To silence the incessant non-believers.

Anna D

I was talking to Anna dello Russo the other day, who has recently become one of those "internet people" who have more images on the blogs than Andy Warhol has paintings. Consequently, she has her photograph taken a lot. She was wearing a golden garment which resembled a sheep upturned.

"Anna, is this really a golden sheep?" I asked.

"No, no, it is imitation golden sheep" she whispered back, as if ashamed of this fact. I wondered where one would obtain an actual golden sheep. I supposed that one had probably been caught by D on one of her safaris- surely the Africans would have one, what with all the exotic creatures in Africa. Zebras and such. The western world has to make do with LA- a veritable hunting ground if you're that way inclined.

Anyway, Anna said that she had been standing there for two days because the photographers won't go away and isn't it rude to leave them?

"So you were just standing there?" I said.

"Oui", she said. "I was once in the middle of the first world war- you know the one?"

"I know the one. Quite well known."

She preened at me. "I'd expect so, if I were in it! Anyway- I stopped this world war one for a whole five days because the photographers wanted to take pictures of me. Pin up, was the phrase they used", she said, pronouncing it "peen up".

"Didn't you get bored?"

"Being bored isn't something people with lower shoulders on their jackets do, Karl."

"This is why I'm glad nobody knows who I am. I am a complete nobody" I said, as two hundred and fifty seven flashes went off.

Note: Readers, you may have notice that I have been quite...apathetic with posts this year. This is because, well, I can do as I please, but also because I am writing a novel. You will be able to purchase it at some point within the next year. I am thinking of titling it "KARL LAGERELD: MEMOIRS OF A DRESSMAKING PROSTITUTE", though I am in no way writing a memoir. But it's a lovely word, isn't it? It sounds like a silk slip. Perhaps I will call it "KARL LAGERFELD: SILK SLIP DRESSMAKING", but then everybody will think I am a company selling silk slips. I have no desire to clothe you in silk slips, I assure you.

End Of The World, etc

Dear Bryan,

My apologies about that ipad you were given for free not being 3g. What is the world coming to, hm? Why- the other day when I was on the back of my elephant riding to see Anna's new coat at her place in Paris, I saw people riding in those horrid automobiles. Since I saw An Inconvenient Truth I have been very eco-conscious, and it's considered most demode to ride around in an automobiles now- we all use elephants or our assistants. Only the proles use them.

Well, an ipad- which I recall you simply loved when it came out- without 3g? Simply another sign of the death of civilization, I fear. We are going back to the dark ages, brethren. At least Hermès still makes scarves which the weaker of you can weep into.

Love,

Karl

Yves in winter

Bonjour, it's Yves, over here, you can see my nose perhaps, the glint of the light on my glasses. I do like to bundle up in this weather. Oh, the fur lap robe came with an old touring car we bought, isn't it lovely? Driving was such an event in the old days!
Where are my manners - let's ring for tea! MERRIWETHER! Oh, here he is, lovely boy! Oh, we have green tea, ginger cookies, and a very special bottle of Irish Creme Liqueur, made specially by a local distillery to honor the chef's 100 days of sobriety, or a collection of tartans. I love that the taste of the cream hits your tongue, then the brandy sneaks up, like a little child putting her hand in yours. Oh, and we had glassware made for the occasion, whatever it was!
OOooh, ooh, look! I can see my breath! Oh, I forgot! It's my cigarette!
So, you look wonderful, it's so nice to see you. I must tell you where we went - to a remote part of Canada, where the patriarch of Swaworski Crystals opened an aabsolute fantasy of a hotel, on an Okanagan lake, it made of millions of crytals, so you can always see yourself, and you are alwys in good company. Oh, and a special reverse sauna, it is 162 below - one only stays in it for three minutes, but it says it reverses aging. Oh, and schnitzel and wild boar for dinner -so Austrian!
So yes, winter must come, but we can make it lovely, can't we? Here, a bit more of the brandy - the local honey makes it good for you!

Man of my word

Well, people DO forget that there is a third sex. A woman in a mans world.

I do hate to name drop, especially when it's an entire country. If one name drops in conversation it smacks of a certain desperation. However what I'm about to say won't make a lick of sense if I don't start with what I despise most.

When I first arrived in Thailand, I was struck by how prehistoric the place was. I summoned some assistants with the turn of a slender hand - fingers are such POWERFUL things, aren't they? Better than money, that's why they call them digits - and two or three appeared before me.

- See those cliffs?

My lengthy digit arched like a skeletal model towards the skyline. The face on the assistants - because sometimes they must share - sighed a tender spot as they realised that physical exertion may be needed.

- I wish for you to find me a pterodactyl for Cecil's shoot.

They looked slightly bewildered

- A pterodactyl! You must know what I am talking about, am I speaking Thai? I sometimes do that without noticing.

They tottered off.

I must say, back to the sky line, I do SO enjoy the rocks here and how they are such physics dissidents. Gravity is so demode, unless one has it ones self, in which case it is D-mode*.

My contribution to counteracting global warming was an assistant-powered boat to the island. (I feel that there is a business in assistant-powered technologies. Would you buy an assistant-powered car, my readers? Perhaps we could quilt it like a Chanel bag - I will speak to K on the matter.) I know what you're thinking

- But D! Dearest! It will simply be SWARMING with too-rysts.

I am one step ahead of you, my readers. I bought the island for the shoot -- fabulous tax deductions. Poor Cecil was sweating profusely.

Unfortunately I was unaware that the lack of cloud cover and oxygen ménage à trois meant that I managed to scorch myself somewhat spectacularly. Usually I just glare at the sun and it turns away, mortified. However, it is apparent that the Thai sun doesn't speak English and completely out-glared me. Normally this wouldn't stand, but for a foreign celestial being, I will make a concession.

Most people sunburnish, you understand, but I, however, do not have the luxury. That is right, there are somethings money cannot buy. As a result I appear to look as though I have been stung by a jellyfish. We even met a jelly fish who offered to "even it up" but I politely declined.

The shoot was fantastic, the pictures are so tiny that they fit on the back of your finger nail. But by golly they were good -- then, in an elaborate ceremony, we sent them on a diaspora via a big gust of wind to better inform the rest of the population on how to take photographs.

Oh! And the assistants have returned with something that is definitely not a pterodactyl. A cassowary? Well it does look quite prehistoric. It is quite a pity that the photo shoot was days ago. I am afraid your lack of timing will mean you have no choice but to take the assistant powered boat home. Yes, to New York. Why -- is that too far?

Oh, please excuse me. Fracas abound.

Adieu

D.

*I mentioned this in reply to a comment on the previous post. D-mode is anti-demode, or de-demode, as it is a process where someone is so D-mode that they make people less demode by proximity. Technical term, DO keep up.

I will write again soon

Dearest Readers,

As I speak I am in the process of transit which means a large amount of my thoughts are appearing from the ethos in the old fashioned way. I have several assistants painting them on stone walls in decorative figures. At present they are a general slurry, as opposed to a succinct spiders web, as my assistants aren't very apt at translating. Or painting.

Please, stop your weeping. I will do my best to sit down and piece together the words that I've written. This may take some time as it appears to me that my impulse to write has come in one word bursts.

Naturally, I understand that you are impatient.

Sincerely,

D

Coat Watching Today

As I leave the house in the upper west on this slightly crisp morning, my gloves lie eagerly on the counter in the hall, yipping for a walk. They happily snug over my hands and dance around the door handle. I do not go people watching in the mornings, as people are largely wallpaper and more predictable than a hedgehog. I, MY readers, go coat watching.

Today Mrs Kernel's coat greets the letterbox begrudgingly. It shrugs under the shoulders and lopsidedly grimaces at the neck. Further down the street, two close friends greet each other, then tangle when stepping back from embrace. This is slightly mortifying for each. One tries to tuck away it's fraying hem, the other silently vows to have its buttons removed. Ms Rothesteinchildsson's coat follows behind her like a happy puppy, nuzzling in all the right places. Her coats always Do What They're Told.

My good friend Karl is in town and is staying in his apartment uptown. He has had assistance paint all the windows black so that the sunlight doesn't get cheeky. I have a gift for him under my left arm, wrapped unassumingly in burburry wrapping paper - excellent for a cold day. Someone with a thousand little stars painted on their face and entirely few clothes yells out to my parcel in a quaint accent. I freeze her with my eyes and keep walking.

