Showing posts with label yves saint laurent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yves saint laurent. Show all posts

Friday, November 20, 2009

Yves wants a shot at doing "A"

Editor's note: Hello. This is Karl here. Yves' lawyers have threatened to reveal decade-old secrets if I don't post his attempt at doing "A" in the little glossary we're compliling at my glorious "blog". So here it is (if you want my opinion, I think Yves does a little too mush hasheesh, no?)

Oh, hello! So nice to see you! Come in and sit by the fire!

A is for authentic style, born of adventure in your life, not Aspiring to be some one else. Aspirational is the worst, but adventure, that is chic, so very chic.

We had an intern, Tom Ford, who aspired to be young again. Plastic surgery doesn’t stop aging, he would have been better off with and acupuncture facial, it moves energy. Too much plastic surgery and soon you look like a muppet, or like you have panty hose over your face. The technical term for Tom is colonista.

OOOh, but I have an adventure to tell you about, are you comfortable? Here, grab the ottoman that goes with that chair, yes that blanket does melt over you like butter.

Soooo,I am exhausted, but in an exhilarating way!

OOOh, Pierre and I went horseback riding. I could have dressed el gaucho, but I went instead for a more Western look-plaid, denim, and a hat that I admired on some folk singer in the 70s.

And Wrangler jeans, what real cowboys wear, as the inseams are kinder. (Karl, I said kinder, as in easier when riding, not kinder, like that garcon Baptiste.)

Denim, and where does that word come from? de Nimes!

Anyway I was inspired to go riding by several things. First, I have been reading Winston Churchill’s My Early Years, This man won a Nobel Prize for literature when Nobel Prizes still meant something. In it he has the most beautiful descriptions of whirling dervishes and berbers attacking the British, on their horses, in hooded cloaks, charging across the spare rosy desert at dawn. And I learned the origin of the phrase “Hold your horses.” Apparently, when shooting at the enemy from horseback, you have an underling hold your horse’s bridle so it doesn’t startle. Oh, how I long for life before tweeker or whatever.

We rode far as the American West. We stopped in the middle of the shimmering gold and sage desert, and saw two men, in a field that went on for miles, on horses circling with ropes. They were calf roping on horseback, so beautiful in silhouette it looked like a ballet. A rugged ballet.

Of course, horses are a wonderful chance to be elegant, with colorful woolen blankets, and graceful deportment. Who compared horses to shopping? They were wrong. Shopkeepers, non. “Ooh, would you like a nice spaghetti sandwich to go with those shoes you will regret before the light bill is due?”

Save your shop money and send the maid out to look for acreage with a barn.

Of course, Karl wears his denim jeans too tight to mount a thing.

Afternoon tea around a real campfire is nice, crackling noises, and the scent of pine in the breeze, and a ninety mile view of the Cascades and Canadian Rockies.

Oooh, so is being home, surrounded by my books, carpets, furniture, zinnias, chrysanthemums, and watching the cat’s tail waiver past the window as she chases a moth out in the garden. .

Oh, lets ring for smoked salmon, and tawny port over ice! Beach! And some sweet banana nut bread with the apricot pineapple jam we made that lovely afternoon in August! The scent of it makes summer return, fleetingly!

Oh, I am so glad you came! I do look forward to our visits, ma puce!

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Yves Yves Yves

Oh, it is Yves, and yes I am still in les Alpes Maritimes. We walked after dinner, and there were little fireflies at dusk darting along the garden paths. Then we had cognac and sugar cubes, and watched the sunset and the sky turn beautifully dark. We heard crickets, chamber music crickets.

Go out at night, and look up, it is very toning for the muscles on the front of the throat. Oooh, you are seeing for miles. And depending on where you are, you feel as though you can touch them.

Oh darlings, when is last time you looked up at the stars? When it is very dark, and you are away from noisy, vulgar, grimy cities, you can see thousands of them. They look like Austrian crystals on black velvet, but of course, there are informed minds who are certain they look like little lamps carried by deities. Of course, to people with no imagination they look like …stars. The word uranography, charting the skies, is a pretty word. It comes from uranos, Greek for heaven.

Stars near the equator look so big, at the 48th parallel, there are different groupings and smaller to the eye. And to let people know you have sailed in the Caribe, gush about the Southern Cross.

Ooooh, but still sort of the same, like anything universal, it’s just the perception is changed, depending on where you are and how you take it in. One man’s pashima is another man’s shawl.

In Germanic languages, all but English, the word ‘constellation’ translates literally into star picture. Oh, that is soo heavenly, so divine. Van Gogh loved stars, oooh, Arles is not far from here. The stars are so overwhelming, my lip is quivering. I am so touched by this beauty, and to be able to share it with you. When I return to Paris, I will have a lovely diamante broach made, to remind me how special this was, to share it with you. Oooh, the stars.

