véronique Pérez, who works in the Paris office and acts as Lagerfeld's personal press handler, was doing the best she could to make sure that Karl would keep his promise, but nothing was certain. “Just make sure he sees you, Jeanne,” Véroniq
ue told me as the media crowd started to dwindle. “If he sees you, he won't leave.”

I went over to the stage where Lagerfeld had been giving his sound bites and waited til he'd wrapped up with the last reporter. He saw me and instantly came over, gave me a double kiss, and asked how I had liked the show. I was amazed that he still had the energy to do this thing and was actually up for it. We sat on a big couch (happily, the front row of that particular show was composed of these beautiful long couches), and he grabbed a pillow, cozying up to me. I grabbed another pillow.

“I like holding this pillow when I talk,” he said. “But it's not to cover up my tummy, ah? I'm slim. I don't need that,” he said.

“Well, my tummy does need that!” I joked.

We launched into a delightful, intimate, and very animated personal chat. Almost instantly, I forgot the cameras were even there. My only focus was Karl. It's uncanny how fast you have to be when you're interviewing him. But this exchange felt more like a conversation. My questions were totally spontaneous, though I did have a certain agenda in the back of my mind. Karl is extremely quick and constantly lobs witty remarks with lightning speed. I had to keep coming back. But I was mesmerized by him, totally captivated. And ultimately charmed, to say the least. Afterwards, as we posed together for a few post-interview pictures, Lagerfeld whispered into my ear how much he always enjoys talking with me, and how some people are just a bore to him.

A couple of months later, speaking with Karl backstage just after the presentation of his Lagerfeld label, I asked him if he'd had the chance to see our interview. “Yes, of course,” he replied. “It was great. Especially because now I really know that I'm not wasting my time with you, ah?” I appreciated the compliment, especially when I thought about the frustration he must often feel, indulging so many reporters and knowing that such a limited amount of the material he gives them will likely ever be used.

SHABBY CHIC

GREAT STYLE is about much more than what we wear. If style was solely dependent on the clothes we choose and how we strut them, there would be many more inspiring people on this planet. While the lifeblood of this business may indeed be fashion's superficial side, I have learned that what's at the heart of truly great style is personal behaviour—the way we move through the world. That, and the way we treat others.

One of the most shocking and blatant displays of classless behaviour I have ever seen came in May 2006, courtesy of a prominent San Francisco fashionista and socialite who was hosting a dinner party for Alexander McQueen at the ritzy Postrio restaurant. McQueen had been invited to the Academy of Art University in San Francisco to receive an honorary doctorate, and the school, knowing that he and I had a good relationship, invited me and my cameraman to fly out for the celebration.

I had interviewed McQueen many times over the years, but the exchange we taped that afternoon in his hotel room was the most intimate conversation we had ever had. The designer had turned over a new leaf, abandoning his reckless, bad-boy image and embracing a more spiritual philosophy of growth and compassion.
There was even a copy of one of the Dalai Lama's books on his coffee table. I was heartened to see Lee—as his friends called him—who had battled his fair share of personal and professional demons in the past, finally seeming so at peace with himself. We had shared a lot together. In 1996, I documented his first outrageous New York show, when he infuriated certain senior members of the fashion media by starting his American debut before they even arrived. I covered his first collection for Givenchy in 1997, when the critics ripped him apart, and he later opened his heart to me and my camera, revealing his vulnerability. And we had sat on the judging panel of the Smirnoff International Fashion Awards for a couple of years, with McQueen demonstrating his feisty side by always standing up for the most controversial design in the competition. There was a definite simpatico feeling between us, and we often shared personal tidbits of information that endeared us to each other. Lee seemed genuinely happy that I had come all the way to San Francisco to witness his proud moment, and we both looked forward to seeing each other at the dinner that evening. One of the organizers at the school told me that Lee and I were sitting together, a detail I shared with him. He was relieved, because he said he wasn't very good at chatting up strangers and was a little overwhelmed by all these fashionistas, who were so intent on schmoozing him.

My cameraman and I arrived at the restaurant early because we were only going to be allowed to shoot the first fifteen minutes or so of the cocktail portion of the dinner. The dinner was taking place in a private room at the restaurant. I went in to see the lovely, long table, formally set with placecards at each seat. Indeed, Lee and I were sitting together, and I felt quite privileged. The guests started to arrive. Our hostess—decked out in a gorgeous black McQueen number—seemed gracious and introduced me to several guests. The designer had yet to show, and I continued to mingle. When I went into the dining room a second time to put my bag on my chair, I realized that Lee's placecard was no longer beside mine: His seat had been moved a few places over. I thought that was strange but didn't ask questions.

