New York Magazine Spring Fashion February 25, 2008 : Lindsay Lohan by Bert Stern - Page 5 - the Fashion Spot
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I can never get enough of Lanvin in edits.

Thanks for all the eds,MMA.

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^^Very nice, I needed to wash the stank out my eyes with some of these pics the first page was tough to get through. :p

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Photographed by Andrew Eccles
Stylist: Harriet Mays Powell
Hair: Louis Angelo
Makeup: Cynthia Sobek
Model: Tanya

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Originally Posted by lollicandy View Post
^^Very nice, I needed to wash the stank out my eyes with some of these pics the first page was tough to get through. :p
Yeah I thought you guys might need something to help that

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the last 3 eds are beyong gorgeous!!!!!!
sorry the last 4 eds....

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nice pics... reallly, but kind of irrelevant. they would have more respect if she had something respectful behind her.
but she a little bi*#$ saying " i sure's hell wouldnt let that happen to me"
who do u think u are

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This was posted in Carine's thread...but I thought I'd post it here also...for those who don't go there

source | nymag

The Anti-Anna by Amy Larocca

French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld is full of respect for the powerful
fashion editors on the other side of the Atlantic. “They are very, how
you say, slick,” she says. But all that money and success are so . . .

Photos by Hedi Slimane

When Carine Roitfeld, the editor of French Vogue, styles a fashion shoot, she does not start with the clothes. She looks first at the model and comes up with a story: Perhaps this girl has married young and taken a lover. Perhaps she married young, has taken three lovers, and is about to go to Brazil. Perhaps she lives in London and is bored to death with mad cow disease and wants desperately to eat a great, juicy piece of steak. “I do a movie in my mind,” she says. “Who is this girl?”

One cold, bright December morning, her own story is this: She is a fiftyish woman having a double espresso in the lobby of the Carlyle on Madison Avenue. “For me, it is best to be the youngest in hotel,” she explains, “and I was not having this feeling at the Mercer.” She has come to New York for her son Vladimir’s 23rd birthday, which she celebrated the night before with dinner at Indochine. “It makes me happy because there is vewy gweat lighting,” she says about the restaurant. “Vewy flatter.” (Roitfeld has reached a compromise with the hard American r by converting them all to ws.)

She was especially pleased with the lighting because of a disfiguring recent visit to the dermatologist. “I am monster,” she explains, gesturing at an infinitesimal dot on her nose.

Roitfeld has slid out of a fluffy paneled Tom Ford fur cape, and it is gathered at her waist, her impossibly skinny body sticking out of each side. Her eyebrows are thick and dark, her hair is surprisingly blonde—“I follow an advice of Tom Ford: When you get older, you have to get blonder. It is my surfer look.”

In the story she comes up with for herself, it is her ambition to look like the subject of a Helmut Newton photograph, and she does, in a way: She sort of exists in black-and-white, and her clothes often bear straps and buckles, a very light fashion bondage. She also looks, as has often been pointed out, quite a lot like Iggy Pop.

But she does not think much about her influences. “Some editors, they have that, they know all the designer from the beginning of the nineteenth century. They know this is triple cashmere, this is simple cashmere. Maybe they went to fashion school. Me, I don’t. I just get a feeling about what is exciting. It is all just from feeling. So I don’t know”—she pulls her lips into a pout and gives one of those poufy little French exhales—“I think maybe I have a talent.”

Roitfeld has been the editor-in-chief of French Vogue for the past seven years, ever since she took over from the cerebral Joan Juliet Buck. Roitfeld remade French Vogue in her own image, which is to say svelte, tough, luxurious, and wholeheartedly in love with dangling-cigarette, bare-chested fashion. French Vogue is now internationally major, to use an industry expression, with an influence that transcends its tiny (133,000) circulation.

So much of the fashion world is about negotiating insecurity—exploiting it enough to make you want to buy things, but still nurturing, to keep you close. But Carine Roitfeld is like the industry’s X factor: Fashion does not, could not, make her insecure. Fashion is the place in the world where Roitfeld is most comfortable and at home.

Because of this, Roitfeld’s French Vogue is the polar opposite of most American fashion magazines. It is unconcerned with making fashion wearable or accessible to its readers. It is not inclusive: There is no advice on how to dress if you’re shaped like a pear or about to turn 50.

In Roitfeld’s world, diamonds are never too expensive. Covers are not devoted to whichever film star has a blockbuster to promote, but primarily to models—when Roitfeld and Bruce Weber happened upon (former “Look Book” subject) André J., a black transvestite with an Afro, incredible legs, and an Amish-style chinstrap beard, they put him in a minidress and on the cover.

