On my daily reading of everything-to-do-with-fashion-on-the-internet, I came across this, on the 568th page that my butler printed off.
"What’s funny is that today when we judge big designers for their level of creativity it’s a little misleading, because we’re actually judging the strength of their design teams."
I paused for a second. Bartok continued to play in the background.
These places have design teams? How does this work- do they schedule a meeting for their design to be creative in?
"Okay! Let's be creative"
"John says that we need to design some stuff"
"What label are we designing for?"
"Let's have uhhh, some colours"
"Yeah, colours. Sounds good.
"Didn't Karl do some Dior sketches at Anna's closest the other day?"
"Yeah but he was joking.."
"Let's use those"
"Do you want to go to Burger King now?"
Actually, that is how it works. Oops.
Rest assured, I design everything at Chanel. I bet you don't. Well, of course you don't because you're not me. So I know you don't. Ha.
Even the toilet was designed by me. Pencils, telephones, everything.
Anna says there's a new underwear model here (I'm at her Office, spinning around in her chair. There's...what do you call them...interns? Those people who work unpaid for "experience". Well the "intern"...it sounds like a computer part. Hang on, I'll just ask the intern if she's a computer part-
"Are you a computer part, intern?"
"You just mentioned Gucci and Armani in the same sentence!"
"I'm sorry sir...do I get fired?"
"But you're not being paid. In my mind that means you're not really employed here, hmm? Which makes you a stalker of Anna, probably. So really, you're a stalker of Anna. Is that right?"
"Who? What? Ummm...I think it's so chic right now"
"Go wash your mouth out, girl. Now. Do it."
(she runs away)
Ah, yes, soap. It isn't very fattening but I don't like the fact that they call it a cake of soap. Cake implies fatty food, and we do not do that here. Especially not here, in Anna's office.
Why does she have an office anyway? What is this place?
There's all these...people walking around.
Oh right- Anne Slowey. I see you commented on this little "blog" of mine a while back. Something about that stalker of mine. Zoe? Rachel. Rachel Zoe, yes. Hello Anne! Do you want to come into my closet? I saw an article about you and Nina the other day. Nina, of course, being that women from the TV that bred Christian whatshisface. I won't even say his name. It is so unappealing, so latex, so tacky. This is the article.
I'm inviting her into my closest because she knows who Boswell is. To quote from the article: "There are probably a handful of people in the entire fashion industry—Karl Lagerfeld is another—who could tell you who Boswell actually was"
So in the fashion of the teenage girls: "omg me too!". So come into my closest Anne. Anna doesn't bite, much.
Now- I was going to close this parenthesis at some point. Anna says there's an underwear model here and I'm not going to be like Anna here and be all "erm gee", hmm? There is an underwear model here and I am going to watch him and take picture of him. Then I'll take pictures of my shirt collars, as I do every month.)
There. Parenthesis ended. So chic, hmmm?
And Yves, I feel for you. Love is such a complex thing. It's fine when the other person doesn't know you love them. Secret love is fine, hmm? But then...when they know you love them, it becomes very much out of your control, hm? I'll take off the sunglasses and give you a hug. I don't just do that for anybody.
Paula said it well in her comment on your post, Yves. "I love you as a friend" is hard to say.
Of course, you've never done too much of that- have you? It's always been you in love.
Okay, enough of Karl being vaguely human, hmm? Get back to work. Lick telephones. Take some of Anna's alcohol.