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We
are queuing in the heat to meet John Galliano, last seen dressed as a
spaceman. In the throng I am behind Mischa Barton who is behind Harvey
Weinstein. Far beyond is Galliano. None of us can see him. Our first hurdle
of this backstage gauntlet is a black passage like purgatory. If we make
it that far guards will determine whether we reach the last enclosure.
After half an hour I start to wonder whether he is actually there. I look
at Harvey. He is staying put. Mischa is leaning like a sea swell. At last
I make it into the black zone, am blinded and afraid but finally, released
into the afterlife. Inside are photographers, chosen ones and, guarding
a human sized birdcage, Galliano. He says hello. He is calm and warm.
His eyelashes are as thick as bumblebees.
I am in Paris for the Autumn/Winter Haute Couture collections. This is
my first proper foray into fashion as an onlooker and it's a treat. I
have front row tickets, backstage passes and permission to be photographed
in pieces fresh off the catwalk. It is a girl's dream. How often does
one get to be a Galliano Botticelli? As a theatre lover Haute Couture
is especially exciting for me. The clothes are like costumes of the highest
quality, well suited to some of the characters around who are as compelling
as the catwalk. From Mia Maestro to Martha Stewart, everyone is in Paris.
Although very little couture will be sold, celebrities and potential buyers
sweep in from all over the world to witness the work of the couturiers.
At Chanel are Kylie Minogue and Nicole Kidman. At Gaultier are Cher and
Catherine Deneuve. At Dior are Harvey Weinstein, Liv Tyler, Drew Barrymore
and Mischa Barton.
I have fittings for clothes I have been allowed to borrow for the shows.
Between two large windows at Valentino is a pair of large Botero nudes.
Flesh pours over their turnip shapes. The atelier and everything in it
is vast except for the dresses. As various parts of me stall in them I
focus on the hydrangeas. They are pale purple, one step down from Valentino's
signature red. Finally I find a cream silk dress whose buttons stay put.
For Valentino's party after the show I pick a lavender dress. I am now
late for my appointment at Dior but the team let me in as the gates shut.
I pick a loose blood red cocktail dress for the show and a white one for
afterwards. Armani lend me a trouser suit and Chanel, a bag of black and
white frocks. I am ready for the collections.
At the Dior show I am sitting next to Mischa Barton. She is also in short
blood red and has sported the vamp look right down to a pair of pointy,
black ankle boots. The catwalk is a paved avenue with trees like a scene
from Much Ado About Nothing. It seems appropriate for an audience of performers
or indeed, anybody with a short concentration span like my other neighbour,
Felix, India Hicks' eight year-old son. The show begins with ascending
battle cries. I visualise carnage backstage. Then, as if from nowhere,
the first figure appears and is astounding. We have forgotten fashion
and models. This creature seems otherworldly. It jilts from side to side
down the avenue, trapped in black and crystal armour. It is almost as
tall as the trees. On its head are shining Cleopatra locks, its body,
a tight long dress and on just one arm, a jagged "georgette"
armour sleeve. Felix's mouth is wide open.
The figure is followed by ever more mediaeval and fantastical creations.
One group wears a jester theme- mismatched boots, joker hats and bushes
up to their armpits. The heels are so high they look vertical. To close
the show are the wackiest pieces of all and they are enormous. The last
one took an entire truck just to get it to Paris. Its train, made of blue
organza scrunches, filled with paper-painted foil, looks like water. As
the model exits the tide recedes. It is the cue for the spaceman.
Galliano always makes a grand finale entrance. This time the spacesuit
was from female French astronaut Claudie Haignere, who wore it to the
Russian space station Mir in 1996. "It took four guys to help me
get into it," says the designer. Of course it is the final surprise
of the"Planet Botticelli" theme.
