Sad news today. Donna Summer, an undeniable disco diva, died at the age of 63. To be honest, I had never really thought much of Donna Summer. I was always a Diana Ross man myself. But when news traveled that she had passed, I was unexpectedly saddened. Turns out that more than a couple of my fashion memories had been done to Summer’s music, from the obligatory Studio54 soundtracks to listening to disco tunes with Tom Ford. I’ll never forget, two years ago, when she called Marc Jacobs on stage with her to sing back up when he opened the Louis Vuitton store on London’s New Bond Street. But perhaps my greatest Donna Summer memory happened in November of 2010, when she performed at a Tiffany’s event in Beijing. We had no idea she was coming on, and she rocked the house. This is a video of that performance, which obviously got me, Elisa Sednaoui, Eugenie Niarchos, Tatiana Santo Domingo, Olympia Scarry and Byrdie Bell on our feet. RIP Donna. Hope your disco dancing in the sky.

If there’s one thing I’ve observed by my time going home to Missouri, it’s this: There are hot people in the world who have no idea just how hot they are. I proved this fact to myself this evening when I wasted a good hour or two on the website Hot And Busted, which is a national round-up of hot dudes doing stupid things and getting their mugshots taken. Anytime I see a young person make life-altering mistakes it’s sad. But when they’re hot? That’s just devastating. I recently had a birthday back in St. Louis (I know, I know, I need to post some pictures…), and it was amusing how many of my East Coast girlfriends were attracted to the wholesome, corn fed, rural men of my hometown. Seriously, the plumbers and electricians of that part of the world could easily become models or socialite arm candy in New York. So, that’s my message to these boys, and any boys like them in small towns around the country: Don’t do meth or steal cars or drive drunk. There are entire professions dedicated to low-skilled but handsome men in a city like New York. Come here and be a photo assistant, or work in a bar, or even be a male model, though this last one is probably the least rewarding, emotionally and financially speaking. The moral of the story? Never get arrested, boys. Especially if you’re good looking.

Don’t get me wrong: I had more than my fill of glamour during my brief trip to France this week. Karl Lagerfeld wasn’t messing around with the Resort collection he showed on Monday afternoon for Chanel in the gardens at Versailles. But also on my To Do list while I was across the Pond was the recently opened Helmut Newton retrospective at the Grand Palais.

Newton’s work was one of the first I became aware of when I started to work in fashion. Specifically, I can remember the exact moment, when I was still in college, assisting a stylist on a shoot, that one of the models was talking about a famous photographer he had just worked with who had just crashed into the Chateau Marmont hotel in L.A and died. It was Helmut Newton. (The crash and his death is alluded to in Sofia Coppola’s film Somewhere.) His pictures have been some of the most prolific, inspired and often copied in contemporary fashion.

One of the best books about Newton and his work is, appropriately enough, his autobiography, called even more appropriately, Autobiography. I just looked for copies of the book on Amazon, and it’s out of print, which makes me really want to find my copy. His story is interesting, starting in Berlin as a German Jew, then moving to South America, Singapore, work in Australia at Australian Vogue, and then back in Europe, first in Paris, and then finally splitting his time between homes in L.A. and the French Riviera. Working with his wife June, who has had an equally impressive if overshadowed career as a photographer under the alias Alice Springs, he created some of the most memorable fashion imagery of the 20th century.

His pictures were bold, scandalized and erotic. Often times, they were also very funny too. They were mostly in black and white, and they never shied from nudity, S+M and truly kinky, fabulous poses. He shot many famous people in some of their most iconic poses, and he made many models famous. Walking around the Grand Palais’ exhibit was a reminder of his work, from portraits of the Monaco royal family to Jerry Hall rubbing raw meat on her face. It was also a reminder of the undeniable influence he has had on the fashion industry.

I love this picture, which Mario Testino once paid homage to in an issue of Vmagazine. Ladies in their 70s fashion, and our of their 70s fashions

A portrait of Salvador Dali

Quite possibly the most iconic image of Charlotte Rampling

The Helmut Newton retrospective, the first of its kind in France, is up at the Grand Palais until June 17th.

The Kaiser following his triumphant Chanel resort show in the Versailles gardens

That ole pile of bricks? Behold, Versailles.

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Tourist fact about Versailles: the famed fountains that surround the gardens of the palace of the French kings of yester-centuries would only be turned on only when the royals strode by them. So it made sense that they were turned on as fashion’s king, Karl Lagerfeld, strode by for the bow of his triumphant resort show for Chanel. And, just as significantly, shut off as he and Chanel’s VIPs (Tilda Swinton, Sam Taylor Wood and so forth) made their way down to a specially constructed tent in another part of the gardens.

