if there was text attatched to that great picture, dear Ian, you wouldnt be able to scan it, would you?
(betcha Lesage embroidered that jacket )
that is an interesting dress-skirt on diane hadnt seen it before!
It doesn't say who made the jacket, but there is a piece with interviews with Lagerfeld in there also. It's kind of interesting, so I'll type it up here.
by Marc Lambron
There are hundreds of ways to write a profile of Karl Lagerfeld. For this cinema issue of WAD, mine will be a collection of Lagerfeld images captured over time: subjective shots, film off-cuts never edited together. It's a personal Lagerfeld filmed with a pen-camera. The Kaiser is ready for his scene.
A few years ago, I have to interview him at his home in Paris. Our meeting is at 7.30pm. I wait in a living room where I notice late-Hapsburg Empire posters on the walls and an iPod sitting on a sideboard. Karl Lagerfeld enters the room. With his hair pinned back in a powdered ponytail, he is stick thin and held upright by an outfit reminiscent of a Fritz Lang robot. I press record on my tape-recorder and the interview begins. After an hour, I get ready to take my leave, but Lagerfeld, who had had me served a tomato juice and him a Diet Coke, is having none of it. His butler brings me another tomato juice and the conversation continues off the record. In fact, it is more a monologue, precise, starry, with U-turns and layers of velvety humour. From time to time, I send up a gentle lob to set him off again and he returns it with a smash. What does he talk to me about? It begins on the theme of Charlotte Casiraghi, who had been a guest at his house in Biarritz that summer; Lagerfeld found her brilliant, a cut above the rest of the European aristocracy. He traces a portrait of a chimera using magician's words, straight out of Thomas Mann. Then the conversation develops other themes. Each time I make a motion to leave, Karl Lagerfeld orders another Diet Coke and another tomato juice. I finally leave his home about 10.30pm, my arms full of books published by 7L, his publishing company. Here is a man who appears to have one of the world's busiest schedules, but is still capable of holding back the night with glasses of tomato juice.
Karl Lagerfeld is known for this careful use of presents. One evenng, he invites friends of lawyer and writer Pierre Hebey to his gallery on Rue de Lille in Paris. For the event Lagerfeld has set up a sheet and some photography-studio lights. He invites his guests to pose ini front of his lens. Three days later, I receive a large envelope at my home containing a number of prints of my portrait, accompanied by a few lines of handwritten text, in which it is written that the photographs are free of copyright. When we meet most recently, Lagerfeld gives me Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking", a woman's reflection on the death of two family members. I have the impression that these books are for him like personal missives written with the lives of others. His presents are codes to solving his mysteries.
Karl Lagerfeld sometimes appears as if by magic on the Parisian streets, like a character in "1001 Nights", a genie come down to the earth. One day, I see him leaving the colette store, flanked by two young people carrying packets; it makes me think of a black musketeer followed by his two valets. Another day, in the lobby of the HŰtel George V, I spot him in the middle of a group of a dozen or so people. As I approach to say hello, Lagerfeld turns around and reveals the form behind him; the singer Mariah Carey. With a touch of ironic jubilation, he introduces me, in English, to the woman who probably never opens a book as a "French writer". "Hellooo, Marc", hoots the diva. "She's very nice", Lagerfeld says to me as an aside. If he says so, it must be true.
It's autumn 1997 at a reception in a Chanel showroom on the Place VendŰme in Paris. Lagerfeld enters under a white parasol, making you think of a Chinese emperor who's just appeared out of a bag of flour. I have just published a novel in which the name of a boy close to him appears on the first page. As he passes by me, Lagerfeld lets out, all very Louis XIV, "I read your book, you know, particularly the first page". The universal eye of the man also stretches to reading. The dresses are messages, but novels are journeys.
Gee- Thanks a lot Sundance Channel!! They played all of Signe Chanel and "Karl Lagerfeld is Never Happy Anyway" (neither of which are ever on!!) back to back during the Superbowl on Sunday with no notice what so ever...Thanks a lot, guys...
Can anyone tell me about Karl's collars? I know he puts them on (I saw it in a documentary). Where do you get those from? How do they work?
I imagine they are like the old formal wing collars that buttoned to a band at the neck- years ago you didn't wash and change your shirt but changed the collars... He claims it was the style when he saw his father going to business as a child and he grew up liking it... He has them custom made- he claims to have 1,000 of them...
And, Ilaughed, I've seen "Never Happy Anyway" and it is still quite relevent and interesting...but weird since it is before his weight loss- doesn't seem like him talking!! But it is very worth seeing!!