March 11, 2013

The boy above my bed.

Guys, this post is really not my doing, again I am little more than a translator here. All the wit and linguistic splendour really comes from my delectable friend Julia, the cotton candy girl. This is my much preferred job description for her these days as I find plain old journalist just a tad boring. And though I will admit that whether you know the story behind the name or not, it has the slightest stripper notion attached to it, I still like it and know she doesn't mind.
I ended my Tuesday last week with a Facebook status saying Today yoga kicked my ass, YSL broke my heart, and now poor pasta has to make it all better. I should add that I don’t mind at all having my ass kicked in a yoga class. What happened on the runway at the Saint Laurent F/W 2013 show I did mind a whole lot.

Let’s start from the beginning. I adore Yves Saint Laurent. And more than just the brand I adore him as a person and what he has created and inspired over the years. I have a picture of him in Morocco over my bed, which admittedly has raised some eyebrows of men guests who have shared stayed in my bed. I think why not? Though not generically handsome, he is endearing.  A bit nerdy, a bit innocent; a hipster in the true, original meaning of the word. To call him the godfather of all hipsters would make sense. He made it cool to be uncool way before it became cool to be uncool. He was also a prime example many times that really anything is possible if you set your mind to it. An awesome combination if you ask me. Why not have him to be the last thing I see before I go to sleep, so I can dream and spread my wings with his inspiration in mind?
Over my years in New York it was part of my job to watch and attend shows.  Whoever was designing for YSL at the time, some collections I liked, some I was indifferent about, but I pretty much always felt that I had missed out on the best part of it: The time when Yves Saint Laurent himself designed and pretty much made fashion history with each and every collection.

Now my fashion days are long over and I don’t really care all that much anymore. There are few collections I still watch, but I view them completely different now. I can get excited about Hedi Slimane’s first collection under the Saint Laurent name just because I had found a new future wedding dress when I saw his Witches of Eastwick dresses. It didn't matter to me that when you put them in context with the history of brand, they didn't quite spell YSL, I just liked them for me.
But when I looked at his latest collection, I actually just wanted to curl up in bed, clutch Yves’ picture to my chest, hold him tight and say I am sorry, I am so sorry! Then I wanted to write a letter of condolences to Pierre BergĂ© who had to sit through the show and put on a brave poker face. Nothing felt or looked right about it, nothing even whispered YSL. 
What made it worse was that nobody but me seemed to care at all. Maybe I was a day late with my reaction, maybe critics weren't overly enthusiastic either, but in general I felt rather alone in my dismay. That was till I got a message from Julia. She started the conversation by telling me she found a wedding present for me. Which was exciting because it implied that there is at least one other person who has not given up on me eventually finding Mr Charming (I call him Mr as being a Princess seems tedious work, so I don’t want a Prince.) Then she answered my unspoken question and wrote no, under no circumstances would I get it as a birthday gift, I would just have to wait and find HIM first. Then we spoke about yoga and after we moved swiftly on to the actual important part of the conversation, which inspired this post:

Julia: And btw: can we talk about Slimane. I almost - and that’s NOT fashionjourlistexaggertaionnonsensetalk (her word not mine) – started to cry this morning and (now she is moving into German, I shall translate) hope they kick him out of Paris latest by day after tomorrow. I would throw him in the Seine. Though that would be sad for his photographic skills.

Here comes the time for me to admit that I always mix up Hedi Slimane and Raf Simons. Scorn me if you want though I am pretty sure I'm not the only one. There is just something about the two that makes them like Tweedledum and Tweedledee to me. So I wasn’t quite sure yet whether to agree with her, because I didn't mind the Dior show all that much. Just because it didn't blew me away, didn't mean he – Raf as it turns out – deserved a future as French fish food.

Me: He is the one doing YSL? I always mix him up with the other one. If yes, then I will help kick him out. Pierre Bergé surely started crying?

Julia: I thought about this immediately and Madmoiselle Deneuve probably got a fright and went for a smoke first. Mon dieu! (that’s how she writes – don’t you love her??) But we will talk about this horriblehorriblehorrible horror tomorrow in detail.

In case you wonder, yes, this whole conversation happened on Whatsapp but we already had a Skype date lined up to discuss further.

Me: I am so happy you exist… I couldn’t even find anyone on Twitter to gossip and share my sorrow with.

Julia: True! But those are all cretins (Her word, not mine. I didn't even know it existed and thought she made it up. Sorry if you are on Twitter. Don’t be offended, I'm sure you weren't one of them and just really busy last Tuesday not to respond to my tweet), who cannot differentiate between something they would wear themselves or something that puts the entire identity of a fashion house to the grave. Love you!

Me: Wise words though if I wanted to look like Courtney Love I would buy Marc Jacobs!

Julia: Funny! I said exactly the same today. But we knew already that we are soul mates!!

And that we are. Detailed report from the two candy cotton soul mates about the current state and future of YSL to follow.

P.S. As it is now a few days later I can report that there was no talk of Mr Laurent whatsoever during the Skype conference. We decided boys in our bed were more important to discuss than the one above it. 

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