Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Bonjour from Heaven (out of the black, and into the blue)

Bonjour, it is Yves! Yes, heaven is well past divine. The angels wear made to measure wings, everyone is so well dressed and well mannered. I made God a suit, it fits comme une reve. It’s a Prince of Wales check, horn buttons, and slim cut, with him name sewn in. Oh, going to mass here is so beautiful, it makes me weep, and the communion wafers are little sables from Boulangerie du Ranelagh. We have Faberge eggs for breakfast, and for lunch today I had truite aux duxelles, it was Julia Childs turn to cook. More about that row between her and James Beard later.

Oh, oh, so, I called Karl the other day, “Ich mochter mit Karl sprechen bitte,” because I loooove to pretend his French is so thickly accented I can’t understand a word he says, so I treat him like a German tourist trying to find a Metro stop. Of course he was, comme habitude, barking about being busy designing collections. Which of course means he is on his way to hide at a fat farm. Sometimes it’s the one in Arizona where it is all wheat grass colonics and yoga for a week, sometimes it’s that place near Lausanne where he tries to dress all the rock stars. The neighboring clinic is for anorexics, and they make them go group walks everyday, all pale and self conscious, so so so funny as they parade past the fat farm, eating the UNICEF diet, a bit of tea and lentils.

Oh, but in Lausanne, the high school girls wear furs and hangout at the Beau Rivage and in the cafes, sooo chic, the way it should be. Oh, the cream for the coffee comes in little chocolate cups. Glossy hair, jewels, nice legs and voices, ohhh. That silly American television show, chattering cows, or whatever, oh they look like amateurs.

But I was thinking, ooooh, kaftans would be a good look for the angels. So I think if Karl can go en congee, to his fat farm, I might en vacance to my beloved Morocco for the summer. I do get so inspired by nature, and God likes it, as this reflects well on him. Ooh ohh, then I was admiring some gardens, and I looked down and saw this plaque, on a boulder near some bearded iris:

Tall gladiola and feathered poppy

Fill the yard with purple and red

Colors God put together off the top of his head

A Frenchman too loved purple with red

YSL is in the garden, he’s not so dead.

It reminded me of a window I did for Dior, so long ago. It was ciel et ble, sky and wheat. It was a wheat colored pencil skirt, with a sky blue silk blouse. It was so beautiful, a young lady stood in front of it and wept. I saw her and went and wept with her. To be honest, it was after I had left Dior, but I went and wept with her. Weeping over beauty is a form of communion. I like to think of people looking over wheat fields and high deserts in, on clear days saying, “oh, that is so Dior”, or seeing moi in their gardens and tulip fields. Of course, when Karl looks at a pink shimmering sunset, he sees underdone roast beef.

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