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.