My first night in Paris I go to a party thrown by Chrome Hearts, the gothic,
silver jewelry label favoured by Karl Lagerfeld and Cher. The venue is
the Baccarat Mansion, where crystal samples from chandeliers to goblets
are on display. I find the original 'Flacon de Parfum "Diorissimo",
Dior, 1955'. It is a vase with a carved gilt flower as a stopper, engraved
with "DIORISSIMO." It was one of my first scents. Cher and Lenny
Kravitz are meant to be the hosts but Kravitz is away on tour. I am almost
more excited to meet Cher, being a fan of both her music and
Mermaids. "Are you going to sing?" I ask her. "No, tonight
I'm just a mannequin." She is wearing a white top and skirt, exposing
a toned white midriff. Around her neck is a cluster of crosses on chains.
Her eyelids look closed.
The night is both a warm up to the Haute Couture and a celebration of
the Menswear, which has just ended. Ozwald Boateng, delighted with the
result of his show, keeps groping my friend Antonia. "It's just you're
so beautiful," he sighs. In the red crystal bathroom designer Marko
Matysik is posing on a table with a cigarette holder, modeling his new
black armband. I continue on to the Lacoste party at the top of the Centre
Pompidour with one of the best views of Paris, before the trendy Le Baron
nightclub. There are Mick Jagger and L'Wren Scott, dancing into the early
hours.
The Chanel show the next morning is in a blinding white tent. The catwalk
is shaped like a Polo, with the audience in the middle. Between every
pair of legs is a little bottle of Evian. I have forgotten sunglasses
and the show is uncomfortably delayed. When I walked in it felt a bit
like heaven. Now it feels like ER. Gianluca Longo, ES's style director,
lends me his shades but they are prescription, so I waddle to my seat.
As it turns out I am not the only one. Most of this audience is of an
elder generation, albeit still able to wear short Chanel dresses over
celery stick legs. "No shame!" scolds a voice as a swarm of
press descends on a seat to my left. Kylie Minogue is finding her seat
with her boyfriend's Rhodesian ridgeback. Given the men by the entrance,
with blue shower caps over their shoes, I am surprised Sheba has been
let in. Every time a human arrives the men scrub the white floor in their
wake.
I ask Chanel collaboratrice Amanda Harlech about Karl Lagerfeld. "Of
course, he is known to be highly meticulous. Every millimetre is attended
to. You think it will make no difference but actually it does. Karl is
very clever."
We sit through several rotations of outfits, all torso length and pinned
like butterflies between denim arms and legs with high, jeweled heels.
The denim reminds me of my mother's eighties' wardrobe but of course I
should focus on the frocks. One is a sumptuous short crimson satin dress
and cape with a jeweled neck and bulbous ruff. At the end of the show,
when Lagerfeld has joined the 'bride', there is a twist. Instead of the
models we, the audience, are now spun around.
I visit the Chanel atelier, below Coco Chanel's apartment. Along the spiraling
stairs in between are vertical strips of mirror. Through these the shy
Madame Coco would watch her collections from the top step. She also had
a private corridor from here to the Ritz where she kept another apartment
for when the atelier became lonely. I strike a pose in the crimson satin
cape. It's nice to put some colour in the room.
Valentino is a family friend so he lets me glimpse his clothes before
the show. The Russian collection has a certain gravitas even as it hangs
upon the rails. Many pieces are heavily brocaded or embroidered with semi-precious
stones. I eye a cherry red strapless piece with layers like concertinas.
It looks like the end of a Christmas cracker. Valentino tells me the entire
collection took just a month to make, with 70 workers. Later I hear he
is known for his ateliers working in record time. We are at the Theatre
National de Chaillot. Backstage, models are sitting around having hair
and make-up done by top artists Orlando Pita and Pat McGrath. The hairstyle
is big, French and grand- hair is backcombed first then blown into a tall
chignon with a foam bun put in to flesh out the real one. The result is
a Valentino bow. I am surprised to find so many Slavic models, surrounded
by bananas and sandwiches, reading books in Russian. It is far less cluttered
than I would have imagined and the girls seem to do as they are told.
