Beijing in Pictures

Two weeks ago I got the kind of phonecall we all dream about: Kris Van Assche's Dior office was calling, they were organizing a menswear show in China and would I be free to go to Beijing in 5 days. Well, would I! a very busy week ensued, which was spent basically doing paperwork and worrying that I wouldn't get my visa (let's just say journalists, even the ones who work in fashion, are not exactly the darlings of the Chinese Communist Party). However, everything worked out in the end and I found myself flying towards a city I didn't know much about...

I'm not really sure what I was expecting from Beijing; certainly a very (very) big city where tradition meets modernity. But what is really amazing about China's capital is its energy. It's impossible to describe, it oozes old time mystery and 21st century excitement (and endless pollution. Sometimes it's even impossible to see 100 metres ahead of you because of that). In the picture above is the view I got of the city from my room in the 49th floor of the Park Hyatt hotel. 

Traditional China is still there, though, sometimes so idyllic it feels like a Hollywood setting. These pictures were taken around the Summer Palace a bit outside the city, where the Qing emperors used to spend their summers (and which was massacred by the "very civilized" English and French during the XIXth century and rebuilt later). Just taking a walk there makes you feel so zen and grounded - and the experience is enhanced by the fact that there are hardly any obnoxious Western tourists dressed in shorts and crocs. Seriously, that makes Beijing the perfect destination.

 Posing in the Forbidden city with the lovely Noémie from the Dior team. We learned the most impressive stories about concubines and eunuchs there.

Some charmingly decadent traditional neighbourhoods still exist in the city, although most of them are being destroyed in order to build yet more huge towers to house banks and financial institutions while people are being relocated. It just doesn't make much sense to me how any self-respecting Communist party would do that kind of thing, but oh well. I think as a matter of fact one of the things that fascinates me about China so far is its political and socio-economic situation. Being able to talk to real people and see how they live was, for me, the most priceless thing about my trip. As was seeing senior citizens still dress as they did during the Cultural Revolution, wearing blue worker jackets and caps with red stars embroidered on them.

 Yes, I did have the time to take a walk on the Great Wall. And there were no tourists!

The Forbidden City was really impressive and made me think of Ryuichi Sakamoto's music for The Last Emperor. Most of the pavillions in it are being restored, but there are still some decadent bits like this one, which made me ecstatic with aesthetic joy, much to the confusion of Chinese people who couldn't understand how a decaying wall could make me so happy.

 Dior Homme's amazing show. More on that tomorrow, as it deserves a post on its own.

And of course we partied like crazy fashion people after the show, dancing to Hurts's live gig with Chinese celebrities (I admit I didn't know who anyone was, but they were all lovely and fun!). Here I am towards the end of the night, after too much champagne and too much jet lag, with Julien from Dior. For some reason at this point I was wearing Julien's Dior Homme outfit and he was wearing my Carolina Herrera leopard coat, which prompted our motto for the night (and our whole stay in China): what happens in Beijing stays in Beijing.

Guillaume Henry mesmerizes Italy

If you've been following my Italian adventures through Twitter and Instagram, you'll know just how fabulous thursday's Carven performance in Florence was. For further details, I have written a little article on the soirée for L'Express Styles which I am translating here to English for your reading pleasure. Also, for those of you who would like to read the original article in French, you can do so by CLICKING HERE. Oh, and all these pictures were taken by Jean-Etienne Portail.

It was the surpise of the week: in a place kept in the utmost secret until the very last minute (and which turned out to be the Velodromo delle Cascine), Guillaume Henry had carte blanche to present his spring/summer 2013 collection. At 7:30 pm the intrigued guests arrived to the velodrome's entrance and were amazed to discover an inmense green race track filled with about 30 set tables. Tablecloths of cotton and lace, sets of deliciously odd china and Chianti bottles announced an Italian dinner. Among cherry tomatoes and mozzarella, the conversation inevitably turned towards simple pleasures. It was at this moment that, announced by a loudspeaker, waiters appeared scurrying about, carrying their filled trays with one hand in miraculous balance. Male models walked alongside them in this extraordinary race, some of them in bikes, followed by a military brass band.