Karl's bow needs rehairing today. Poor, little bow. It's frizzy like a frump. I know what you are thinking, readers. You think that Karl is playing the Cello - au contraire. He quite liked the idea of playing an instrument, so he went to the store and bought what appealed. Upon realizing you cannot make music with just a bow, he now uses it to whip assistants when he wants things done.

It gets rehaired every two weeks.

- Just because I do not know the meaning of my paintings when I paint them, does not mean they have no meaning.
The man at the coffee shop's coat tells me this. Was that Dali? It does not reply.

I stop at Tiffanies.
- Are these blood diamonds?
The attendant looks horrified.
- I only like blood diamonds. They have a certain edge.
The assistant's lip curls - We do not sell blood diamonds
- AND why not?
- Because they are the result of human slave trafficking and the money goes to tyrants who abuse their workers -
- Oh! I hadn't realized De Beers had taken over the blood diamond market!
A single, thin, gloved finger, hovers over my lip like a stray branch. - I guess one should have assumed that would happen.
The assistant presses a button under the counter. I depart leading neck first. I do love an early morning assistant sashing.

I reach Karl's apartment and knock out a death knell. An assistant answers the door with a red stripe running the length of his face.
- I have bought Karl a new bow. - I say - So that he needent be without whilst his favourite is getting rehaired.
The assistant's expression is hard to discern.
- Run along, now, and find me some champagne. I am very thirsty after a good walk.

Praying To Myself

Titles are so bourgeois, don't you think? It is what it is.

Sometimes I find it excruciating to write. It’s not so much elaborate Emu quill plume to paper so much as writing that doesn’t make my skin try to escape off my bones. When I get the feeling of a hag fish nestling in the cavity of my chest, I know that what I am about to write will not be good. It will not have pizzazz, as they say. Then when I pause to think, the only genius that springs to my tongue is that of other peoples. My word, I think, surely there must be some left of my own somewhere int here.

The prospect of writing often daunts me. I suppose that these days it might be called stress. Once upon a time it may even have been called hysteria and diagnosed as wandering body parts – this has always been my favourite Victorian diagnosis as it makes me think that my insides are like a dark forest and my body parts some small girl in a cloak.

I dislike the word stress. Stress is not elegant. Stress is always frizzy hair. Lopsided (lopsided is my current favourite word) glasses and frantic hand gestures. Move slowly, readers, always. In your car, pull out like it weighs nothing and is carried like a skein of silk on the breeze – you will never have a crash because everyone will stop in your presence. Use your hands slowly, like you are moving through molasses. Elegance is slowness, patience and eyes that could shoot a whole room dead if they wanted to. Go slow, speak quieter and hold longer, then people will listen.
Have you ever tried speaking quieter in a chatty group? Everyone gabs louder and louder and as soon as you open your mouth their silence and rapture.

Oh – I must mention. I saw something recently that discussed the word Rapture. It seems that it has been misappropriated to an odd cause. The Second Coming, that of Mr. Christ and his cronies, will come down and take away (vanish, evaporate) those worthy to heaven – Leaving their clothes behind. My word, I thought, the only reason this might be possible is because there would be new wardrobes up there waiting – which almost made me convert but the fine print mentioned nothing of it. Even then, though, to leave behind my museum, my clothes, my photographs – surely I can pack a little overnight bag, Mr Christ? I shan’t take any of the champagne as I’m sure you are well stocked. Or perhaps I should, as you are better prepared for the middle class with your water to wine party trick.

What I mean to say, without diversions, is that elegance is knowing you have freckles, ginger hair and buck teeth, but knowing full well that these are precisely the reason you are not tanned and working for InStyle. I was never a face woman, but that doesn’t mean it’s not exactly what worked in my favour. You’d be able to pick me out of a line up blindfolded in the thickest wool.

There, D, that wasn’t so hard to do, now was it.

K, Darling, it’s asking me if we link Amazon to the site. Does this mean I can purchase a new species? I would quite like a petite, highly poisonous and brimstone red frog to be called the D frog, would you like one too? Perhaps we can order in a jaguar to use as a throw rug in my studio. Shall I talk to one of the assistants?

Marie Claire Preaches Against The Fatties

Dear Maura,

I was alerted to this piece of fine journalism by one of my assistants, and wish to congratulate your courageous efforts against the hordes of fatties that plague the world in These Dark Days of Walmart and McDonald's. I only have one suggestion: instead of exercising to lose weight, why not simply not eat? A friendly tip from your be-gloved uncle, you understand.

Love,

Karl

Magical Fashion Island

A lot of people have been asking me why The Magical Fashion Island in Dubai isn't going ahead. "Lack of funds", I said. "People aren't made of money these days."

"They were before?" said the people.

"Some of them. The Rothschilds were- that's why that had umbrellas, to stop themselves getting soggy. They always had umbrellas, those Rothschilds. Now they use plastic money."

"Does Bill Gates use plastic money?"

"Ah, well, he's not the sort to have a melting cesspool of credit cards all over him- he uses imaginary money. It works just the same, if everybody believes in it. It's like that Tinkerbell person, you know."

"-Off Peter Pan."

"Quite. If you believe in anything enough it'll be true. That's why I'm still alive- because I don't believe in death."

"Oh?"

"I don't "do" death. It is not for me. Other people, maybe- if they're into that sort of thing. The problem with death is that it's very hard to undo once one has done it, and what if death goes out of fashion?"
"..."

"Well, then one would be demode. You can't reinvent yourself either. Elvis did- he lost weight. I didn't have to die to lose weight. In any case, why The Magical Fashion Island didn't work is because people didn't believe in it hard enough."

At this point the people were escorted outside by my butler, and I sat down to read the newspapers. In The Guardian there was an article with the words "Are women hard-wired to enjoy cupcakes?"

"Stunning journalism", I muttered to myself. I called Anna. "Do you like cupcakes?"

"No," she replied. I called Diana. She did not like cupcakes. I called Carine and she vomited on the mere premise of cupcakes. Finally, I talked to my friend Gertrude Stein, who pointed out that the article was as ridiculous as saying "are men hard-wired to enjoy meat?"

"The article asks that probing question too", I said. Gertrude rolled her eyes. I wondered how on earth anybody would come up with the assumption that Women Enjoy Cupcakes. What about staplers, hm? Are office-workers hard-wired to enjoy staplers? Are pizza-makers hard-wired to enjoy pizza-slicers? Why is there so much wiring, anyway?

I threw The Guardian on the floor and stomped on it with my one-size-too-small shoes. Hard hitting journalism indeed. I asked Helmut if he wanted to take a photo, and I asked him how death was working out. He mentioned an orgy.

Above: Artist's rendering of Magical Fashion Island.

I do so enjoy it when people take me to heart

The Guardian- The fussy eater: Why eating in public is a no no

If you would handkerchief F the word "nonplussed" in the article above, you might notice that the lovely Ariel Leve seems to have read my post.

I find this delightful.

D

Karl, where do you keep your recliners?

I was speaking to Karl recently when he mentioned that he would send me [Helmut] Newtons remains. I was of the understanding that he would be sending me a book he had on the topic of Newton (as that was what the discussion was on), but when a package arrived in the post last night, it turned out to be his actual remains.

I am not entirely sure what to think of that, but it will make a darling centrepiece on my mantle - a turbulent conversation starter - like a small plane in high winds.

That got me thinking - why do we bother with such beautiful coffins? Ever since Iggy Pop and Keith Richards, dying has been so out of vogue. No body does it anymore. I know what you are thinking, some people don't know who they are and coffins are supposed to be your eternal resting place. But after the likes of Palin and Beck are having an unprecedented growth in atheists-- these things compound you see, eternal resting places have far less importance. I imagine that if heaven were all white, then it would smell like crisp sheets. However, if there was a heaven, I doubt that it would be white. It would be champagne coloured.

On this particular immortalisation bent, why don't we bring back death masks in the fashion of Ancient Rome? How glorious. Perhaps there should be a resurgence in urns - I wonder if Lalique is available for a chat and a champagne. I do so adore his brooches.

Of course people would still continue to use coffins, as not everyone is privy to the style of the times. We would need to start some sort of trend against them.

We could throw a party!

At a tennis club -- or a funeral parlour.

