Impostors

It is not often I post anymore, and many of you will be wondering why this is. Well, dear readers, the reason is because a Karl Lagerfeld imitator and his cohorts- socialists and exiled dictators of island nations- imprisoned me inside a chamber consisting of non-ironic tropical print shirts and beige shorts. The very ugliness of the clothing weakened me, eating away at the very fabric of my twelve thousand dollar suit. My high collars (I carry a spare two on me at all times, as a proper gentleman should) were a vestige of the past, and my unicorn-leather shoes simply fell off my feet and shrank like a dehydrated tomato. I have spent the last four months clawing my way out of the chamber, resewing the tropical shirts into the finest vestments of couture and the beige into sari wraps Ms. Vreeland would've been proud to wear. It has been a long journey. It has been painful. To be honest- to be perfectly honest with you, dear readers, I feared for my survival. The beige was that particular shade of beige found in cheap hotels and hospitals that is so hard to work with that it has exterminated whole nations of dessert-dwelling citizens.

Anyway. I am out of that particular quagmire, and the sari wraps and tropical shirt dresses have been sold to very wealthy women with more money than cocktail glasses (or champagne), and I have reasserted my authority as The Actual Karl Lagerfeld. The impostor is apparently trying to launch a collection of low-cost garments under a line called "Karl". I do not do low cost. I do high cost. He has convinced a fair few people, though- he has had the plastic surgery and powerful people are funding him. However, these powerful people dress badly. This is the clue that this "Karl"- one could even call him "Fake Karl", if one wanted- is a fraud. His powerful funders wear shoulder pads. They own a lot of polyester. They own whole closets made out of polyester. What was my solution? Well, it was to string up this Karl impostor in black silk, while I imitated a spider and then put the Karl impostor inside a large dehydrator we obtained from El Bulli, and then- here is the brilliant part- we raised the prices of the "Karl" line. Then everything was OK. I had solved the problem, and I sat back in my Karl Lagerfeld designed chair and read my Karl Lagerfeld designed book of Karl Lagerfeld-taken photographs.

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).

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.

Anna D

I was talking to Anna dello Russo the other day, who has recently become one of those "internet people" who have more images on the blogs than Andy Warhol has paintings. Consequently, she has her photograph taken a lot. She was wearing a golden garment which resembled a sheep upturned.

"Anna, is this really a golden sheep?" I asked.

"No, no, it is imitation golden sheep" she whispered back, as if ashamed of this fact. I wondered where one would obtain an actual golden sheep. I supposed that one had probably been caught by D on one of her safaris- surely the Africans would have one, what with all the exotic creatures in Africa. Zebras and such. The western world has to make do with LA- a veritable hunting ground if you're that way inclined.

Anyway, Anna said that she had been standing there for two days because the photographers won't go away and isn't it rude to leave them?

"So you were just standing there?" I said.

"Oui", she said. "I was once in the middle of the first world war- you know the one?"

"I know the one. Quite well known."

She preened at me. "I'd expect so, if I were in it! Anyway- I stopped this world war one for a whole five days because the photographers wanted to take pictures of me. Pin up, was the phrase they used", she said, pronouncing it "peen up".

"Didn't you get bored?"

"Being bored isn't something people with lower shoulders on their jackets do, Karl."

"This is why I'm glad nobody knows who I am. I am a complete nobody" I said, as two hundred and fifty seven flashes went off.

Note: Readers, you may have notice that I have been quite...apathetic with posts this year. This is because, well, I can do as I please, but also because I am writing a novel. You will be able to purchase it at some point within the next year. I am thinking of titling it "KARL LAGERELD: MEMOIRS OF A DRESSMAKING PROSTITUTE", though I am in no way writing a memoir. But it's a lovely word, isn't it? It sounds like a silk slip. Perhaps I will call it "KARL LAGERFELD: SILK SLIP DRESSMAKING", but then everybody will think I am a company selling silk slips. I have no desire to clothe you in silk slips, I assure you.

End Of The World, etc

Dear Bryan,

My apologies about that ipad you were given for free not being 3g. What is the world coming to, hm? Why- the other day when I was on the back of my elephant riding to see Anna's new coat at her place in Paris, I saw people riding in those horrid automobiles. Since I saw An Inconvenient Truth I have been very eco-conscious, and it's considered most demode to ride around in an automobiles now- we all use elephants or our assistants. Only the proles use them.

Well, an ipad- which I recall you simply loved when it came out- without 3g? Simply another sign of the death of civilization, I fear. We are going back to the dark ages, brethren. At least Hermès still makes scarves which the weaker of you can weep into.