The show itself, which debuted on a ridiculously glorious spring day, was utterly fabulous. It was Lagerfeld’s commentary on a modern 18^th century rebellion, which this palace’s most famous former occupant, Marie Antoinette, knew a thing or two about before she lost her head. So we saw beautiful 18th century silhouettes cut in denim, and quintessential Coco Chanel shapes atop metallic creepers platform shoes made popular by the Punks in Swinging London. Indeed, the hint of bad girl British youth culture was a big theme, from the music (MIA’s lyrics “Live Fast, Die Young” set the tone early on) to the casting: Cara Delevingne opening, a strong appearance from Georgia May Jagger (it was my favorite look: couture quality applique strips of fabric, plastic and sequins worked into separates), and later in the evening a performance from Alice Dellal’s band Thrush Metal.

As with everything Chanel, no expense was spared in the continued festivities, so there were gallons of champagne and soccer sized truffles. Dellal performed as the sun fell behind the tips of the perfectly pruned trees, and I found Karl afterward strolling to his personal golf cart. His favorite part of the show? His references not to Antoinette, but to Madame de Barrie, a consort of Louis XIV, who he’d dress up in men’s clothing. “She was the most beautiful woman in France, and the first fashion icon,” he said. “Marie Antoinette didn’t like her.” It was a show inspired by the first and meant for the next.

Tilda Swinton and Haider Ackerman before the show

Alice Dellal, when she was still dressed like a lady. (Later she ditched the embroidery for lace when she performed with her band, Thrash Metal.)

Harper’s Bazaar’s creative director and Visionaire founder Stephen Gan with the legendary Lynn Wyatt

Jon Kortajarena, who walked the runway holding my new favorite Chanel accessory: a quilted and monogrammed water pitcher, with Karl’s favorite boy (and fellow St. Louis native) Brad Kroenig

Two beautiful flowers in the Versailles gardens: Cara Delevingne and Georgia May Jagger

Trans-Channel beauties: The English rose Laura Bailey and the French, fabulous Caroline de Maigret

Alice Dellal and her band Thrush Metal performing at the afterparty. NOTE: The singer shaved the Chanel logo into the back of his head. Major.

This is how I found Vogue’s Andre Leon Talley after the walk from the show venue to the afterparty, on the other side of the Versailles gardens.

UPDATE: A video of Alice Dellal rocking out with her band Thrush Metal at the show’s afterparty elsewhere in the gardens. Look for cameo’s from her pals Georgia May and Cara.

And finally, the fiercest bitch I found at the Chanel show at Versailles. Isn’t she cute?

It’s a lot easier for teenage fashion fans now. But when I was growing up in Missouri, tracking the comings and goings of one’s favorite models was a much more difficult task. We couldn’t just do a Google News search. Which is probably why there were so few supermodels in the 1990s, and why there are so many girls who can call themselves “super”now. No, back in the day, you had to be truly memorable: Naomi was the black one with the temper; Cindy was the wholesome valedictorian; Christy was just perfectly symmetrical. And then there was Linda, the dedicated chameleon with more attitude than a pack of drag queens. Some things have changed (Naomi is nicer, Cindy does furniture, Christy is still perfect), but Linda can still turn anything into a fashion show, and look fierce while she’s doing it. Even a trip to family court. The New York Times had a small-yet-fabulous story in the paper today about her court fashions, and I couldn’t have agreed more. Getting dressed for a trial isn’t easy (See: Courtney, Lindsay), but Linda does it effortlessly. Like I Tweeted last week, I was sad when she settled out of court over the weekend because it meant this runway show was over. I just hope Linda, who turned a whopping 47 last week, got the settlement she was looking for. Looking this good ain’t cheap.

I first met Charlotte Dellal in 2002, during my sophomore year of college when I was living abroad. We were wee teenagers still, but we had quickly decided that we were each other’s new favorite people, which is still the case today. We’ve had quite a few memories since then, like her Vegas-themed 21st birthday and then her over-the-top countryside wedding, and I’ve seen her grow into a beautiful mother and smart business women. Her shoe line, called Charlotte Olympia, is a fast growing, fabulous company. (And I’m not just saying that because she’s promised to name some of the upcoming men’s shoes after me. Promise.) With a best selling shop in London, her retail empire decamped here to New York this week, with her first shop on the Upper East Side’s Madison Avenue. To celebrate, we had dinner at the Monkey Bar. The best part of the night? The place cards, which were eponymous handbags.

Charlotte and I with our eponymous clutches. (And yes, I have always wanted my own novelty clutch.)

Elisa Sednaoui

Lauren Santo Domingo and her new clutch

Dellal with Le Baron’s Andre and Purple Magazine’s Olivier Zahm

Harley Viera-Newton

Elisa and me take our his and her’s version of the Charlotte Olympia cat slipper on a little tour of lower Manhattan

Hahn Bin at his bow, which solicited a standing ovation from most and complete silence from some

Hahn Bin after his performance. He had just received congratulations from Lou Reed.

