PLEASE NOTE: This is not a Taylor Swift song. There is profane verbage not intended for small children or to be played loudly in a work environment. Please consider your adult level of auditory enjoyment as well as your volume dial before pressing play.
Every fashion week, there’s a song that resonates in my head as the soundtrack of that particular season. Rick Owens, who’s show this year was one of the most memorable for a completely different reason (Google it!), introduced we fashion folk to the phrase “IMMA READ” several seasons ago. But this season, Robyn’s song, ‘Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To D,o” hit a note with me because of its anthem that the things those I love so much (“fashion” being first on the list) are all slowing killing me. Remember, I’ve just spent four days cooped up in bed with an infected esophagus. The other refrains that are killing Robyn in this song? Smoking, diet, heels, shopping, ego and a lack of sleep. Preach, girrl! All set to a dancy disco beat? Immediately added to my iTunes.
“Fuck you, fashion week!” Pardon my French, but I figured such language is appropriate considered I’m in Paris. The reason for my Francophilic hostility is that #PFW has left me in quite a state! Cold sweats, swollen lymph nodes, bronchitis: I’m in a full on fashion week fatigue over here. (And I would like to formally thank my friend Molly at Louis Vuitton for hooking me up with antibiotics. I’m sure you had a busy enough week with, you know, Marc Jacobs leaving two days ago. But I will get to that later.)
So, as I sit here at the swanky pad of a friend and count the minutes till it doesn’t hurt to swallow (please resist the temptation to make a joke here), I ponder the week that was fashion. Oh, wasn’t it divine? You know what, maybe it was worth a little strep throat. Whoever said fashion can’t kill you was wrong. But what a way to go!
This season started with a bang – and a bus. Or should I say a Wang and a bus? Alexander Wang celebrated his sophomore collection at Balenciaga with an MIA concert after dinner at Caviar Kaspia, which we went to via party bus. The chicest way I’ve ever gotten around Paris.
The next day I did something I never thought I’d do: I played hookie. I went to the Chateau de Balleroy, the late Malcolm Forbes’ legendary estate in Normandy, which is where Elizabeth Taylor went for balloon races and Prince Charles still goes to watercolor. I saw gardens, drank champagne, went on nature walks and felt fabulous. The end result was that, less than 48 hours later, when I was back in the fashion swirl, I had been reinvigorated and happy to be back.
What of this fashion whirlpool? Like most seasons, it revolved around Caviar Kaspia, this cold-kitchen restaurant on the Place Madelaine that serves, you guessed it, sturgeon eggs on a butter and salt filled potato. The place ain’t cheap, but that didn’t stop me from shoving myself onto a few other people’s expensive accounts. You say potato, I say I’ll split that potato. Vogue’s Elisabeth von Thurn & Taxis did a fabulous dinner for friends like Hamish Bowles, Lena Dunham, Delfina Fendi and Eugenie Niarchos at the recently refurbished Prince de Galles hotel. And I think it was Miu Miu’s party on the last night of fashion week, where I managed to cruise both Lady Mary and Quinn Fabray, that I probably got the illness I’m currently combating.
And what of the shows? I Tweeted, “Loved the Valentino show. It reminded me of an Edwardian Navajo nun. At a Renaissance fair. In the jungle. Set to opera music.” I also loved the oversized decadence that my friend Olivier Rousteing brought to Balmain. Hermes showed modern florals, and that put a smile on my face. Miu Miu was sparkled, and just the jolt that everyone needed at the end of fashion week, I mean fashion month. And I actually got a kick out of Karl Lagerfeld’s take on the art world for the Chanel show. The Grand Palais was tricked out in these hideous fake Chanel art works, and the show was filled with colorful tweeds, prints and swinging dresses. The makeup was fluorescent Pop. My favorite look was the one we all called Picasso’s Baby (the Jay-Z song of that name was the soundtrack of the show), which was the single male exit in the show, and had a scruffy artist toting around a quilted Chanel portfolio case. Please, introduce me to the young artist who carries his work around in Chanel. No, really. Go look up that guy.
The big news this season, though, was Marc Jacob’s departure at Louis Vuitton. What a somber show it was: All black, a retrospective at the Louvre, full of some his greatest hits (Sprouse graffiti and nothing else on Edie Cambpell opened the show, and there were masks and little tributes on all the looks.) He said afterward it was for the showgirl in all of us. Marc gave an indepth interview to WWD where he said that this was not an acriminous split with Bernard Arnault, the head of LVMH, who just happens to be the richest man in France. (He also said that people would probably speculate otherwise but, and I quote, “Whatever.”) Yet, just because it was a fond farewell doesn’t mean that we can’t mourn the passing of an era. Marc redefined that fashion house. He redefined what it meant to be an artist in the modern fashion industry. And though he will be missed, I can’t wait to see what he’s going to do next.
Andy, between Marc’s departure and this painful esophagus, I’m going to bed with a lump in my throat. The only saving grace: A surprise appearance from my mother, who flew through Paris for a night from St. Louis to Vienna. She’ll kiss it and make it all better. Let me know if I should send her over to yours, Marc.