A funeral parlour could be fun, we could all dress up like we were going to a wake then climb into the coffins when we needed a little Champagne Nap. One might suggest that this wouldn't help our cause, but I'm not for putting people out of business and I think that if Funeral Parlours got into the Bed Business, then they would be happy and far more profitable.

I never use my bed, personally, I find the whole exercise tiresome. Changing out of your clothes and into clothes that not even you see - because you sleep in them. The poor clothes! Bed clothes must be the most lonely of clothes as they don't even get to go out and meet others. Whenever I get tired and have to take a Chapagne Nap, I lie on one of my sofas, put my eye mask on and nod off for a while.

But Diana! You might say - when do you change? When do you shower? To which I might say - don't be silly. I always change before an event and shower after. All those socialites, they leave powder on my cheeks from their air kisses. I wouldn’t need to put make up on myself if I weren’t such a stickler for hygiene.

Anyway, if I get tired at an event – I suppose I just pop off, have my little naps on a recliner sofa, then back to the event. My beds are only really there for bedspreads, which you may know I have a particular fondness of.

O! and to give some people something to do -- so they don't go rob some other people, which I understand happens when people get bored.

Isn't it grand what you learn over breakfast!

A Victory For Edith Head

I should shoot down those tiresome rumors about me retiring, again- they seem to crop up every six months or so- the same rate as Cher farewell tours and Neil Young albums. This time the rumors seem to be being dispensed by anonymous news sources, as opposed to Ms. Pernet, who I actually like. It is a lot less interesting when the rumor is being whispered by greasy bits and blobs. Do the bits and blobs have a vendetta against me? I asked my butler, who was sewing up the back of my head- it needs to be tightened daily to keep me looking as I do (I almost wrote "young and fresh" there, but I am under no illusions- I do not pretend to be the fresh lamb of the day).

Anyway- I am not retiring, and I intend to design Chanel until the end of time. Even then I will carry on, because time doesn't affect me. Time is relative, and I have no relatives. Well- all my relatives that I'll admit to liking are dead. Anyway, this means I am free of time itself. You can ask Einstein if you don't believe me. Of course, Albert ended up marrying and thus died. If you want to live forever have no relatives. Everybody these days is too concerned with starting a family or getting married. I see men and women carrying engagement rings down the street on their open palms, running in that fashion that you only see in black and white movies. Colour movies don't do it, because colour changes how people move. This was the main idea for the last Chanel show- to change how everybody walks by using a black and white set. I once had a whole house in black and white, too- even the butler was in black and white. Edith Head designed it. Skin tones look a lot better in black and white. Ms. Head once told me that she wore her special-black-and-white glasses (which made everything black and white) all the time, especially when heading out into the general public. "Otherwise, darling, it is hideous!", she would say. This is my tip of the day, in the style of children's television programs.

Karl's Tip Of The Day:

Why don't you wear black and white glasses all the time?

I realize I'm stealing from Diana here- my apologies, D. I couldn't help myself. I urge all my readers to go out and try it- if everyone did it, everybody would look at least 50% more chic than they do (or don't). I imagine this situation would work in a way similar to the emerald glasses in The Wizard of Oz. Except, of course, black and white is a lot more interesting than emerald. When you go to see your lawyer, or your private detective, it will be as if one is in film noir, or a Raymond Chandler novel. Streets will be like a Cartier-Bresson photograph, or something out of Breathless. Everybody would look far more attractive, and the Wal Mart Generation would be neutralized.

This internet thing, Karl

Attachments, that is-- attachments to emails, are so chic. Attachments are like lace envelopes. Heaven forbid one would just throw an image or some writing into the body of an email, how awfully common - lumping it on in there.

There is nothing like a physical letter (some day I would like to get a letter in a lace envelope). I love how tactile they are, how you can see the person slaving for hours over every letter. It’s like blood, ink. Letters are love labourers.

Emails lack this tactility. You just whizz one off and one whizzes back. It makes the world one big spiderweb. And if there is one thing that this spiderweb has spawned, it’s an awful use of language. Where have these youths put all their vowels? How can they not love their vowels? Have they not had enough alphabet soup? The whole business makes them sound so awkward and haphazard, which I suppose is rather fitting -- considering.

Dear Readers,

I think the letter O should be used more. E is highly overrated. O is the most beautiful letter in the entirety of the English language. All that space in the centre means you can put so much into it – O, Diana! In a greek tragedy, or a champagne accident. O. Disappointment. O. Revelation. O. Loss. O. Lust. We could all speak only in O’s, swimming around like gold fish.

I have never learnt Finnish but despite the apparent similarities in the lack of vowel use, I strongly suspect that the Fins just hide their vowels. Like dragons. All their vowels will be hidden in mountains across the country. Clever, the Fins.

The French are clever, too. And they like their vowels. They like them well enough to give them couture to wear when they sound different. Everyone sounds different with a couture hat on. Perhaps I will talk to Treacy about making hats Acute, Grave and Circumflex. Acute will be rose pink (the Canadians will buy them up, aye?). Grave will be grey and Circumflex – well, I will talk to Phillip.

The Brits have always had this class-related love of the French language. I say love, but it has probably just been bore into them since boarding school. It’s a status thing. I am of the impression that the Brits – the British, “Brits” sounds like smut – have this secretly widespread belief that by learning the French language they are somehow Conquering it, like it is a Colony. Like its vowels will be somehow Enslaved to the British – which I guess they are, most of the time, with the accents that are produced.

Secretly, though, the French are pleased to have tricked the British into speaking their language. They are clever, see, and this is all they ever really wanted in the first place.

I do so admire the French.

My word my thoughts are all over the place today.

Notes from the Gilded Chairs

D: Darling, isn't this ... internet-thing fabulous?

K: Diana, dear- It's beyond, isn't it? Do you know that you are on The Google? My assistants tell me that being on The Google is all the rage- some sort of new hip studio space, I expect. That or a nightclub. K

D: You know, I went to a night club once, in the 80s. It was full of light in the most unexpected places. The youth in the room was palpable. I find youths gamey these days, their musk is occasionally so physically overwhelming I topple in the street. They were not always like that, not in my day, at any rate.

D: I almost got run over today and I thought - of course cars stop for me. They wouldn't dare run me over, I would burst their tires.

K: The 70s are made of orange, no? But not oranges- fruits are far more exotic- the colonies. Aren't the colonies divine? I wonder who ever thought up the idea. Here is a new idea- a Chanel Colony, like a giant boutique- a whole island of goods. After all, isn't shopping what the rich and bored like best? Buy a Chanel hut! A Chanel missionary's bible! A Chanel igloo! It would get my heart pounding, if I hadn't sold it to the fellow made out of tin. Russian oligarch, I believe.

The Karl Lagerfeld Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame Nominations

Hello, people-

I trust you have all met Diana. Turning up dead to a party can sometimes be too convincing- I have done so many times myself, although since I tend to dress like a dead German aristocrat, nobody actually notices. When I first started sporting this look, people did presume I was dead. They gathered around me like swans (the most vicious of creatures, let me tell you) and said "The Kaiser is dead! Long live the Kaiser!" I would blink behind my sunglasses and say "no, this is simply my new Hedi Slimane suit. Divine, isn't it?" They would all look rather embarrassed.

Once somebody called in an ambulance, and I decided that if the ambulance was there in the first place, I might as well take a ride in the ambulance anyway. At the hospital I met Alber, who wasn't sick or dead either- he just likes the atmosphere. Frankly, I found the atmosphere too reminiscent of Warhol's factory. The group of young people I keep in my pocket said "oh darling, I'm so over hospitals." I patted my pocket reassuringly, letting the young people in my pocket know that we would be out of the hospital soon.

The group of young people in my pocket has since been...disposed of. Do not worry (though I trust if you are a True Reader Of Karl, you will not be worrying anyway)- they have gotten work in television. Nobody can tell the difference in size.

