Paris hosted the of haute couture shows again last week. And, as in seasons before, the holes left by the various couture labels whose high fashion business has dwindled in these less-than-stellar economic times have been filled by a long list of other chic and fabulous happenings. Like what? Miu Miu presented their resort collection (one of my favorite of the season, very mod, very girly, lots of navy blue) and then hosted a lavish dinner and private Jack White concert. Nearly all of my girlfriends hosted parties for their various fashionable enterprises: Eugenie Niarchos had a cocktail party for her line, Venyx; Noor Fares had a party for her eponymous jewelry collection; Bianca Brandolini and Alexia Niedzielski collaborated on a bikini collection. French Vogue hosted a dinner and dance party – Cecile Cassel lead the charge, and was fabulous – that may well become Paris’ version of the Met ball.
Of course, there were the shows too. Dior’s show was held in a specially constructed bubble of walls made of white orchids (Diorchids, we wondered?) and started with elegant, voluminous gowns before moving onto decadent fur coats and long, minimalistic evening jackets. I won’t soon forget Giambattista Valli’s show, especially the long, oversized evening dresses at the end. And this was one of my favorite Chanel shows in recent years. In a preview with Karl Lagerfeld, he showed that the materials were actually a specially created form of concrete embroidery. Only he can combine concrete and couture, and finish the show with a pregnant bride that looks as chic as ever.
Not that anyone needed an excuse to come to Paris in the summer, but the girls were out this season. I’ll never forget Jennifer Lopez marching into the Versace show in her all-white one-legged evening dress. Or, should I say glowing in? Emma Watson looked fabulous at her couture appearances, mixing ladylike lace at the Valentino show with androgynous tailoring when she joined us at the Givenchy table for the French Vogue party. I fell hard for Dakota Johnson too, the future star of the Fifty Shades of Grey franchise, who was in town for the Chanel show. (So was Jared Leto, hubba hubba.) Dakota was staying at an apartment near me, and the two of us bonded with our mutual buddy Emily Ward over the eating and drinking habits of the locals. But perhaps the most unexpectedly wonderful mashup was me, Alexa Chung and Mos Def, tablemates at the Prada dinner. Thanks, Miuccia!
Another cultural delight is visitin the art shows in Paris. The Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit at the Grand Palais was astounding. It closed the week we were there, and the art gods were smiling on me that I managed to see it in its final days. As I paced the galleries, I thought how impressive it was that he managed to find pieces of heaven in what may have looked like hell to everyone else. The Gagosian’s Le Bourget venue, which is just outside Paris, has a fabulous show called ‘An American in Paris’ on, the centerpiece of which is Jeff Koons’ Balloon Swan (Red), which my friends stared at for a few hours wondering if it was playful or sexually graphic.
But my favorite part of couture week was doing what I love to do in Paris: Being a tourist. Like going on the ferris wheels and the swings at the carnival in the Tuilleries, strolling the streets of Paris, shopping the soldes, drinking hot chocolate at Cafe Flore, and sweating out the hot chocolate while dancing at tiny, most likely unsafe dance halls. It’s my favorite city and my favorite week of the year.
