“A sign over the door at the Chanel offices has a quote: La création n’est pas démocratique. I take that as my cue to sink into the background, perfectly content to be invisible enough to overhear ‘Belts. Think belts!’ which garners a thoughtful ‘Yes…’ and a pause, and a ‘Why belts now?’ asked with all the inquiring seriousness of a young Siddhartha seeking enlightenment.
“All of the designers I have met up to this point have been very nice, although upon being introduced to Karl Lagerfeld, he looks me up and down and dismisses me with the not super-kind, ‘What can you write that hasn’t been written already?’
“He’s absolutely right, I have no idea. I can but try. The only thing I can come up with right now is that Lagerfeld’s powdered white ponytail has dusted the shoulders of his suit with what looks like dandruff but isn’t. Also, not yet having undergone his alarming weight loss, and seated on a tiny velvet chair, with his large doughy rump dominating the miniature piece of furniture like a loose, flabby, ass-flavored muffin over-risen from its pan, he resembles a Daumier caricature of some corpulent, overfed, inhumane oligarch drawn sitting on a commode, stuffing his greedy throat with the corpses of dead children, while from his other end he shits out huge, malodorous piles of tainted money. How’s that for new and groundbreaking, Mr. L.?”
Well, that was refreshingly eviscerating-y! You may ask, “Marjorie! Why are you generally uncomfortable with fat slurs but OK with this?” And I will say, “Because, crafted as it was before Karl lost 92 pounds on his lunatic aspic-centric cold-water-on-the-boobs diet, it is the kind of delicious poison that could most trigger Karl’s self-loathing, and I’m good with that. Sho0-fly pie for everyone!”
Rakoff was at Tablet magazine’s 1st anniversary party on Tuesday night, but I was too shy to talk to him.