Where was I? Well, fashion month is not interesting yet. That's partially why I've asked Diana to write here- fashion is not about clothes as so much as ideas, fantasy, all that sort of carry on- Diana is good at that. A lot of the young people these days don't understand that- I'm not sure what they're interested in. The 70s, apparently. You know, the 70s have been and gone. They are in the past- and the 1770s are more interesting, anyway. Do you know what the problem is? Things are not ridiculous enough. Clothes are not ridiculous enough, objects are not ridiculous enough, and the only ridiculous things we do have are people like young Sarah Palin, Glen Beck and the lady who doesn't approve of sex. Everything else is far too rational. And when things are rational, things get rather dry, and people do not dress up- one must always dress up in order to buy something ridiculous. What happens when people do not dress up is that they become bored- their eyes become bored- and hence we have people like Palin and The Chaste Lady, who exist solely to entertain us. Who knows if they're real? I am sure if everybody dressed up in their finest outfit Palin, et al would disappear into a puff of illogic.

Anyway, I am going to dress up the New Young People I have. They will be wearing couture. I expect nothing less. It is like having dolls, apart from they have these "feelings" and so on. But you know, if you throw down enough pairs of skinny jeans (pocket-sized, of course) the people in your pocket will be quiet. I think that is the solution to People With Feelings.

I suppose you are those who went to my Museum shows?

Dearest Readers,

Just a brief foreword before I tell you of my story today. My name is Diana, although some refer to me as Mrs Vreeland. I have done a great many things in my life time, lived an extensive period of years, and now have agreed to write for my good friend Karl at his behest.

Now, I have never been a great believer in libraries - public libraries, that is. My good friend, Karl, keeps libraries that are the precise reason one should not bother with the things. Just buy the book, that way it will only be an arms length away.

Contrary to my opinion, however, I discovered the process of libraries is... somewhat simple. I walked into my nearest library almost by accident - I saw a friend stroll in and after some humming and glitter, I decided to stroll about and see what the fuss was.

The lady behind the "membership" counter asked me for photo identification. "My dear", I said "When I started out, photos were starting out. You could say we've known each other a while."

She seemed non-plussed - which I have always used as a conflation of not caring-- a belligerent disinterest. This is opposed to confusion, which is it's 'true' meaning, one might say. In this case, I use it in terms of both.

"Darling..." I continued, letting my words hang like water on a spider web "I am Diana" to which she decided I needed no more proof of existence - and rightly so. This library could follow me around, for all it mattered.

Strolling the ailes, I discovered one of my books. Needless to say, this was delicious. I have often debated with Karl on whether or not people who are... not of means, can read. I am a firm believer that anyone with a desire can achieve, but Karl is in two minds... by which I mean he believes that I am talking nonsense. But... to see my book! People to be reading it! It is battle enough to convince Karl that they can read, let alone read what one of us may write.

A lady asked me what I wanted, after exploring the extend of the answer in my head, I realised she was watching my eyebrows and expecting an answer book-related. She gave me numbers and I went in search of more books. For the life of me, one of them remained elusive. I was a hummingbird in the 700s, so much so I practically tripped over a dowdy woman sprawled on the floor. At first I thought she had tripped, but she had books around her. Not just that my book - in front of her, open.

She smiled up at me through her gossamer hair

"Excuse me," I said "That is my book."

Gossamer, in her turtle sack, looked down

"I do not own it, I wrote it - and so it is mine."

"Oh" her dull little beetles shined up "Mrs Vreeland! I thought you were dead?"

"Vicious lies. I appear dead once at a party and suddenly gossip becomes reputation. The fashion industry is ruthless, my dear, never venture into it." I say this for her benefit, and ours.

"I love your work" Her eyes are wet with admiration

"I think we have misunderstood each other. That is my book."

She hugged the book close to her, which was not the desired outcome. I set my hooded hounds on her until she handed it over. As I held it I thought of the fleas that will now be nestling into my words. I wrote it - therefore it is mine. Some people just cannot understand the concept of ownership.

"I will take these ones" I said

The boy behind the counter with an excess of fringe scanned them and handed them to me.

"I don't think you understand," I continued "I'll take these ones."

"That is what they're there for." He had apathy

"I wish to purchase them from you - with the guarantee -" I also added, so I did not have to repeat this venture "that you will not replace them"

The boy looked non-plussed.

"My dear," I grew tired "clearly you are not who I should be speaking to."

The balding woman from the next room approached. I must make a note to tell Karl that Libraries exist for the Less Fortunate - by which I mean, those who are Unlooking*.

"I wish to buy these."

"We are a library"

"Yes, but people are reading them, you understand?"

"Isn't this why you wrote it?"

"Yes, but not for these people, per se. I write to educate, and it seems the lessons are being misinterpreted. Something is awry. It is very distressing. Do you know who I am?"

It was then, after the second time I had to say this sentence, that I could imagine what it would be line not to be me. It would be awful -- no one would know it was me.

Needless to say after a sit down, a cigarette and a glass of champagne, the whole thing was settled. Now I must ask Anna how to dispose of things.

I sincerely hope that this needn't be experienced again. I crave a cigarette just recounting it. Beware them, readers, Libraries and their Unlookers.

D

*Unlooking is the perfect balance of dowdy and unimpressive, with a touch of grotesque. For to be ugly or repulsive, there must be some element of beauty for one is compelled to look -- and look again.

Disciples

I would like to wish one of my most devoted followers, Fury, happy birthday. Now- I do not do this very often. Part of why is because I find age demode, and birthdays even more demode- a pastime of the middle class. You will note that nobody in the upper classes or the working classes ever has a birthday- the upper class is too busy eating cake and the working class is too busy making the cake! However, I will make an exception for Fury. It would be impossible to find a more wonderful woman, unless one looked to my dear mother, who is currently dead. I presume she will stay in this state for a while- but it's hard to tell with her.

Anyway- happy birthday, Fury Rothtelstien. While I cannot condone the practice of birthdays, I can nod my head to you in some degree, while sketching next season's Chanel collection and eating food from Nobu. Liquified Nobu in the form of Pepsi Black (the great joke with my participating in the Coca Cola bottle thing being I actually drink Pepsi Black, whilst claiming on this web blog that I drink diet Coke- it has more of a ring, no?)

Some People Say I've Got The Blood Of The Land In My Voice

I am still trying to work out why I ended up in New York for a few days. Anna told me there would be a whole roomful of fingerless leather gloves for me if I came, and another a whole ballroom of collars. I, of course, jumped at the chance. I didn't really jump- I perched on my tip-toes, looked down condescendingly at whatever was below me, and what was below me was a fax machine and sheets of paper, so I glared condescendingly at the fax and sheets of paper then said "yes" to Anna. When I got to New York I found out that this was a set-up to get me to attend an event they call "Fashion's Night Out". I said to nobody in particular- "but every night is a night out for fashion, no?" Nobody in particular replied- "yes, but not for the proles. Think of it like this, Karl- it is fashion's V for Victory".

"Is there a war going on?" I said.

"Uh...well", said nobody in particular. "People are losing their jobs and uh.."

"They're definitely losing their jobs" said someone else.

"Definitely" said nobody in particular. I said I'd find it more interesting if say, Paris was attacking New York with giant bottles of wine and cheese, and fashion's night out was a sort of defence.

"It can be, if you want it to be" said nobody in particular.

So I went around this "fashion's night out" giving the V for Victory sign with my hands. Somebody asked if I knew Klingon.

"Klingon?" I said.

"You know, Star Trek-"

"Ah, yes. My favourite television series. If I watched television."

"Your favourite television series if you watched television?"

"Well you see, I don't. But I'm sure it would be a favourite. I'm a big fan of men in tights."

"Sir, you are thinking of Batman" said an annoying PR lackey from my office.

"No, definitely Star Trek" I said. "Do they have Star Trek here?"

"Let me ask Anna.."

I probably attended some dinner, though I attend so many dinners it's hard to keep track. Do you know that most people eat at least three times a day? That's 21 dinners a week. I don't know how some people do it, frankly. I try to attend at least one dinner a day, but often these things are so boring, you know- "oh Karl! Karl! Karl!", and hideous sycophantic people who, I believe, inject themselves with preservatives every morning. You can tell if they inject themselves with preservatives or not- if you leave them out in the kitchen for a few days and they're not growing mold, they have preservatives in them. We keep Chanel staff in the fridge over night. Actually, that's why I'm not showing the "Karl Lagerfeld" line at Paris fashion week- our fridges broke down and all the staff grew moldy and out of date. Demode, you could say.

