Archives for posts with tag: Rei Kawakubo

Having a blast here-so far away from the trials of Los Angeles.  No car, no worries, just me and a small suitcase and whole lot of hope.

Now, deliciously, I also have a pair of pink and black leather shoes that only I and a handful of truly stylish, brave friends could wear.

Thank you Comme des Garçons, thank you Rei Kawakubo. Thank you style Gods.

How many of you look at charlieissocoollike on You Tube?  Real name Charlie Mc Donnell.  I love him-no, not like that.  He’s only 19, fresh, funny and talented.  My friend Mr S Fry made a charming end credit for him.  I will write more about Mr Mc Donnall soon but do check out Charlie’s Duet with Myself.

Did I tell you that I had TERRIBLE food poisoning after our delicious lunch at The Standard Grill?  The rabbit ragu served with the ‘home made’ pasta and chanterells did me in.  I have not vomited for YEARS.  I mean, hanging over the pan and violently chucking up the entire contents of my belly whilst simultaneously shitting my white comme des garcons under pants.

I love NYC.

I don’t expect much from life.  I really don’t.  But I get so little in LA.  Like so many people I may end up being one of it’s finest victims but…I doubt it.  I am heading east.  I’ll tell you all sooner or later why.

The goat project has been put on hold until I have some more spare cash.  The film I want to make is ready to be born so I will just make it.  I may just be in it.  I am all a quiver about making a new film.  Can’t get it out of my head.

My friend Joan thinks that I am all over the place but that’s how it has always been-all over the place.

I tweeted today about being grateful.  It’s easy to complain about life, then when it gets better forget to be grateful. I am sitting in a warm, well decorated room overlooking the Hudson River, my belly full and friends to see.  What more could I want?

I am really glad that I came to the USA for as long as I have.  I have learned so much from you people.  Good and Bad.

More facts emerging from the Kristian Digby funeral fiasco.  Kristian’s mad mother apparently very dismissive about KD at funeral to his visibly upset father.  Friends and some family members and work colleagues unable to attend the funeral-asked to stay away.   Real friends got together at tree in Torquay and buried box of memories.  One friend reporting that Kristian’s coffin was dragged into church rather than carried respectfully.    I will repeat my earlier assertions:  Kristian’s mother is an insensitive hag who ruined great portions of her son’s life.  The truth will out Mrs Digby.

Met some PR type gay in Soho House the other night.  Single. attractive but after ten minutes of conversation..really ought to have stayed in the closet.  BACK IN THE CLOSET for you young man.  He told me I needed to filter what I was saying-we were talking about politics.  What a fucking boooooar.

Finally, did I mention to you how much I loathe Sophie Dahl?  How she went out of her way to ruin my experience of LA?  That poor sweet crooner husband of hers will see straight through her conniving ways sooner or later.  You can’t marry a woman 8 inches taller than you-why?  Because you never get to look her directly in the eye.

There’s nothing more exhilarating that an unresolved resentment don’t you think?  One day I will recount the entire sordid story for your delectation.

Jake and the Virgin Jake and Duncan Jake Jake Jake butt Jake in bed Jake in Bed 2 Jake Bauman Soho House

Duncan and the Big Dog

Everything falling: today’s theme.  The unusual sound of rain falling over Hollywood, Luna falling off of the bed at 3am and having to be helped back up.  The little dog burrowed beside me. I think his dewclaw has fallen off.  He looks more comfortable.  As for claws or nails or rain or cats and dogs falling-the little fingernail that fell off after my Big Dog was killed has finally grown back.  A full seven months it took.

My therapy session yesterday with Jill cleared my muddy mind.