French Vogue assumes membership in a club that treats fashion unapologetically. Guest editorships are given to cool girls of the moment (Kate Moss, Sofia Coppola, Charlotte Gainsbourg), who post endless photos of themselves and their friends and the details of their lives—lives in which such mundanities as medicine cabinets and grocery lists are shown to be far more glamorous than your own. The scrappy documentary photography of these features only underlines how naturally cool such people are: Their glamour is presented as something that doesn’t need the aid of stylists and special lighting. It is innate.

When French Vogue cover girls aren’t models, they needn’t be typically pretty. Gainsbourg, for example, is somewhat jolie laide, with a long, narrow face and sad eyes. She looks fantastic wearing the Japanese avant-garde, which is not something that can be said for, say, Kate Bosworth.

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Provocative but never vulgar: scenes from Roitfeld’s French Vogue.

“The American editors are very, how you say, slick,” Roitfeld says. “Very perfect. Hair is perfect, they have a manicure. They are very clean, they follow fashion. I don’t think they take many risks. They do the total look of Prada. Me, I wear a lot of Japanese piece mixed with a bit of classic Hermès and Prada. Even though jeans suit me, I never wear jeans.”

Roitfeld herself styles many of her magazine’s sittings. “I love the combination of a masculine piece with a feminine piece. It’s very French, it’s very sexy. It’s my culture. It’s the way I was raised.”

The party pages at the back of the magazine are clogged with photos of French Vogue staffers, mostly Roitfeld herself, often with her daughter, Julia. She claims to have mixed feelings about the exposure. “It’s very difficult not to become a puppet,” she says of it all. “Like Anna, she becomes so iconic that she becomes like a puppet. I don’t want to be like that, I don’t want to wear this uniform, I don’t want to be just an envelope.”

Roitfeld styled a shoot last year in homage to Wintour’s look, puppetlike or not, starring a model with a bob, dark sunglasses, and many a fur coat. (“PETA, they like to pay attention to her, not to me,” she says, “so this is good for me.”)

Speculation about Roitfeld’s coming to America to helm a great American title (Bazaar, Vogue) is endless—not least because of the Devil Wears Prada plotline in which Machiavellian Miranda is temporarily ditched for Jacqueline Follet, who is sleeker and more laid-back.

In reality, it’s hard to imagine Roitfeld running a big, corporate American magazine. She is free to be the Rizzo to America’s Sandy because French Vogue is so small—and it’s a role that suits her. American Vogue has a circulation of 1.3 million, and it is a huge business, a massively lucrative brand, starring triple-A-list actresses, glossy socialites, and, of course, models. But part of becoming the editor of a big American magazine is wanting it, and Roitfeld does not. “My best quality is to be stylist. I never think about this career, this big job,” she says. “I never wanted to be what I am today, and I will not die in the position.” She still finds the idea of an office with a door where she’s expected every day (at least by telephone) somewhat troubling. All she ever wanted was to be surrounded by very attractive people and very expensive clothes. It’s always been “fashion, fashion, fashion”—so much so that she lists beauty and jewelry as evidence that the job as editor-in-chief has expanded her range of interests.

And she doesn’t care much for the business aspect of fashion. In an industry where accessories count for the bulk of her advertisers’ revenue, she has this to say: “Right now I think that fashion in the world becomes a bit boring. There is so much money, and I feel a bit when you go to shows they want to sell so many handbags, and for me, well, I do not like handbags. I do not wear handbags. It is not a nice look, to carry a handbag.”

“I’m not a business girl,” Roitfeld says. “I will never be a business girl, but I will say, for Anna Wintour, that I respect successful people, I like things that are success. But this is really American.”

Roitfeld got her start at French Elle as a teenager in the late seventies, basically dissecting her own look for readers. But it was not until the nineties that the look developed by Carine Roitfeld, executed by Tom Ford, and photographed by Mario Testino went global. Tom Ford, her longtime collaborator, took over first at Gucci and later at Yves Saint Laurent as well, and brought Roitfeld along as his muse.

It was the best job she ever had. “I was not checking the materials or something,” she says. “I was just looking the way I was looking, sitting the way I was sitting. Making the girls look like me; it was an easy job.”

The way she was sitting and looking begins with her hair, which has always been pin-straight and razor-sharp and kind of in her face. Her eyes, which are always rimmed in kohl pencil (she does not wear lipstick), peer out melodramatically from behind it all.