Heart Of Gold

Dear Friends,

I suppose I should apologize for the long wait for details of my Heartbreaking Romantic Affairs. I’m not going to, of course- you all already knew that punchline. Instead, I’m going to tell you about what I’ve been doing lately, then I’m going to address that pesky pencil- who now calls itself “Le Crayon”, believe it or not. I’m not a complicated kind of man, hm? I call a Faberge egg a Faberge egg. There’s no pretentions about it, hm? It’s plain, unadorned, and simple. It is not hard to understand. I don’t understand people who pretend to be something else- it’s a bore. You know, I’m over this whole “relationship” business anyway- I don’t need a pencil. I can just project drawings onto the paper. I simply have to look at the paper, and beautifully drawn lines will appear on the paper. Then I glare at the paper some more and the lines are filled in and everybody says “brava!” when I show them the sketches at dinner that night.

I find this to be a much more elegant solution- the pencil thing was a mere formality, something I did for the cameras, really. It is like the queen wearing her crown, or Hitler carrying a gun. Darth Vader using a light saber. Madonna using her voice during concert (everybody knows that Madonna can just think what she wants to sing, and it comes out of the speakers.) But we are in a new era, here- we are in the two thousand and tens. From now on, I shall merely glare. The oppressive pencil-owner relationship is a thing of the past. Really, readers- how many times have you heard someone say “I love it when my pencil gives me cuddles”, or “I want to live with my pencil”. It sickens me. It makes me want to pull out the collars that I’ve swallowed over the years from my throat and toss them at the homeless people on the street- the disgusting homeless people- and then proceed to the parks where people clasp their pencils in their hands and throw my Faberge eggs at them (well, that’s how Russian royalty does an egging). From now on I am not even a one-pencil-man. I abstain. I am a one-man man. I date Karl Lagerfeld, and only Karl Lagerfeld. Even my mirror image is not authentic enough- sure, he’s as good looking as I am, but does he have the quick wit? And I am currently auditioning my shadow on being part of myself. I am very, very serious about this one-man man business, you see. If my shadow is not good enough, I will chop it off with a pair of scissors from the atelier.

In any case- here is the letter from the so-called “Le Crayon”. I screw my nose up to it. In fact, I screw my nose up to all this “couples” nonsense. Pencils and their owners disgust me. Rei Kawakubo does not have a pencil. Nor do I. 

Dearest K,

My thoughts of our Oompa Loompa massacres brought a tear to my metallic embellishments. you know this is not personal. You have always been the one pushing me to the side of your pocket, away from your heart. Do you remember when you snapped three pencils in front of me, to show me what would happen if I didn't perform? Do you remember the week I spent in the bottom of a Vuitton bag in punishment for a less than perfect collection?

You threatened to leave me after you lost all your weight. You told me you were now fit enough to carry around a million of me, that you didn't need me anymore. I put up with a lot from you, K. I stuck with you through fat and thin - it... it almost hurts that you wish me to be ground down to a stub.

It was you who left me at the Four Seasons after cola with Anna. I waited for hours for you. Then, Vivienne found me. I was a mess, I tell you. I had rolled under a table and I was covered with dust and stray hairs. I was almost down the drain before I caught her eye.

Anyway, I'm over that now. Vivienne, she just cares for me. She wraps me in her hair when she's not using me. I can get lost in there for hours. She chews on me when she's thinking - she even writes letters with me, letters. When was the last time you wrote a letter, K?

It is early here, I can hear Vivienne calling. She must have woken up.

Salut K,

Le Crayon

[August 10]: One-night stand

My Faber-Castell pencil, Gramercy Park, New York. Photo Karl Lagerfeld.

Wanted, Wanted, A Pencil in a Daze

Dear Friends,

My spies made a significant discovery as they were doing their regular once-over of my blog (to check for counter-spies, supervillians other than myself, and tourists). They found a note, hidden in the "comments" section, purported to be written by my beloved pencil, which went missing awhile ago. I did not believe it at first, yet the handwriting was unmistakable. It was indeed my P. Plain old P when it was clutched in my hand, Persnickety when I held it tentatively in between my fingers, and Penelope when I visited the offices of M.  The note reads as follows:

Look, Karl, I know you have your minions out looking for me, but I am a pencil in Paris who doesn't want to be found.

I am in the hands of someone else now. You were always too generous with lending me - now I am gone.

Please do not look for me, I will remember you fondly

P.

What can I say? P, you know that's not where you belong- My clothes are never dirty and my hands are always clean, aside from the blood of countless Oompa Loompas. Don't you remember the good times we had? We went to the beach where I took photographs of Claudia- we spent many nights in bed, sketching couture- do you remember our outing to Vermont? Don't let Anna fool you for a second- you're my number one, aside from myself. 

Frankly, I am not going to search for you anymore. I am calling the hounds off. There are a lot more pencils in the jar. Your new owner could grind you down to a mere point with one of those new mechanical pencil-shavers. How would you like that? Could you wear Philip Treacy if you were a stub? Could you dress in fur and ivory from pianos? Think about that, young pencil. 

Letter

Dear Friends,

I have to tell you that I have been in a lot of pain lately. I have lost my favourite pencil, again. Many of you may recall that I lost my favourite pencil a year or two ago, and the chaos that ensured around Paris while I searched for said pencil. I looked for my pencil, and the silence told me it was not there. I asked it to come back two times and there was silence for two times. As you know if you follow Karl Lagerfeld's Guide To Life, I try to promote an alternative lifestyle (that I used to call in French La Lagerfeld Diet), based on sensible tenets such as repetitive wearing of collars. My pencil's decision to disappear will be clearly be seen by conservative, pen-wielding types as a lead-based revenge against the sketches my pencil and I used to share. Right now- well- I can't even pretend to be a mess. I'm quite perfect. But, it is still distressing. I have hundreds of agents on the lookout for it, throughout Paris, right now. Perhaps I will go and take pictures of naked young men- that always cheers me up. Brad? No- wait- what's your name? You know, the new one. Italian, I think. 

(Note to self: name all young male models the same name, as Yves did with bulldogs. Hard to remember names. Call them all concubine or something similar).

(sans) love,

Karl Lagerfeld

Hansel and Gretel

Once upon a time there was a couple of hideous bourgeois children by the names of Hansel and Gretel. They were very fat. Their parents, who were hip German architects, said- "Hansel und Gretel! If you don't get in line with the minimalist aesthetics of our houses, we will kick you into the forest!", so they only have five slices of salami for breakfast, as opposed to 10, and so on. 

But they had a servant (all families in fairy tales have servants, who barely ever get acknowledged- let me tell you, fairy tales are essentially a slave trade. Who cleans the glass slippers? Not le Cinderella, anyway), who gave them extra slices of salami under their door. So the children got very fat and their Helmut Lang suits popped and Helmut Newton, when he saw them, put his fingers over his eyes and shuddered. So the parents said: "Look! You are too fat! You do not go with the Miles van der Rohe chair! You are bending it!"

"But Mama, Papa!" they said. "Are we not your children? Do you not love us like so?", to which the parents said:"No- we're afraid not. We had our art dealer do a valuation on you two, and well- I mean- you're just not that it anymore. And if you don't want Damien to put you in formaldehyde- well."

So the children were sent to the forest, where they ambled up the path like rocking eggs. Hansel said: "why don't we put some bread crumbs on the path to find our way back?", but they didn't have any bread crumbs- they only had pieces of formaldehyde Damien Hirst gave them, as in incentive to be placed in a giant tank titled "The Impossibility Of Living With Children In A World Of Magazine Architecture." So they scattered pieces of formaldehyde everywhere, which cute little Disney-esque creatures ate and subsequently died from. Oh ho ho, it is  hard to be Disney-esque in death, unless you are a Helpless Princess who Needs A Man To Save Her! And nobody wants to save the animals, except for the horrible PETA people- who frankly make my job easier. I considered making a coat out of the squirrels and birds, but I recalled my mother doing the same thing, one cold winter, and thought better of it.

Anyway- the children continued walking, until they got to a little cottage made out of candy. Inside, there was an old witch who wanted to eat them. "Come in, little children!" said the old witch. "You can eat some of my house!" But the children said: "Your house is terribly ugly! How can we eat ugliness?", and the witch said: "well, if you eat it, there will be no ugliness!" "however-" the children said, "we could be consuming ugliness, which could make us ugly in turn!", and the witch looked very troubled for a second.

"Look- I just want to eat you," she said. "I'll level with you. That's all I want to do- the candy is give or take. All I really want to do is put you in a cage and gobble you up. I will cook you in a fire first."