Have your driver take you far into the country tonight, to drink in the stars. Anything you dream is possible. And when you have a dream come true, you feel so alive. Drink in the possibility of the stars. Oooh, this is so lovely, and it makes Yves sooo happy to share with you.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Yves Yves on the Fallen Leaves

Bonjour mes petites, it is Yves, still on the ferme, near Menton. I slept an entire day. It is soo lovely. Can you smell the lavender and santolina on the breeze? Ooh ooh, it so lovely and peaceful, and watching the cook’s golden haired daughter playing with the cat. It is the type of morning that gives the Devil migraine headaches.

You need to get out this summer. If you have no money, go to the bus or train depot, find a prostitute or drug dealer, they always have cash on them, and sell them your silly iPod. You won’t miss it. You people need to unplug more. That lovely man Gandhi, so svelte and tanned, he used to never speak on Sundays, to rest.

When I was un garçon, like you, in Algeria, we would always go to the piscine municipale, my lovely sisters and I , and swim and splash, and then go right across the street to the biblioteque and check out books. This library had a summer reading program, with a darling theme, such a stars or dinosaurs, or flowers, and when you filled out your card, you got a prize. Well, Yves loves books not blogs, and wants you to have an elegant summer, so we are having a contest. Send in your best reading list at the end of summer, and there will be great prizes. Oh quelle surprise, we will shop Karl’s closet for prizes!

Oooh, I see tomatoes sliced, and can smell roasted garlic, so it must be time for luncheon. Read mes amis, it makes you original, and that is very chic. Ooh, I am so happy here, it will be a few days before we leave for Morocco. Bon Voyage!

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Chanel Treehouse

Last night (or in the morning if you're that way inclined), I started directing my assistant to "tweet" to Madame Julia Frakes- I dictated, of course. We planned a Chanel treehouse- which will be white, and quilted. The following is a transcript from those "tweets." (Yes, Uncle is up-with-the-play! I am "tweeting" like the chic kids, hmm?).

fakekarl I'm going to build a Chanel treehouse, it will be white and have a quilted roof. Care to join me @bunnyBISOUS?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes! Is Zaha Hadid consulting? Otherwise it may be couture quality- but topple faster than models in Miuccia's fall '09 heels!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes, Zaha is consulting! It may have hot air balloons attached
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl How incroyable- and so Uppity! What shall be the capacity? We must compile our guest lists! It will be nouveau Prada DoubleClub!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl What kind of vibe did you have in mind? Shall it be like your Paris bookstore & be our planned book club locale? Or more Regine-y?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS A capacity that's rather intimate- only a few of the chicest people in the world. Who will you invite?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Oh, bookclub-ish. Music not so loud one can't speak! We will meet there for the bookclub, yes. And fly around the trees!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Perhaps we can build it across rue from 50GP- v. private under lock&key in Gramercy Park tree. Maybe Ian Schrager can consult too?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes! It can be just across from my place at Gramercy park...near you, too. Perfect.
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Sounds sublime! BTW, old but ADORE http://bit.ly/dOvUt. Now about that guest list... who do you think? Shall Brad man the ladder?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Brad? Brad who? Brad is no more, but I can't remember the name of the new one. Hmph, the cut won't be invited! I am not one of
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS these "hipsters", hmm? I am beyond. I'd like to invite my nieces, obviously, your cousin, Bob Dylan, Connie, Leonard Cohen..
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS ..The usual. And who would you like to invite? Woody Allen? Larry David?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes: @AskMrMickey, Sarah @coletteparis, Lynn Yaeger, Olivier @purplediary, @henryholland, @dreelovechild, @fiercegrandma...
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Who else? @leithclark, @jaxwheeler, @vfillolcordier, Luke & @MissKellyO, @karlie_kloss, @ITSJEREMYSCOTT, @MeenalMistry, @mwtsnx...
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Wonderful list. I can't wait for it to be built! Add @lavendrdisastr to the list too, as well as my daughter & @ArchiveSociety
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl & now on to circumventing silly red tape compliments of the Trustees of Gramercy Park! In the meantime, shall we daydream details?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Mmhm. Where to start? Which books? Colours, lights, interiors?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl The phrase "building castles in the air" seems especially ad rem. Or rather-"treehouses". Ideas on lighting, furniture, DJs, food?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS chairs, tables? food (that place you frequent- one lucky duck?) (not that I eat)
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes! @PureFoodandWine is only 1 block away! Plus they cater http://bit.ly/7a0jJ >parties. Hm,anyone have inspiration proposals?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Maybe some candles, hm? Maybe Zaha could design furniture? Live bands as well as as DJs- DJ Rei?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes, Rei CdG! And Yohji has his band, if he's not shy. And all those you mentioned..I might even do some rapping!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Heh, treehouses in the air indeed (now I'm thinking of Le Mis..Castle, clouds). Warm lighting- which designer?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl I forget who designed this fixture in my bedroom, but it seems especially apt for treehouse? http://yfrog.com/5koh9j
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS It's rather brilliant, isn't it? Could have vines running throughout the treehouse; on all the lamps and lights, hm?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Achitecturewise, a few notions: http://bit.ly/xuOqG Which do you prefer? I like Kobayashi & Duke North.! Feider & Sybarite= very Zaha
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS I'm quite taken by Kobayashi! It's very natural. How about art for the walls and such?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Hm... if Ian is consulting, perhaps in keeping with GPH? Schnabel, Warhol, Basquiat, Hirst, Richard Prince, Haring, Klee, Rothko?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Mm, also Richard Colman. Hm..what other details?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Colman, for sure! Perhaps Picasso too? Should we have an "executive committee" of members? A co-op of your contributors, perhaps?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Mm, Picasso too. Throw some Klimt in there too. An executive committee; wonderful- I have Rei on the phone now
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS And furniture! Suggestions? Comfy, not modern, yet not old. Hm
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Furniture – well the hotel has lots of Martin Baas http://bit.ly/14eJS7 – but as treehouse, added antiques + John Derian curios?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS We'll go antique shopping once you're back in NY (in London now?), yes?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Sounds like a plan. Thankfully – and exceedingly conveniently – ABC http://bit.ly/sm26p is literally one block away!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Rei bangs her gong. And how perfect about ABC! We can just float over there, powered by hot air (balloons)!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl J'adore! This pie in the sky pipedream of amazing magnitude is ever more stupefying! Let's keep rolling – who shall man ladder?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Hmmm, man ladder- Baptiste? http://bit.ly/2YdmZs Who for maitre d'?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl I forgot about Maitre d'! Perhaps Abbe Diaz?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Divine! I just realized- how will people climb into the treehouse w/ their Viviers & such? Heels can cause quite a ladder palaver!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Yes, fantastic. A doorman? Who for doorman? He must be able to wear Austrian doorman's jackets convincingly
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Maybe they will need to swing on a rope-Tarzan style to get to the treehouse.
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Or if they're wearing THOSE Prada shoes, they'll already be at the treehouse!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh golly– the dreaded S/S '09rs! http://bit.ly/fPN4l Apropos of nothing, I think we've seriously confused followers w/ treehouse!
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Heels will soon be designed by architects of skyscrapers; come reinforced with steel. and yes, we have. how chic!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl My fave architectural YSL Eiffel Tower heels may do the trick in that dept.! (not veg - a gift) http://yfrog.com/5epnoj
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS You'll have to wear those to the first treehouse bookclub meeting! Which bands to play?

bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Perhaps Baptiste can swing w/ patrons? Along way we can snap their photos together (like a roller coaster pic)? What photographer?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS The bookclub rollarcoaster! Nick Knight?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Brill! Or in keeping with treehouse aesthetic, perhaps Tim Walker or Wendy Bevan? Though Daniel Jackson is a ball to shoot w/!
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Although since this is a club, Mark (Cobrasnake)? If I were a more dishonorable bunny, I'd suggest bribing patrons w/ bad photos
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Have all four photographers! Position them at different parts of the treehouse, like a crack security squad, hm?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Golly Coco, why not 10 photographers? Mark included. And patrons' bad photos will go into top-secret files, for.....security,no?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Oh yes! And perhaps we can eventually make a book of said photos (when it dies down) like http://bit.ly/MJN8T?
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS A book and maybe even an exhibition, mm? Have a resident artist sketching away in the treehouse
fakekarl@bunnyBISOUS Which bands to play?
bunnyBISOUS@fakekarl Lissy Trullie http://bit.ly/17RzVq or Citizens Band could be a ball! Or my BFF @rachelantonoff's brother Jack's band @steeltrain!

Friday, May 1, 2009

Letter from Yves

It's been so long! It's been so long since we last kissed, since we last held pale hands together as it rained outside the window, since we last talked. It has been so long since your eyes trailed up the vines and into the veils presented by the trees. Ah, yet it has been longer still, since your voice trailed softly into the distance, a cadenza and a diminuendo. Yet I yearn for you, my heart grows fonder even though I realize the past; in it's crystal clear wine bottle.

Oh, I've missed you. I miss you still- even as we speak- even as I write this on the page. What else can I say? Karl and I, the difference between us is that he has no heart. Our great con-artiste claims to have one- a frozen one, yet certainly a heart. This is a lie. If he ever had a heart, it was ripped out years ago and eaten by his mother. You see, I'm capable of emotions. When you left, my dreams were turned asunder- "what dreams?", I hear a member of the audience say- after all, I'm supposed to be dead. The problem with being dead is that one still has dreams. I don't know where those dreams are anymore: perhaps you have seen them? Are they in an alley some place, or in a cafe drinking?
I wish somebody'd hand me a rose.

Upon the treetrunks which I drew as a boy, I now cry upon. I walked past a willow yesterday, and it wept for me. I mutter to myself, in that adorable French accent of mine: I wish I was loved. I do not mean "Yves Saint Laurent": The Brand. I don't even own that, anymore! Gucci owns it, or someone. Some company that sells pharmaceuticals. I am not a pharmaceutical, lovely and forlorn reader. I am not a plastic pill meant to be popped by peroxide-blonde housewives; nor a cure for athletes foot. Pharmaceuticals disgust me. They are not glamorous. You cannot get excited about toothpaste. Non, I am talking about Yves, the person who's meant to be dead. Yves who wants to be loved. Yves who walks the broken boulevards alone.