And then there are the clothes, which are every bit as sharp as that hair. They are well-tailored and unafraid of sex. They are not nostalgic, or sentimental, or romantic, or pretty. They do not dabble in haute bohemia or the intellectual frump of recent fashion. They are harsh and clean and always, always, worn with a stiletto heel. Roitfeld herself says it is “very sexy, but very woman, and always some rock and roll, eh?”

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Left to right, Roitfeld and Karl Lagerfeld attend Chanel’s cruise 2007 runway show at Santa
Monica Airport; Roitfeld attends the showing of Calvin Klein’s fall collection in New York
City in 2006; Tom Ford and Roitfeld at the Costume Institute gala in New York City.

The stiletto-mania of the nineties owes as much to Carine Roitfeld as it does to Candace Bushnell. “I do not like comfortable,” Roitfeld says. She has outlawed sneakers and what she calls “Hugg boots” in her office because “they are hugly.” The line Roitfeld has always been best at navigating is the line between provocative and vulgar.

When Ford left Gucci, Roitfeld moved on to Missoni, which had always been fairly staid. Its knits were the stuff of Italian women with matching orange skin and hair. In Roitfeld’s hands, the knits became clingy and suggestive. “I like not to shock,” she says, “but there must be a bit of provocation. The girl can never be with bruise or violence, but there must be sex.” Missoni suddenly was hot. And then Condé Nast came calling.

Roitfeld has lived her whole life in Paris. Her father was a white-Russian émigré and producer of films like The Count of Monte Cristo. He was also her hero. “Women, they want to sleep with him; men, they want to be him,” she says, “that kind of thing.” Her mother, who is still alive, was classic Parisian—B.C.B.G., which means bon chic, bon genre—tidy little suits and an Hermès fetish. Not, in the end, Roitfeld’s thing. “My mom read French Elle when I was a little girl, and so, when I was 15 or 16, I said, I want to work in fashion. I didn’t stay to do studies, I became a model instead. Not a top model, just a model, but it made me a foot in that business.”

She met her husband, Christian Restoin (who is not, technically, her husband, but never mind), after she used some of the shirts he was manufacturing for a label called Equipment in a photo shoot. They have two children together: Julia, a New York socialite and graphic designer, and Vladimir, who just graduated from USC and lives in New York. They are, by all accounts, an extremely close family. When Roitfeld got the French Vogue job, Restoin closed Equipment. “For 30 years, I support him in the big job,” she says. “And now he support me.”
“Anna,” says Roitfeld, “becomes so iconic that she becomes like a puppet. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to wear this uniform. I don’t want to be just an envelope.”
“They are,” Roitfeld says of her family, “why I am so down-to-earth. They keep me very ground.”

Her closest friends are, naturally, in the business: “I mix everything,” she says. “My photographer is the godfather of my kids. I don’t separate; for me, it is impossible. I don’t know if it’s good, my way of working, but it is only what is possible for me.”

The French Vogue offices are on the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré, which is the street in Paris with the highest density of super-fancy shops: It’s only steps to the Hermès flagship, and also to Lanvin. The office building itself is unremarkable, but it is right behind the Hôtel de Crillon, which is where Roitfeld takes her meetings if her office is “too mess.” The Vogue floor is the usual warren of small, cubelike offices, which gives way to the chalky white box where Roitfeld sits behind a glass-topped desk, her legs all coiled around one another.

“Doesn’t she look like Nicole Kidman?” Roitfeld says of the assistant posted at her door. “I told you, all the girl who work at French Vogue are vewy beautiful.”

Roitfeld’s office is entirely, almost clinically white, as if awaiting furniture or paint. The only decoration is a six-foot-square close-up of her face as photographed by Karl Lagerfeld. Rows of white bookshelves are empty, with the exception of a diamanté skull, a three-volume dictionary of Chinese characters, and two creepy masks, which Roitfeld explains celebrate the Day of the Dead. “I love skulls,” she says.

“It’s the same as in my home,” Roitfeld says. “I like clean, clean, clean, clean. It’s my new Zen attitude, you know? The less you have, the more you enjoy.”

Her desk is nearly empty—Roitfeld does not know how to use a computer—save for a telephone, a pair of black suede gloves, some color printouts of a fashion shoot, and a tiny snakeskin clutch.

It is January 8. President Nicolas Sarkozy of France has just delivered his New Year’s address, and Paris is agape about his relationship with Carla Bruni. But as for Bruni, she has this to say: “For us it is good. She is very glamour. She can fit in the clothes.