Captions, from top: Harry Brant, me, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley and Peter Brant, Jr, after the Balmain show; Zoe Kravitz, Alexander Wang and MIA; Joan Smalls getting down in a one-woman VIP area at the Balenciaga party; say what you will about Kim Kardashian, but I was into the blonde; a stellar front row at Stella McCartney included her father, Paul McCartney, Jeff Koons and her husband Alishdair Willis; Dasha Zhukova, me, Matthew Moneypenny and Kristina O’Neill at the fashion canteen, Caviar Kaspia; Daria Stroukous, showing our driver a thing or two about posing; the finale scene at Marc Jacobs’ finale show for Louis Vuitton; Edie Cambpell’s body Stephen Sprouse bodypaint, which was the first look of the LV show; a pack of Brit blondes, Chelsea Leyland, Georgia May Jagger and Alice Dellal; Natalie Massenet, Kate Reardon, Erik Torstensson; Hamish Bowles, Lena Dunham and myself; Caroline Sieber at Caviar Kaspia; Magnus Berger and Andreea Diaconu; Rita Ora and Theophilus London at Carine Roitfeld’s party; Riccardo Tisci and a friend at Carine’s; me and Kate Upton; Leigh Lezark massaging those legs; me at Balleroy; a private concert in the music room; Becca Carson Thrash getting down; a picture window private in the garden; Kip Forbes on top of the pile; the front row at Giambattista Valli; Bip Ling and Hanneli Mustaparta outside Chanel; Dasha and Eugenie Niarchos getting a snack; Deanna and Mira Duma; me with Michelle Dockerty and Dianna Agron; Vanessa and Victoria Traina on the party bus; Balmain’s Olivier Rousteing at his afterparty; a group shot at Caviar Kaspia; Pat McGarth darting between shows; Vanessa Traina at dinner; Anna Wintour making a very stealth escape from the Chanel show; my Mommy at dinner with me.
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” This old adage is basically how my collaboration with sophisticated e-tailer Paperless Post
came to pass. An avid reader of either of my books, Classy
or Very Classy
, will know that one of the hallmarks of a lady is a handwritten note. (And if you’re not an avid reader of either of my books, you had better get to a book store.) Along with not making sex tapes, being punctual and never being the drunkest girl at a party: Handwritten notes, preferably on one’s own stationery, was how a lady was supposed to communicate.
Then I started getting all these Paperless Post invitations and greetings. I was annoyed at first. “Write me a damn note!” I’d think. But then I tried it a few times. And shit, it’s so much easier. They link to your schedule and you can see who’s opened them and track your RSVP’s. Voila. Easy. After all, it’s the thought that counts. And the person who receives any sort of thoughtfulness will appreciate it, right?
Anyway, there are a few things that should still be reserved for pen and paper. Like, a love note. Or a suicide note for that matter. Wedding invitations too are an opportunity to wow someone with the size of your paper stock. I should also mention that my stationery can be sent via regular post too, in a collaboration called Paper by Paperless Post. Go to their website and have a gander.
So, my friend Karlie put me in touch with her friend Josh’s friend James, who with his sister Alexa, started Paperless Post. And we hit it off. Fifty meetings later and with only minor breakdowns, my first of what I hope will be many collaborations was born. I had a good time designing them: What do all my friends want to say to each other on a birthday card, but can’t really? “You don’t look a day over whatever age you want me to tell people you are.” What do my girlfriends really think when they’re doing a baby shower for another friend of theirs? “This kid is going to need all the help they can get.” And there are party themes too: Country western, Mexican, and so forth.
My next dilemma? How do we fete this collaboration? Well, my 23rd birthday party was one of my favorites: A few days before the big day, my friend Evan lent me his parents house in Tribeca and, at a loss for how to put together a real rager in a short period of time, I thought the best way to observe my humble Midwestern roots and my East Coast ambitions would be a hot wings and champagne party. (That party ended in fun, and bad press. Page 6 wrote that someone broke out a rifle. But eh, what can you do?) We revisited that party theme for this one.
Wings from Hooters and champagne from Veuve Clicquot, all set in the majestic venue of Hogs & Heifers. Ever heard of that joint? It’s in the Meatpacking District and one of the inspirations for the cinematic masterpiece ‘Coyote Ugly.’ My friend Rebecca had the good idea to park a blue pick up truck full of hay outside the place.
I’d like to think my buddies turned up to support me, but I’m no fool. Half of them were probably desperate to finally have an excuse to check out Hogs & Heifers, and the other half came out for the free champagne. But all of them were happy with the goody bags: They got some of my stationery, a Karlie’s Kookie and even some of my very own ‘haute sauce.’ After all, if you like and you want it, put a hot wing on it.