The children looked at each other, and said "no, thank you. We don't wish to participate in cannibalism" and the witch said "okay, fair enough. Like that song: you caaaan't always get what you waaaant", you know the one? The children knew the one.

"But sometimes you can get what you want", I said. "Sometimes you have to steal it. You could steal these children, but they are in front of me, and heard me- in any case, I suppose you've read my web-log, and know about the dangers of consuming people? Calories, my dear woman."

The old woman looked very indecisive, as did the children. Then they all turned into cats named Fluffy, and Herr Schrödinger came and took them back to his house. I ascended to the skies once more, with Mahler playing in the background.

Wind-Up Woody

As I was having my face sewn up this morning (I have it sewn up every day, from behind- if you were to cut off my ponytail, you'd see stitches) I started sketching the new collection. Couture was a success, as per usual- Cathy "Ma" Horyn adores me, as do the rest of the creatures. That is how I think of them, really- as these little creatures at the bottom of a dark well. And they crawl around like a pack of spiders and worms and so on, many eyed and limbed- sometimes emerging to shout out "BRAVA!" But for most of the time, they live in this little well- like in Hannibal, no? And I think of myself as living in a little house near the well- sometimes making a cup of diet Coke, sometimes reading the newspaper, filled with exploits of the BP people and their oil spill (why not block the oil spill with the new Valentino collection?) and all the murders and so on. Then, sometimes, I will go to the well in my tights and high collars, and call into the well, muttering little blessings in German. 

Anyway. I was contemplating this, when a young man knocked on my door. I am fond of young men (gentlemen of the jury), so I opened the door.

"Hello young boy", I said. He said: "HELLO!!!", and I said "why are you using so many exclamation marks? Don't you know only crazy people use that many exclamation marks?", and he said- "OMG! KARL LAGERFELD! I'M, LIKE, YOU'RE BIGGEST FAN".

-"No, I'm my biggest fan, young boy", "WELL OH MY GOD! I'M A PRETTY BIG FAN! MAYBE LIKE SECOND BIGGEST FAN! OMG CAN WE GET A PHOTO FOR MY TWITTAH?"- he then took out a horrible, bejewelled phone and said "SMILEEEE FOR THE CAMERA UNCLE!!!"

"Excuse me", I said. "What...use are you?" "USE!?" he said, "I AM THE WORLD'S NUMABAH ONE BLOGGER." "And what do you blog about?", to which he said- "UH, WELL, I WRITE HAPPY THINGS! ABOUT MY FABULOUS LIFE! I NEVER WRITE ANYTHING NEGATIVE! ANNA WINTOUR LOVES ME BECAUSE OF THIS!!! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!"

I frowned. "You know, I am also a homosexual and I am not this cliched person who is clearly only interested in whoring themselves out socially. I can understand whoring- I whore myself out to various companies, including Coca Cola- but social whoring is vulgar, no?"

"BUT OH MY GAHD! THAT'S WHAT I DO! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY! FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY! DO I LOOK FAT IN THIS?!?!?!"

It was then I realized that I was watching Toy Story 19, a bastardized version directed by a paunchy Justin whatshisname- Justin Patterson or something, in which Woody is replaced with a 2D socialite with three phrases, one of which is "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!"

I pulled the string on the back of his back. "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!" he said. I pulled it again. "FASHION'S LITTLE GAY BOY!" he said. I turned off the projector and he was there no longer.

"Not a fan," I said to Roger Ebert. "Neither", said Pauline Kael.

Childrens

The poor have a problem which a lot of the socialites I know- you know, the ones who do ''philanthropy'' and so on- aren't actually aware of. It is children. Childrens, you see, are what happen when a poor person has sexual intercourse with another poor person and they produce what doctors now call a 'baby'. Now, wealthy people have this problem also- sometimes they make love (only the poor have sexual intercourse; the rich make love) and a variation of a childrens is formed- a 'trust fund childrens'. This phenomenon has been going on for years, of course- in the days of the aristocracy, a child would inherit the kingdom and he and his brothers and sisters would fight about it. Today, a child is dolled out money (similar to social security checks) from what is know as a 'trust fund'. The Geldof sisters- Peaches, Strawberry and Cream, are a good example of this. Trust fund childrens are remarkably similar to actual childrens, but in school they are taught a different set of physics- call it 'The Physics Of Egocentric Vanities'. They're taught that the sun actually revolves around their head, that gravity is a sort of butler to them, and that air is a substance found in Africa in mines owned by their dear father. Needless to say, these people grow up slightly different to the childrens of poor people.

There's another factor to take into account here, too: when a rich person has a child, the accountants of said rich person assign a value to the child (putting it as a long term liability, of course) and it is looked after by bodyguards, maids, and so on. This is a cruical difference- when the poor have childrens, they have to look after it themselves!

-I imagine a lot of you are gasping now, with expressions like '!' and '?!' and '!!!', depending on your level of botox. Perhaps, if you're from the Hollywood-Scientology circle, your face simply looks like this: '...', because your botox has turned your face into a barren marble statue. You are possibly holding your well-manicured hands over your well-lipsticked mouths, wondering how on earth one is supposed to look after a childrens.

Let me tell you, it took me a long time to work out too. I have worked out some essentials, though, in case you ever find yourself poor and with a baby. (This is quite different to the "accessory baby", in vogue a couple of years ago- especially babies from Africa. That moment has passed.)

HOW TO LOOK AFTER A BABY

By Karl Lagerfeld, Field Marshall

1). A baby is a human being, I'm told, and must be fed accordingly. Diet Coke generally will suffice, but if they are particularly hungry something from El Buli or The Fat Duck can't go wrong. 

2.) A baby cannot be naked. When my friend Paloma Picasso had her baby, it came out clothed in Lacroix with a Stephen Jones hat.

3.) A baby must be washed, or else it will grow mold. Sponges, which can be obtained from supermarkets (see post on how to use those), work well.

Eventually a baby will turn into a childrens, and then into an adult (or as a child disguised as an adult). If you are  lucky, they will not be terrible and will not turn into a social climber who asks for money to write about parties. That's a fine job, but one for a copy writer- the sort of who writes the captions on the back of cereal boxes. 

-Which isn't such a terrible thing either, no? I have a fine collection of vintage German expressionist cereal boxes, with captions like "THE RICE PUFFS TURNED INTO A COCKROACH" and "ONE MORNING, WHEN LITTLE YVES AWOKE.."- and so on. They're wonderful, and in a kind of shiny black and white nobody does anymore. But I digress. Did somebody mention tea?

Interview

This was an interview I recently did for Scanlan's Monthly, reprinted here.

1. What would you call yourself, a poet or a singer, or do you think that you write poems and then you put music to it?

Of course everything is erotic to me; if it isn't erotic, it isn't interesting.

2. Do you know any Swedes?

How should I know? In any case, one must not be serious. Not only is it absurd, but a serious person cannot have sex.

3. Does the large amount of money you get now mean much to you?

Certainly not! I think that any artistic product must stand or fall on what's there. A chimpanzee can do an abstract painting, if it's good, that's great.

4. How are your friends?

Very religious. Very. But now she is crazy. She lay on top of me when I was tied to the bed. She writes me all the time begging me to return. Why must we speak of my mother?

5. You've said you think message songs are vulgar. Why?

Make love to the police. We need highly trained squads of lovemakers to go everywhere and make love.

6. Do you think Lincoln wore his hair long to keep his head warm?

Many dirty hands have fondled beauty, made it their banner; I'd like to chop off those hands, because I do believe in that banner . . . the difference is that art is beauty, which the Beatniks naturally lack, hm?

7. do you find that people who call you a genius have any influence on your writing?
No, I don't, but that's not my wish. That's Merce's wish because he's involved with a large company of dancers and a school, so if his name were in the phone book, it would be awful. Anyway, people find out what your number is whether it's in the book or not.

8. If a young man considering a career in the arts wanted to meet a lot of women, would he be better off learning to paint or to play guitar?

That's the trouble, of course, for any individual. There is the rest of society and the rest of history. I think we have to take that circumstance as the means upon which we work to help us discover the nature of the next step, rather than taking it as something to lament. That's what my father would have done.

9. Can't dreams also mean hopes about the future?

Now, it's those two things: the cockroaches on the one hand, and the mosquitoes on the other that brought about, didn't they? The DDT?