Captions, from top: A stroll in the Tuilleries; Karlie Kloss at the French Vogue dinner; me and Jared Leto at the Chanel show; looks at the Dior show; Grace Coddington and Marc Jacobs at the Miu Miu show; me with Mos Def and Alexa Chung at the Miu Miu party; even the puddles in Paris are chic; fanning out with Emily and Dakota at Le Montana; Jennifer Lopez making her grand entrance; Kendall Jenner, Harry and Peter Brant, Jamie Bochert, Kim Kardashian and myself at the French Vogue party; Joan Smalls and Anja Rubik; Jourdan Dunne on the Versace runway; Daria and me at Kaspia; Alice Dellal and Poppy Delevingne at the Chanel show; the view from the Grand Palais on a summer’s day; Jean Paul Goude and Glenda Bailey at the JPG show; the scene at French Vogue’s dinner; me, Joan and Karlie posing off; Miles and Lily at Silencio; the Brant boys; Jamie at the Givenchy table; Cecile Cassel killing it; Vanessa Traina and Alexander Wang; Natasha Poly giving me a cold shoulder and a sexy back; Jeff Koons’ Balloon Swan (Red) at the Gagosian Gallery in Le Bourget; a detail of the Koons piece; a wall of portraits by Robert Mapplethorpe at the Grand Palais; Mapplethorpe’s self portrait; having English breakfast tea on a rainy Paris afternoon; Bianca and Carine at the Miu Miu party; Dior’s wall of white orchids; Douglas Booth at the Prada party; Isla Fischer and Sunrise Ruffalo; Jack White performing; Gemma Atherton; Kristina O’Neill at Kaspia; Daria and Kristina having a laugh in the Marais; backstage at Giambattista Valli; Franca Sozzani with Eugenie; Noor Fares; Kendall Jenner and Marjorie Gubelmann at the Chanel show; Jamie and her friend Sofia; Uma Thurman and Miuccia Prada; exiting from the Dior show; an unexpected air show at Le Bourget; Langley Fox, Daria Strokous and Leigh Lezark at Silencio; fun at the fair; wishing Patti Wilson a happy birthday; a night with the boys, Paul, Alessandro, Riccaro, Dani, Kevin and Seb; me and Paul Aziz on the swings; me and Miuccia Prada; Caroline and Dakota
It’s funny what you miss when you leave home, isn’t it? One of the reasons I was so desperate to high tail it out of St Louis after high school was because I was tired of long country rides, having to drive a car everywhere, fried food, long conversations with strangers, people who actually listened for an answer when they asked, ‘Howareyou?’ (That’s my pet peeve about New Yorkers, by the way. People who think ‘Howareyou’ is the same as ‘Hello.’) Now that it’s nearing a decade and a half since I left home, though, these are the very things I look forward to most when I come back to Missouri. Driving to my uncle’s farm in my Dad’s Jeep with the music up and the windows down and a fresh Imo’s pizza in the back? Heaven.
Last week started with my nephew and godson Will’s second birthday. It had a Cars theme and a bouncy castle, the latter of which had a 150 pound weight restriction, which only made me want to get in there more. (And, for the record, I did. No children were harmed.) And it ended at my Uncle Fred’s house in Hillsboro, which is a particular point of Blasbergian pride. Fred built the house with his own two hands with local woods and rocks. So what it took him three decades, looks fabulous now. He suffers from a disease called Ataxia, which we are still finding more information about, which limits him from some of our favorite countryside pastimes, like hayrides and flower picking and dips in the pool. But something tells me he’s happy that his hard work has brought joy to so many of us.
From St Louis, I figured I might as well hop up to Aspen for an event Chanel was doing for their Paris-Dallas collection. (That show, in Texas, was one of my favorite Chanel moments. For my diary from Karl Lagerfeld’s country western couture, click here.) I had never been to this picturesque town — truth be told, I’m a better waterskier than I am snow bunny — but I found it super charming. The people were nice, even the ones with recently plumped faces. And I was able to show off my equestrian skills. Not to mention I got to wear my favorite cowboy shirt and cashmere bandana in a non-ironic way, for once. I wonder if there were any other cowboys on the Rio Grande Trail who had a Saint Laurent kerchief around their neck?