“We are very happy.”

She is upset about the smoking ban, which went into effect on the first of the year—she does not smoke, but Christian does. And she likes the smell.

Today, Roitfeld is wearing a narrow leather skirt and a double-breasted black blazer with sharp shoulders and lapels. She is also wearing black stockings and, of course, extremely tall, extremely narrow high heels. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming silver mug out of which a label dangles: Yogi Tea. Roitfeld is 48 hours off a ten-day vacation in Thailand during which she worked a great deal on meditation.

How was this trip?

“You think this will be so glamorous,” she sighs. “You have the idea in your mind and then you get there and the people in the hotel …”

Kate Moss did come to visit, which helped with the glamour, and Roitfeld did, she is pleased to report, manage to unwind, somewhat. But still, Roitfeld struggles daily with a certain agita.

Roitfeld shrugs. In the movie of her life, what happens, happens. Just a feeling. She will leave the next day for Testino’s studio in London, but first she will go home. Her daily commute leads through the Place de la Concorde, past the Grand and Petit Palais, and deposits her on her doorstep just off the Place des Invalides. “So you see,” she says, “every day I see the most beautiful place in the world. It is not too bad.”

Please Note: This article was edited by MMA for weight & drug talk.
See tFS Community Rules & Guidelines for More Information.

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One Is the Loveliest Color

Commitment? Art project? OCD?
Five New Yorkers who wear only one color all day, every day (and it’s not black)

Valeria “ValBlu” McCulloch
Shoe Designer. Yves Klein blue.

Why blue?
In college, I majored in color theory. Blue was the most interesting color, historically. Germanic tribes wore it to ward off enemies; Christians used it to denote divinity. Wearing blue for me is being in a dream all day.

Do you make your own blue shoes?
I go to leather fairs and have the factory make me shoes. I also buy white Chanel and Christian Louboutin shoes, and I color them blue with custom-ordered electric-blue Sharpies.

Do you wear blue makeup?
I wear YSL No. 3 mascara, Chanel Blue Satin nail polish, and blue Lancôme lip gloss, which looks clear when you put it on. And my bathroom products are blue, like my toothbrush.

Does the color reflect your personality?
Blue signifies loyalty, and I’m very loyal. It’s hard in this industry, but I’m a humanist.

There was a lot of electric blue in recent seasons.
It’s getting trendy. When it hits “mass,” it’s a turnoff.

What do your friends think?
My friend studied photography, and I was part of her thesis. She did a color study and took photos of me.

What color is your apartment?
My living room is neutral, but just go into my bedroom. I have a blue Nintendo, bedside table, suitcase, pillow, BlackBerry. And I collect blue gemstones. People once believed that sapphires had healing properties.

How does blue make you feel?
Blue is a peaceful color. The U.N. has a blue flag; all the presidential campaigns have blue. It touches every realm of life, from cosmic to future.

Rebecca Turbow
Fashion Designer. Gray.

Why gray?
I actually wore turquoise for eight years, but last September, I switched to gray. I’d had a bad year and needed to get out of it.

That’s a big switch.
I like everything to be clean, and gray is clean. Gray is between black and white, so it’s a noncolor, almost. I feel messy and unclean if I wear other colors.

Where do you shop?
I make all my own clothes. I can’t wear anyone else’s.

What about shoes?
That’s hard because even the soles of my shoes have to be gray or white. I get annoyed if the soles are black.

Do you ever miss turquoise?
When I was in turquoise, people would stare at me everywhere I went. It’s still the color of my clothing line, so my business cards and stickers are turquoise. But I’ve separated myself from it, so I’m separated from my work.

Is that a good thing?
Gray is refreshing. My boyfriend says it looks classy. Sometimes he’ll wear black, and I’ll wear silver. I like that; we match.

Does it bother you when other people wear mixed colors?
I like mixed colors on other people. I just can’t wear or make them. I work for the singer of Of Montreal, and he lets me make him wild, monochrome outfits.

Will you wear gray for the rest of your life?
My mom thinks I should branch out, but I can’t imagine that. I don’t know if it’s a condition; I’ve always wondered if there’s a name for it.

Karim Rashid
Industrial Designer. White half the time, pink half the time.

Why white?
In college, I was obsessed with wearing all white. I felt angelic and free. But then, in the early eighties, I started wearing black. That was status quo in the avant-garde. If you were interesting—a designer, an architect—you wore all black.

How long did that last?
I went to Rome to do my master’s in ’82. I wore all black, with pink hair. But that was considered Fascist. I had to tone down my dress.