Love,

Karl

Praying To Myself

Marie Claire Preaches Against The Fatties

Dear Maura,

I was alerted to this piece of fine journalism by one of my assistants, and wish to congratulate your courageous efforts against the hordes of fatties that plague the world in These Dark Days of Walmart and McDonald's. I only have one suggestion: instead of exercising to lose weight, why not simply not eat? A friendly tip from your be-gloved uncle, you understand.

Love,

Karl

Magical Fashion Island

A lot of people have been asking me why The Magical Fashion Island in Dubai isn't going ahead. "Lack of funds", I said. "People aren't made of money these days."

"They were before?" said the people.

"Some of them. The Rothschilds were- that's why that had umbrellas, to stop themselves getting soggy. They always had umbrellas, those Rothschilds. Now they use plastic money."

"Does Bill Gates use plastic money?"

"Ah, well, he's not the sort to have a melting cesspool of credit cards all over him- he uses imaginary money. It works just the same, if everybody believes in it. It's like that Tinkerbell person, you know."

"-Off Peter Pan."

"Quite. If you believe in anything enough it'll be true. That's why I'm still alive- because I don't believe in death."

"Oh?"

"I don't "do" death. It is not for me. Other people, maybe- if they're into that sort of thing. The problem with death is that it's very hard to undo once one has done it, and what if death goes out of fashion?"
"..."

"Well, then one would be demode. You can't reinvent yourself either. Elvis did- he lost weight. I didn't have to die to lose weight. In any case, why The Magical Fashion Island didn't work is because people didn't believe in it hard enough."

At this point the people were escorted outside by my butler, and I sat down to read the newspapers. In The Guardian there was an article with the words "Are women hard-wired to enjoy cupcakes?"

"Stunning journalism", I muttered to myself. I called Anna. "Do you like cupcakes?"

"No," she replied. I called Diana. She did not like cupcakes. I called Carine and she vomited on the mere premise of cupcakes. Finally, I talked to my friend Gertrude Stein, who pointed out that the article was as ridiculous as saying "are men hard-wired to enjoy meat?"

"The article asks that probing question too", I said. Gertrude rolled her eyes. I wondered how on earth anybody would come up with the assumption that Women Enjoy Cupcakes. What about staplers, hm? Are office-workers hard-wired to enjoy staplers? Are pizza-makers hard-wired to enjoy pizza-slicers? Why is there so much wiring, anyway?

I threw The Guardian on the floor and stomped on it with my one-size-too-small shoes. Hard hitting journalism indeed. I asked Helmut if he wanted to take a photo, and I asked him how death was working out. He mentioned an orgy.

Above: Artist's rendering of Magical Fashion Island.

A Victory For Edith Head

I should shoot down those tiresome rumors about me retiring, again- they seem to crop up every six months or so- the same rate as Cher farewell tours and Neil Young albums. This time the rumors seem to be being dispensed by anonymous news sources, as opposed to Ms. Pernet, who I actually like. It is a lot less interesting when the rumor is being whispered by greasy bits and blobs. Do the bits and blobs have a vendetta against me? I asked my butler, who was sewing up the back of my head- it needs to be tightened daily to keep me looking as I do (I almost wrote "young and fresh" there, but I am under no illusions- I do not pretend to be the fresh lamb of the day).

Anyway- I am not retiring, and I intend to design Chanel until the end of time. Even then I will carry on, because time doesn't affect me. Time is relative, and I have no relatives. Well- all my relatives that I'll admit to liking are dead. Anyway, this means I am free of time itself. You can ask Einstein if you don't believe me. Of course, Albert ended up marrying and thus died. If you want to live forever have no relatives. Everybody these days is too concerned with starting a family or getting married. I see men and women carrying engagement rings down the street on their open palms, running in that fashion that you only see in black and white movies. Colour movies don't do it, because colour changes how people move. This was the main idea for the last Chanel show- to change how everybody walks by using a black and white set. I once had a whole house in black and white, too- even the butler was in black and white. Edith Head designed it. Skin tones look a lot better in black and white. Ms. Head once told me that she wore her special-black-and-white glasses (which made everything black and white) all the time, especially when heading out into the general public. "Otherwise, darling, it is hideous!", she would say. This is my tip of the day, in the style of children's television programs.

Karl's Tip Of The Day:

Why don't you wear black and white glasses all the time?

I realize I'm stealing from Diana here- my apologies, D. I couldn't help myself. I urge all my readers to go out and try it- if everyone did it, everybody would look at least 50% more chic than they do (or don't). I imagine this situation would work in a way similar to the emerald glasses in The Wizard of Oz. Except, of course, black and white is a lot more interesting than emerald. When you go to see your lawyer, or your private detective, it will be as if one is in film noir, or a Raymond Chandler novel. Streets will be like a Cartier-Bresson photograph, or something out of Breathless. Everybody would look far more attractive, and the Wal Mart Generation would be neutralized.