Oh, Riri, what are we going to do with you? I have fallen in and out of love with Rihanna since she first hit the Pop music scene. (Though, her song, SOS, still gets me going on a dancefloor.) I would follow her on Instagram and then unfollow her. (But since she shut that down, don’t need to worry about it anymore.) Last night, though, I decided I liked her. She was both badass and adorable in her speech at the Council of Fashion Designers of America Award, and looked both glamorous and tacky. Her gown was made of a completely sheer club glitter mesh. Most importantly, she gave me the best line from a fashion party ever: To describe how she uses fashion as her defense mechanism, she gave the line: “She can beat me, but she can’t beat my outfit.” Genius! More about the awards? John Water, the film director and cult figure, was an amazing host. He was cynical and fabulous. Congratulations to my friend Joseph Altuzarra who won the Womenswear Designer of the Year award. Public School took home the award for menswear, and The Row went home with the award for Accessories. Another highlight was the reemergence of Mango, the SNL star of my childhood (more on that in another post), who my friend Kristina coerced into taking a picture with Anna Wintour. And meeting Ruth Finlay, the head of the Fashion Calendar. She received The Board of Directors Tribute Award, and the video that preceding her award, which chronicled her seven decades (yes, seven decades) in fashion brought a tear to more than a few people’s eyes in the audience. Which can’t be easy in a room full of fashion people.
Captions, from top: Me with Mango and Alexander Wang; Rachel Zoe and Marc Jacobs; Blake Lively, Michael Kors and Heidi Klum; Naomi Campbell and Tyson Beckford; Chrissy Teigen, Vera Wang and Rachel Roy; Raf Simons, the recipient of the International Award; Dree Hemingway, Jamie Bochert and Gia Coppola; Mango and Anna Wintour; Hanne Gaby and Alana; Anja Rubik; Andrew Rosen and Diane von Furstenberg; Karen Elson and Lance; Leigh Lezark, Olivier Theyskens and Caroline Trentini; John Waters on the mic; the Traina sisters with Jack and Lazaro from Proenza Schouler; Will and Trey Laird with Scott Sternberg and Jessica Joffe; Tim Coppens, the winner of the Swarovski menswear award, with Daria Strokous and Tom van Dorpe; Joseph Altuzarra and Christopher Kane; my sweet Karlie; Stefano Tonchi, Giovanna Battaglia, Karlie and me; Joan Smalls with the Brant boys; Ruth Finlay with Tim; me, some Brant boys and Joan at the Boom Boom Room
My favorite part of the Cannes film festival had nothing to do with the city of Cannes. The festival, now in its 67th year, has become perhaps the most famous of the international film festivals. It is the stilettos and ball gowns to Sundance’s Ugg boots and fur coats. Though, for all the glitz and the glamour that it brings, it’s also adopted some less chic elements, like pushy sponsors, crowds, creepy old men and so many closed streets. Which is why the best bits are often in the other cities that dot the French Riviera. Like Monaco, which is where Nicolas Ghesquiere held his first resort collection for Louis Vuitton, appropriately inspired by the colors and plaids associated with the Grand Prix, Monaco’s most famous sporting event. Prince Albert and Princess Charlene, the sitting heads of Monaco’s famous royal family (Albert’s mother, Grace Kelly, was the basis for the critically panned film that opened the film festival a few days before) where the hosts of the affair, and joined us in the audience. As did the royal members of Ghesquiere’s fashion family, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Jennifer Connelly. But it was the town of Antibes that saw the most action of the Cannes film festival because that’s where two of the week’s biggest events take place: Vanity Fair’s annual dinner, which this year was cohosted by Giorgio Armani, and then a week later the AMFAR gala. Both take place at the famed Hotel du Cap, which is perhaps the world’s most glamorous hotel. It’s gilded, marbled and expensive as hell, and sits atop a long drive that leads down to an infinity pool overlooking the Mediterranean that looks like it fell out of an Old Hollywood film. During AMFAR’s festivities, this drive was decorated with Damien Hirst’s gold plated mammoth skeleton, which went for $15million at the live auction. The night after AMFAR, Topshop’s Sir Phillip Green hosted an appropriately glamorous finale: Naomi Campbell’s birthday party. The supermodel showed up in a fluorescent green, beaded and lace Versace minidress, and was lead in a chorus of Happy Birthday by Robin Thicke. Afterward, the party moved to a club called The Billionaire, which would be tacky in any place besides the Riviera. Because perhaps only there, tacky can be chic.
