MASTERS.

My Dearest Borrowed Constituency,

I have spent several weeks walled in the lining of Karl's libraries. His libraries, you see, are mere facades created largely to conceal the books that he has behind them. Karl himself has no interest of the particular matter that has intrigued me but has occasionally a wisp of Chanel No. 5 would mist under the door and materialise into his form.

We acknowledging each other only with the gentlest movement of our noses. I put the kettle on, which was leant to me by my dear friend Cecil, brew tea from the colour Umber and speak in utters.

you can hear him think

ing, it sounds like an old house in a high wind or a crotchet

y clock that refuses to strike 12 - making Cinderella dance forever and never turn back to rags.)

I have discovered such a thing called University. There are many of them, almost like a franchise that specialises in selling Very Little. Some more than others, I'll admit. It is the perfect farce.

I myself never particularly had the need for University. I was approached about working and I thought I might try it for a lark. Apparently there are even entire places that specialise in teaching one how to create. Not just garments and the like, which I could understand as they have some sort of technical know-how that I imagine would be harder to absorb by diffusion. One can garner a Master of Writing from such a place, as though the accreditation is an actual thing.

Part of my perusing of said places I stumbled across one of these supposed writers. She was half a lay-about, catatonic apathy had passed over her and she described it as "musing". She waved a limp hand at a pile of scrap paper, covered in half thoughts.
- Writing is easy - she said - Mondays and Wednesdays I work on my novel, Tuesdays I tutor, Thursdays... -

- Goldfish - I muttered under my breath as I ran my scatter claws through her scraps. I found one piece of writing that had been created by cellotape and half thought thoughts.

If I still had a functioning oesophagus or tearducts then I... I don't know what would have happened, but it wouldn't have been FASHION. I am lucky I had them removed at a young age.

Masters.

The lord giveth

Question: Is Karl's new novel ready yet?

Answer: Yes, it it. Part one is ready to be purchased, for two dollars- the price of bourgeois person's soul, if I believed in such things. When part two is ready, the novel will be updated and you will find yourself with part two glaring at you on your ipad or kindle or whatever you read with, if you are one of those heathens who use digital. A better idea is to have your book binder bind a copy for you. And bind a new book for "part two", and "part three" and so on.

Question: Where can I purchase this fine book?

Answer: here.

Art, I suppose

One must remember that to be in the art world is to be pretty (gorgeous is even better- but not too gorgeous, otherwise you are regulated to the zoo of models). I made this observation when I was looking at photos my agents in Venice dredged up, from this Venice art fair that goes on there. Everybody looked exactly the same- as if they were transplants from the hair of the fashion world, and everybody knows that fashion has no heir, so everything is particularly stark and boring. There is a reason Anna only attends fashion world parties for 15 minutes- they are simply insufferably boring events filled with so many patting each other on the back that one begins to suspect one is in some sort of modern dance instillation (the most terrifying aspect of this being that you're surrounded by all these modern dancers, slapping each other on the back- not too hard as to damage their finely-sculpted skin, and that getting out means moving around them and through them).

I said to my assistant, "you know, the problem with art today is that there's too many pretty people, and they all look so similar, so the art they produce is so similar and everything's boring. Andy Warhol was never pretty. It's his mistake, though, probably- the Edie mistake. Now everyone wants to be an Edie and nobody wants to be an Andy".

"Oh."

"And that's the problem- nobody wants to be ugly anymore. Too many good looking people. Make a note of that. I only want to hire conjoined twins and circus freaks from now on- hire the entire Diane Arbus range of people. Is there a place that sells them? Buy them in bulk. Staff them in the stores. Give a few stickers that they can stick on themselves and say "artist".

"Is that what makes an artist?"

"Of course. I have a label sewn into this suit that says "dressmaker".

A bit later, when the assistant was gone, I started talking to myself.