Yes, dear reader. Time has passed, seasons have withered away, yesterday's news ceases to even be fish and chip wrapper. Yet I am here, once more.

Love,
Yves

Monday, March 16, 2009

On making love to every woman (ever)

If there is one thing I have learned from when I was alive, it was that you cannot make love to every single woman.
"What?!" you are thinking, in shocked muted tones. "Uncle Yves surely cannot have made love to a woman?"
I've never made love to a woman in my life, not in the sordid little way you're thinking about. I've been something of a Cassanova in matters of lovemaking, too. If you're a woman who's ever bought a dress by me, I have made love to you. I've seen your nether-regions, I have felt le breasts (if you're endowed with such- throughout my career as a designer I witnessed the breast size go down until the models had the breast size of a double bass player). I have made sweet, French love to you and poured your wine and kissed you on the neck, my lips cushioning into your lovely flesh. I have done all this. I have done it to millions of women. And oh, some of these women are very adept lovers. Very adept, indeed.

Ah yes, light of my loins. Fire of my soul. You women make me quiver with passion. My knees get positively weak with anticipation as you put on one of my dresses, and put your lovely delicate feet into my muddy heels. Mm, I feel your breath on my French neck, every hair (washed in olive oil) alight. Passion of passions! My passionfruit is a mountain, and your back the sun. Let me rhapsodize about your painted toes, and sing about your painted face! O moon, O pancake factor number one!

Now anyway. The point being you can't make love to every single woman because uh..
Have you ever seen High Fidelity? It's this movie about this music person who breaks up with his girlfriend or something...I can't really remember. He had lots of music though. I don't understand why the movie couldn't've just focused on him selling music. So uh.
Have you ever listened to Blood on The Tracks? It's by Bob Dylan. I'm not sure what it has to do with this.
Well- uh. Don't do drugs like me or else you'll end up being slapped by Karl. You'll also make some pretty amazing collections that people go on about even though most of them weren't even born.

Girl: Oh, Yves Saint Laurent was a genius!
Other girl: He was like a totally important designer
Girl: Like GUESS.
Other: Yeah, GUESS is a totally important designer.
Girl: Soo post-modernist how his name is spelt like, in capitals. And only one name, like Madonna.
Other: Or Jesus!
Girl: Oh I don't think I've heard of him. Was he around with Balenciaga.
Other: Before Balenciaga.
Girl: Woah.

But drugs are bad. Elvis says so! And so do I. I'm having some hash right now and I'm sketching and typing. I wish I'd have someone type out these like Karl does. So I'm also typing. I'm thinking of doing skirts......yes, skirts and......and.......some colours. Everybody likes skirts. I'm wearing a skirt right now. I feel pretty.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

I hate myself and want to die

Today I was eating a pesto-smeared bagel, when Karl, the omnipresent demi-god that he is, give me his signature look of disapproval--- so smug. Why should he judge me for eating? not everybody can be an android. A chic android, but a literal android none the less. Besides, I think I saw him sneaking some diet-coke chex-mix the other day, but before I could confront him, he sternly swatted a nearby assistant like a step-child in need of a good slap, the assistant immediately began sobbing. If there is one thing I've learned about the starched-collared monster that is Karl Lagerfeld, it is that he does not like sobbing. I don't think he even acknowledges sadness as a real emotion. He is always telling me, "Why so glum my little Yves'ey (yes, he calls me Yves'ey, it's humiliating)"

Regardless, the assistant was not fired, she quit. Reason for leaving.

"I am not worthy"


Fourth one today....

On another topic, the worst part about being dead, is apparently dead people cannot legally own things. As such, my entire estate was AUCTIONED! A lifetime of things, beautiful, wonderful, melancholic things, gone. Sold to... the fatties. I didn't even get any of the money. Kruelty-Karl will not let it down for one second of course.

"Yves"

"what?"

"oh Yves-ey!"

"WHAT?"

"how are you going to pay the rent? mmm?"

"huh?"

"you can hardly stay here for free you know"

"uh..."

"aw, are you poor now?"

"STOP IT KARL I DON'T LIKE IT"

"Maybe you should get a job"

"....Karl...?!"

"like maybe work as a toilet cleaner, no?"

(Anna chimes in)

"or Marc Jacobs!"

(Karl has just informed me that this morning he premoted himself from "demi-god" to "Kaiser H. "Coco" Lagerfeld ", a bit redundant, would you say?-- well I wouldn't... don't feel like getting slapped)

Sunday, January 4, 2009

I remember you well

Haven't blogged in a while. Being dead is very boring, you know. And I was never that vocal when I was alive..I'm more the passive agressive type, you know. Like, I may be the one that makes you look like a hooker playing broadway in a man's suit that's Russian influenced; but I probably won't say anything about it. I'll be laughing perversely about it, though. I'm very perverse, like that. For example right now I'm wearing fishnet tights under my slacks. And later in the closet, when Karl comes back from wherever he is-- he's always leaving me alone, with only my lego to keep me company. And all that modern art. Lego's tres chic though; I've got a little Yves Saint Laurent-and-Karl playset, and I play out all sorts of fun adventures!