Captions, from top: Lauren Santo Domingo, me and Elisa Sednaoui leaning on the festive pick up truck; two examples of the stationery; me and Alexa Chung in Hogs & Heifers; Karlie Kloss and her biggest little fan, Cyrus; Lily Aldridge; two of my favorite musicians, The Strokes’ Albert Hammond, Jr and The Kings of Leon’s Caleb Followill ; photographers Inez + Vinoodh with Marc Kroop; me and Giancarlo Giammetti; Courtney Love and I; Marjorie Gubelmann, Tico Mugrabi and Samantha Boardman; Nicky Hilton and Jen Brill; some of the entertainment at the venue; Fiona Byrne of the Byrne notice and Josephine de la Baum; Mickey Sumner, me and Prabal Gurung; Michael Hess and James Hirschfield; Anne Dexter-Jones, Annabelle Dexter-Jones and me; Julia Roitfeld with her friend Remi; Matthew Moneypenny and Paola Kudacki; Cynthia Rowley, Jessica Seinfeld and Karlie Kloss; Genevieve Jones and Iman; two more examples of my stationery; and another two; the night’s entertainment; the night’s bouncer; me in the corner with Courtney
I traditionally skip Milan Fashion Week. It’s a luxury to be able to do that, and I haven’t been able to do it every season. (Remember the time that super stylist Katie Grand convinced me to come with her for a 24 hour drunken rave in a garden that was once owned by Leonardo da Vinci
?) But it’s just so nice to come home from London for those few days, take a few spin classes, have some green juice, and then show up in Paris rested and relaxed – when everyone else I had left in London looks haggard and annoyed. Fashion!
But this season, I did something different. I accepted an invitation from the artist Fyodor Pavlov-Andreevich to come to Moscow for the Biennale there. I figured, eh, I’m already in London and it’s not that far, so why not? And I was glad I did.
The first night I was there was when I was due to meet up with Fyodor. He was at the Artists’ Zoo, which was, literally, a zoo of artists in cages doing their own performance pieces. What was Fyodor doing? I found him in the basement, in his cage, completely naked with his head through a window and a nurse giving specific instructions to participants to put things (food, a whistle, etc) into his mouth. It was a project he had done with the Solyanke State Gallery, where Marina Abramovic is the patron. There was another artist singing traditional Russian songs while wearing nothing by a facemask made popular by Pussy Riot and standing on glass. Another artist turned a giant clock every minute, and did nothing else. They were each in their cages for four hours for seven days. Fyodor went another step and wore a lamb’s mask the other 20 hours of the day, even to bed and in the shower, for the entire week.
The Biennale itself was held in a building that centuries ago held the horse shows. We had a VIP tour of the show, which meant that many of the works were not set up yet, and none of them had ID’s on them. Which was mildly frustrating, but then we’re in Russia, a country steeped in old world traditions that is only now embracing the contemporary art market.
Song Dong’s large-scale piece of all the things his mother had hoarded in Communistic China was particularly powerful to me. And not just because I think my father is a hoarder. It brought to an artistic light the cultural disparities between the China I see today in luxury advertisements and the China before, which would keep broken terracotta plant holders and reupholster ribbed chairs with old jeans, because that’s all they could find. I was also amused by Peter Belyi’s work, which looked like a slide full of shit that was poring out of the Kremlin (insert all political commentaries here) and down the stairs. Alan Michelson did a video work of a merry go round, which made me smile. And I jotted down the name Aslan Gaisumov, a 22-year-old Chechyien artist that I think had some strong works and a promising future. But my favorite work was from the Iranian artist Farideh Lashai. It was called ‘When I count there is only you but when I look there is only a shadow.’ It was work that involved small postcards and a projected video that brought the work to light in small segments.
In the midst of all my art-ing, I did manage to find some time to get my tourism on. Without a doubt, the most memorable was sneaking backstage at the Bolshoi Ballet company, which only recently opened after a six year refurbishment to its pre-Soviet splendor, and watching the dancers warm up. They were like rubber people. I also roamed around Red Square to post some comically satirical comments on the anti-homophobic policies currently being passed in the Russian government on my Instagram account. (How can a country with such flamboyant buildings and male politicians who go topless and wear fur coats be so homophobic?) And we took a tour of the kremlin. Something that was truly memorable was the Soviet era propaganda statues in the Moscow metro. There were soldiers holding babies and milk maids holding guns – and everyone was gorgeous. It was like Bruce Weber had cast the statues in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue.
Just to chime in here: I am not one to make political commentaries. Like Andy Warhol, who was an artist who chose to speak on things other than politics, I’ve never been one to shove my political views down the throats of others. I’m not Tilda Swinton, who actually did that recently, when she went to Red Square to wave a rainbow flag. Though, I will admit that I was at first hesitant about going to a country that was so close minded. But then, as Fyodor explained, to not come to a country where there are gay artists living and working, would be to deprive them of their own outlet. So I went. I am proud I did. Even if I think these policies are morally backward and a complete embarrassment.
I spent an afternoon in the Tretyakov Gallery’s contemporary art space, which was filled with some Russian artists that I had never, ever heard of before. I find contemporary art to be a novel subject in Russia because, well, it’s a new idea. For so long, art in Russia was only considered Old Masters. Maybe a Picasso. Certain experimental ideas never made it behind the Iron Curtain and only now are finding their niche in the market. More on this later, when I talk about my friend Dasha Zhukova and her Garage, Center for Contemporary Culture. Two pieces caught my eye at the Tretyakov Gallery: Marc Chagall’s Over the Town (1918) and Kazimir Malevich’s Black Square (1915). The latter was one of my favorites, and had apparently created a sensation in the Russian art world because of it’s simple, minimalist aesthetic.