"The collectors used to be odd looking too, you know- bulbous New York men in Italian suits and women wearing colours that'd make Matisse blush. The collectors are boring looking as well, now. Is it because of boring looking art? Does boring looking art breed boring looking people?" I started throwing some Picassos out the window, in the hope that some women would look at the painting and give birth to an interesting-looking, interesting-thinking child. I put the Jeff Koons I was sent as a gift into the deepest darkest depths of my closest, hoping nobody would be able to see it ever- dull art is a dangerous thing, you know. I threw several Cartier-Bressons out the window beside the first window, and out the third window I threw several volumes of a Lee Friedlander book, in the hope that somebody would give birth to a child who doesn't follow the terrors of the Düsseldorf school of photography, and those hideous Becher people- I met them once and they made their cups of tea exactly the same way, every time. I asked them if they ever got bored and they smiled tightly.

And While None Of You Were Paying Attention

Loyal Readers,

By now you will think that I have grown bored of this blog thing, that I have perhaps obtained a tumblr where I post pictures of macaroons with my portrait on them, or that I have decided to leave the world of the world wide interweb entirely and sculpt men I find beautiful and desirable out of materials such as chocolate or coffee. This has all been a rouse, as the more onto it of you will have realized. You who saw the symbols I wrote in the sky, and the smoke signals I made at the Vermont property, and the little encoded bits of information I've placed in the last few Chanel collections. Your savior has not left you, your savior has just reached the stage where he prefers to be perverse and cryptic to wheedle out all the chaff and find out who my True Followers are. This is important. I do not believe in a democratic system of any sort, and nor do I for these web-blogs. True Believers would've noticed the way I wrinkled my nose last Saturday at the Charity Function For Rich People With Too Much Money And Who Cares What The Cause Is Anyway? and they would've went to their special-edition Karl Lagerfeld decoder books, and matched up the nose wrinkle with their deluxe-edition Karl Lagerfeld mood ring, and then consulted the length of the grass outside, and known "ah! it is coming!"

And what is coming, dear readers? What is coming is a novel which I have written. It is in digital form, because digital is more in the moment than print anyway, and it will come out in installments. It will be like playing Waiting For Godot, the book. Or it will be like living in Victorian England and waiting for a new installment of Dickens' latest novel about social injustice and all that rubbish. Or it will be like waiting for one stone tablet at a time. Except this is essentially the greatest novel since Ulysses, and will be more influential than The Bible.

Look out for further signals. Pray often (and don't even think about praying if you're not well dressed).

A-R-T

Contemplating the word lackadaisical - I have decided is the drunk on the footpath of words - I, quite appropriately, stumbled into a little art gallery.

I say art gallery, when really those two words need capitals. Art Gallery. Capitals imply intent, which is why all countries have them. Art. Gallery. There was a Photography Showing on. The place was filled with those types of people who Look Down Upon Fashion and simultaneously Aspire To Be Fashionable. Have you seen them? I suppose you have. They have a long lost love affair with bowler hats, men and women, almost as though they are reconnecting with someone else’s roots. Bowler hats were in fashion when I was a chit.

Can one even do that? By the by, Mr. Steinmann, could I possibly reconnect with you? I do so like those curly sideburns you flaunt. They are very Fashion.

My word, I spun, or rather, my assistants turned the pedestal I happened to be standing on at the time, Who are You?

Me?! He said, brandishing his arms in a manner that implied my question was not worth answering. Who are You! He answered

My dear –

I don’t want any patrons of the arts! – he cut me off – I don’t want your approval! Go and buy your Hirst’s and Tillman’s, I don’t want any of your type there. You… you are too shiny!

That would be the gold I dust myself with each morning.

It is shiny!

I turned, or rather, my assistants turned me.
It is shiny - I conceded – but that was my intent.

Intent, PAH! – he threw his arms up in the air once more – you are just like every other burgeoning excuse for a photographer with your digital cameras and your photoshopping images to make them look as if they’re not digital and the way that you look at your camera after every shot. PAH! You don’t know ART. You don’t know what ART is!

My dear – I raised an eyebrow and began making icicles form mid-air – I was alive when Art was INVENTED. I have followed Art with Great Interest! What is this picture? It is a cloud.

It is MORE THAN JUST A CLOUD.

It is a cloud. In a sky.

IT IS ART. IT IS AN ABSTRACT PAINTING. LOOK AT THE COLOUR BLUE.