It's all very elegant, the lego. It's not like fashion now-- fashion's so ugly these days. What, with your lookbooks and your sartorialists (I really don't understand this sartorialist man- he takes pictures of people? On the street? Why is he taking pictures of people, anyway? It seems pretty perverse, non? "Let me take you picture, for I am the Sartorialists"...or is there only one sartorialist? Because I see on his blog, he's all around the place. Is he like Santa Claus, only not fat? I met Santa Claus once, you know. He's a filthy slavedriving industrialist. Those poor, poor elves. There's no labour laws at the North Pole for that sort of thing. I mean, there must be zillions of children in the world; and these elves don't get paid anything! But they have to work there, otherwise they'll have to work in Hollywood in some vulgar Christmas film. Thank Karl Christmas is over. I hate Christmas. I want to throttle Christmas with one of my dresses that nobody seems to wear anymore....you're all too busy wearing the "hip" designers, aren't you? Dressing in vintage making fools of most of yourselves. Looking like you're from Starsky and Hutch. Let me tell you vintage-people something: if you look like you're from or look like you're about to burst into singing with a group of ample-bosomed fatties behind you; you're doing it wrong. Fashion isn't about revivalism. Well, it is; but not toe-to-toe copying. Is fashion so dry these days you need to wear the fashions of the past? I wouldn't be surprised- I took one look at the runway once, from this closest. I couldn't actually see the clothes, because my eyesight isn't that good these days, but I'm sure they were 'orrible. Fashion...is about more than just revivalism. You're no better than that good-for-nothing, dirty old rat Marc Jacobs if you do that. Is Marc still designing? Lovely boy. A little on the pudgy side when I first saw him, but so is Alber. Karl seems to think that he's lost weight...Marc, that is. Karl simply regenerated into a new incantation of The Karl....but I tell Karl that Marc better not have, because I wanted a bit of Marc to myself and muscle is too American and vulgar. Can you name a French boxing champion right off your head? No. And that's the way it'll stay.
But seriously, this sartorialist man sounds a bit perverse. And I like that. So maybe he's alright.)

But apparently there's pile-upon-pile of this "street style" websites. So, there's apparently lots of perverse people going around saying things like:
"Can I take your picture?"
"Your outfit is the epitome of my website, may I take a picture to feed to my lord Xenu?"
"Your style is fully formed, young grasshopper. It is often with the young with which future resides....so do you want your picture taken?"

It's all rather creepy. In my day (I am Grandpa Yves now), we cared about the girl, not what she wears. Most of my friends were "it" girls, but people paid attention to their...personality, more. Well obviously the girl was pretty. But she could be naked, and people would take notice too. So perhaps there was a greater proportion of straight men and lesbians in the fashion world back then.
I suppose there's a message in all this (Karl has told me about some man named "Mr. Rogers" who gave lots of people messages.), and the message is that personal style means nothing, unless you have the balls and the personality to back it up. Personal style is an...extension of self, rather than a self itself. I don't think Karl will like me saying this, of course, because someone out there, maybe, might be learning something.

Probably not. But we had a Mr. Rogers moment, there, kids. Kiddos. Kiddos is too American. I'll call you Le Children from now on. I could be like the schoolmaster:

Yves (that's me): LE CHILDREN! COME INNNSIDE!
Children: Yes Yves! Three Chanel bags full!

Uhm. I was telling you about my fishnet stockings. I am bored of that now. I'm going to go mope around Anna and her new boyfriend.

Friday, December 26, 2008

Oh


I thought I'd just correct the...person who commented in the last post-- who claims I have no family. If you know anything about me, you'll know that I have one or two half-sisters. Tavi isn't the daughter of one of them, because I don't like those sisters. I can't remember how many of them there are because they're so demode. They didn't wear heels. The horror, hmm? I have not spoken to them since I last ate. (1812, at the overture).

So I just made Tavi my Niece actually. Because I'm Karl and I can. And before I had the Olsens-- that girl who exposed her crotch-- and others. However, Tavi isn't boring like them. You see, I've progressed from Niece as fashion accessory- to Niece as human being. I have fingerless gloves now, instead. And collars. Mmm, collars. Lick them, my little babies, but don't touch.
Anyway, I was going through Yves' old photos and I found this one. The best guess to who it is gets a Yohji Yamamoto bat costume!