Why didn’t you return to black back in New York?
Every profession has dress codes. In 2000, I was on a panel with nine architects, and I wore a white suit. Everyone was wearing black except me. I felt detached from the incestuous profession.

Now you also wear pink. Why?
Sometimes I think it’s because my mother dressed me in pink when I was a child. She wanted me to be a girl.

How do people react to a grown man in pink?
I make them smile. They say, “You make me happy.”

What about underwear?
The only place in the world that sells men’s pink underwear is American Apparel.

How do you keep your clothes clean?
I carry Tide to Go. If I spill red wine, I just rub it off. I should write a book about wearing white.

Do people try to convince you to wear other colors?
I was shopping in Europe with a couple friends, and they talked me into trying on a black shirt and black jeans. If you look good in white, you look really good in black.

But you didn’t buy the jeans?
My statement is, Be who you are. Do what turns you on.

Elizabeth Sweetheart
Fabric Designer. Kelly green.

Why green?
I’m from Nova Scotia, where green is in your surroundings. I missed nature when I moved to New York. I started wearing green nail polish, and it spread all over me.

When did you move here?
I hitchhiked down in 1964. I had long braided hair; I was a beatnik.

Where did you live?
We used to live on the Lower East Side. A hippie gang was on our block, and you had to know them to get down the street. They had weapons and chains. They babysat for our son.

What’s your son up to these days?
Sam is a mentalist, a magician. It’s classic mind-reading; he’ll memorize a deck of cards. He’s our one and only.

How long have you been married?
Forty-one years. Every Saturday morning, we’d say, “Maybe we’ll make it to City Hall this morning.” We missed a few because we slept late. Finally, we went and got married. We didn’t have a ring, so my husband, Robert, made one out of paper.

Do you have any grandchildren?
No, but I have a grand-puppy. My son asked me to babysit him, and I airbrushed his tail green. Sam flipped out.

Tell me about your style.
I always wear overalls. I have 30 pairs. I buy children’s sizes from GapKids and Chadwick’s. And I dye everything—my Nike sneakers, my underwear. I can’t fall asleep unless I’m wearing green.

Do you wear green to work?
Every day. I’ve been in the design business over 44 years.

How do strangers react?
Many people say, “Oh! That’s my favorite color.” On 42nd Street, tourists ask to take my photo. I take the F train and know everyone on it—kids, Japanese girls with green in their hair. I’ve never had a
negative experience.

Stephin Merritt
Singer-Songwriter. Brown.

Why brown?
Years ago, I did a photo shoot with my dog, Irving, for Esquire magazine, where they had various celebs wearing fake eighties clothing. They put me in a preposterous outfit. Blondie was also part of the shoot, and they gave me advice: Just say, “Sorry, I only wear black.”

So why didn’t you start wearing black?
Unfortunately, black at this point tends to make you look like a French tourist in Soho. It also makes me look ill. I look ill enough; I really don’t need to call attention to that.

But brown is good?
I have brown hair and eyes, and I believe in matching.

It must be hard to clash when you wear all brown.
Impossible. The great thing about brown is when it fades, you can’t tell what color it originally was. There’s no sense of the “right” color saturation.

What else do you like about it?
Brown shows absolutely nothing. You’d have to spill some fuchsia paint. If you wear black, dandruff is horrific and lint is a nightmare—and dog hair, in my case, is a particular problem.

What color is your dog?
White and beige with a little brown nose. He’s incredibly cute.

Are there any downsides to wearing brown?
I’ve been invited to two events that required black tuxedoes, so I didn’t go. I always said I’d wait until I’d been asked to three tuxedo events before I accepted. So I’m in danger of needing to wear a tuxedo.

What were the events?
The first was a party at an embassy; the second was a wedding. I don’t know why tuxedos were necessary. But obviously I’ve never been to a tuxedo event. Maybe it’s glorious fun.

Last edited by MissMagAddict; 18-02-2008 at 08:26 PM.
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^^Hahah oh man that crackps me up,and thanks for the Carine article.

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HOT LITTLE NUMBERS....reminds me of dkny ads...
and..The Anti-Anna, i could tell its from hedi without looking at the credit.
thanks for posting !

Last edited by xixixixi; 18-02-2008 at 08:27 PM.
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I'm sorry but i really dont understand why Carine's article had to be edited when faar worse comments are posted in this thread alone.

Are there new rules i am not aware of?

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carine should have been on the cover. thank you for all those wonderful contributions MMA!

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