Captions, from top: The view from the top of Antibes; Natasha Poly and I at the Vanity Fair dinner at Eden Rock; Jean Pegozzi’s inflatable orgy; me and Dasha in Antibes; Daria Strokous playing by the stairs; Karlie Kloss at Pegozzi’s; Milla Jovovich posing at Richie Akiva’s party; Karlie and Rosie Huntington-Whitley at AMFAR; Carine Roitfeld and Irina Shayk at AMFAR; me and Rinko at the Louis Vuitton show; Liya Kebede in the show; Nicolas Ghesquiere takes his bow; Elizabeth von Guttman and her fashion wifey Alexia, with Carine; Lui Wen at LV; A royal guard in the Monaco palace with Pat McGrath and Sara Maino; Nicky Haslam and Peggy Seigal at VF; Pegozzi, Sofya and Dasha at Eden Rock; boys being boys: The Brants and Brett Ratner with me at VF; Suki on the dancefloor; Sofya, Dasha, me and Fabiola Beracasa at VF; a charming beach pier in Antibes; the Russians at a Garage magazine party; when me and Riley Keogh met Conchita Wurst; the Hirst dinosaur at Hotel du Cap; Naomi Campbell on her birthday; a garden in Antibes; Jessica Chastain in the du Cap elevator after AMFAR; me and Paul Aziz; Milla and Chris Tucker; Stefano Tonchi, Edward Enninful and Riccardo Tisci at Naomi’s birthday; the Hotel du Cap at night; me and Jessica Chastain; Julia Roitfeld in the AMFAR fashion show; my friend Amalyne; when I tried to steal Natasha’s diamond necklace; Robin Thicke performing at AMFAR; Jourdan Dunne at AMFAR; Kati and Adrian; Margherita Missoni on the AMFAR runway, which raised more than $3million; Karlie and a fellow giraffe; feeling left out when Lara Stone and Karlie started smooching; Vlad and JT at Eden Rock; Sir Phillip Green with Naomi and her Studio 54 birthday cake.
My thighs are aching and it’s not even 10pm and I’m already in my pajamas. Is this what a marathon runner feels like? Too bad my exhaustion is not from running 26 miles, but rather talking for 72 straight hours. Phew. What a weekend. It started with a birthday party my friend Tico threw me at his house and ending with the Met ball in New York. I’m happy I took some pictures because I might not remember it all otherwise.
Captions, from top: Annie, me and Karlie at my birthday; Naomi at the Met; Olivier, Rosie, Joan and Rita at their table; Katie, Tabitha, Alexa, Harley and Karlie enjoying some sushi; Lily and Kristen Wigg, funniest woman ever; the world’s most glamorous couple, tom and Gisele; Toni and Jourdan; forever the hostess with the mostess, Lauren Santo Domingo; Kate and Stella on the red carpet; Jessica Pare fitting in perfectly at the lobby of the Carlyle Hotel; Katie, Lazaro and Carine; Tom Sachs and the birthday cake he made me; Atlanta, Jen, Laura, Sarah, Rebekah and Shoshanna looking like a tough girl gang; Dan Colen and Evan Yurman; Samantha, Marjorie and Jamie; the trumpets announcing the dinner; Jessica Hart from the back; Bernard and Matthew; Tico and Colby, my birthday throwers; Kate, James and Nicky; Karen and Tabitha and their trains; Max, Alex, LSD, Ryan, Caroline and Vanessa proving black is still the new black; Eugenie at dinner; Carolyn Murphy giving me over the shoulder; Zoe Kravitz, a lady in red; Jessica and Stavros; Arizona on her way out of the museum; Mr Testino in his tails and decorations; Brooke Candy on the roof of the Standard Hotel; Margherita and Coco; Blake Lively and Bee Shaffer taking the train into dinner; me and Taylor Swift
First, a little background: The Brown Shoe Company is based in St Louis. And as a self appointed cultural mayor of the Midwest city, it was my duty to go downtown last night to celebrate the company’s 100th Anniversary of the company, which was one of the very first to join the New York stock market. (I wasn’t the only one from the Lou who was down there either. Nelly, of St Lunatics and ‘Hot in Here’ fame, was also in attendance.) But what I didn’t expect at the bash was the performance from Jennifer Hudson. The Academy Award winning American Idol semi finalist waltzed onto stage singing, and by the end of her performance had the entire room gobsmacked. This was no cocktail fair. Effie White was back, and she brought the place down. I was in the DJ booth when she started, so I managed to sneak over to the side of the stage to steal this video. Doing St Louis proud!