Monday, December 1, 2008

LIVEBLOGGING KARL

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1.01 AM Karl is still hanging upside down in the closet.
1.01 AM Karl is making noises. They are not human.
1.05 AM Around 40 press have cottoned on to Karl's mood, and have now started camping outside the closet.
1.08 AM We just saw a flash. A photographer kept going "KARL! KARL!". There was a dark flash; a move of a bowtie; and the photographer was gone. Closet heard shutting.
1.10 The carcass of the photographer turned out. A flash; saw a high collar. Carcass has "DEMODE" written on it.
1.15 Karl heard muttering. Sounds like a witch. A German witch.
1.20 The media pack has increased to 500. Anna has turned up, demanding to get in. Has vodka.
1.25 Media pack appears to be drunk. Somebody asked me for an autograph!
1.26 That means my cover is blown! Oops.
1.27 "You're an Yves Saint Laurent lookalike, aren't you?"
1.28 Sigh of relief
1.30 They're trying to cook food in here! Horrors!
1.31 "Cooking food is so demode. Everything should be raw"- some fashionista
1.31 "What, you mean you eat??"- Another fashionista.
1.35 Brad arrives. Has kilt on.
1.40 Brad talking. Has kilt off.
1.45 1000 press now. For some reason the Olsens are possibly here. I say possibly because I can never tell between them and the homeless ex models down the street.
1.50 Oh, they are the homeless ex models. Here's the Olsens now.
1.51 What is that smell? Trash?
1.55 The closet has transported itself elsewhere. More press and fashionistas drunk. Dr. Who theme playing. Why do I know this?
2.00 The closet is back where it was. Karl can be heard sketching in it. Anna on floor, passed out.
2.01 Karl is walking out. We hear the thumping of his boots; we hear thunder. Stay tuned, with Yves Saint Laurent: The dead Frenchman.

See what's happened now?

Well, see what's happened now? Karl's gotten all upper-lip angry, and drunk all of Anna's alcohol supply, and whilst he pretended to be restrained and just went into his closet and hung upside down; but 15 minutes ago he came out here whilst I was having tea with that lovely wife of the French president, and took his glasses off. He took them off and they melted to the ground. His eyes were all crazy, I swear he had flames in them. Out of his mouth came German; he barked at me for 10 minutes, non-stop. His eyes spat out Chanel logos- in flames. He grabbed my cup of tea and smashed it on the assistant, then reconstructed it with his Karl-powers and smashed it again. He barked some more. His suit started to melt off him; the whole room started to melt; and under his suit was another suit. He reconstructed the cup of tea again, and drank it; and he became very tremendously big; and Monsieur Dior rose up and ate a very tremendously big plate of pasta; and Coco Chanel turned everything quilted. Karl then calmed down, muttering something in German and went back to his closet to hang upside down. He is very, very angry. And very, very chic about it. You've upset him now, you know.

Now, I suggest we close our eyes and say "KARL COME BACK! KARL COME BACK!" and wish very very hard. Close your eyes very tight and say it outloud; and believe. Maybe it'll work, non?

Oh, Sophia. I apologize for Karl's mood...he gets like this, you know. It's not really him that's doing it, but his alter-ego "KARL VON BISMARK/DRACULA"; I suppose I better aploogize for what the readers have said about you, too. Someone needs to clean up after Karl...
Sigh, the life of a dead genius.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Karl's school days

Gosh. It's been a while, hasn't it?
You know, I remember my school days quite clearly. Karl claims to have never have gone to school, and in a way that's true. He just scared the teachers so he rather ran the school rather than going to it.
Karl: Anna! Come over here, hmm?
Anna: You know Karl, I'm British. We're not even the same age. I really shouldn't be in this storyline.
Mary-Kate: Nor should I, really. I'm decades younger than you!
Karl: Oh dear. Well. I've got something more important than time paradoxes and such, hmm? See that girl over there?
Mary-Kate: That one?
Karl: The fatty, yes.
Mary-Kate: I'm just going to put my Margiela sunglasses on so I don't have to see her.
Anna: ..nevermind them not existing..
Margiela Sunglasses: We do exist! We're a real boy! We're a real boy!
Mary-Kate: Well now, mr. Martin Margiela sunglasses; you're going on my eyes.
Margiela Sunglasses: The hangover! The hangover!
Karl: Shhh! See that girl over there? She called me a snob.
Anna: I can't believe it!
Karl: Just because I'm wearing a Dior Homme jacket!
Anna: Horrible.
Karl: You know, we need to rise against this class warfare. It is so demode. Why can't they just leave the beautiful people alone? They don't get it.

And this is something that's quite true. "They" being the demode ones, don't get it.
You people who read this journal-thing-- diary? Anyway, you people who read this know what I'm talking about. It's horrible. It's so sad that only such a tiny fraction of people- and a tiny fraction of people "get" fashion. This...this...might be a tear. Don't tell.