I’m not entirely sure what happened last night. It started out as a normal night in Alice Tulley Hall at Lincoln Center. A handsome cellist called Edward Elgar played for about an hour, then a masterful pianist by the name of Sergei Prokofiev took the stage for his own set. And then, for the third and final act of the 51st Young Concert Artists Series Gala Concert, Hahn Bin, a Korean violin virtuoso, took the stage draped in a giant American flag. He had died his hair blonde, put in blue contact lenses, and had painted a tattoo on his legs, which were exposed beneath the flag. In a flamboyant manner he whipped off said flag, revealing a teeny tiny denim vest that read “Faggot Freak” in pink block letters with matching shorts, and produced an empty can of Budweiser, which he set on the ground next to him. This was all just the pre-performance, mind you.

When he finally picked up his violin, the next 45 minutes were some of the fastest, most impressive playing that had graced the auditorium. It was a sensation too. Unlike most classic performers, he moved all over the stage, even climbing a set of stairs that lead no where, only to a more narcissistic vantage. In the second part of his performance he faced the stage and let fake blood pour from his mouth (how long did he have that in there?), and then whipped off his denim vest to reveal a now-blood-stained white tank top. For his finale, he unfurled a rainbow flag from the back of his shirt and tied to his wrists so that when he played he looked like a flying gay Dracula. As Brian Phillips, the founder of Black Frame, the PR firm that represents Hahn, put it: “Tchaikovsky’s first trip to Stonewall.”

The whole production was remarkable, and completely unforgettable. To say that it was also controversial is an understatement. There were definitely some people unimpressed with his modern take on classical music; the chubby, old man behind me in an ill-fitted tuxedo actually booed at some points. But what cannot be ignored is that the hall was packed, and there were young people, perhaps for the first time in recent history. Whether or not you like the theatrics, you can’t ignore his talent and the fact that he is putting new eyes on an art form that most young eyes have no desire looking at. I loved it. But then again, it wasn’t the first time I’ve seen Hahn Bin’s unique sense of flamboyance. I leave you with a performance that he gave us at Vmagazine two years ago.

It was the perfect antidote to the extravagance and production of the Met gala the night before. On Tuesday night, the gracious and gorgeous Samantha Boardman hosted a little birthday party for one of my literary heroes, the writer and Vanity Fair contributor Bob Colacello. When I first moved to New York, Bob’s 1990 memoir, ‘Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Close Up,’ was one of the most riveting reads I had come across. It chronicled his time first meeting Warhol, then being taken into his inner circle and becoming the editor of Interview magazine, and the downward spirals and social swirls that followed the artist to his untimely death. If you haven’t read it, you simply must. (There’s good Studio 54 gossip in there too.) It’s been a pleasure to meet Bob, and hear firsthand so many of the social histories that this city is built on. But my favorite touch from Boardman’s party was the parting gift: cookies with Colacello’s Warhol portrait on them. I took two; one to eat and one to keep.

The May issue of Harper’s Bazaar is on stands now, and included is my newest Best Dressed column. Who captured my sartorial spirit this month? Well, there was obviously the Rooney Mara moment, which I saw all over both the couture and fall 2012 runways. At those same shows were my two new favorite faces, Cara Delevingne (who we’ve seen pop up a few times already on this blog, both before the Met and at the gala’s afterparties), and Ruby Aldridge. The crocodile leather was another big trend last month, only made more timely by Rihanna’s Tom Ford dress at the Met gala, which I Tweeted about that night. And finally, I couldn’t help but acknowledge the power of Downton Abbey. Michelle Dockery is my new favorite person, and her Lady Mary is my new favorite character. Since this issue went to press, I’ve met Michelle a few times and I can say she’s just as inspiring in person.

Shala Monroque, Cara Delevingne, Karlie Kloss and Joan Smalls

Jack McCollough and Isabel Lucas

Michael Polish and Kate Bosworth with Lazaro Hernandez

As anyone with any interest in the fashion industry can tell you, Monday night was the Met Gala in New York City. It’s considered the East Coast Oscars because every Hollywood heavyweight comes out to wine, dine and celebrate the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute in their most ridiculous frocks. (I’m sure you have already, but look on just about any website to find pictures of the likes of Beyonce, Justin Timberlake, Carey Mulligan, Anna Wintour, Miuccia Prada and the rest of fashiondom.) The gala is only the first part of the evening, with the rest of the evening — in the case of Prada that meant two afterparties — being just as fun and fabulous. Prada’s festivities started at the Ukranian Embassy, conveniently located a few blocks from the Met. It was wall-to-wall glamour, with Alicia Keys belting out on a piano in one room and then Azealia Banks rapping from a windowsill in another room.  Later, the action moved down to the Standard Hotel’s Boom Boom Room. I have to be honest with you: Between the performances, the people and the sheer glamour, I completely forgot to take that many pictures. I managed to squeeze of these three shots of some of my favorite fashion people, but then the dance floor was calling.