If I had to make a list of my least favorite things, these three would be on the top: sunburns, large groups, and lines that snake through metal barricades. But perhaps the thing I like the least – and something that my therapist (if I had a therapist, that is) would have a field day with – is missing out. So, when my friend Poppy Delevingne invited me to celebrate her bachelorette party, or hen party as the English call it, at the Coachella music festival, I vacillated on the subject. I’ve never done Coachella before. All those girls in tiny denim shorts and boys with farmers tans, a large portion of which seem to be under the influence of some mind altering substances? Not for me. But, I rationed, is this my one chance to experience Southern California’s largest outdoor music festival? After all, every year I get a little older, and no one wants to see the creepy old dude rocking out in the back of the lawn.
So, I went. And I’m happy I did. My first and most likely last Coachella experience was a rewarding one. It combined the joys of celebrating the last few moments of unmarried bliss of a close friend with the enjoyment of some of Pop music’s biggest acts. Beyonce made a surprise appearance when her sister Solange performed. Pharrell wore the hat. Again. I fell in love with Lorde. Again. Outkaste was pretty good. Calvin Harris was really good. Alexander Wang’s party had a set from Iggy Azaela, followed by Major Lazer; Jeremy Scott’s party was in Frank Sinatra’s old Palm Springs pad and I had a dance off with a freshly bobbed and blonded Zoe Kravitz. And, oh, my friend’s bachelorette party was like the adult version of my favorite high school pool party: We ate too much, drank spiked punch, played on inflatable animals in the pool, unintentionally stole each other’s sunglasses, and didn’t get enough sleep. In fact, I plan on recovering from the weekend just in time for Poppy’s wedding next month.
Captions, from top: Cara, Poppy and Sienna at the bachelorette party; Alexander Skarsgaard and me; sunset in Palm Springs; Michael Polish and Kate Bosworth; a live set from Major Lazer; Rosie, Fergie and me; nightfall at the festival; Poppy’s crown, which I stole (sorry, Poppy); me and Kate; Michael, Noah and Alex; Conrad and his girlfriend with Petey, Gabriella and Gaby; poolside giggles; Cara about to leap on an inflatable; Caroline de Maigret at Alex’s party; Lily and Poppy showing off their locks on the dancefloor; Rita Ora at Frank Sinatra’s house; and a final shot on the way home
UPDATE: Since I’ve posted this, the New York Times has done a fabulous review of the xx at the Armory. But be warned: There are spoilers.
We weren’t given that many details. The woman from Burberry who had invited us sent this scary email that said if we weren’t on time we wouldn’t be let in, which gave me a bit of anxiety. It was a Vogue party. Who can’t be fashionably late to a Vogue party? But I followed directions, showed up on time, turned off my phones, left my camera at home. And I was happy I did. We were lead through an underground tunnel of the Park Avenue Armory in New York, and then emerged in a small tent with the band The xx. I won’t tell you what happened next. It wouldn’t be fair to the band, or to someone who is reading this that goes. Suffice it to see it was emotionally fulfilling. It was epic. It was a live gig that melded an art show with a light installation. There was a reception afterward and the band came in, and I was something that I haven’t been in a long time: Speechless. Last night was the first night of a 10 night gig in New York. Do whatever you have to do to get tickets. But if you don’t, do what I did for most of today: Just watch their videos on Youtube. Here, I’ll help you out.
