The Life of Lagerfeld

Last night I watched Rodolphe Marconi’s film “Lagerfeld Confidential”, a documentary (released in the UK last year) following the comings and goings of one of the most enigmatic and iconic fashion personalities in the industry today. With unprecedented access into the designer’s home, studio and general everyday life, Marconi’s film gives a fascinating insight into the world of “the man behind the image”. As Lagerfeld describes himself as “An apparition”, (which rings especially true considering the cardboard cut outs of the designer that are dotted around the temporary Chanel outlet at Dover Street Market), a prolonged glimpse into his routine was a chance I couldn’t pass up. And I didn’t want to watch France v. Italy.

Undoubtedly this film is not everybody’s cup of tea: not just because of the subject matter but also because of the way the documentary is itself filmed. A few minute sequence of waves crashing against rocks to a soundtrack of The Lightning Seeds (I think, but don’t quote me on that. It was pretty lame whatever it was) made me feel slightly queasy, and not because I suffer from seasickness. Although some scenes were cringe inducing, this is not to say that I didn’t bloody love it. Lagerfeld has always creeped me out while simultaneously leaving me awestruck and Marconi’s documentary validated the way I feel towards him. Which I don’t see as a bad thing.

The film begins with Marconi’s camera peering around what appears to be Lagerfeld’s bedroom (well, there’s a bed in it at least). The room is floor to ceiling books. On every surface lies a notepad, sketchbook or magazine. For some reason I was surprised at this chaotic scene, although as it transpires, Lagerfeld has an astonishing ability to remember where everything is, or should, go. Perhaps it is his constant, unchanging and unmoving appearance that gives the illusion of serenity and minimalism when the reality is the opposite. There was definitely something slightly unnerving about the sheer amount of stuff Lagerfeld is surrounded by, I half expected a dozen scraggly cats to reveal themsleves under a heap of old Vogue’s. This image was only compounded by watching Lagerfeld rifle through hundreds of similar looking rings and drawers full of identical white shirt collars. I’m also pretty sure Freud would have a field day over the comments made about Mutter Lagerfeld and the way her son still carries around his comfort blanket (now kept safely in a bag because it is falling part). But, for now, I will spare Karl the text book psychoanalysis.

The one thing that I hoped would come through in the documentary, and which did, was humour. Although Lagerfeld takes himself seriously in the sense that he is hard-working and has an image to maintain, his answers were candid and signs placed in toliets reading “Pissing Everywhere is not very Chanel”, demonstrate his wry sense of humour. He also calls models “brats” which is quite funny. In a mean kind of way.

Obviously the level of this designer’s talent is unquestionable. Watching over Lagerfeld’s shoulder as he sketches a design, in a rare moment of solitude and free of his trademark sunglasses, is quite a sight to behold and one which any Fashion buff should see.

Sarah Jessica Who?

So, unless you’ve been living in an isolated cell for the past year, you will most likely be overly familiar with the film du jour: “Sex and the City: The Movie”. I’m still undecided on whether or not I’m inclined to pay the extortionate cinema entrance fee to see a film which a) I’ve already got the main gist of from all the spoilers and much criticised over-generous trailer and b) will cause me to be the recipient of much eye rolling and sneers from my male friends who unanimously cannot bear Carrie (or Horse Face as she is better known) et al.

However, there is of course a certain (quite large and overwhelming) part of me that is intrigued by the whole affair. No, intrigued is the wrong word. Unlike some, I am in no way desperate to know “How It Will End”. I couldn’t care less whether Carrie marries Big or if Charlotte manages to conceive or if Samantha, um, finally realises her age. Quite simply, I want to spend two hours staring and scrutinising the clothes and charmed lives of four fictitious women. Because fictitious is, as you would hope everyone knows, what these CHARACTERS are. But I’m not sure everyone is fully aware that this gang of forty-something women and their unrealistic, largely unachievable and inimitable lives are purely the creations of Candace Bushnell and that bloke who wrote the script (someone else can Google him). On watching the London Premier on TV the other day, I was struck by the way Gok Wan referred to Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie.  And, in the words of the famous newspaper columnist herself, I got to thinking whether people haven’t confused the character and actress for the same person.

For a long time, since I became aware that SJP was lauded as a style icon and became a permanent fixture on the best dressed lists, I have wondered if people actually think she’s Carrie, her more fashion forward counterpart. I have never been blown away by SJP’s personal style; often papped wearing combats and T-shirts or a tried and tested strapless red carpet gown, I just don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Carrie on the other hand, has worn outfits that have the ability to rouse admiration, envy and embarassment (and often all three at the same time) in style hungry young women. And the credit for creating these reactions and for propelling Carrie/SJP into the fashion hall of fame is surely the stylist – Patricia Field, not the character and definitely not the actress.