Now, on to Dasha, who you may remember from a certain profile I did of her in last year’s Harper’s Bazaar, appropriately called Queen of the Art Scene. I admire her and her Garage for helping foster a relationship between new Russia and the contemporary art market. This week, she opened a show for the American conceptual artist John Baldassari called 1 + 1 = 1. It was his commentary on the commentary of other masters. (You can read more about the exhibition on The Garage’s website) But what I found more impressive than the show itself was the reception it received. The place was packed with young, eager, fabulous young people ready to soak up, well, art. The art world. The Garage’s contemporary space is a Shigeru Ban-designed pavilion, which the at organization is using until their permanent space, which will be designed by Rem Koolhaus, is completed. They’re located in Moscow’s Gorky Park, which would be like someone in New York opening a new contemporary art space in Central Park. To say I’m impressed and excited for Dasha is an understatement.
On my last night in Moscow, I had dinner at a collector’s house to see how excited Russian’s cultural elite is about contemporary art. The house was fantastic: a Richter in the office, two early John Currin’s in the bedroom, and so forth. And following dinner, Fyodor took us to the apartment of the performance artist German Vinogradov. It was not what I expected. It was in a rough part of town and up a filthy walkup tenement. He opened the door and the first thing I noticed were feral cats, and the second thing I noticed was an unpleasant stench. I asked the artist where he slept, and he told me where we were sitting. In the room there were tubes and metal plates and a chandelier made of a child’s bicycle wheel. But it was one of those moments when you tell yourself to just embrace the unfamiliar. And I’m glad I did. (I also had to embrace the unsafe since one of the features of his ‘noise performance’ was the sound that lit blowtorches make when they’re shoved into plastic tubes.) His performance was unconventional, but it was divine. He used water drops and firecrackers and he hit hollow tubes and knocked crystals against wind chimes. It was not what I had signed up for, but it made me feel happy. And, for me, that’s what good art does.
Captions, from top: Russian art, personified: Alberto Giacometti and Vladimir Lenin, at a private residence; John Baldassari and Dasha Zhukova at the Garage; a Baldassari work at the Garage; the exterior of the Bolshoi Ballet; me in the Tsar’s Box at the ballet; a dancer warming up at the Bolshoi; the Mondrian exhibit at the Tretyakov gallery; Fyodor at dinner, trying to eat through his mask; the Garage’s director Anton outside their temporary space; a kitty; the golden onion domes inside the Kremlin; Song Dong’s work at the Biennale; an Alex Schweder work at the Solyanke State Gallery; the archives in the Garage office; the darkened scene at German Vinogradov performance; Red Square at night; Olya, Mira and Vika at the Garage; the Kabakov’s The Ship of Tolerance; art in the Moscow underground; a view of the interior of the Bolshoi; me in the metro; the exterior of the Kremlin; a handsome Soviet statue in the metro; rubbing the lucky rooster in the metro
‘Twas a dream come true: For the October issue of Harper’s Bazaar, I was assigned a story on my supermodel fantasy, Linda Evangelista. Few models have inspired and conspired like she has. And she did not disappoint. When we met she was in head-to-toe Lanvin. She was fiesty. She was fierce. She was everything I wanted and more.
“Linda does not do social media.” The Linda in question, the one talking about herself in the third person, is Linda Evangelista, the monumental ’90s supermodel and fashion-industry rabble-rouser. It’s a rainy day and we’re sipping coffee in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood, a few blocks from the penthouse apartment she bought more than a decade ago, debating the pros and cons of the Internet. The pros? “You know when an airline loses your luggage? That’s when I wish I had Twitter,” she says, flashing that high-fashion smile.
The cons, of course, involve things that come up when one Googles oneself. “If I’m ever feeling real good about myself, all I have to do is go online and read a blog or two, and it brings me right back.” Indeed, the life of Linda Evangelista provides colorful search results. She was a small-town Canadian girl who moved to New York in the ’80s and, along with cohorts Naomi Campbell, Cindy Crawford, and Christy Turlington, became one of the world’s most sought-after supermodels. She filled fashion magazines with glamour and tabloids with drama. She was a diva. She changed her hair color 17 times in five years. She married Gérald Marie, the head of her Paris agency, at the age of 22, then left him for (and almost married) the actor Kyle MacLachlan. In 2006, she had a son, Augustin James, but refused to name the father. (It was later revealed to be the French businessman François-Henri Pinault.) Most recently, she dated Hard Rock Cafe cofounder Peter Morton before splitting with him this past spring.
Evangelista, 48, became known for being the industry’s best in front of the camera and the industry’s worst away from it. In 2001, she was sued by her former agency Wilhelmina for defrauding it of commissions before the agency dropped the case. Not that bad press mattered. She was still booked solid. That’s what led to the infamous quote that pops up with any Internet search of her name: “We don’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day,” a reference to her fellow supes, and one that she hasn’t been able to live down since. And last year, when she took Pinault to Family Court in Manhattan to sue him for child support, the media (myself included) reviewed her court ensembles as if it were a fashion show.
