Often I sit in restaurants by myself with my ponytail down. You expected me to say something zany and witty like- "I was disguised as a lampshade" or "the lobster soup" or something along those lines. But the simple truth is that my costume is so well-made that if I remove an element of it, nobody thinks it is me. I look more like a German writer or intellectual, well-educated and read but like a million others who sit in restaurants by themselves, but perhaps with a better jacket. On other occassions I have disguised myself as the lobster soup that's neither here nor there, on this ocassion I was simply sitting there ignored by the waitstaff, listening to the conversation going on.
-What I've come up with is a butterfly tattooed on her cunt! said Damien Hirst
-That's so radical and zany! said the woman sitting near him. -Who would've even thought of putting a butterfly on a woman's vagina? I mean, a flower, now that'd just be unoriginal. But a butterfly? Think of the metaphors! It's just...it's just so deep. She put her hands up in the air.
-Think, Damien. A woman's vagina is a beautiful butterfly.
-And, said Damien, and I've come up with an idea for the cover. There could be a butterfly on the cover, another butterfly, one that you can peel off! He put his hands together on his lap and looked rather proud of himself. The woman fawned at him, looking rather a beaming streetlight that'd had too much lemonade. -Brilliant! she said.
-I thought so, said Damien. You see, I'm referencing Andy Warhol. Do you know The Velvet Underground?
-Oh, I love their artwork. It's so po-mo, so real. I love that one painting, "Heroin".
Damien clutched his hands together a little tighter. -Yeah, he said. Well, on one of their...artworks, choosing his words carefully, because this woman spent many millions on art, his artwork, and the customer is always right, even when they possess all the brilliance of the price of their shoes (Prada, of course).
-Well, on one of their artworks, he said, they had a sticker of a banana that said "peel it and see". Really brilliant, he said.
-That's so true said the woman. You are so ART.
-I am art, darling, said Damien.
The woman still could not get over the idea of a butterfly on a woman's vagina and the metaphorical implications it involved.
-I mean, nobody has ever thought of that before! It's just so original! so INSPIRED! Every woman and her dog will want to get her vagina tattooed after that. The SYMBOLISM. You truly are the greatest living artist said the woman. Whatever will you come up with next?
I stopped listening. There is only so much of High Art that one can take. Whatever was Damien's next idea probably would've made my poor little Franco-Germanic head explode. I couldn't even think of what it could be- couldn't begin to imagine. I went back to my meal of air prepared by Thomas Keller and went back to my petty fashion world concerns- nothing as groundbreaking as a butterfly on somebody's vagina, I assure you. Simply another collection. I am but only a humble dressmaker, hm? A man came up to me, asking for an autograph. Mr. Süskind? he said.
Well, children, it's probably time I wrote a new entry or somesuch. I've been in New York City lately, but I do believe I've had enough- back to Paris, just as August ends. Collections and all that. I'm tempted to hold the Chanel show in a supplies closet this season, or maybe a cleaning cupboard. A very chic one, of course. All white and quilted- I just think it'd be amusing to see all these people try and force themselves into the cupboard. There'd be people on the ceiling and walls and so on- it'd be quite the sight! Although I dare say I could probably fit quite a few models in there. As I've said before, we actually ship our models in suitcases. (They're very nice suitcases of course, don't you worry about that.)
When I was in NY, the New York Times ended up mentioning me in a piece about finger puppets or something. You can find it here. You know, soon I'll be making a "press" section, like our good friend Scott, hm? I think the finger puppets idea is cute, but really, what would be better is a kind of fashion Muppet show. One can imagine it already: a couple of judges, say, Yves and I- a show where puppet Marc Jacobs is Miss Piggy, and Alber is Kermit (Alber has had rather more cakes that Alber, but he has the humility, no?) And on it goes- Jean Paul as Gonzo (or Galliano?), etc etc. And of course there'd be guests- Cathy Horyn singing and playing the saxophone, Suzy Menkes telling stories, Tom Ford telling the audience how to shave properly...it'd be delightful. Call it The Karl Lagerfeld Show, or something similar. Like Johnny Cash.
So I was actually talking about this idea with Miss. See Scheleyes, Miss. Mary, and a few others. It ended up turning into a radio show, because I remember turning the transistor radio when I was a little boy- turning the knob and sound coming out of that great edifice. Obviously, I'm not saying we should return to the past- I hate the past, I loath it- but I do think there's a certain value to radio. One can listen and still sketch. I suppose this counts as an accouncement of sorts, for The Karl Lagerfeld Show, a whenever-I-feel-like-it radio show featuring many guests and assorted music. It will be available here sooner rather than later.
I noticed that Balmain has made a collection for men today, since nobody went to their show in Paris. I'm convinced that one day- pretty soon- Balmain will put on a show and there'll be about 5 guests. They'll all be coked out of their minds, aging and looking like Nico post-1960.
Take note of those soul-crushing eyes. Anyway- this Balmain show I'm describing will be The Final Balmain Show Ever and there'll be 5 coked out 40 year olds, waiting to buy the same party dresses that the hobo who designs Balmain has been designing for the last 20 years. Anyway, this Balmain Men's...merchandise resembles the sort of clothes an anorexic plumber would wear. Anorexic plumbers are not very fashion.
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:
Here in France it's August, which basically means that everybody takes a big holiday and uses it as an excuse to do nothing. Even my seamstresses are on holiday- it's in their contracts, unfortunately. The French law is optimized for laziness. So it's just 25 assistants and I, and Alber who's been busy reading "The Year Of Magical Thinking" whilst I'm reading "The Unconsoled." I have my assistants positioned around the offices, being human statues. It's rather entertaining. Anyway, I always find this time frustrating because nobody's doing anything apart from me (unless I'm in NY or such, but I'm obligated in stay in Paris for a little while longer- there's dinners to attend, those that I can't avoid.)
