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.
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.
This is a story I somtimes tell my Nieces, when we are all gathered around the fireplace in Vermont.
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover. "That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day. "How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time. "And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle." "Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella. "How dare she?! This magazine is an adultmagazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable. "Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!" -And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine. "What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery. "NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..." "Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly. "It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog." Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's. "Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!" "Ridiculous!" "Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!" "They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves. "Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!" "Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!" "Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves. "Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd. "None of zis- zis children" "No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point. "Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!" "Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting. "I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?" "They will ruin it!" the crowd roared. "Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!" "Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd. "You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn. "BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?" "Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?" "Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is. "Why?" questioned Woody Horyn. "Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!" "Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
I think Anna spiked my Diet Coke, because I do not feel the same. There's a tingling in Uncle Karl's pants and I feel the urge to dance. All the lights, the lights are so pretty, aren't they, children?
When I was just a little boy I used to sit at home with my 6 bikes and look at them and say to them: "You bikes, you are so lucky to have me as your owner! Do you know who I am? Why, I'm Uncle Karl Lagerfeld" even though I was only six. Because children, I am a pretty important guy. I design clothes, and I bet you're wearing clothes, hmmm? Unless you are a nudist, or are naked. I am never naked. I shower in my suit. I bathe in my suit. Nobody sees me naked because I am Karl. (Everybody's seen Yves naked, hmm? What a whore). No, all you see is me in my suit and ponytail and sunglasses. How dignified. Tres chic, no?
Some person had the guts to say to me "you know, Yves is dead, Karl". They are obviously not in the loop. Am I dead? Are you, my dear reader, dead? I hope not, because being dead is demode.
Oh yes, demode: It seems to have become the word to say around the fashion people. They say "oh, this is demode. oh, you are demode. oh, these clothes are demode. this tampon is demode". Do any of them know what it means? For them it is another trend to buy into, like leggings and little plastic Prada sacks. Chanel really should manufacture some sacks. We could give them to homeless people, so when the Prada women comes a-knockin' to steal the homeless people's possessions, she sees the Chanel logo staring right at her face.
Actually, I have a right mind to ambush the Prada women and spraypaint her or something. Can you get edible spraypaint yet? Think of the calories one could induce on someone!
You models still aren't the right weight. Very disappointing. It is not hard. There is a book, called "The Karl Lagerfeld diet". Please buy it, and read it. Not eating is not hard. Just drink Diet Coke. Here, have some of mine you wretched girls. How do you live with yourselves, at the wrong weight??? Isn't it so demode? (No question mark there. It is.)
These designers using- let's be frank- fat people- are just attention whores, hmmm? They're laughing at the fat people behind their backs. "hahahhaa, you demode fat people!"
Gosh, so many designers are so bad. At least Martin Margiela- at least he has class. There's few honourable people in fashion anymore, and I'm one of the last: KARL LAGERFELD: the last gentleman of fashion.
Now Brad, I need to attend to him. I need to take photos of him.
Isn't this stating the obvious? It's like saying the sky is blue, music is something you hear, and the journalist who wrote that is banned from Chanel from now on, hmm?
I mean, I do agree with this: "I often find it staggering, having sat through a clearly bonkers or unoriginal fashion show - those by Gareth Pugh, Giles, Roberto Cavalli, Armani and Balenciaga spring to mind - when all the members of the fashion press are falling over themselves to rush backstage to pour praise on the designer."
But again, it's obvious. Notice she doesn't mention me. Because I am never ridiculous.
(I guess she's okay then. Someone send her a dress)
Posts