That is precisely the colour blue from the cover of my first editorial.

IT IS AN ORIGINAL COLOUR BLUE.

I believe it was then stolen from me by Chanel herself.

LOOK AT THE COLOUR. IT IS AN ABSTRACT PAINTING.

Yes, I conceded, growing tired. It is an abstract painting. Of a cloud. I can tell what is going to happen now - I said to this person, turning on my pedestal, looking for any lying lackadaisicals - The end is going to just arrive like someone unwanted at a small party.

I IMAGINE IT WILL.

In which I deem you worthy of hearing my thoughts

You know, I've been busy. I've been busy filming things like Magnum commercials, commercials for detergents, and commercials for washing machines. It is all quite a serious business! I designed the last few collections in my sleep, whilst planning out the Magnum commercial (why is she eating the Magnum? Who is she eating the Magnum? What is Magnum, when I fondle my jackets and observe the world for the imported room of no-decaying ice I had imported from Antartica?) I've come to the conclusion that Magnum is possibly more important that fashion in the world, right at this very moment. It is of the moment, hm? This clothing business is so- well, it is so overexposed, as the Californians say.

-Why do you bother wearing clothes? I asked my assistant

-How would I be fashionable without clothing? he said

-How would you be fashion without clothing? I corrected

-How would I be fashion without clothing? he said

-Fashion is inside where your heart used to be, I told him. Do you still have your heart?

He tried to look shocked at the mere suggestion that he still had his heart and hadn't sold it for a piece of couture, or a drink at a hip bar in Paris.

-Of course not! he said. How could I store fashion (he pointed to his heart) there, if I still had a heart?

-How would you still be alive, my dear boy? I said

-With...with the power of fashion? he said.

-Fashion does not power you, I said. Power fashions you.

-You are so wise! he said. I could hear his little heart ticking away at an accelerated pace. I could smell the blood pumping through it.

-Poland fashions you! I said

-Poland fashions me?

-Fashion you Poland! I said

The assistant looked confused. I had another assistant cut his heart out, with a silver pair of scissors designed by Tadao Ando. His little heart continued to beat as it sat on a silver platter with "Chanel" engraved on it.

-Oh, dear, I said

-Oh dearie me, said the other assistant

-His heart is far too red

-Far too fleshy, said the other assistant

-Far too...meaty said Cathy Horyn.

-Lost cause, said nobody in particular.

This is the thing with the Magnum. It is an object of beauty. It must not be consumed, of course. Does one consume a Van Gogh or a plate of caviar? Of course not. Both the painting and plate of caviar sit there to be admired, as a challenge.

"I must not eat the Van Gogh", a lady in her nightgown might say to herself, as she wanders off to be- tempted as she is to eat it.

The Magnum functions on the same level. It is to be place with the Van Gogh and the caviar, as a kind of democratic challenge to every person who passes it. The fattie will eat it right away, as will anybody who is uneducated. I do not mean in the sense of someone who has not been to university. I did not go to university, and I am the greatest person on this planet at the moment. I have met plenty of sniveling little youths who come to my door and plead for an internship.

-Oh, please Karl! This is the job a million girls would kill for! I have a degree in ethnoeuropean social sciences involving the chronology of western counterpoint, specifically in relation to how Russian composers effect Russia's economy!

What I mean by educated is dressing well. If one does not dress well, nobody will bother hiring you. Nobody will want to look at you, because you are an eyesore. And how can one deal with people if they are dressing terribly? Here is a good thesis, for all the students who read this web-blog: How does bad dressing effect a nation's economy? The answer, of course, is 42.

Melbourne, My Word!

K darling.

I was out on my nightly stroll just now and found myself the subject of birds. Not in an entirely Hitchcock way as they weren't attacking so much as nestling in my hair. I had paused to contemplate the colour red (and came up with Brimstone) but by the time my thoughts had settled, I had become the subject of several crows.