Am I missing something here? Is SJP really as well dressed and as stylish as magazines make her out to be? Or are the editors responsible, (as we must remember it is not SJP that has labelled herself a style icon, but those that put her on the pages we read) for lauding SJP’s style getting her confused with her on screen persona? I’m confused.

A Dressing Down

It was only by chance that I switched on the TV to Blood, Sweat and T-Shirts earlier this week; the four part BBC3 docu-series that follows six fashion obsessed folk as they travel through textile factories in India in a bid to learn how the clothes they wear are really made. Coinciding with the BBC’s newly launched online eco magazine Thread, Blood, Sweat and T-Shirts has the responsibility of opening the nation’s eyes to the matter of ethical dressing. Or at least the eyes of those with a freeview box.

As you are probably aware, an Indian sweat shop isn’t an idyll of perfect working conditions, but rather a dilapidated room where people sew, eat and sleep with little hope of progressing beyond the four walls within which they conduct their lives.

Disturbing as the sights of mistreated, underpaid, overtired and overworked factory workers are, it is the attitudes and reasoning of the twenty-something individuals whose journeys we have to follow that is just as, if not more, shocking. I was more horrified at the small mindedness and ignorance possessed by Western culture, if these six Brits are indeed representative of their generation and society, that is portrayed through this programme. In fairness to those taking part, the job at hand does not look a fun one. Sewing collars and hemlines in seconds is a skill that they cannot really be expected to master and their living conditions are obviously a far cry from the comfortable existence they are accustomed to. However, if their reactions and attitudes, not only towards the Indian way of life but towards consumerism generally, are typical then something needs to drastically change. Although these six people cannot necessarily be blamed for their spending habits and approach to consumerism, (we are of course all a product of the capitalist society we inhabit) it has to be down to each of us to rethink our fashion needs. 

Agyness Deyn: Batter to Burberry?

Agyness Deyn recently made the cover of Time Magazine. On Thursday she will be lauded as Tatler’s most stylish woman, pushing old Mossy into second place after two years holding on to the top spot. The Lancashire model has just had a mannequin modelled on her (creepy) and during London Fashion Week the biggest news was that the poor lass was suffering from conjunctivitis (weepy). Basically, what I’m trying to say is, without having to list any more of her ‘achievements’, that you cannot open a paper, magazine, your front door, without seeing her face or name peering back at you. In fact I loathe writing about her for this very reason, but she has been playing on my mind of late. You see, and I know I am not alone in this, (which incidentally makes this column even more infuriating in its unoriginality) but I am unconvinced by this whole Agyness Deyn phenomenon. What I find far more interesting than her, frankly one dimensional, look is the media hype that surrounds this youth. It appears that those that first brought Agyness to our attention have been keen to mythologise her, obsessed in creating a (comparatively lame) rag to riches story which by now we are all well aware of as it were always embedded in our subconscious along with tales of Dick Whittington and his cat. But, as with all those who experience rapid overexposure, which normally grips its victims like an aggressive rash spreading over the body, people are now beginning to strip Ms Deyn of her mythical status. However, it’s not much of a backlash. There’s a discrepancy over her real age (she once said she was 18, now people reckon she’s 25 if she’s a day) and it turns out she was spotted by a photographer in Kentish Town rather than being saved from a life of deep fat fryers in, excuse my language, The North. Not that she would ever have been consigned to such a life, God forbid. Agyness attended a grammar school and sat her A-Levels like a good girl should. Methinks it’s going to take a lot more for the industry to turn its back on this ‘face of a generation’ or whatever other over-hyped moniker she has been given of late, than slightly exaggerated biographical detail.

 And this is, I believe, not because of Deyn’s abilities as a model but because of what she supposedly represents. Deyn has been given the responsibility of making London the epicentre of cool. As the face of British brand Burberry and lover of all things English, Deyn has brought back Cool Britannia, a label which hasn’t been applied to this island for possibly almost ten years. Deyn, in all her gangly glory, epitomises something exciting that is going on in the capital at the moment. Something that everyone, from readers of the London Lite to Vogue, wants a piece of. And this I can understand. Deyn looks like she’s having a good time with people who are doing interesting things, and no-one wants to feel like they’re missing out. Having Deyn endorse a product or appear on the pages of whatever magazine, lends that thing instant kudos. But why label her a supermodel? Yes she is thin and pretty, but that is, I fear, as far as it goes. Next to the versatility and longevity of a supermodel such as Kate Moss, Agyness Deyn’s capabilities pale in comparison. It seems as though the fashion industry, scared of looking tired and old, has grabbed a good looking and charming girl and confused her with something she is not.