Inspired by the courses des garçons de café, popular in Paris during the early XXth century, Carven's art director Guillaume Henry wanted to spark some old-fashioned French charm over his Italian presentation. His idea succeeded: guests promptly got up to photograph the runners and, once the race was finished, there was even a little award ceremony. The collection was then at its most visible: multicolor madras checks and masculine floral prints stood next to turtlenecks, shirts and écolier pea coats in khaki,green and yellow tones, but also (of course) in blues, whites and reds. The shapes were minimal and constructed, the styling simple. "We had to eliminate a lot of the clothes from the show at the last minute", Guillaume later told me, "it was far too hot for models to wear them". Temperatures, in fact, reached more than 40 degrees in Florence this week.

Some minutes later the models joined the party, sipping on champagne glasses; conversation was lively. The French designer walked among the tables, chatting with the guests. "If I chose to organize a dinner party instead of a regular fashion show, it's because I wanted people to have the chance to meet up and really talk. Simply because fashion is so much more than just clothes. It should be, above everything else, fun". By the end of the evening, nibbling on cherries and strawberries, Style Bubble's Susie Lau smiled: "I'm just taking in this instant. I'm completely content right now". Guillaume Henry no doubt found a complete success.

The Paris Diaries: Halloween

"Don't move", my own mirror reflection whispers to me as I start re-drawing my eyebrows so they'll look like Vampira's. The eye-liner pencil feels soft and a little ticklish on my skin. "I hope my costume'll look cool enough" I think to myself. "Everyone wears such fabulous clothes in this kind of parties and I hardly had any time to decide what I'm gonna wear. The dark circles under my eyes are perfect for Halloween, though. Where is my Touche Éclat? Damn. I really need to sleep more. Or maybe these things just won't go, whatever I do. Maybe I'm starting to not be so young. I'm not twenty anymore... To hell with it, I feel better now than when I was twenty. I wore denim jackets when I was twenty, for God's sake! I could pass for twenty-three. I could even pass for twenty if I didn't wear red lipstick everyday. Where is my red lipstick? There. Well. Not so bad". I look at the mirror. With my fringe pulled to the sides and my face covered in rice powder I actually kind of look like the original Vampira. The taxi is waiting downstairs. I grab a patent leather belt and tighten it until my waist measures 45 cm and I can hardly breathe;I sprinkle some Black Orchid on my décolleté. thirty seconds later I'm on my way to the hippest club in town.

I open the car's door and put both my heeled feet on the floor. My black velvet dress is so long it trails along the wet asphalt. I actually really like my costume; I bet no one else will be dressed like Maila Nurmi. I bet...
I look at the smirking people in front of me and freeze in panic. Oh no. This can't be. Why do these things keep happening to me? Trying to hide on a doorstep as some kids pass me by and scream the words "David Lynch!", I grab my phone and mark a number. "Ray" I say "get here. Now. No one here is disguised".

From my hiding doorstep, feeling a bit like a sucker version of Orson Welles in The Third Man, I can see the people queuing outside the club. Click click click, every single girl here is wearing towering Louboutins and amazingly short skirts. Luckily I don't have to wait long: soon I can see a corpse bride, an Indian chief complete with plume and all, and a silhouette in a Napoleon hat which looks very much like John Galliano. Proudly they make their way to the door among the sneers of the Loubie-wearing crowd. "Thank God you're here! Wasn't this supposed to be a Halloween party?" "oh whatever. Let's just get inside", says Ray.

We walk through glittering golden corridors and heavy red velvet curtains, turning heads as we go. Looking for our host, we accidentally step into a room with black shiny walls furnished only with several pale tree trunks. A small group of people is sipping champagne, sitting nochalantly in the twisted trunks. It looks more like a Fellini or Antonioni scene than a David Lynch movie. They look at us in bored perplexity. I hear a voice behind me: "You guys look amazing!". Our chic-looking host welcomes us. It is a Halloween party after all.