What Evangelista finds most appealing about social media is the idea of speaking directly to those fashion fans who grew up idolizing her. “Maybe I should start a blog,” she says. “You control it. You can correct things that are said about you. That’s the first thing I’d do.” Like, for instance, the details that were reported in her child-support case—that she allegedly sued Pinault for $46,000 a month, though her lawyer insisted she was not seeking a specific amount of money, and she eventually settled for an undisclosed sum. Evangelista says she was surprised at all the attention, since the headline-making behavior recalled a former version of herself. “Motherhood is my whole life now,” she explains. “It’s the best. I am so fulfilled.” The week before we met, she spent a month vacationing with her family in Canada, at a house she rented in Muskoka Lakes. “This place was the furthest you can be from five-star. It was basically one step up from camping.”
The notion of Evangelista as a mother hen on float trips is hard to reconcile with her haute couture alter ego, a dichotomy she readily acknowledges. “There are lots of things you don’t know about me,” she says. “I do needlepoint, I do crochet, I cake-decorate.” She says she’s a proficient chef and a barista, and can play a mean accordion, a skill she acquired growing up in St. Catharines, Ontario. (“I have two in my apartment, but they have dust on them. It’s more of a winter thing.”)
When she’s not working, days that used to be spent shopping, sleeping, and on the beach at her house in St.-Tropez are now filled with crafting, specifically macramé, and playdates. And while Evangelista refuses to speak about her son, whom she calls Augie, a few bons mots slip out. “Let’s just say I have a child who doesn’t like fashion. He wants jerseys. We watch sports and go to games. I do boy things now.” As for dating, since splitting with Morton, she’s single, not dating, and happy about it. “I look at it this way: I have been so lucky in love,” she says, adding with a cryptic smile, “Except for two times.”
Yet even with her various hiatuses from the spotlight, Evangelista is as super as ever. She was featured on the cover of Italian Vogue‘s “25 Years of Fashion” special issue this past summer, and recently starred in campaigns for Chanel Eyewear, Hogan, and Talbots. And the supermodel’s appreciation for her three-decade-and-counting career has grown over time. The images she created with photographers like Irving Penn, Richard Avedon, Peter Lindbergh, and Norman Parkinson (not to mention her iconicBazaar covers) have become part of fashion history. “I knew they were legendary, but I didn’t know how relevant their work would become. Now I’m like, ‘Linda, you fucking idiot!’ I didn’t appreciate it at the time, and I regret that.” Francesco Scavullo was another master, and one of the few who got her to undress in front of the camera. “He said I had to do a nude with him, and I finally said, ‘Fine, but you’re cropping it. You can’t go past my chest, and I’m turning my back.’ That was my nude. It’s beautiful.” She remembers when makeup artists and hair stylists didn’t have teams of assistants, when the backstage cabine was the size of an airplane bathroom, and admits to being nostalgic for that era. “It was more personal. It had more energy.”
Evangelista says that in pre-digital-camera days, she felt she was creating art with photographers, which isn’t always the case now: “These young whippersnappers have brilliant eyes and ideas, but they’re not old-school enough for me.” She misses the great technicians who didn’t rely on computer wizardry. “When we were satisfied with how our Polaroids looked and we moved to film, those pictures did not need retouching. Now everything is [done in postproduction]. Sometimes I look in the mirror and see wrinkles in the clothes or streaks in my makeup or a glob of mascara on my eyelashes, and it pisses me off!”
Talk about intimidating: Can you imagine doing Linda Evangelista’s makeup? It would belike playing the piano for Mozart. “Sometimes I just say to a makeup artist, ‘Listen, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but you’re doing my makeup and it’s going to be all right.’ Sometimes they do things like, when they get to my mouth, they hand me the lip pencil. And I say, ‘Oh, no, you do it. Just give it a shot.’ “
Evangelista is quick to crack a joke, which raises the question: Could the model the industry loved to paint as bitchy and cynical actually be playful with a killer sense of humor? “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just too honest. I say what other people wouldn’t. I like to be tongue-in-cheek.” Her nasal, winging voice, immortalized in Isaac Mizrahi’s 1995 documentary, Unzipped, when she moaned backstage at a fashion show about always being stuck with flat shoes while Naomi got the heels, now lets loose with punch lines and double entendres. I tell her that Karl Lagerfeld calls her “the best.” “The best what?” she snaps back. “The best complainer?” And she’s not afraid to poke fun at herself. “Want to know what I’m doing when I’m not working? Therapy—individual, group, all of it.”
Still, few can boast the kind of fiercely loyal cadre of friends that Evangelista has built for herself. Famed photographer Steven Meisel is one of her closest confidants. So is Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, the French stylist who Evangelista says “acts like a mom to me. She is very protective, caring, nurturing. And she yells at me!” And the hairstylist Garren, who was largely responsible for her colorful crops and fluorescent bobs through the 1990s, Evangelista calls a big brother.
Earlier this year, too, it was revealed that she was the only one of John Galliano’s famous friends who visited the designer in rehab following his 2011 dismissal from Dior. “I hadn’t seen him in a long time, and I suspected he wasn’t well,” she recalls. “When I was brought up-to-date on the situation, I asked, ‘So, who’s going to see him?’ and they said no one. I booked a ticket and spent the day with him, and then went right back to the airport. I didn’t want him to be alone.” She didn’t tell anyone; Galliano was the one who spilled the beans. “I’ve always been there,” she adds. “If you speak to people in this business who’ve known me for 30 years, they’ll tell you. All the stuff that is said about my ways and my personality is far more interesting than the truth.”