10. Who's that playing with you here?

He was a student of Bonnie Bird. Yes. And he was absolutely remarkable. In fact when Martha Graham saw him, she took him immediately in her company. He was a creature of the air. And no one knew it at the time that he would come down to earth as he has in recent years. (laughs) He's been forced down to the earth, but he refuses to stop dancing. I'm sure he'll dance the day he dies.

11. What's your take on politics?

Well, I think this is why Buddhism is so important to so many people now, is that the -- One of the principles of Buddhist philosophy is that everything causes everything else, and that there is nothing that is not caused by everything else, and that each thing is at the center of the universe, and these centers are in interpenetration and non-obstruction

12. Like a locomotive, a pair of boots, a kiss or the rain?

People ask what the avant-garde is and whether it's finished. It isn't. There will always be one. The avantgarde is flexibility of mind. And it follows like day, the night from not falling prey to government and education. Without the avant-garde nothing would get invented. If your head is in the clouds, keep your feet on the ground. If your feet are on the ground, keep your head in the clouds.

Maude and Fish

Golly, as my my Vermont neighbor Maude often says. I like Maude. She's a good hunter, and she's taught Anna how Not To Shoot people (a relief for the Vogue PR dept, let me tell you. How many more excuses could they come up with- "it was just a Government weather balloon that fell on the poor dear, so sorry!", "Terry Richardson's massive lack of talent and taste fell upon Mrs. Salome, she died instantly. There was no pain, but we do send our commiserations to her husband. Enclosed is a free DVD of Sex And The City 2: Uncut. We do hope you enjoy!")

Another phrase of Maude's: "I have fish to fry!" Well, I have fish to fry too, Maude. Slimy fish. The kind that sit on the bottom of the ocean feeding on their own filth (and the filth of others). The kind of fish who get fake tans. I am, of course (you hadn't guessed?), talking about "InStyle" magazine, who contacted me some months ago wanting to feature me in a "best blogs of all time"-type feature. I laughed about it with certain associates- "haw haw haw", we went, because this "InStyle" magazine is- how do you say- for the tanned ones and girls who watch that JuicyStar person on you-tube. It is not very chic. However, I thought about it some more and thought, well, maybe this could be charity work. After all, Bono is doing Africa and the Geldof person is doing Ethipopia and Neil Young is doing the farms. I thought: ah, I will help the needy, the unfortunates, the tanned-and-sprayed ones. I must admit though, I did this for selfish means. Sometimes I look outside Rue Cambon and I see these awful orange girls with terrible leggings that make them look like German sausages. They say things like (in a heavy American accent): "THIS IS WHERE COCO CHANEL LIVES!" "DO YOU THINK SHE'LL INVITE US IN FOR TEA AND CRUMPETS?", and then someone else, from behind a street lamp (they are very thin) says: "That's the queen of England, you superficial twats." And then the American girls say: "OH! IS THAT WHAT COCO CHANEL DOES?", to which the person behind the street lamp sighs and mopes off to a cafe.

Now, these "InStyle" people required a t-shirt. A demode shirt. I discussed this with the seamstresses who make these, thread by thread, and they said "verra well, if you must." I thanked them and emailed "InStyle" back with "If you return it by sundown." They replied with "Oh! But there is a boy in the office who says your t-shirt would be the jewel in his collection!" I was feeling a tad generous, and said "Mmmph" or something of the sort. I found it funny (as did the associates), because we were joking that this is all "InStyle" wanted from us- that it was an elaborate hoax rouse to obtain a t-shirt. (By the way, those hacks claimed they couldn't afford to spend the money on buying a shirt- apparently it costs too much to shoot Miley Cyrus or Rand Paul or whoever they have on their covers.)

Of course, a day later or so, I received an email from the assistant who was in charge of "picture finding" or something similarly ridiculous. She said the editor pulled the piece. The editor, who I looked up, is one of those demode and unfortunate tanned ones. More's the pity. My associates agreed with me that this was their plan from the start: to obtain a t-shirt, with no intention of doing the story (for this fabled "boy", whoever he is. I like my boys visable, and preferably naked.)

So to use another phrase of Maude's: "Nuts to them!"- she does have good phrases. I can think of more explicit ones, but I'd feel like I was making fun of those starving Africans, such is the plight of the tanned ones. I thought about this for a whole minute, and I thought- well, maybe I should help them even more. And this is my plan- I am going to start a trust. I call it the "SAVE THE TANNED DEMODE", or STD for short. Please donate generously (checks can be written to Mr Howard Ques, 56 Rue Saint Colette, Paris.) With your help we can give them a better life, and provide white makeup for them to cover up their tans. 

How to Use Traffic Lights and Other Stories

I trust you all have mastered the art of supermarket shopping by now. It's very difficult, of course, and some of the slower (and more inbred) of you may still be struggling with the finer aspects- using a credit card is particularly bothersome. As a reminder, you use a credit card by passing it through a small slit on a machine with numbers. If you have enough "money" on your "card", one will be able to press "OK" and purchase what one wants.

Anyway. I wanted to talk about a couple of other things today. First of all, appreciation of photography. Many of you have been writing me letters telling me how much of an artist Terry Richardson is, and what a swell fellow he is, really. It's often the practice of the rich to determine the tastes of the rest of the world in art. The Medici's were particularly good at this. We now have people like that advertising fellow- the one who was married to Nigella Lawson (the food pornography actress). Saatchi. There's also that awful investment banker- the one who bought Damien's shark. What an investment banker knows about art, well, I don't know- the general consensus is that money equals art, and the more money something costs, the more art it is. Here's a system for you to use, which is what all the big art buyers use. It is called "Is it Art (By Awful Investment Bankers International)". If something costs between $50,000 to $100,000 it is minor art. The leeches- I mean, the art dealers, will term it "work by an interesting up and comer". If something is between $100,000 to $250,000, it is major minor art, to which the art dealers will declare "A very strong work by an unappreciated artist". And on it goes, until we get until the millions, where the work will be undoubtedly a Work of Genius. 

This is all very well and good, except that from you newly bourgeois, formerly wealthy people to whom I'm addressing this post don't have millions to spend on Art with a capital A anymore. Meaning, by your system, you can't declare Terry Richardson's work art. It never was art anyway, you dull-witted Armani-suit-wearing morons. What is it? Well, it's misogynist porn that doesn't turn me on. Do you know what turns me on, hm? Dishwashers. I love the sound they make as they churn around and around. But that's not the point- my point is that Richardson's work is half the problem, because it's inherently misogynist, made by a creep who enjoys taking photographs of women on the toilet. It's an absolute indictment upon the fashion industry that magazines like Vice, Vogue, Purple, etc continue to publish this predator's work. Here's Vice magazine proving it's run by people who probably make rape jokes all day long and have the taste of a insurance salesman turned tax collector turned realtor who has been doused in the sweat produced by executives rubbing their hands together in glee as they go to murder a batch of kittens. My Coco, haven't you done well, Vice. (Also, here I'll point out that Vice published an interview with me a couple of months ago by a sycophantic...creature who asked incredibly boring questions).

What I am doing is giving a good spanking to all those in the fashion industry who have encouraged this charlatan and given him work. How pro-women of you, hm? How responsible of you, placing Mr. Richardson in power, hm? And that's not to mention the photographers "inspired" by him. How original- having a penis in a woman's mouth, no? That hasn't been done before!

In case you didn't read the above because you're illiterate and only read twitter: If you support Terry Richardson, you are anti-women. If you publish his work, you are anti-women. If you think him using his position of power to rape women is chic, you are anti-women. For an industry that makes an awful lot of money from women, it's not exactly a profitable stance, hmm?

That is the first thing I wanted to talk to you about. Secondly, I would like to give you a guide on how to use traffic lights, as you'll surely encounter these when you attempt "walking".

Now, "walking" is support the ordinary prole participates in daily, often with other proles. They do this on "streets". A street is a place which has buildings and a road. You will be familiar with these, as you probably had to climb out of your luxury automobiles and cross a "street" in order to get to the Chanel store, or something similar. (Of course, you won't be going into Chanel stores anymore, but you needn't worry for me. We have plenty more clients where you came from.) A traffic light governs the space between the cars and the people. They are very tall and have three lights on them. The colours are yellow, green and red. Yellow is a useless light and nobody knows what it means, so it's best to ignore that light if you see it. If you see green you can walk across the road. All the cars will stop and if they keep going you will be okay, because the green light will protect you (or so I'm informed). If it is red, you must wait for it to go green, because crossing the "street" on a red light will result in immediate vaporization.