The dancefloor is a curtained stage with red and blue lights. The DJ is playing 50's rock and roll. I dance for a while before realizing the floor is getting crowded with people we don't know; the girls (is it my imagination or are they all blondes?) are wearing different types of little black dresses, stiletto heels and 2.55 bags and they do the twist with straight-looking boys in checkered shirts. I sit and stare in amazement: I haven't seen so many straight boys together in years. Matter of fact, except in menswear shows, I haven't seen more than one straight boy at a time in years. So this is what my life has come to. Oh well, who wants to be surrounded by straight boys in checkered shirts dancing "perreo" style to ska music.
Then something magical happens. Madonna's La Isla Bonita starts sounding and two friends of Ray come to say hi. One of the boys is wearing a Dracula cape embroidered with ostrich feathers, and the other one is dressed as a zombi and his hair is sprayed the colour of green candyfloss. As we sing "last night I dreamt of San Pedro", the feathered dracula whispers in my ear: "sweetheart, you are a goddess!". I feel at home again.

Vive Mugler!

Yesterday afternoon, at the very last minute, I realized an invite for Mugler's show was waiting for me at the 160grams office. Nothing could have made me happier. So I got together with the lovely freelance stylist Ray and Mugler's fitting model and Brazilian bombshell Luisa B and, braving the insane Parisian cold, we arrived early to the Gymnase Japy. We were scared hysterical Gaga fans would try to kill us to steal our invites, but that didn't happen. Instead, we witnessed one of the best shows we have ever seen.
Models strolled down the catwalk in a playful, joking mood, dancing, making faces and jumping (and falling down from the towering heels, but in an amusing, graceful way). Lady Gaga walked under a red light wrapped up in latex and pigtails and smoking a cigarette and... she actually was a great model! She was obviously relaxed and having fun and made everyone smile. Rico Genest was also there working the catwalk like the zombie boy he is. Coco Rocha and Jessica Stam were two of the other models and they were fab.
The clothes were really covetable, reminiscent of Mugler's volumes but intelligently avoiding 1980's influences (after all, who cares about the 80's anymore?) and reinterpreted in a really modern, tasteful way (Ray described it as "a Jil Sanderized version of Thierry Mugler").
All in all, it was not only a cool collection and a great show, but also the first show that has made me (and everyone else) laugh because of its amazing, light, positive energy. That energy couldn't come at a better time, to remind us during one of the gloomiest fashion weeks ever that fashion is actually supposed to be fun .

Silver Sixties

Have you ever thought how your life would be like if you had been born in a different decade? All the recent events in my life (aka work) seem to take me back to the Silver Sixties and, as I find out more and more about that era , I can't help but thinking how my day to day would be if instead of 2011 we were, say, in 1965.
So, let's say I wake up and find myself in a 60's bed, with a 60's duvet and 60's sheets (probably printed with psychedelic-inspired pink flowers). Now, as of 2011, the first thing I do as I wake up is, quite naturally, reach for my iPhone. My 1965 me would, though, reach for 3 or 4 flasks of pills and probably a bottle of syrup as well. What they are for, I don't know; probably vitamins of different kinds and "energy" pills (the ones that used to be made out of amphetamines and that got the Beatles going when they had to give 5 performances a night in Hamburg). As she gets up from bed, my 1965 me would then light a cigarette, which feels so fresh and aromatic (2011 me knows, of course, that smoking is pretty much like poisoning yourself so she doesn't... 2011 me is also a bit of a stereotypical product of an era, I'm afraid).

But now comes the best. As 2011 Marta tries to find some cool music amongst Spotify's latest hits (what will it be: Britney, Shakira or ... Myley Cyrus????) and gets progressively depressed, energized, multi-vitamined 1965 Marta carelessly dances to the Beatles' Help, the Stones, the Everly Brothers... She also probably does some Swedish excercises in her underwear.
She picks a lovely A-shaped minidress and proceeds to spend the next hour and a half making her eyes up (to think that it would actually take me even more time to get made up in the morning if I lived in the 60's), but it doesn't matter since the best songs in rock & roll history are all playing in the radio, one after one after one. But eventually the liner and fake lashes will be ready.