A Beginner’s Guide to Fashion Week

If there’s one thing I wouldn’t recommend, it’s being hungover at a fashion show. Although I suspect many of the impossibly stylish fashion folk at last Sunday’s Topshop Unique show were also battling with the previous nights intoxicants still very much flowing in their bloodstream, they didn’t show it. Or perhaps they were as fresh faced as they looked and I am merely trying to make myself feel a little less like an irresponsible teenager who wishes she had listened to her mother’s advice before going out without any dinner and consuming a tragically juvenile mix of cheap wine and tequila. (Except I’m not a teenager and I don’t live with my mum. Just to clarify)

 

But I digress. I thought it important to set the scene so you can share in my discomfort as I tottered (I was of course wearing heels, on a Sunday no less) to the entrance of the Topshop venue (a cavernous warehouse space in the University of Westminster) where I was accosted by photographers eager to ‘pap’ me. Surprised, I blithely obliged (hoping they couldn’t see the beginning of a sweat breaking on my brow) and tried to look like this happened to me all the time. Needless to say, it doesn’t.

 

So, it seemed the glamour of fashion week wasn’t merely a myth. And as I handed my ticket to the doorman and made my way into the throng of beautiful people awaiting this much anticipated show, everything we mere mortals see, read or here about fashion shows appeared to be true. Waiters handed out portions of broccoli and stilton bake or fish pie (both of which I politely refused, attempting to explain my delicate situation to the waitress. She was neither impressed nor interested) and glasses of champagne and fruity cocktails. As people air kissed their way around the room to their seats, where a boxed pair of leather gloves awaited every guest, Alexa, Pixie and Kelly strode in to take up their places in the front row.

 

And so the show began. Long liquorice legs wrapped in glossy black leather sashayed down the catwalk one by one, while loose fitting girly chiffon blouses billowed over the top. Giant pockets added interest to skirts and sweaters which appeared in a muted palette of mushroom grey, buttermilk cream and chocolate brown. Seventies inspired A-line skirts were worn on the hips, hitting just below the knee to create a relaxed, languid silhouette and oversized charcoal jumpers in textured wool and jackets with sheepskin panelling looked appealingly cosy. But it was the long sleeved organza dresses, covered in abstract graphic prints that really caught my eye. The flirty thigh skimming pleated skirts, teamed with a demure high neck and covered arms made these dresses a realistic sartorial choice. In fact, leather trousers aside, the majority of the Topshop Unique show was extremely wearable and could have been lifted straight from the catwalk and into my wardrobe. Thank you very much.

 

The same couldn’t necessarily be said of the Ann Sofie-Back collection which showed in the same location. Known for designing pieces that challenge our perceptions of femininity and the way women dress, this season’s collection focused on society’s overwhelming obsession with celebrity. (An interesting concept for a week that relies upon a frenzied media circus? Or too ironic for its own good? I’m undecided.) Models wore large white T-shirts branded with pixeled images of magazine titles under oversized mannish blazers. Meanwhile dresses had large pieces missing, supposedly emulating the vintage gown Kate Moss ripped at a party last year – as the catwalk show wore on, so the dresses became more and more non-existent. And in a nod towards Ms Winehouse shirts were splattered with stains reminiscent of blood, which may be one  trend I choose to opt out of.

 

The Junky Styling Show Off on Brick Lane last week was a totally different, and welcome, take on Fashion Week. Unsure of what to expect, I was more than pleasantly surprised when I was ushered into the venue ahead of the spiralling queue to my table replete with complimentary booze. Created by best friends Annika Sanders and Kerry Seager seven years ago, Junky Styling deconstructs charity shop finds and twists them into new tailored pieces. Their autumn/winter collection was an intimate affair, (I was definitely sitting too close to one woman who was getting very excited at the passing models) and had a decidedly couture feel to it. As we were serenaded by a live female artist, a number of different and varying looks were modelled to us at our tables. From a quilted navy bodice to an extravagant dress constructed from numerous trench coats, the pieces were fascinating if not entirely practical. However a taupe pinafore with puffball skirt could have been worn without too many backward glances as could almost all of the menswear. With eco-fashion having its moment in the spotlight right now, Junky Styling are hitting the right note with their recycled clothes. However, I can’t help but feel there is only so much you can do with shirt sleeves and lapels – I’ll be interested to see what these two come up with next year.