I felt like a schoolboy playing hookie: This season, I skipped Paris fashion week to be in LA, replacing fashion with art and the Academy Awards. There are a few reasons for this, mind you. First of all, the artist Taryn Simon had an opening at the Beverly Hills outpost of Gagosian. And secondly, I hadn’t been in LA for Oscars weekend in a few years and I could have used an injection of sunny glamour after such a brutal winter. (The irony that it rained for most of the time wasn’t lost on me.) Besides, I had just been in Paris for the couture shows last month, and I had already done Milan.
Oscars weekend in LA is a very peculiar thing. It’s like all four fashion weeks combined into one, but stripped of fashion show runways and replaced with red carpets. The faces are just as beautiful but more familiar. In fact, the quotient of famous people in a small space becomes to intense that suddenly the existence of fame itself becomes a desensitizing commodity. It hits the saturating point where it becomes, Eh, who cares? Suddenly, seeing Lupita Nyong’o in the Chateau Marmont lobby isn’t as impressive because you just bumped into Olivia Wilde’s baby bump waiting for your rental car at the valet. (Though, for the record, my highlight of the weekend: Literally being in a corner with Baby from Dirty Dancing.)
For someone who doesn’t work in Hollywood, the pressure is off. In fact, it’s all fun and jolly and – this is a pretty perfect for it – gay. I spent the first part of Oscars night eating pizza in bed with my friend Jacqui, and then threw on a tuxedo after I watched Jared Leto accept the Best Supporting Actor Award. I adore Jared, a friend I had interviewed about the part of Rayon for the cover of Candy magazine last year, when she was just a character and not a career defining role. (READ THE ARTICLE HERE.) Then I went first to Elton John’s viewing dinner (I was there when Kelly Osborne strangled Lady Gaga in the ultimate photo op); then to the Vanity Fair Oscar party, which involved two security checkpoints and a level of glitz that is to be expected from the legendary party. My night ended – or rather the next morning started – at a party high in the Hills that I probably shouldn’t talk about if I ever want to be invited back. (Suffice it to say a legend who’s name starts with the letter M was the mistress of ceremonies.)
Before the Oscar weekend festivities, the weekend was anchored in something serious: The American artist Taryn Simon’s opening at Gagosian. Titled ‘Birds of the West Indies,’ it’s an obsessive observation at creating the legacy that has become the James Bond franchise. From the show notes: “In 1936, an ornithologist called James Bond released the definitive taxonomy of birds found in the Caribbean, titled Birds of the West Indies. Ian Fleming, an active bird watcher living in Jamaica, subsequently appropriated the name for his novel’s lead character. This co-opting of names was the first in a series of substitutions that would become central to the construction of the James Bond narrative. In a meticulous and comprehensive dissection of the Bond films, artist Taryn Simon inventoried women, weapons and vehicles, constant elements in the films between 1962 and 2012.”
My father has been a fan of the Bond films for as long as I can remember. Watching ‘Live and Let Die’ at our condo, which smelled like mildew, at the Lake of the Ozarks is one of my most wonderful childhood memories. So to see the components of these films, like Jane Seymour (who was Solitaire in ‘Live and Let Die’) and the speed boats and the handguns, was a peculiarly touching experience. This being LA, however, Taryn’s opening was as star studded as ever. Jared was there, and so were a bunch of other West Coast lumanaries, like Cameron and even Gwyneth. (Taryn is married to Gwyneth’s brother, Jake.) Seeing all that Bond memorabilia reminded me of the depth and the warmth of my childhood in Missouri, which are emotions that are sometimes hard to find in this town on this weekend.