When the shy Lee McQueen arrived, he looked a bit uncomfortable but dutifully posed for pictures and tried to make small talk to
the various guests. He looked relieved when he saw me, and he said something about how great it was that we would be sitting together. I told him that unfortunately that wasn't going to be the case—someone had moved our placecards. He immediately sent someone into the dining room, and before I knew it, the placecards were back in their original position.

We all took our seats, and Lee and I proceeded to have the most wonderful dialogue—quite intense at times, but very much fun. There was some minimal conversation with the guests who sat on either side of us, but for the most part, the designer and I were engaged in an intimate discussion. Before I knew it, we were on dessert. Just as the dinner was winding down, Lee excused himself, saying that it had been wonderful to see me again, and that he was going off to a club with some friends. I told him to have a great time and said I looked forward to our next meeting. Eventually, other dinner guests started getting up from the table as well, and I decided to say my goodbyes. When I glanced down to the end of the table, I detected an unmistakably icy glare coming from our hostess. I walked over to where she was sitting, flanked by a couple of her fashionista pals, and thanked her for a lovely evening.

“Well, you can go now!” she snapped, with venom in her eyes. “You're not welcome here anymore!” Then she quickly turned away and started chatting with the women she was with.

“I'm sorry, is there a problem?” I feebly asked. But she simply ignored me.

I was flabbergasted. What could I have done to upset her so? Was it that she thought I was monopolizing Lee's attention? Did she think I'd had a hand in swapping the placecards? As I was getting my coat upstairs, with tears welling up in my eyes, the organizers from the Academy of Art University saw me leaving and asked what was up. I recounted my story, and they were outraged. They suggested that perhaps our hostess was jealous of my rapport with Lee and felt slighted by him. They told me not to worry, of course, and said that some people are simply like that. But I was totally disheartened to have been victimized by this designer-clad diva, and I will never come to terms with the crassness and cruelty she dished out that night.

The whole ugly episode made me think of the price some celebrities have to pay for their fame. I suspected that Lee McQueen was less than thrilled to have to sit at the table of some diva he really didn't care about, but that sort of social obligation comes with the territory. Some celebrities don't seem to mind having to perform on command, but others bridle at the prospect of being treated like circus horses. For those who are naturally shy or private, it can make for plenty of torment. But that's yet another layer of obligation that celebrities often are burdened with. And it's understandable that the sensitive ones are especially torn.

As much as we all strive to find a balance and live a peaceful, harmonious existence, I'm also a firm believer that complacency does not fuel creative fires. Back in the old days, when I covered the music scene, Sting once told me, “A content man can never create.” I'm not sure what his personal demons were at the time, but he seemed to have come to terms with having them, and he never pretended that every aspect of his life was perfect. Certainly, some artists struggle a lot more than others. But it seems that some of the best ones—the geniuses who are almost driven mad by their desire to bring their visions to fruition—are the ones who suffer most. Blame it on their sensitivity, and on the fact that the world, as beautiful as it can sometimes be, is far from perfect.

Lee McQueen's suicide in February 2010 left the fashion world reeling. The shocking tragedy came just days after the death of his beloved mother. Undoubtedly, his close relationship with his mum contributed to the deep depression he was going through. But since our first meeting in Cape Town in 1995, I had been aware of Lee's deeply sensitive nature. I often marvelled at how he was able to come out with consistently outstanding collections season after season, and at how well he'd learned to play the fashion game.

I will never forget our conversation in 1997, just after his debut collection for Givenchy was torn apart by fashion critics. Days before the show for his eponymous label, I spoke with the wounded young talent in his London studio. Animal hides were being used for that particular collection, and McQueen pointed to a bull skin that had a gash in it. “See this?” he said, grabbing the hide. “I'm making a coat
out of it. It represents the pain I went through in Paris. That's what it was like for me, this twenty-six-year-old kid, thrown into the ring and they killed me.” Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered his recent ordeal.

The following season, I interviewed him in Paris just after his second ready-to-wear collection for Givenchy. He was decidedly down and felt miffed that the crowd hadn't appreciated his fun, in-yer-face take on “Cowgirls Go Vegas.” “What's the matter with these people?” he asked me post-show. “Don't they realize how much work I put into this?” McQueen never did find happiness at Givenchy. But the profile he acquired at the house did eventually help him to sell 51 percent of his own label to the Gucci Group, and he went on to create some of the most memorable and inspiring collections the fashion world has ever seen. His takes on the synergy between humanity and technology were especially profound. One of the only times I have been moved to tears by a fashion show was at McQueen's spring '99 presentation, when Shalom Harlow, wearing a huge white dress, was spray-painted by two robotic arms as she twirled on a rotating disc. Fashion's magical, transformational quality had never been so simply and poignantly illustrated.