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.

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.

Heart Of Gold

Dear Friends,

I suppose I should apologize for the long wait for details of my Heartbreaking Romantic Affairs. I’m not going to, of course- you all already knew that punchline. Instead, I’m going to tell you about what I’ve been doing lately, then I’m going to address that pesky pencil- who now calls itself “Le Crayon”, believe it or not. I’m not a complicated kind of man, hm? I call a Faberge egg a Faberge egg. There’s no pretentions about it, hm? It’s plain, unadorned, and simple. It is not hard to understand. I don’t understand people who pretend to be something else- it’s a bore. You know, I’m over this whole “relationship” business anyway- I don’t need a pencil. I can just project drawings onto the paper. I simply have to look at the paper, and beautifully drawn lines will appear on the paper. Then I glare at the paper some more and the lines are filled in and everybody says “brava!” when I show them the sketches at dinner that night.

I find this to be a much more elegant solution- the pencil thing was a mere formality, something I did for the cameras, really. It is like the queen wearing her crown, or Hitler carrying a gun. Darth Vader using a light saber. Madonna using her voice during concert (everybody knows that Madonna can just think what she wants to sing, and it comes out of the speakers.) But we are in a new era, here- we are in the two thousand and tens. From now on, I shall merely glare. The oppressive pencil-owner relationship is a thing of the past. Really, readers- how many times have you heard someone say “I love it when my pencil gives me cuddles”, or “I want to live with my pencil”. It sickens me. It makes me want to pull out the collars that I’ve swallowed over the years from my throat and toss them at the homeless people on the street- the disgusting homeless people- and then proceed to the parks where people clasp their pencils in their hands and throw my Faberge eggs at them (well, that’s how Russian royalty does an egging). From now on I am not even a one-pencil-man. I abstain. I am a one-man man. I date Karl Lagerfeld, and only Karl Lagerfeld. Even my mirror image is not authentic enough- sure, he’s as good looking as I am, but does he have the quick wit? And I am currently auditioning my shadow on being part of myself. I am very, very serious about this one-man man business, you see. If my shadow is not good enough, I will chop it off with a pair of scissors from the atelier.

In any case- here is the letter from the so-called “Le Crayon”. I screw my nose up to it. In fact, I screw my nose up to all this “couples” nonsense. Pencils and their owners disgust me. Rei Kawakubo does not have a pencil. Nor do I. 

Dearest K,

My thoughts of our Oompa Loompa massacres brought a tear to my metallic embellishments. you know this is not personal. You have always been the one pushing me to the side of your pocket, away from your heart. Do you remember when you snapped three pencils in front of me, to show me what would happen if I didn't perform? Do you remember the week I spent in the bottom of a Vuitton bag in punishment for a less than perfect collection?

You threatened to leave me after you lost all your weight. You told me you were now fit enough to carry around a million of me, that you didn't need me anymore. I put up with a lot from you, K. I stuck with you through fat and thin - it... it almost hurts that you wish me to be ground down to a stub.

It was you who left me at the Four Seasons after cola with Anna. I waited for hours for you. Then, Vivienne found me. I was a mess, I tell you. I had rolled under a table and I was covered with dust and stray hairs. I was almost down the drain before I caught her eye.

Anyway, I'm over that now. Vivienne, she just cares for me. She wraps me in her hair when she's not using me. I can get lost in there for hours. She chews on me when she's thinking - she even writes letters with me, letters. When was the last time you wrote a letter, K?

It is early here, I can hear Vivienne calling. She must have woken up.

Salut K,

Le Crayon

[August 10]: One-night stand

My Faber-Castell pencil, Gramercy Park, New York. Photo Karl Lagerfeld.

Wanted, Wanted, A Pencil in a Daze

Dear Friends,

My spies made a significant discovery as they were doing their regular once-over of my blog (to check for counter-spies, supervillians other than myself, and tourists). They found a note, hidden in the "comments" section, purported to be written by my beloved pencil, which went missing awhile ago. I did not believe it at first, yet the handwriting was unmistakable. It was indeed my P. Plain old P when it was clutched in my hand, Persnickety when I held it tentatively in between my fingers, and Penelope when I visited the offices of M.  The note reads as follows:

Look, Karl, I know you have your minions out looking for me, but I am a pencil in Paris who doesn't want to be found.

I am in the hands of someone else now. You were always too generous with lending me - now I am gone.

Please do not look for me, I will remember you fondly

P.

What can I say? P, you know that's not where you belong- My clothes are never dirty and my hands are always clean, aside from the blood of countless Oompa Loompas. Don't you remember the good times we had? We went to the beach where I took photographs of Claudia- we spent many nights in bed, sketching couture- do you remember our outing to Vermont? Don't let Anna fool you for a second- you're my number one, aside from myself. 