Next, 1965 me has to get her hair ready, which will also take a considerable amount of time since volume is in this season. But it's no problem either: 60's hair dryers come in a plastic suitcase and inside a sort of bonnet, and all you have to do is put the bonnet over your head and your hands are free so you can actually pick up the phone and get the lowdown on the latest gossip while your hair does itself. This is 2011 Marta's dream, but those hairdryers just don't exist anymore.

After three or four hours getting ready, 1965 me is almost ready to get out of the house! (2011 me has probably been working for a while and is pretty bored by now) All she has to do is find her shoes, which miraculously... have only 3 cm-high heels! (instead of the 13 or 14 cm-heeled torture instruments 2011 me suffers constantly) And you know the best? They still look incredibly cool.

The day is naturally spent frolicking around and getting some work done. Modernity is the most, space age is here. The avant-garde designers are Cardin, Courrèges and Rabanne. Ain't life grand. Girls look atomic, and the men... well, they are men (instead of just boys with beards)! It's a nice change.

2011 me might be under the stress of deadlines, competition, an overdose of information, career choices, recession, the unstable political climate... But 1965 me is floating in a psychedelic world like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Everybody seems to be; even Vogue.

And, as she gets back home and turns on one of the 2 TV channels, JFK makes clever and reassuring speeches about the situation of the space race and the good old Cold War; whilst in 2011 we head towards the unknown (well, I mean, of course we do,what?)

I'm starting to be rather jealous of my 1965 me. She might not have Internet, but she gets all the fun (maybe because Facebook doesn't exist yet).
Of course I'm only fantasizing, I have no idea how my life would have really been if I was born in a previous generation (as a matter of fact, chances are not quite so cool, since my country used to be a dictature back then) and I think that, as challenging and difficult as this new decade seems, it's also really quite exciting. But sometimes, when our era seems too politically correct and aseptic and philistine, it's fun to use your own imagination... and be jealous of what it can create.

Colour Me Up

Most of the people we all know are addicted to something: cigarettes, chocolate, shoes, bad relationships... For some reason addictions are inherent to human beings and people who claim not to have any obsessive inclinations at all are either lying or potentially crazy and dangerous (Hitler and Stalin allegedly had no "vices").

I, for one, can't hide the fact that I'm addicted to several things like my iPhone, eating Japanese food, wearing heels which are inappropriately high, compulsively watching or reading anything that bears the label "Hollywood Classic" and... makeup.
Ever since I was 15 I've been making up, at first wearing discreet Dior pink and pearly tones suitable for a young lady, then progressively darkening colours and getting more and more extravagant, which accounts for my current collection of purple and burgundy lipsticks, glittering metallic eyeshadows and statement nail polish hues. Those of you who know me are aware of the fact that I can spend hours speaking about makeup, I relentlessly pick up tips from makeup artists at shootings and my idea of a good time is to spend an afternoon at Le Bon Marché with Vanni, both of us looking for new products like a pair of hysterical circus freaks.

Could all this get to be too much? A couple of months ago, when I started thinking I couldn't live without tricolor manicure and false lashes, I realized the whole thing was maybe getting out of hand. So, willing to take up on an experiment and in true Vogue America style, I decided to give up makeup cold turkey for 8 straight days and keep a diary of the experience. Would it be possible to get off makeup?

Day 1: I stare at my bare skin in the mirror. Oh God I look so very... natural, so 2001, so peasant-like! I actually have to go to work, meet people and be a typically sophisticated fashion industry insider. Well, I'm willing to work the natural look, but not by being "really" natural! So I apply a touch of foundation and translucent Shiseido powder as well as a touch of lash curler and very discreet YSL mascara. I look at my bare nails in horror (no one has actually seen my nails bare for more than 10 years) and, since I still have almost an hour to kill (wow, making up every morning does take time!) I decide to do something about them. I know I still keep some very discreet Chanel Rose Satin polish somewhere in the fridge.