Paris is burning, Yet there's nobody to see, They're all out to sea, you see Paris is burning, Burning to the ground, "Come back next month" says the fireman to the fire, says he, "This time does not work for me"
And you know, that might as well be true. Just yesterday I saw a robber mug an old lady, before she kindly reminded him that it's August and that it's a holiday. The robber gave back the lady's belongings, and went on his way. I saw the two of them at the beach eating icecream (which I frown upon) as I was taking photos just later that day. Last year, a jeweler friend of mine was held up at gunpoint, until the thieves remembered it was August and they had a party to go to.
The girl on the right there tweeted me her picture dressed as myself today. I thought I'd post it, though if she wants it removed, I'd be happy to have an assistant do that. I think she is rather chic. Probably because she is dressed like me, hm?
One of my seamstresses printed off a link for me today, which I thought was rather interesting. When I say "interesting" I mean in the way that the old man at the opera who tries to chat up the younger lady behind him with stories of how he lost his tooth-and-needed-to-get-a-false-one is "interesting" (for the record, that old man was rather unsuccessful in his attempts to chat up the girl. I know, because last night I went to the opera with Alber and we saw That Old Man with our very own eyes. We also saw a naked Tom Ford, but that's another story- he doesn't wear clothes much these days, which I tell him is fine- unless he's ugly or fat. Tom is neither- he's too processed and chemicalized and all those other "izes" to actually be ugly. Anyway). So this link can be found here. It's some young lady "mouthing off" (see? I have the young people phrases "down") about certain bloggers, among them my daughter, her mother, and some woman called luxirare- which is really no name for a person, really. Maybe if this "luxirare" changed her name, she wouldn't be called pretentious as much, hm? "Pretentious" is one of the words that this young lady-blogger calls this luxirare: "She is too pretentious, her grammar is poor, and she features aggressive photos of singularly nauseating food. It doesn’t help that she mentions her mom’s old Chanel stuff. If your mom owned lots of Chanel, she should have taught you some manners, like don’t boast about your privileged background." So I had another assistant print out the entirety of luxirare's blog. I sometimes work in fashion, and there's a lot of pretentious people there- so I know it when I see it. I don't particularly think she is very chic, or a very good writer, or even a particularly good photographer (J.A, I'm rather confident that I know what you're thinking right now.) But! This girl is not pretentious. She's too bourgeois. She eats food. What sort of person eats food? She is obviously not fashion enough. She likes high shoulders- high shoulders are bourgeois. It's the same as liking "Britain's got Talent" or somesuch. It's not pretentious, it's just mind numbingly bourgeois, no? As for her mother owning Chanel- well, Coco had barely any manners herself. I imagine she's probably got it off with Confucius or that young chap with the beard by now. Not that I'm judging. Of course, she had manners around the handsome men, hm? That's where it counts. That and the grandparents.
You know, I made some comments as Coco herself the other day to some magazine. Harpers or something. I said Coco wasn't a feminist, and if anyone's bothered to read a book (or shall I tweet it?), they'd find that Coco said this herself. Anyway- a Certain Person sent me this link the other day. Let us analyze this post, as Nabokov might not have done because he's dead. First of all, the person who wrote the post is called "Mary Ann" and I have a certain liking for people whose first names end with "Ann", or "Anne" in particularly. Already I don't mind the writer of this post! And now let us get out our map of France, which you can find here. We start our journey in Crete, which is close enough to France anyway. Trace the route from Crete to Paris, whilst remembering, of course, that this is 1840 so you are not flying in a plane!
That actually had nothing to do with anything, I just felt like doing that. If you imagined you were Napoleon you get bonus points and are one step closer to enlightenment. Congratulations.
In this post Mary Ann says my brief stint imitating Coco "carries deeply problematic repercussions". Well, Mary Ann. I'm flattered you feel this way- I really do. I'm deeply flattered, because you assume that a man pretending to be Coco Chanel for a magazine that has Leighton Meester on the cover is something of influence to some unstated group of people. To whom? To people in doctor's waiting rooms? Of course, that isn't to say that I'm not concerned about the effect I have on people in doctor's waiting rooms, but since they're waiting for a doctor anyway I'm sure they have bigger problems to worry about. (But what about the children-who-aren't-actually-sick accompanying their parents to the doctor's waiting room? I'd wonder what they're doing reading a fashion magazine in the first place. Isn't that a tad worrying? We'll have a generation of young girls who grew up reading US Vogue and can jump midair and freeze their pose next.
Next, Mary Ann, who I still have a whippet of affection for, writes "..through his repeated use of the definite ’never’, Karl negates and silences an inspiring interpretation of Coco’s work and perpetuates a damaging stereotype that is almost as tired, boring and ‘ugly’ as he." Non, non, non. I'm not silencing any interpretation of Coco's work. People are free to think what they like! Just because I said something in a magazine doesn't stop people thinking something. Good Coco, this isn't 1984 or somesuch. As for being "tired", I am never tired. I don't sleep. You all know this of course, dear readers. I'd hardly think I'm "boring" as well- why, I bathe in the blood of models whilst still wearing my suit as an still-alive-alligator carries my luggage from the car up to my live-in closet. Gosh. I'm merely saying what Coco would've said herself- she was a woman of her time. A liberator, but a woman of her time. If the magazine asked, say: "did you liberate woman" I could've replied "Yes, and I got them more boyfriends too." Yet the magazine asked whether Coco considered herself a feminist, and frankly, she didn't. I would've been lying to say otherwise, hm?
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