One must be able to cut off from people like Rei cuts the limbs off mannequins. (It's a little know fact that Rei is a trained Ninja. Don't tell anybody, though.) I've never understood this "relationship" business, and I don't think I ever will. (Actually, I understand how to do things perfectly. Some would call this sociopathic. I call it efficient). So somebody thinks they're getting on like fire on a house with me, and then snap. I cut the cord. It may be 10 years down the line; it may be 2 decades down the line. But I don't tolerate disrespect. Coco Chanel was the one who provided dresses to the leaders of the Italian Mafia, after all. I operate Chanel like the fashion Mafia. Apart from we're a lot more dangerous than any old Al Capone, hmm? The drugs we sell are legal. We prostitute clothes. A woman never really owns a Chanel dress-- she is only renting it out. She may lick it, she may masturbate to it; she may bite it; she may do unspeakable things to it-- but she never owns it. We are not slave traders, after all. We are simply pimps. And I am the biggest pimp. No-- I'm a prostitute myself. I'm a whore, children. I'm a whore to Chanel, to Fendi, to the Lagerfeld Bear; to my own label, to this blog. But I'm a high class one.
So, I'm really both a whore and a pimp. The great thing about a Chanel dress or jacket, of course; is that it acts as a drug as well. We've done studies. Proper studies, with doctors in white coats and everything. When a woman sees a Chanel jacket, her brain reacts the same way it might to Cocaine or somesuch-- I'm not sure about the drugs. They're all letters these days, aren't they? P, Q, R, S...etc. They were much better in the 60's. Better names. Not that I took them. Yves didn't really either, to be honest. He thought he did. He was rather like that young girl having her first glass of wine, who then tells her friends about the bottles of wine she had when she really had half a glass. And Yves only took hash and opium, mostly. Stuck in the past, I told him.
"You should be trying these new drugs if you're going to do them at all!", I said. And he just sniffed his nose and punched his cigarette. Very old school, Yves. He wouldn't admit to being a pimp. Non, Yves pretended to be an artist. He would do a little ballet dance and say "Look! I am making ART!". Poor thing was never aware that they were seller mugs with the "YSL" logo on it, and flesh coloured Christs too (don't ask.)
I've never understood normal human emotions such as "love" and "affection" and so on. For instance, one of my assistants committed suicide via blasting himself into space and crashing into a large statue of Richard-Bloody-Branson. I didn't know how to feel. I looked up in this book I've got-- it's called "The Dictionary", and it didn't tell me how to react. In some books I've got, specifically books written by 16th century Spanish authors, the women cry a lot when their men commit suicide. So I played the Madame Butterfly theme (you know the one where she commits suicide? I can't remember the story. Something to do with men, doubtless. It's always to do with men, or underwear models. This is some sort of rule of the universe, I think. And then I saw how I felt. And I didn't feel anything.
After that I called up Anna:
Karl: Hi Anna
Anna: Hi Karl
Karl: One of my assistants committed suicide the other day.
She obviously didn't know how to react either. It was very annoying, because nobody knew how to react. I went back to sketching.