Her friendship with Galliano aside, Evan gelista refuses to be pinned down when asked to pick a favorite designer, even when I point out that she’s wearing head-to-toe Céline. “No! It’s like asking a mother to pick her favorite child!” She does say that she’s adamant about supporting American labels. And she reveals a recent go-to: the Row, the line by Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Evangelista says she was at Barneys and a sales associate was pushing a leather skirt on her, and she asked who the designer was. “I said, ‘Those two little girls? I’m not trying it on.’ But she put it in my dressing room and I put it on, and it became my favorite skirt.” She calls the Row a reliable label now. “I think those girls were put on this planet to be designers, not actresses. I really respect them now. I didn’t want to, but I do.”
To hear Evangelista talk about fashion is to listen to a woman describe her first true love. “I still crave fashion. I still love fashion. I mean, I’ve traveled the world to work in studios. Nobody put me in bathing suits on a beach.” She wasn’t the sexpot; she was the supermodel we wanted to dress up and project our fashion fantasies on. But when I mention the S-word, she says, “I don’t even know what that means anymore. Is that era over? Who is a supermodel now? Is everyone? Is no one?” She squints her eyes and smiles. “You can call me whatever you want to call me. All I know is this: I’m still here.”
above photo by Derek Blasberg, all others by Terry Richardson for Harper’s Bazaar
Am I the only one who finds it ironic that we call it London Fashion Week when it’s really over three days and it’s mainly over a weekend anyway? Although, I will say, those three days are so jam packed with fashion shows, appointments, dinners and parties, it does feel like a week. Actually, it feels like London fashion month. I mean, these Brits don’t hold back, do they?
I got to London on Saturday morning. (Missed my original flight, got on the next one standby, middle seat in the back of the plane, arrived delirious.) And my first show was one of my favorite new designers: JW Anderson. He’s an Irish lad, gregarious and charming as ever, and I loved his collection of modernist clothes that were folded and fascinated. I sat next to Lady Amanda Harlech at the show, and she was oohing and ahhing all the way through. Later that day was Henry Holland’s show, which always puts a big smile on my face. He’s one of the most loved designers of LFW, which was made very clear when I had to squeeze into my seat next to every chic chick in town, including Alexa Chung, Daisy Lowe, Leigh Lezark, Mary Charteris, Harley Viera Newton, Atlanta de Cadenet and Kelly Osborne. Also at the show? Harry Styles. Bestill my heart. (Scroll down to the bottom of these pictures for a money shot of me and Harry.)
What else happened in London? Burberry seduced us with a rose colored – and, at the finale, rose petal covered – show, and Tom Ford blinded us with a show of sparkled-to-death, drop dead glamorous fashions. My favorite look of Tom’s was a colorful disco ball mini dress and thigh high boots that filled the room with bold spots when it came down the runway. And the kids impressed too: Christopher Kane channeled some flower power, Erdem went lacey but not racey, and I loved the rainbows at Jonathan Saunders.
Besides the fashion, a big part of LFW is keeping up with the fun. And this season’s social schedule was book ended by two fabulous magazine fetes. W magazine and its September issue cover star Cara Delevingne took over the newly opened The Edition Hotel, Ian Schrager’s latest property, for a rip-roarious party on Saturday night. And I mean they took over the whole hotel: From the lobby to the restaurant to the basement club to something called The Punch Room. And when they closed those rooms down, it was up to the rooms. The Another Magazine fete was something else too. Jefferson Hack had an enchanted forest theme, but there were more evil Red Queens than Alices in this Wonderland.
Captions, from top: Tickling the ivories with Pixie and Alexa after the Erdem show; Alison Mosshart at a party for Equipment; the very charming Douglas Booth, who will be the new Romeo later this year; Zoe Kravitz in Tom Ford; a well bowed Carine in a Comme des Garcon coat, leaving Christopher Kane; Caroline Sieber and Downton Abbey’s Lady Edith; Sienna, Poppy and Mary at the Another Magazine party; a very stimulating Beckham spotting; Kelly Osborne doing her best Home Alone impression; Henry Holland’s front row, which included Leigh, Alexa, Pixie, Daisy and Mary; Lily Allen and Nick Grimshaw at Giles’ show; the hot Momma that is Elisa Sednaoui; Natalie Massenet and her mad hatter Erik at the Another party; me and Beth Ditto; Caroline and Jade at the Longchamp store opening; Christopher Kane being very popular after his show; Poppy and Laura at Erdem; Tom Ford at his bow; Cara Delevingne in a bat hat at Giles; Alexa and Pixie doing a double DJ; the finale at L’Wren Scott; Cara getting in a fight with her cheeseburger costume; Dominic Jones and Kate Lanphear; flowers from Tom Ford; Poppy in repose; JW Anderson receiving backstage well wishes; and the fan shot heard around the world, Me and Harry Styles
Now I know I’m getting old. Why? Because hangovers last for more than a morning. Because now, when I stay up just a little bit later than I probably should, I am tired a little longer than I think I should be. Or such was the case with fashion week this season. You see, in yesteryears, I was able to do the cocktail circuit as well as the morning shows. Top secret Lady Gaga show where she keeps us waiting till 1am to hit the stage? No problem, I can still make it to Victoria Beckham at 10am the next day. (I did. I still don’t know how either.) But, jeez, it’s not as easy as it used to be.
