Yesterday I stepped outside of the Chanel headquaters, and I could smell one thing:
But this money isn't like the normal money that Chanel-clad customers have. This money...it smelt of concrete...it smelt of Martin Margiela. Ah, he's back in town I thought to myself.
Let me tell you something about Martin: he is a bitter, bitter, bitter man who sits in a little room all day creating the ugliest garments imaginable, or worse than ugly: garments that look normal, would you believe. They are like what the normal people wear.
Why is he so bitter? Well, Martin is not his real name you see (he's really Parisian). Martin is really my age, that is, late-60s. And he studied with Yves and I in Paris, but wasn't very good. He was one of the countless masses that were trod on by the stunning genius of Yves and I. And over the years he grew bitter, and unlike most designers he did not steal the designs of Yves and I. Mostly me, because Yves liked to pretend designing was so hard. So he designed his own stuff. And it wasn't very good, sadly.
So he has been past the Chanel HQ. I wonder what he wants with me.
You can always smell him. Him and his concrete money. From Renzo "Avant Garde sells so well!" Rosso (I see he just brought that Dutch people. I guess it's like collecting Faberge eggs, hmm?)
I must go now. I'm taking photos of Brad, and this is important. More important than you. Because taking photos of Brad is a new form of photography.
(I think I have a new Muse, her name is Pamela. But she is not a bodyguard like Brad, hmm?)