Martha Stewart arrives, bright and sprightly, in a little black skirt
with a lace shirt, beige stilettos, coiffed hair and red lips. The Beckhams
had wanted to be here too but the result of Saturday's match sadly changed
their itinerary. Photographers besiege Liz Hurley. "It's like a supermarket!"
my neighbour sums up the star mania.
The show is filled with winter treasures. They are feminine and billowing
in crystal-studded silk. There are sexy touches too, even amidst the winter
tweeds. My favourites are a light cream camisole, pleated over the breasts
and a long black transparent dress with pockets. The details are exquisite.
Looks are finished with diamante catches and cuffs and gold trees between
the shoulder blades. Backstage I seize the red cracker dress and pretend
I have just stepped off the catwalk.
John Galliano invites me to a private dinner. It is at Mathi's Bar, a
perfect setting for the World Cup semi-finals, raging on a screen. I discover
that Galliano compiles six books of research before every show as well
as making research trips. He also finds the time to be charming. Before
we even meet I receive in my hotel a vase of pink roses and raspberries
with a hand-written note welcoming me to the capital. In the middle of
dinner France wins the semi-finals. "Now it will be France-Italy!"
whoops Margarita Missoni. The timing seems good for the fashion houses
and the champagne flows on. But funnily enough now is a time where even
football and fashion can clash. "It's actually not that good for
us," confides a Galliano wingman over rainbow coloured macaroons.
"Which newspaper will mention the show tomorrow? All the headlines
will be about the football."
The Beckhams may be absent from Valentino's chateau the next night but
there is a horde of other stars at the party from Michel Caine to Elton
John. Valentino has just received a red ribbon Legion d'Honneur from the
Minister of Culture. Liz Taylor is the first to dance. The magnificent
chateau, in Versailles, is surrounded by gardens, one of which is an entire
lawn of lavender. I am camouflaged against it in my dress. At dinner I
sit next to my friend, shoe designer Christian Louboutin. He is wearing
a pink suit, which he calls lavender and says my dress is grey. I never
would have thought it possible for an artist to be colour-blind but Christian
says he knows he is. The sumptuous banquet seems appropriate for the Haute
Couture. It looks divine but is totally impractical if you plan to be
able to move afterwards. An entire wall is lined with buckets made of
bread and filled with pasta, bowls of soft mozzarella and pools of crème
caramels. As we sit on steamy terraces lined with plastic walls a telepathic
aid with a knife appears and slashes out some windows. Even the parties
are having last-minute alterations this week.
I manage to get most of me into the outfits to be photographed. A red
paper painted Dior cape is as light as it sounds despite its vast surface
area. I squeeze my arms through the insect-leg sleeves until they look
like sausages. I feel I am now a part of the cape… We want to shoot
it in the street but it has just rained for the only five minutes of the
week and the train will be destroyed. The Dior entrance is the compromise
and I will be shot backwards which means no one will see my jeans or the
sausage meat if the sleeves burst. I love the sequin cockerel and high
collar- very Cruella.
Two of the photo-shoots take place in my hotel, the Park Hyatt, off the
Place de Vendome. The short Versace dress I chose in the showroom (the
house no longer does a catwalk show) arrives in what looks like a body
bag. Inside it is a stuffed plastic bag to preserve the fine white beadwork
and maintain the shape without the mannequin. It is tiny but thankfully
the zip closes if I do not breath. Looking around at the décor,
Louvre artist Christiane Dourand's stretched metal corpses, I wonder whether
I will end up as the next inspiration. Finally I am released and the dress
is returned. This afternoon it will be photographed on Victoria Beckham
who has at last made it to Paris. The other dress is a serene pale beige
Armani scrunch-pleated evening gown. This one I cannot fasten but its
structure is so strong there is little need to. I stand on the balcony
against the rooftops of Paris, one side in the sun.