Woman 1: Ohh! Let's buy this Chanel bag! It has lots of logos on it!
Woman 2: We must get this skirt! It's MARC JACOBS.
Woman 3: We must get this condom; it's BALENCIAGA.
Woman 2: But you're a lesbian.
Woman 3: It's BALENCIAGA.
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Saturday, October 18, 2008

Chanel Jacket

I asked an assistant to transcribe the following conversation:
Karl: "Hello dear Chanel jacket, it is I, Karl. Do you remember me?"
Chanel jacket: "..."
Karl: "Oh yes, don't you like it when I run my fingers down your fabric like this?"
"..."
"Mm, and when I place my teeth that haven't seen food in over 20 years onto your collar. Your oh-so-delicate collar that I designed myself"
"..."
"Coco only did the armholes, hmm? Anyway...she's gone now."
"..."
"And then I'll rip apart your well sewn fabric and ravish you."
"..."
"Listen. I have a great idea. A genius idea. As typical of a genius such as I. Can't you tell? I have a pulled back pony-tail. That's genius, no?"
"..."
"What I'm going to do is make Kurt Cobain the new face of Chanel."
"...?"
"Yes, I know he's dead. So is Yves!"
Yves: "Karl?? Is that you?"
Karl: "Oh...Hi....hello.....dear Yves. How are things, hmm? I'm just discussing expressionist German cinema."
Yves: "You were seducing the jacket again."
Karl: "..."
Yves: "You know, this pretending-to-be-dead-thing isn't so great. I'm not invited to many parties anymore."
Karl: "You never went to parties anyway."
Yves: "But it was nice to get the invite which I could decline: "Monsieur Saint Laurent regrets to decline your invitation."
Karl: I just turn up and they act like they invited me: "Ohhh! Hello Karl darhling! How are you? Can we get you a diet coke? We just adored your last collection....which one? Why, the one you did in Paris....Which one in Paris?...[awkward silence]......aren't they all fabulous!"

Thursday, October 2, 2008

?!?!?

WHO THE HELL DESIGNED THE YSL COLLECTION THIS SEASON.
FIRE THEM.
I DON'T CARE WHO OWNS YSL NOW, I'M FREAKIN' YVES SAINT LAURENT AND I'M NOT DEAD...WELL ACTUALLY I AM...BUT..JUST FIRE THEM.

ANNA, I'LL HAVE ANOTHER.

Monday, September 8, 2008

What story are we on, anyway?

I'm here in the closet, as it were, and I must tell you, it's quite busy in here. Full to brim with people so stylish, so chic, they don't even exist... I am dead serious. If closets were military hangars, this closet would be area 5---

--oh no, here comes the short Japanese fellow, and he is drunk... more drunk than any Japanese man should be, no, scratch that, more drunk than any man should be. Oh, I think he's trying to say something.

"I--gjgigh. I l---guhhh".

*gurgle sounds*

"ahii"

No. He's out, out like a light. Poor fellow. He tried to do a karate kick, but hit tripped over a table and fell. He's spilled some tea on one of Karl's suit jackets, and Karl is furious---

--Karl is taking off the glasses

Wait, wha-

no, what is he doing?


my god....


Interesting, I didn't know there were windows in the closet.

Goodbye Yohji. We'll miss you.

(I wonder what story we're on?)

Thursday, September 4, 2008

The French Blue

Today, I strolled into the Chanel HQ, and upon arriving at Karl's office, I found myself dumbfounded. There was no office, no entrance, no perfectly emblazoned Chanel logos on every single cut of the magnificent blue diamond door. (Yes, Karl's office door is made of what you all know now as the Hope diamond. The Hope is just whats left, Karl thought the scraps were demode, so he gave them to the French, as was born, The French Blue). Anyways, the office was gone, instead, in its place, stood a giant closet. The only sign of it was a small wooden closet door with those little knobs and shutters, there wasn't even light on the other side. It was all quite creepy, scared the life out of me. I opened the door to find Karl hanging upside down from the giant closet's ceiling, like... a bat. I swear, he was drinking tea, upside down, I know, you're thinking. "Yves, this is not possible", oh, but it is, this is Kaiser Karl we're talking about here, anything is possible.

I tell you, my little pretties (I assume that since you read this blog, you are pretty...apart from that horrible anonymous person Karl told to go away. He is Karl, and is always, always Karl-like. In the words of the American cartoon character "homer simpson"- "doh!"). Karl has taken this closet thing entirely too far. Now, excuse me, I have to go find that door Karl has carelessly disposed of, For France!

(the man has no sense of attachment, I once saw him literally throw an assistant away. Into the bin with him.)

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Love, A bottle of Gin, and underwear models

On my daily reading of everything-to-do-with-fashion-on-the-internet, I came across this, on the 568th page that my butler printed off.

"What’s funny is that today when we judge big designers for their level of creativity it’s a little misleading, because we’re actually judging the strength of their design teams."

I paused for a second. Bartok continued to play in the background.

These places have design teams? How does this work- do they schedule a meeting for their design to be creative in?
"Okay! Let's be creative"
"John says that we need to design some stuff"
"What label are we designing for?"
"Dior."
"Oh, Okay"
"Let's have uhhh, some colours"
"Yeah, colours. Sounds good.
"Purple"
"Didn't Karl do some Dior sketches at Anna's closest the other day?"
"Yeah but he was joking.."
"Let's use those"
"Do you want to go to Burger King now?"