Finally, to use a traffic light one must press a large metal button. This "activates" the traffic light and it knows you are alive and so on. The large metal button is the most important part, because if you don't press that the traffic light will never know you are there. 

Once the traffic light turns green, do the "walking" we have practiced and you will get to the other side. There is an old German joke that my nanny used to tell me:

Q: Why did the formerly rich bourgeois person cross the road?

A: Because TIME magazine did an article on it, and the New Yorker also did an article on it, and their neighbors were doing it, so they wanted to see what it was all about and they heard it'd won an Oscar too...and one of those Nobel prizes, whatever they are. It seemed pretty reputable and they have a greatest hits album coming out. 

An Email

Hi,

I’m about to launch my website and I was hoping perhaps you might consider very briefly mentioning my site? I would very gladly send $55 via paypal. I’m starting a fashion store with guides on comfortable fashion and ugg boots. I was hoping to get support of fashion bloggers like yourself to help me get things off the ground. I could also create a $30 gift certificate for 100 of your readers as well?

Hope I haven’t wasted your time..

Best Wishes,

Naomi Sanders

--

Hello,

Comfort is always secondary. Style should not be sacrificed by wearing such atrocities as "ugg boots".

Regards,
Karl

This Post Has An Awful Lot Of BlackAdder References

I haven't written anything about the Terry Richardson thing ("thing", meaning "raping young models using his position of power"), because Jenna over at Jezebel was doing a fantastic job with it. She still is, and an assistant actually pointed this quote out to me while he was reading Jezebel. As well as that, it's not the sort of material that I normally put on this "web-blog"- obviously, rape isn't a thing that one should do in life- if one is desperate for sex, one can always hire a prostitute. There's no shame in that. One of my favourite movies is "Belle de Jour"- a gloriously erotic film if there ever was one. But I digress. The subject at hand is Terry Richardson: A terrible photographer and sexual predator. I loathe this man's photography, because it has all the intelligence of a four year old and the sexual sophistication of a donkey. It is as thick as a whole omelette, and it's as dirty as a dungbeatle who has lost interest in his career and really let itself go. I also loathe the actions of this man, for more or less the same reasons. Several models (and I love models, especially on Tuesdays) have come forward, accusing him of essentially taking advantage of his position of great power (that of photographer well-respected in fashion, for Coco knows what reasons) to force young girls, some underage to have sex with him. This is known as "rape" in many countries around the world. Rape is illegal. 

I'm inclined to believe these accusations, especially since Mr. Richardson's well known for sexually-charged shoots (that is, the shoots themselves are sexual. "Uncle Terry" has admitted so himself. I wouldn't go as far to say his photos are- they're merely vulgar. Helmut Newton he's not). Some people have used this as a means of justification- to quote one blogger, Jen "Gnarltude"- "Has no one seen his photos before? What’d they think was gonna happen? All good clean fun and maybe some prayer circle after?" (the full quote is here). I'm afraid this doesn't justify it at all- just because this is common practice in Mr. Richardson's world doesn't mean it's right. In fact, it terrifies even me that this is considered "normal" by some people. Normal is, you know, buying some couture in the morning and perhaps having some champagne for lunch and burning one's old clothes in a bombfire in the afternoon. That's normal. Rape is not.

Here's a quote from Olivier Zahm: "It's totally ridiculous and embarrassing for them. The women who attacked Richardson, it's really sad...I can't understand how people can be so mean. I don't even see their point."

The point, Mr. Zahm, is that Richardson most likely had non-consensual sex with these girls. That's rather a big deal, no? With my models, I'm very protective of them- they're like my children, but very tall and sometimes mistaken for trees. I have a lot of affection for trees. Some of my favourite conversations have been with trees. Anyway- the quote made me lose a lot of respect for Mr. Zahm, who I didn't always agree with before, but I didn't dislike either. He will not be coming to any more tea parties.

Coping in A Recession, A How-To Guide For The Rich

Although many fabulously well-to-do economists are claiming the recession is over, I've noticed many of my wealthy friends have fallen on hard times. Fortunes have been chopped in half: what was 6 billion dollars is now a mere 3 billion dollars. Many of my friends can only afford 5 yachts a year, rather then 10 or so. Dire straits indeed.

Yet, there is no need to worry- I have a solution. I was thinking of this as I was shooting Lara, Abby Lee, et al today, and I was thinking that this "blog" originally intended to be a guide to life. Then I thought: who do I care about the most? Who is most in need? Why, the rich of course. The wealthy. Those with a silver spoon in their mouth, born or purchased. Without the rich there'd be no poor- the poor would simply cease to exist. They would vanish in a "poof!" of air. There would be no middle class, either- because without the rich, the middle class would have no job (ie. serve the rich), and therefore they'd turn into the poor and then vanish in a "poof!" of air also. Without underling classes, there would be no rich, and therefore there'd be no humans at all. Without humans, animals would cease to exist also because their job, naturally, is to provide food and furs and such for humans. In essence: the universe would collapse.

Then I thought: how can I best the rich who are not as fortunate as I? Well, I thought about this for a while, and then I realized the best way would be to write a Guide To Doing Things For The Rich. We'll start with supermarket shopping. I personally went to a supermarket and discovered how they work, so you can be assured that this is all correct.

How To Shop At Supermarkets (For The Rich), by Karl Lagerfeld.

The first thing to remember about supermarkets is that they don't have a doorman. However, most of them do seem to have "auto-matic doors", which open when you step close to them. You can experiment with different techniques for doing this: the most common is simply to walk near the door, stop, wait for the doors to open and then walk through. It's also possible to hold your hands in front of the door, say "OPEN, PROLETARIAN DOOR!" and it will open. In fact, one can say as many things as one wants to say, and the doors will open. I think they're a wonderful invention.

Once you've accomplished Walking Through The Door, you can move onto the next step: moving through "The Gates". You'll discover once you pass through the door, there is another set of doors- generally metal barriers, although they're sometimes plastic. These are to stop thieves from getting away too quickly, I think. There is one set of "gates" for you to walk through, and another to walk out of. Once you've been to the supermarket a few times, you'll get the hang of it. (TIP: Don't wear couture to the supermarket, it could get damaged, and often won't fit through the "gates". I went to the supermarket with my friend Daphne Guinness the other day- she wore the Yohji Yamamoto "wedding dress" which requires several people to hold it up. It was a challenge getting it into the store, as you can imagine.)

You'll also notice that there are things which the supermarket staff will call "trollies". These are large metal baskets which I believe are for putting the goods which you obtain in "the store" (supermarket slang) in. Models also fit in there nicely, but it's generally accepted that you give the trolly back after using it. One works the trolly by pushing it from the front- you'll notice that there's a sort of bar with which one can do this. They're wonderful machines, and quite useful when one doesn't have a bevy of assistants to carry things.

The supermarket is divided into sections, similar to how a boutique is divided, except for "perfume", "clothes", "luggage" etc is replaced with more mundane titles like "vegetables and fruit", "meat", "beverages". Do not be fooled: they function more or less the same way, though there are no fitting rooms to try a carrot on, or see if a toothbrush fits. Normal people don't have these luxuries. You can make your selections by wheeling the trolly around the store and placing the selection in your trolly. Once you've finished that, there is one final step. This is the most important step.

This most important step is to maneuver your trolly into a narrow space know as a "counter", manned by a pimply youth. They will say "Hello, sir/madame". The normal response is "Greetings, Supermarket Worker". Then they will give you the price of all your purchases, and you will be expected to pay for them. One should never say "Darling, charge it to my account" because supermarkets do not do this. Instead, one should offer the money- normally in the form of "cash" or "card". Finally, the youth will say "have a nice day!" half heartedly, and you will be expected to say "thank you" in reply. This is the etiquette.

Once one has done that, one can unload one's purchases into the rolls, take the trolly back to where you obtained it, and drive away. Congratulations: you've completed a successful trip to the supermarket.

Any questions on this how-to, please send them to fakekarl@gmail.com. I am always there to help those in need that blow their noses on Hermès scarves.