Frankly, I am not going to search for you anymore. I am calling the hounds off. There are a lot more pencils in the jar. Your new owner could grind you down to a mere point with one of those new mechanical pencil-shavers. How would you like that? Could you wear Philip Treacy if you were a stub? Could you dress in fur and ivory from pianos? Think about that, young pencil. 

Letter

Dear Friends,

I have to tell you that I have been in a lot of pain lately. I have lost my favourite pencil, again. Many of you may recall that I lost my favourite pencil a year or two ago, and the chaos that ensured around Paris while I searched for said pencil. I looked for my pencil, and the silence told me it was not there. I asked it to come back two times and there was silence for two times. As you know if you follow Karl Lagerfeld's Guide To Life, I try to promote an alternative lifestyle (that I used to call in French La Lagerfeld Diet), based on sensible tenets such as repetitive wearing of collars. My pencil's decision to disappear will be clearly be seen by conservative, pen-wielding types as a lead-based revenge against the sketches my pencil and I used to share. Right now- well- I can't even pretend to be a mess. I'm quite perfect. But, it is still distressing. I have hundreds of agents on the lookout for it, throughout Paris, right now. Perhaps I will go and take pictures of naked young men- that always cheers me up. Brad? No- wait- what's your name? You know, the new one. Italian, I think. 

(Note to self: name all young male models the same name, as Yves did with bulldogs. Hard to remember names. Call them all concubine or something similar).

(sans) love,

Karl Lagerfeld

Hansel and Gretel

Once upon a time there was a couple of hideous bourgeois children by the names of Hansel and Gretel. They were very fat. Their parents, who were hip German architects, said- "Hansel und Gretel! If you don't get in line with the minimalist aesthetics of our houses, we will kick you into the forest!", so they only have five slices of salami for breakfast, as opposed to 10, and so on. 

But they had a servant (all families in fairy tales have servants, who barely ever get acknowledged- let me tell you, fairy tales are essentially a slave trade. Who cleans the glass slippers? Not le Cinderella, anyway), who gave them extra slices of salami under their door. So the children got very fat and their Helmut Lang suits popped and Helmut Newton, when he saw them, put his fingers over his eyes and shuddered. So the parents said: "Look! You are too fat! You do not go with the Miles van der Rohe chair! You are bending it!"

"But Mama, Papa!" they said. "Are we not your children? Do you not love us like so?", to which the parents said:"No- we're afraid not. We had our art dealer do a valuation on you two, and well- I mean- you're just not that it anymore. And if you don't want Damien to put you in formaldehyde- well."

So the children were sent to the forest, where they ambled up the path like rocking eggs. Hansel said: "why don't we put some bread crumbs on the path to find our way back?", but they didn't have any bread crumbs- they only had pieces of formaldehyde Damien Hirst gave them, as in incentive to be placed in a giant tank titled "The Impossibility Of Living With Children In A World Of Magazine Architecture." So they scattered pieces of formaldehyde everywhere, which cute little Disney-esque creatures ate and subsequently died from. Oh ho ho, it is  hard to be Disney-esque in death, unless you are a Helpless Princess who Needs A Man To Save Her! And nobody wants to save the animals, except for the horrible PETA people- who frankly make my job easier. I considered making a coat out of the squirrels and birds, but I recalled my mother doing the same thing, one cold winter, and thought better of it.

Anyway- the children continued walking, until they got to a little cottage made out of candy. Inside, there was an old witch who wanted to eat them. "Come in, little children!" said the old witch. "You can eat some of my house!" But the children said: "Your house is terribly ugly! How can we eat ugliness?", and the witch said: "well, if you eat it, there will be no ugliness!" "however-" the children said, "we could be consuming ugliness, which could make us ugly in turn!", and the witch looked very troubled for a second.

"Look- I just want to eat you," she said. "I'll level with you. That's all I want to do- the candy is give or take. All I really want to do is put you in a cage and gobble you up. I will cook you in a fire first."

The children looked at each other, and said "no, thank you. We don't wish to participate in cannibalism" and the witch said "okay, fair enough. Like that song: you caaaan't always get what you waaaant", you know the one? The children knew the one.

"But sometimes you can get what you want", I said. "Sometimes you have to steal it. You could steal these children, but they are in front of me, and heard me- in any case, I suppose you've read my web-log, and know about the dangers of consuming people? Calories, my dear woman."

The old woman looked very indecisive, as did the children. Then they all turned into cats named Fluffy, and Herr Schrödinger came and took them back to his house. I ascended to the skies once more, with Mahler playing in the background.