So, here I am going through my NYFW diary on the plane to London for LFW with a delirious smile on my face. It all started just a week ago on such a high note: Victoria’s Traina’s birthday dinner at Le Grenouille on the Upper East Side. It’s one of the most beautiful restaurants in New York, and the Traina sisters are one of the most beautiful group of girls I’ve ever met. And only for her would designers like Jack McCollough, Lazaro Hernandez and Alexander Wang leave their studios before their shows to show some love.
This was a big season for live music acts. Lady Gaga gave Stephen Gan and V magazine a special sneak peek of her new album with a top secret gig at a club on Bleecker, and on the same night Nicki Minaj performed at the Alexander Wang show. (Much to my amusement, this week I got into a little Twitter tiff with Nicki, which was covered by Life + Style magazine. What? The elevators are big enough for more than one queen, Barbie girl. Ha!) A highlight, or maybe lowlight, from Alex’s party was when Joan Smalls and I were dancing on a table in the VIP area – and it collapsed. Like, it just crumbled. Never a dull moment. Pharrell turned up at the Calvin Klein party to perform a set, and my friends, siblings Sasha and Theo Spielberg, performed at Diane von Furstenberg’s dinner on the Highline after her show.
Speaking of Alexander Wang, my partner in crime this week was Natasha Lyonne. She picked me up for that show and had me in stitches throughout the entire car ride, fashion show and car ride home. She popped up a few other times too, like the Opening Ceremony rave on the Pier 26. Fashion week is best digested with a smile.
Carine Roitfeld’s documentary, Mademoiselle C, premiered during fashion week, which I thought was a fantastic glimpse into the life of a modern fashion icon. It will undoubtedly be compared to The September Issue, which chronicled the creation of Vogue’s biggest issue of the year, under the tutelage of Anna Wintour, but they are two very different films. Like the women themselves, Wintour’s is more polished. Carine opened up more, and as she told me at the party, she had no idea it would have been such a personal project that captured so much of their emotion. The parties for the two documentaries were much different too, with Carine swinging around the Four Seasons Pool Room with Kanye West on her arm. My favorite part of the film? The scenes with Karl Lagerfeld. In one, he’s pushing a stroller, which is something that only Carine could get him to do.
As for the fashion shows, the New York collections didn’t disappoint this season. Marc Jacobs’ show was legendary, and not just because it took place while a torrential downpour tortured everyone outside and the room temperature in the Lexington Avenue armory was ridiculously hot. Backstage after the show, he told me it was Tropical Victorian, and indeed, my favorite parts were the ruffled, vintage feeling dresses at the end of the show. I also loved Proenza Schouler (my date to the show, Linda Evangelista, said she was particularly taken with the ‘palazzo culottes’) and Alutzarra, which was a super sophisticated French take on American sportswear.
The most memorable moments of fashion week, as is often the case, were the impromptu ones. Lily Donaldson took me on a bar crawl on the first night of fashion week that had us screaming to Lil Wayne in the backseat of a taxi, and a few nights later I found myself at Odeon after it had closed with Frankie Rayder and Karen Elson giving runway through the tables. The manager warned the girls that they might get hurt, and they politely warned him that they were professionals.
And finally, there was the eye candy. Not just with my super saucy supermodels, either. I’m looking at you Noah Mills and Alexander Skarsgard. Scroll down for pictures of those studs and more fashions.
Captions, from top: Me and Terry Richardson at some club on Bleeker Street, where Lady Gaga threw a top secret concert in honor of Stephen Gan and V magazine; Jessica Alba and those weird twins from Spring Breakers; Stephen and Gaga; Proenza Schouler’s Lazaro Hernandez and Lily Donaldson; The Carine; me and current Vanity Fair cover star Kate Upton; Noah Mills and Alexander Wang at the designer’s afterparty; Joan Smalls and Naomi Campbell at a party for Interview magazine; sweet Toni; WSJ. Magazine’s Magnus Berger and Kristina O’Neill with a very handsome Matthew Moneypenny, and yes that’s a real name; Lily putting her face on in the taxi; riding in the backseat with Natasha Lyonne to the Alexander Wang show; the fashion professional at work: Lauren Santo Domingo at Moda Operandi HQ; Hanne Gaby on the dance floor at Alex’s party; Nicole Richie and Andre Leon Talley; Magnus, David and Giovanna squeeze in a beer before the Thom Browne show; Alexander Skarsgard being appropriately sexy at the Calvin Klein party; Gaga in concert; Christie Brinkley, still smoking; Not An Average Joe, Nicole and me; Dree Hemingway and CK’s Francisco Costa on the dancefloor; Georgia May Jagger backstage at Marc Jacobs; me and The Linda; Lou Doillon in concert; Frankie Rayder and Karen Elson at Odeon; Angela Lindvall and Irina Shayk at the Vanity Fair party; me and Jess; Theo and Sasha Spielberg in concert at DVF’s dinner; James Rothschild, Nicky Hilton and me at Gaga’s concert; Alexandra Richards and Patti Hansen; Karolina Kurkova helping Carmen Carrera with some adjustments; Cory Bond and Vogue’s Hamish Bowles; Lily Aldridge, Tabitha Simmons and Karen at Carine’s party; Harry and Petey Brant; me and Proenza Schouler’s Jack McCollough; Heidi Mount and Joan making Hello Kitty backpacks work; Leigh Lezark and Courtney Love; three kids of the 1990′s, Amber, me and Karen; Inez and Vinoodh; Noemie Harris and Jason Winberg at the CK party; Terry and Sky Ferreira at a party for WSJ. Magazine; my muses, Dasha Zhukova, Lauren and Karlie Kloss; Victoria Traina’s birthday party crew, including Ms. Danielle Steele, my icon