CAPTIONS, from top: The prince of the weekend, Jared Leto, and I at Taryn Simon’s opening; Lady Gaga, Kate Hudson and Leslie Mann at the Vanity Fair party; Behati Prinsloo, Hilary Rhoda, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley and Lily Aldridge; Poppy Delevingne and Sienna Miller at the Chanel dinner; the French filmmaker Alexandre Espigares, who won best Short for “Mr Hublot,” with his wife and Jason Stathom, who he said he had a shrine of at his house and was nearly shaking when I introduced hem; Rosie and me making a Gayle King sandwich at VF; the highlight of my weekend: being in a corner with Baby from Dirty Dancing; Tayrn Simon after her opening; Jacqui Getty, Wendi Murdoch and Eva Chow at Taryn’s dinner; Elle Fanning, Terry Richardson and Jared at Taryn’s opening; coming up Rosie; the Oscar nominated Barkhad Abdi and his friend, who I bumped into on the street walking up to the Vanity Fair party; Anne V, Ashley Green and Angela Lindvall with Dan and Dean from DSquared2 at Elton John’s party; Rosie and Erin Wasson causing trouble; Sean Avery and Noah Mills; Rosie and four K’s: Karolina Kurkova and Karlie Kloss; me and Annie Hathaway
I’m not a Milan fashion week regular. In fact, before this season, the super stylist Katie Grand had only got me to the Italian fashion capital for 24 hours to launch her Hogan collection. But this week, since I was missing the shows in Paris (more on that in a future post), I figured I should pay homage to the Italian capital. Another reason? Three of my favorite people celebrated their birthdays.
‘Twas an above average Saturday night of fashion week. First up was Meenal Mistry, who had an Italian and pizza dinner (carbs? What carbs?) at the writer JJ Martin’s house. Sped through that one and then headed to Margherita Missoni’s birthday dinner. (Margherita has been like a sister to me, and who could forget how lovely she looked on her wedding?) And then my final stop: The infamous nightclub Plastic, where W’s Edward Enninful was celebrating his birthday with a midnight dance party. I checked every box this night: a sweet and intimate casual affair, a seated Italian feast, and a sweaty dance party that ended mere hours before my first show.
Edward owned this season: Not only was it his birthday, his ‘Iconoclast’ collaboration with the Prada stores debuted. It was a sensation: He turned to the Harlem Renaissance for inspiration, so there was colors and textures and a feeling of excited extravagance. At the mens store, a live jazz band played while Maria Carla Boscono and Jamie Bochert cut a rug. Also, to be noted here: The Prada show earlier that afternoon was a sensation. It was all deep V-necks with giant coats and sheer dresses.
Confession: I did briefly escape the Milan collections to attend a friend’s dinner in St. Moritz. That was an ordeal all of its own because, umm, I crossed the border without a passport. Somehow, my Missouri driver’s license sufficed after some begging, pleading, lower lip puckering.
When I got back to Milan, it was a decadent ending: Dolce & Gabbana’s show of fairy tales, armor clad power girls and even a little red riding hood finale. The shoes at D&G were works of art in themselves. That was followed by Missoni, which proved a colorful ending to my Milanese weekend.
Captions from top: Margherita Missoni and Jamie Bochert sandwiching Edward Enninful; the last look at Dolce & Gabanna; three generations of Missoni women: Angela and her daughter Margherita, and her mother Rosita; Stefan Beckman, Edward, Joan Smalls and Pat McGrath; Franca Sozzani and Giancarlo Giammetti; me and Margherita; Hanne Gaby on the Prada runway; the group shot at Meenal Mistry’s birthday party at JJ Martin’s house; Margherita on her birthday; Edward at his birthday; Joan and Georgia May Jagger at the Principe Hotel; my favorite fashion week females: Vogue’s Tabitha Simmons, Vanity Fair’s Jessica Diehl and WSJ. Magazine’s Kristina O’Neill; Cara Delevingne on the Fendi runway; handsome fellas George Cortina and Magnus Berger; the dinner scene at Margherita’s birthday; Kate King coming into the Dolce & Gabbana show; Anna Dello Russo, Lily McMenemy and Sophia Hesketh at Plastic nighclub; a Principe pileup in the bar with me, MariaCarla and Joan