Day 2: Well, the first day was not soooo bad, was it? But I feel ashamed to have cheated on myself like that, I really should be taking this more seriously. I decide to be truly brave and not only do I just wear moisturizer on my face, but I also take off my nail polish. The bare look doesn't go at all with my petite robe noire and my pumps. Oh well. I make a face at myself and get out of the house trying not to think about it.

Day 3: Even if I have slept more than I normally do because I don't have to spend an hour creating my lipline and eyeliner, I don't think I look rested enough. If I could only use a bit of Touche Éclat the world would seem different. But I have to be strong.
To be honest, I thought things would be better by now and that I would feel more confident precisely because I was daring to be "myself". But truth spoken I actually feel less confident at work and more self-conscious when surrounded by other people. I start to reflect bitterly on the concepts of identity and self expression.

Day 4: I suddenly realize I'm spending a lot of time looking at women's faces on the street. Most Parisian women wear makeup, and I can't help but think everyone looks so much prettier and glamourous and strong than I do! I'm starting to dislike my un-made up face. I have nice skin and I normally don't think I'm ugly, but the thing is now I feel like I'm too exposed to others, like I had been given a sort of truth serum that has made me vulnerable. Is that what people mean by "being yourself"?
Day 5: I don't care about anything anymore, really. I could be dressed in a potato sack and I wouldn't mind. It would actually go better with my face and hair than the popelin blouse and high-waisted skirt I'm wearing. Whatevs. Depression.

Day 6: I'm starting to really hate this experiment. What gave me this idea in the first place? Am I gonna spend the rest of the year on Prozac on account of this week? I feel really tempted to quit, but there are just 2 days left; besides, who knows, something positive might happen? Yeah, right. Put on your coat, don't look at yourself in the mirror and get out of the house.
I must admit it's very difficult to quit makeup when at work you are continuously exposed to it. As I leaf through an Armani press kit filled with luscious lipstick hues, someone behind me is talking about the best way to apply golden eyeshadow. Then I realize I'm not thinking any less about makeup... If something, I'm getting more and more obsessed with it!
Day 7: I can't stand it anymore. I really need to cheat again... and cheat in style. So I give myself a Belle de Nuit bicolor manicure in purple and golden. I'm wearing no makeup on my face, but I don't feel as bad anymore: my nails look amazing! Just one day to go.

Day 8: I don't give a hoot about today, from tomorrow on I can feel good again! I have become aware of the fact that this "natural" look actually didn't feel natural at all. It felt (self) imposed and gloomy and dull. The natural thing for girls (actually for women of all ages) is to want to have fun, feel good with themselves and be special; and whatever makes them feel like that will be the natural thing. In my case it's playful makeup, and that's that.

So, all in all... Regarding the original objective of giving up my makeup addiction, this experiment has simply been an epic fail. Maybe if I had gone on for a month it would have ended up working, but quite frankly I doubt it. As I cheerfully retouch my lips with classic YSL Fuchsia, I am pleased to notice my obsession is far from pointless. Through the years, makeup has helped me be more self-confident and strong. It is not, as many want to see it, a mask that conceals someone's real personality, but rather a tool which helps to fully express it. And, as Baudelaire put it, "tout ce qui plaît a une raison de plaire".

Fashion War

OMG it's FASHION WEEK!

People tend to say it in an overexcited tone, like it was Christmas. I guess there is a certain Christmas quality to it: the progressive unwrapping of new collections, the amazement at the sight of beautiful things, that special feeling on the street, the parties... I used to view it as a kind of fabulous holiday too, until I actually started working in fashion.
How come Fashion Week feels now more like the Gettysburg battle? Why is it a sort of whirlwind of crazed frenzy? Here are some things you may not know about Fashion Week if, by chance, you are not a fashion insider. In case you are, then you only know all this too well.

Fashion Week's ambivalent feeling of panic/excitement actually starts a couple of days before the first show, when taking a look at all the invites. In my case, I get delivered all my mail by the magazines I work for on the evening before day 1. It usually comes in a XXL bag that has broken under the weigh of its contents and (to go on with the Christmas parallelism) it makes me feel like an overwhelmed Santa Claus. Everything is there, from covetable, lovely invites I wasn't expecting (Gaultier, Rykiel, Dries), to the classics and my favourites (Rick Owens, Gareth, Yamamoto) to up-and-coming designers, to parties, exhibitions, showrooms and other events. Just one look is enough to feel exhitarated, but also to know it won't be humanly possible to attend everything...