My word, I thought, as my assistants avidly scrubbed the nearest shop window so I could admire myself in it - THIS is couture. Just as this realisation passed me, a girl in a polyester floral top and the suggestion of shorts (I would repeat the word "short" to illustrate the style of the item in question but I have a contract with Vogue that disallows me to speak or acknowledge that which is not Style.) It was disenchanting enough that someone who is not invisible decided to interrupt my musing, but to her discredit, she snorted in laughter as her thighs (designed by Ed Hardy in the style of Roast Hams) rubbed across my vision. Do not pretend to hide behind your hands. Those claws cannot hide your unworthy disdain.

This is not the first instance of the unlooked judging those in power. As I have been in the vaults so long, it did take me by surprise. Does this city of Melbourne, in which I visit, sincerely exist outside the realms of couture? Surely not all of these people are so uncultured?

I am almost certain that somewhere close there will be a tattoo parlour here that only tattoo stars and butterflies. I can see it now, the person behind the counter is tall with jet black hair. Perhaps scattered with sailor tattoos. If one wanted to get a tattoo of a butterfly, why not live in a museum and pin one's wings to oneself every day? Or hire assistants to collect the coloured butterfly dust and use that to make dye in which to stain a silk patch in which you sew to yourself? This is fashion. This is Style.

I may have to make arrangements so that I wont be here much longer. In the meantime I will speak to the authorities about keeping the general constituency locked in discount marts where they can spend their hard earned money on excess floral and perfume so heavy in chemicals it burns slightly on the skin.

Warmest,

x D

Affairs

Welcome to the Roaring 30s.

You know what was chic in the 30s? Not dying was chic, although with World Wars flying all over the place, sometimes it was difficult to avoid this. It is still chic to be not dead, although while I was well known to be dead it briefly came into fashion. People would turn up at parties all the time looking like death. But what was really chic was affairs. Torrid, vapid, rampant affairs right across groups in your social strata*.

I imagine a lot of you down there exist in small towns so there really only are three or four people that you could have an affair with whose ancestry was far enough away from yours not to be considered incest.

Even then you would run into the problem of people always knowing your business, or being related to too many people. Or even worse, being forced to become a swinger - which was only coined, popularised and desecrated much later.

You say swinger to a Danish person and they'll think it's someone who dances well. I remember the scandal erupting in Copenhagen where someone walked in on passionate the love making of a man and his wife.

- HOW ODD! - People sent by silent morse code to each other, wondering what their own wives would be like in bed.

The Danes are so beautiful they can get away with this, though. Someone with my nose needs to be more careful with how they perceive the world.

No, it has always been chic to have affairs. I had one in the 30s that lasted 3 years. Just the one affair, one tryst that just never ceased. 3 years to the day I decided that red heads would not be chic again for another 70 years.

How glorious it was in those days. You would see your husband or respective partner with hislover and have a great big row - despite the fact you were on your way to see yours and your lover had just come from seeing theirs. Alcohol and torrid affairs - champagne for breakfast and lovers for lunch.

I guess what I am saying, my dearest readers, is that the imminency of life and the departing of this world has been taken from us and as a result we are forced to live dull, unexciting, quiet lives. To add insult to injury, with the abundance of education on offer, we can be acutely perceptive of this dullness to the point of articulating it perfectly.

I say "we" but I assume you understand I mean "we" excluding myself. The vaults of the museum I had purposely perfectly preserved a party from the 1930s so as I never get un-lived. Every museum has one, although the Natural History museum preserved a dinner party from the 1950s and that one is a gods-honest bore.

I say, might I ask, if one doesn't live in my perpetual party, what is it that one does these days to live up there?

D

*So long, of course, as you kept to your social strata. Scandals are so unabashedly un-chic.

D's Arc

Dearest Readers,

I am creating an Arc. I say Arc because it will be far more akin to a Corbusier chair than the monstrosity Noah created. It occurred to me that with the imminent and exponential expansion of populations across the world (people do insist on breeding so voraciously, don't they?), the increase of unlookers may, too, exponentially increase.

More to the fact, with this large expansion in population, clothes from Chanel, LV, Commes de Garcons, will all rise sharply in price. Good clothing is like any precious stone or metal, there is only a set amount of it and the higher the demand, the more the price. This means that more and more the unlookers (sometimes confused with the Unwashed - though I fear for the inter-breeding of the two) will become more and more Unlooked. But also there will be a greater margin of them.