People ask all the time about the clothes I wear on the show Sex Rehab.   The sunglasses I wear are either Paul Smith  ($65 on sale) or Tom Ford ($350 not on sale).  Let me put your minds at ease:  I usually spend NOTHING on clothes and keep them forever (I still wear a Romeo Gigli suit I bought 25 years ago) wearing them well after the moths have eaten them.  The secret, of course, is buying beautiful pieces and developing a specific style.  I love the cut of my Dior pants, the theatrical kick of a Vivienne Westwood jacket..and her accessories-my favorite sweater full of moth holes is a Westwood classic.  I used to wear tons of Helmet Lang before Gucci fired him.  I bring out the Lang for special occasions.  I have a beautiful Helmut bondage cardigan that I am going to wear today.

I love talking to you because you remind me..

Duncan and Clare

My favorite designer is Rei Kawakubo for Commes des Garcons.  Oh Rei, how I worship you-I worship Japanese designers:  Issey Miyake, Yohji Yamamoto, Rei.  REI!  Every time I wear the navy cardigan I bought in Paris from your hidden store on the Rue Saint-Honore people jump out at me!  They notice the elegant detail, they want to know where..who..how.

Well people, the secret is in the search and the timing.  I never buy anything unless I LOVE it.  Every season I buy just one item at the full price to enjoy the experience, having it served properly, having it wrapped beautifully.  Then for delicious bargains, getting to Barney’s or Fred Segal at just that moment when sale items crash from 40% off to 70% off.

If you arrive in Hollywood with a suitcase and a dream then you have come for one thing and one thing only…the film industry.  The most handsome boys and the most beautiful girls from all over the USA.  The prom kings and queens who sparkled in their High School musical all end up here.  From all over the world writers, directors, producers they too turn up in LA sooner or later. Some of them end up leaving as fast as they came, others become waiters or waitresses looking to be discovered and for a select few there will be a place at the table.  It’s the same thing in Paris.  The streets jammed with hopeful, hopeless lovers of fashion.  As I would arrive in Hollywood years later in search of the studio-I arrived in Paris aged 17 totally in awe of the big fashion houses, worshiping at the iron gates of St Laurent as I would the gates of Paramount.

Paris! What an amazing adventure.  Apart from reinventing myself as Lord Anthony Rendlesham I also illustrated for fashion magazines, styled for photographers (where r u Jim Greenburg?), formed opinions about haute couture, prêt-a-porter and ‘tendance de la mode’,  I went to every show every season, met every designer: Karl, Yves, Chantal, Emmanuelle, Angelo, Thierry, Jean-Paul…I watched elderly women with soft voices cover an entire couture frock with 14 lbs of tiny jet beads.  I learned how to sew a cuff onto a sleeve, a collar onto a blouse, a placket, a peplum, to drape, a toile, organza, interfacing!  The language of fashion became my language.

These are the languages I learned during the past 45 years: fashion, cuisine, film.  I can speak all of them fluently.

It was in Paris that I met Fred Hughes, elegant mercurial Fred Hughes.  His slicked back hair and beautiful apartment on the Rue de Cherche Midi, his paintings by Girardot , his linen sheets, his vetivert.  He showed me how to take cocaine and heroin.   You know, I was such a prude.  I didn’t have sex ever with any of them.  Now they are all dead.

Fashion, take it as seriously as you want to take it.  I love it as much as I love cooking and film making.

Within a few years I would learn an altogether different language:  the language of prison.  I can speak that fluently too but I seldom get the chance. Thankfully.

Little Dog asleep in suitcase Paris 2009 with Comme

I read about Bernie Madoff in his medium security prison yesterday.  Harlene Horowitz, who lost her Brentwood, Calif., home and other assets in Mr. Madoff’s Ponzi scheme.

“For someone who lived so high, he can’t be happy in his surroundings,” she says.

It struck home forcefully.  Not because I agree with her but because if Bernie is anything like me then he’ll be doing just fine.  He’ll be making the best of it.  He’s a survivor.  Bernie Madoff is cushioned from the reality of prison by fantasy.  The same fantasy that persuaded him he would never get caught.  I know what that feels like.  I know what it’s like to be in prison, treading carefully, never looking anyone in the eye or speaking unless spoken to.