So roll on FW Day 1 (actually, Day 2, as Day 1 is generally kind of laid-back and relaxed).
8:00 AM: I am already up, swallowing everything I can find in my fridge (I know there are chances I won't be getting much food during the day), trying to get some writing done and trying to put together a cooler-than-cool outfit, my very own FW camouflage. I vacantly stare at all my shoes. Do I actually own a pair of comfortable shoes? Not really. After trying on about 30 pairs of impossible heels, some little voice in the back of my head reminds me of the excruciating pain I suffered the last time I spent a whole FW day wobbling 15 cm away from the irregular macadam of Paris. Ok, I will just wear a pair of cute brogues. I know Tommy Ton/Facehunter/Sartorialist won't be very thrilled by my overall look, but I have the feeling that my body will thank me for this gesture, sometime when I'm about 80 years old.

10 AM: One thing I would love to know about Paris Fashion Week is why if the first show of the day took place in Montmarte, the next one takes place in Montparnasse, and the next one in Champs Elysées, and then the next one in Bastille. in other words, why must we spend the day running to the very opposite side of the city? If I had a black Mercedes with a driver this wouldn't bother me at all, but as it (still) isn't the case, I can choose between the "Fashion Bus" (which is pretty much like a school bus except people wear Rick Owens tops and Miu Miu shoes instead of dungarees and Reebok Classics), which gets filled very quickly, or the Metro (which in Paris is not very nice. Actually it's rather nasty, people give you dirty looks if you are not dressed in a completely "normal" way and these days there are constant menaces of terrorist attacks. Cool). Then there are taxis. But you have to be a pretty lucky egg to find one in this city. Oh well.

Once the transport issue is solved and as I finally get to the show's venue, a flock of photographers and bloggers starts shooting in my direction. It's time to strike a pose as if I was the most fabulous person in the world, even if it's starting to rain, I realize I have forgotten my umbrella and I can feel my hair slowly blowing up and making me look more and more like Europe's lead singer. My telephone rings non-stop: do I have a spare invite for the next show? Am I going to the last show of the day? Do I have time to meet with friends who are here from London? That reminds me I have my share of phonecalls to make. Will my battery last for the whole day?

1 PM: Fashion Week is really about the shows, isn't it?

That's the bit I still find (and will always find) incredibly exciting. The moment the catwalk lights up, the music starts to play and the first model appears is really thrilling. Always. Then there are, of course, some extra special shows which have the power of giving you a true adrenaline rush and you actually never forget them. I can remember some of them, like Gareth Pugh's first Paris show, Alexander McQueen's Plato's Atlantis and almost every Rick Owens show. I have no idea what makes the difference between a good show and an unforgettable one. I suppose it's a bit like films.

4 PM: I still haven't had lunch and I'm starting to feel tired from running from show to show. I'd give anything just to have an éclair au chocolat... The telephone rings and wakes me from this sweet reverie. Of course it's one of my editors inquiring about an article I have to submit asap. I regretfully start thinking of the work that's piling up at home. A group of fashionable people to my right is gossiping about a group of fashionable people to my left: "He looks like he wants to be Grace Jones", "he goes around criticizing our magazine", "she's so common", "he's all washed out". Ah good old fashion fauna! Luckily I have a group of lovely friends, so I get back to them... and we gossip.

8PM: as we wait for the last show of the day to start, someone breezily tells me "oh by the way, there are 3 parties tonight, I guess you're coming to all of them?" What!? I'm exhausted and starving, and I have to get back home and write a review on each one of the 8 shows we just watched... By the way, which shows did we watch?

Well, you can imagine after 8 days like this I feel rather dazed and confused (and that not having been to New York, London or Milan). But then the next Fashion Weeks comes and I go on and do it all over again. I guess I can't help it. I guess after all, just like everybody else, I am a Fashion Week-aholic!