The pieces in the Armani Prive collection are seasoned with clear black
and white concertinas and cobra-necks as well as soft, rushing gowns in
pale pastels. Many are dusted with Swarovski crystals, one so densely
it seems to be flashing. It cost £60,000 to make. Armani's dedication
does not falter after the show. Not only does he take his bow for the
cameras; he orchestrates a regimental line-up of his models and kneels
at their feet. His energy is incredible. I hear he has been jumping up
and down for joy backstage. This is only the third Haute Couture show
of his thirty-year-old fashion house and already he is selling about 85%
as opposed to the usual 35%. Across the catwalk is my cousin Helen Taylor,
ambassador to Armani, as well as Cher and Claudia Cardinale, from the
original Pink Panther film.
Riccardo Tisci, 31, is the new young director of Givenchy. 'How old are
you?' he asks me suspiciously, zipping me into a tiny little beige felt
skirt below his Johar beige zebra shrug. 'You look 15.' In the fashion
world that may be a compliment but it makes me feel even sillier for tottering
on platforms as high as little stools. There are two zebra heads amidst
the discs of the shrug if you look carefully. Tisci's globally inspired
collection, Maroc, has a similar feel. From the neutral blacks, creams
and chestnut browns you get the sense he wants you to work with him in
uneasy wildernesses, which I like. We share a couple of favourites. Badira
is a strapless white gown with gathered white pouches falling from the
hips, which gently fades into tar-brown as though the dress is sinking
in a swamp. Yemanja is a black lacquer of a gown, made from three thousand
eel skins.
"I think Lacroix loves women," says fashion illustrator David
Downton. It is reciprocal. Even a toddler has come in a Lacroix-pink dress.
The collection looks like electric black-tie, at once smart and fantastically
clashing. Turquoise tights embroidered with black crystals flow into high
turquoise heels below a silver coat with a yellow "sulfur" fox
collar. Not only are the outfits arresting; they look comfortable. I love
details like the lone string-thin turquoise belt and the short black Pulp
Fiction-style haircuts of the models, topped with black crystal roses.
The sugary music only sharpens the edge of the grown-up girls. The models,
more womanly looking than usual, seem to be enjoying themselves. After
the show I pose in a blue-grey gown with a statue of Mars.
I next see Cher at the Gaultier show, in black jeans, more chains, a pirate
bandana and shades to match the patent black catwalk. We have a sticky
hour's delay. I spot buyer Veronica Hearst. I am sitting in L'Elephants
Celebes. Every seating sector has a surreal label and each outfit has
a name. I examine the list which numbers the pieces in elegant French
calligraphy: "La Belle et la Bete", "Circe". It reads
like a menu of rare caviar. In the past every fashion house would name
its pieces in a collection. Downton says the Gaultier show is his out
and out favourite. The mirrors at the entrance to the catwalk are filled.
The first reflection is bizarre. At the top of a model swathed in fox
fur, is a top hat, which has been twisted from the hair on her head. The
show has a burlesque circus huntress quality about it. Fox-fur-trimmed
organza whirls down the catwalk followed by feather-covered arms, one
with a real wing attached. 'La Toison d'Or' is a burgundy organza fur
trimmed skirt, topped with a gold sequin bomber jacket and golden stuffed
fox stole.
At the close of the show I slip backstage where models are cracking open
champagne. One of them is miming a French ballad with her hairbrush while
another fires hair spray in the air. To my delight my favourite outfit
fits but one thing is missing. A blond top hat is anchored to my head.
With more human hair than I have on my scalp, it feels gloriously heavy.
I tip toe back to the hall for a photograph. I have never felt more glamorous.
But all fairytales turn to dust. As the collections end, darkness falls
and my gowns go back to the fashion houses. Galliano drops his spacesuit.
Mischa and the eels disappear. There's barely time to bid anyone goodbye
before my pumpkin leaves for London at midnight.
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