Those who can afford to float like the cream of the ever expanding population - and our numbers will dwindle slightly, too, for not everyone has the stamina to maintain such wealth - will be the only ones who can afford such style.

Eventually the waves of unlookers will become a sea of unwashed hair and dowdy blouses that will rise up against their Fashion Gods with a vengeance to rival that of a Napoleonic sneeze (I'm told, they too, are voracious). Their attacks on their beloved Fashion Gods have already commenced with the susurrous around Model weight (which is ridiculous, because a good model don't have a weight) and body image (which is also ridiculous as everyone knows that ones body image exists only in photographs and thus can be altered).

I am collecting Worthy People to join my arc. K will be first on board, he will be blessing everyone after who boards with a Chanel logo in No. 5 upon their forehead. Anna Wintour will be next, who will thusly judge everyone, silently, on what they wear. She will whisper to me the rumours or sightings that anyone has seen of those who wear Track Pants or clothing made from mixed blends. These people are spies for the unlookers. Only an unlooker could be fooled into buying something so cheaply made and highly priced as Juicy Couture.

Once inside, they will be met with collections from all the designers onboard. They will be provided with internet so as to be still in touch with the world at large, if only to remind unlookers of how much less privileged they are and to erase the trails of how they became so privileged.

Then, not unlike cream on the top of fresh milk, we will float away on this sea of unlookers in search for the Promised Land. Once arrived, K will place a single flag made entirely from silk so fine you can only see it when the sunshine hits it at 9am. It will be declared New New York.

I do hope you can make it.

D

neo-Trenta

Unfortunately for myself, I am acutely aware of the un-chic.

If I were more civilised, like my good friend, K, I would neglect to even recognise the existence of the demode - except to post about them. Even this, I believe, is a theoretical dismissal because he has swarms of models and PR wolves around him like body guards to prevent the attempted assassination by demode. Can you imagine what would happen if there were a picture snapped of him in the immediate vicinity of, say, little Terry Richardson? Not that this would happen easily as I understand little Terry spends most of his time outside high schools where he frightens small children with the size of his glasses and salivates on the shoes of school girls as they go past.

It appears to me, more and more as the days go by, that this swarm of people that K has (and often lends to me when I emerge from the vaults of the Museum) cannot protect me from the un-chic that exist outside the world of fashion.

Let me give an example.

A girl with entirely too much stomach for her jeans kindly informed me in the street recently of what Starburkes is soon to be releasing.

For one curious but horrific moment, I suspected they had blended an entire town - Houses, Town hall and inhabitants alike - which would make sense in that they were only serving them on ice. For you see Trenta is a town in Italy (or Slovenia, depending on your expenditure).

Secondly, I was out with my good friend Mr Colbert and after a pot of green tea and miniature cupcakes decorated and sculpted solely from Eggleston photographs I was informed that trenta is also Italian for kidney failure. How parfait. I simply cannot envision a world where something like this were to happen by accident. It is clear to me that there is some sort of usurper in the P.R. company of Starburkes. He/she is working undercover for all that represents sanity in this world.

This is not the most delightful component of this whole affair. Not that I would hastily call it an affair per se, as it is as gormless as a hagfish. The most delightful component of this situation is the comments that you might notice at the bottom of the post on the neo-Trenta. Their logic is clear on the matter. Let me set aside my intellect and paraphrase

- The stomach EXPANDS, duh. Don't you know ENYTHING. How ELSE do you eat all that turkey at thanks giving or drink one uf thoz 2L buttles of cok?

It seems that the proles are actively trying to out-macho each other in the limits of their stomach stretching. Needless to say this is delightful. Why on earth would Terrorists attempt to attack our way of life when our way of life is institutionally self destructive.

Oh! Before I forget, if you happen to be a terrorist, try not to attack New York again. We are most definitely not who you are looking for. We are, in all honestly, slightly mortified to be a part of the United States. Picture us as the cerebral and aloof cousins of a very po-dunk obnoxious family.

Much obliged,

D