Actually, that is how it works. Oops.
Rest assured, I design everything at Chanel. I bet you don't. Well, of course you don't because you're not me. So I know you don't. Ha.
Even the toilet was designed by me. Pencils, telephones, everything.
Doorknobs.

Anna says there's a new underwear model here (I'm at her Office, spinning around in her chair. There's...what do you call them...interns? Those people who work unpaid for "experience". Well the "intern"...it sounds like a computer part. Hang on, I'll just ask the intern if she's a computer part-

"Are you a computer part, intern?"
"Yes...no...yes...no....ChanelFendiArmaniGucci...yes?"
"You just mentioned Gucci and Armani in the same sentence!"
"I'm sorry sir...do I get fired?"
"But you're not being paid. In my mind that means you're not really employed here, hmm? Which makes you a stalker of Anna, probably. So really, you're a stalker of Anna. Is that right?"
"Who? What? Ummm...I think it's so chic right now"
"Go wash your mouth out, girl. Now. Do it."
(she runs away)
"With soap!"

Ah, yes, soap. It isn't very fattening but I don't like the fact that they call it a cake of soap. Cake implies fatty food, and we do not do that here. Especially not here, in Anna's office.
Why does she have an office anyway? What is this place?
There's all these...people walking around.

Oh right- Anne Slowey. I see you commented on this little "blog" of mine a while back. Something about that stalker of mine. Zoe? Rachel. Rachel Zoe, yes. Hello Anne! Do you want to come into my closet? I saw an article about you and Nina the other day. Nina, of course, being that women from the TV that bred Christian whatshisface. I won't even say his name. It is so unappealing, so latex, so tacky. This is the article.
I'm inviting her into my closest because she knows who Boswell is. To quote from the article: "There are probably a handful of people in the entire fashion industry—Karl Lagerfeld is another—who could tell you who Boswell actually was"
So in the fashion of the teenage girls: "omg me too!". So come into my closest Anne. Anna doesn't bite, much.

Now- I was going to close this parenthesis at some point. Anna says there's an underwear model here and I'm not going to be like Anna here and be all "erm gee", hmm? There is an underwear model here and I am going to watch him and take picture of him. Then I'll take pictures of my shirt collars, as I do every month.)

There. Parenthesis ended. So chic, hmmm?

And Yves, I feel for you. Love is such a complex thing. It's fine when the other person doesn't know you love them. Secret love is fine, hmm? But then...when they know you love them, it becomes very much out of your control, hm? I'll take off the sunglasses and give you a hug. I don't just do that for anybody.
Paula said it well in her comment on your post, Yves. "I love you as a friend" is hard to say.
Of course, you've never done too much of that- have you? It's always been you in love.

Okay, enough of Karl being vaguely human, hmm? Get back to work. Lick telephones. Take some of Anna's alcohol.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Heartbreak

I thought I was going to write something here but I can't think of what.
Well, my heart's been broken by the one I love. How many of you have heard "I love you as a friend"? I know some of you will've, although Karl maintains you are all robots, I know better.

I wonder if Anna has some of that drink...

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Child Throw

Hello wilderbeasts!, Yves here. I haven't written in so long, I nearly forgot this existed (Karl will kill me when he reads that).

Fret not, I have been spending my time wisely. I've taken up a new hobby called "KinderWurf", or "Child Throw", it's great for stress relief and exercise. I think exercise is important, and why not toss little children while you're at it?

Now I know what you're thinking

"This child throwing business is rubbish."

Well, you're wrong. It makes me happy, and very little makes me happy--- on second thought, perhaps it isn't such a great thing. One should never be too pleased with themselves, lest they become lazy.

On another note, you will see that despite the fact that I hardly ever write on here (being dead and alive at the same time is very tricky, That pale man in the dark robe stalks me relentlessly. I think he likes me..), my name is still on the top of the contributors list. Yes... weird. I like it. Karl does not.

Oh.. I must go now, Karl is furious, something about his pencil. Here we go again.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Love and the letter P

Somebody asked who I was in love with- I'm in love with a girl starting with P. I'm not going to say her name, because Karl thinks that she might see this because apparently lots of people read this- how do you say- blog? Mm, blog. I don't like the word blog. Let's say, journal. No- journal sounds not too chic. What would Proust call it?

Maybe I'm in love with her. You know how it is. You dress her in your clothes, you sketch pictures of her, you polish your shoes and get a wig for your pigs. I don't know what love is anyway, I invented it.
Before me, there was no love. I, Yves Saint Laurent created love and sold it to the masses, who now ignore my clothes and buy clothes that I won't even pronounce.

Anyway! Karl, Anna and I are going to create a top 50 list of the most stylish people ever.
You will see the start tomorrow, maybe. It's a reply to (as Karl likes to say) the demode Vanity Fair thing.
Oh, Karl says this: "Yves darling, it is not a reply to the demode Vanity Fair list. It functions on it's own, like a beatle or The Beatles, or myself!"