It can be hard to define summer in the fashion industry. What does one include as time off and time on? And I mean really on? The way that I will sum up summer is the time elapsed between the Cannes Film Festival in the South of France and a relaxing, quiet weekend I had at a ranch in the Northwest of America. So, what has transpired since then? I hung out with a bunch of gorgeous girls on the Riviera, went to Rome to celebrate my friend Francesco Vezzoli’s opening at the Maxxi Museum, headed to Venice for the Bienale with the Brant boys, made a stop in London for Gucci’s Chime for Change benefit, and then finally headed back to New York for the CFDA Awards. The following weekend I headed home to Missouri for my nephew and godson’s first birthday, but made it back to New York for the amFAR gala – and then it was back to Europe, first for the Liasiasons au Lourvre and the haute couture shows. Back to New York, briefly, for a soccer tournament and then back to Europe for Natalia Vodianova’s Love Ball in Monaco. I finally came back to the good ole United States for some quality down time with the family in Missouri and ultimately a badminton tournament at my friend Lauren Santo Domingo’s house. Last up was Montana, where I had no cell reception and no contact with the outside world, which was a change of pace for the safari I’m about to go on: New York Fashion Week. Check back in a week for all the fun from #NYFW
Captions, from top: Milla, Jourdan, Lily, and Rosie in Cannes; Natalia in Cannes, Dita and Mark, Isla Jen and Dasha in Cannes; Mattia in Venice; Francesco in Rome; R.J. and Andy; taking time to smell the roses in Venice; Petey in repose; my purchase in Venice: a gondolier’s hat, which I love; not quite clear skies, but still gorgeous; Pixie, Florence and Poppy; Rita and Poppy giving cheek; Lauren, Lazaro and Jack at the CFDAs; Nicole and Alex at the CFDAs; Lily and Alessandra at the CFDA after-party; Dan and Douglas after the CFDAs; Jessica and I after the CFDAs; Tory and Kristina; Milla and Karlie after the CFDAs; Will in his element; Birthday boy; no place like home; Karlie at the launch of her Frame Denim collection; Eniko and Lindsey looking glam; Leigh, Candice and Olivier are hooked; Giambattista arrives; Milla, Bianca and Olga, coming into the Louvre for the Liaisons gala; Diana performing; Emma and Mena at Versace; Naomi at the Versace party; the master himself: Azzedine; Lea and Christian in Paris; Kristina and Carine looking haute in Paris; Baz leading Karlie down the stairs and into the rose garden at Wideville; Riccardo at Wideville; Vera in paris; Rose McGowan at the Fendi dinner; Alexa striking a pose; Dorian on the metro; only in Paris; Jared on stage; Patrik and Christopher inVienna; Caroline: the beautiful bride, Vanessa and Mike in Vienna, Joan and Karlie in Brooklyn, a gorgeous view from the Brooklyn Bridge, Supernova Natalia in Monaco, Camilla and Mario in the casino, James and Harvey showing some sweet love at the Love Ball; Sofia in Monaco; the Kaiser himself in Monaco; Tyra and Karlie smize-ing at Karie’s 21st; babe on a boat; there’s no place like home in St.Louis (x4); Dree loves my shoes; Alexa in the Hamptons; In the Hamptons; Ludi loves his toys; Starvos, Jess, and Alexa take a ride; Heart of Americana, Montana (x4)
I’ve never hard such a response to a pair of sandals. The simple, three-stripe, navy blue Adidas flip flops I ordered on Amazon in the spring as my go to summer footwear had quite a reaction on my social media. And the comments ran the gamut. Some said they were ugly, passé, skewing too grunge; others said they were chic, classic, comfortable.
For me, they’re all of that and so much more. The sandals are most importantly extremely nostalgic. In case I needed to remind my dear reader, I fancy myself a closeted jock (remember when I played soccer on the V team?) and these were the sandals that I wore to countless games and tournaments when I lived back in Missouri. Nowadays, these sandals are probably the only thing that both me and my brother, an accountant who lives in Texas, both have in our wardrobes. And, if I may be so bold, these little pieces of plastic go with everything: With jeans and a T-shirt, with a bathing suit, with khaki trousers and a button down. I’ve worn them to cocktail parties and spin classes. Well, to be honest, maybe I’ve worn them too much. (Not that the people at Another Magazine would agree with me. They love them too.
Finally, these bad boys are a little bit of gender equality. Remember the fuzzy, fur lined sandals that Phoebe Philo did at Celine? Why can the chicks get by with a comfortable and stylish slide? So, these are the mens version. And so much cheaper.