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Dior to Bardot: Get Your Own Dress!

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In 1955, when the producer of Pierre-Gaspard Huit’s La Mariée Est Trop Belle wanted Christian Dior to design a scene-stealing wedding dress for his star, Brigitte Bardot, the designer refused to even meet with him. Instead, he sent his financial manager, Jacques Rouet, who was told how much publicity Ms. Bardot’s wedding dress would create and that Dior could even meet the actress in person! As Mr. Rouet predicted, Dior wasn’t interested. He refused to dress Ms. Bardot.

“There was no way Dior would risk incurring the displeasure of some of his most elegant clients by allowing his dresses to be put on vulgar display on the screen,” wrote Dior biographer Marie-France Pochna in 1996. In 1997, however, the House of Dior didn’t blink when given the opportunity to dress Nicole Kidman in a lime-green embroidered couture concoction by John Galliano for a big night in Hollywood. It was Dior’s chance to steal at least one movie star from the globally televised Giorgio Armani Annual Fashion Show, also known as the Academy Awards.

Apparently, fashion is the greatest thing to happen to the entertainment industry since Technicolor, and vice versa. At least until the mood swings, and actors tell their managers they want to be “serious” artists, not models with talking heads, and until the press agent for Gwyneth Paltrow realizes that in the pages of InStyle magazine there’s not sufficient demarcation between her, Salma Hayek and Jennifer Aniston.

So formidable a marriage have fashion and celebrity forged that, in 1995, USA Today stopped covering fashion shows here and in Europe. Was fashion editor Elizabeth Snead upset by the newspaper’s decision? Hardly. She suggested the idea to her bosses and then requested a transfer from New York to Los Angeles, where she covers celebrities and movie stars through a fashion lens.

“I just couldn’t justify going anymore. It didn’t make sense to call the shows fashion ‘news’ when they weren’t anymore,” says Ms. Snead in The End of Fashion (William Morrow and Company), a splendid new book about the mass marketing of the clothing business, by Teri Agins.

Despite the chilling title, The End of Fashion is not intended as a polemic. Ms. Agins writes in an informed and lively style about the phenomenal changes she has seen in the fashion world as a reporter covering the beat for a decade for The Wall Street Journal . She sees an industry challenged and, in many cases, in denial. Consumers have rejected fanciful fashions, she argues. “Today, a designer’s creativity expresses itself more than ever in marketing rather than in the actual clothes … Image is the form and marketing is the function.”

The End of Fashion isn’t for fashion enthusiasts who live to be buried in Yves Saint Laurent dress boxes. The End of Fashion does not bubble with fashion moments. (There’s no fainting for Gucci’s $6,800 beaded silk jeans; just acknowledgment of Gucci’s marketing brilliance.) Ms. Agins isn’t sympathetic when she includes this passage from Christian Lacroix, writing in his fashion show program in 1997: “I believe I have not given into systems, whatever they might be … A Lacroix style has been born and even if it doesn’t appeal to everyone, so much the better. The barefooted, jewelryless woman, skimpily dressed in worn-out togs creates a ghostlike vision that only satisfies the most pessimistic, of which I am not one …”

Mr. Lacroix’s attitude, in Ms. Agins’ view, expresses a lot about the end of fashion. Old century versus new century. Fashion today, says Ms. Agins, has shifted from “class to mass, elitism to democratization, from art to commodity.” In other words, the Gap. The author cites four megatrends that propelled fashion into its new direction. “Women let go of fashion … People stopped dressing up … People’s values changed with regard to fashion (consider Target’s tagline: ‘It’s fashionable to pay less’) … Top designers stopped gambling on fashion.” Especially for publicly traded companies, such as Polo Ralph Lauren Corporation and Tommy Hilfiger Corporation, with shareholders to please, she says, “the big guns can’t afford to gamble on fashion whims.”

Of course, these megatrends already might be painfully apparent to fashion industry people. These ideas may seem foreign to New Yorkers who need therapists to help them wait out a late arrival of the new Miu-Miu shoe. But Ms. Agins isn’t writing for them. The Wall Street Journal doesn’t rely on fashion advertising, and Ms. Agins isn’t rushing to play Florence Nightingale to the fashion business. “By the 1980’s, millions of baby-boomer career women were moving up in the workplace and the impact of their professional mobility was monumental. As bank vice presidents, members of corporate boards and partners at law firms, professional women became secure enough to ignore the foolish runway frippery that bore no connection to their lives,” writes Ms. Agins.

She provides a descriptive context and researched chronicle of the evolving industry trends, the cultural and economic changes they represent, and the challenges the fashion business faces at the turn of the century–financing, manufacturing, retailing, licensing and, last but not least, marketing an image that keeps pace with consumers’ desires. “At the end of fashion,” Ms. Agins writes, “it takes a whole lot of clever marketing to weave ordinary clothes into silken dreams.” The author does not focus on fashion connoisseurship, the agenda one hopes to find in the best fashion magazines, inspiring readers to regard fashion the same way a wine aficionado appreciates wine or a cook great food. After all, if Americans can learn to make tiramisù, why can’t they learn to dress well?

The End of Fashion investigates the fall of Paris and the rise of Milan as the center of the fashion business in Europe; the competition between Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger; Giorgio Armani and the Hollywoodization of fashion; the failures of department stores such as Chicago’s Marshall Field’s; and Donna Karan’s ruffle on Wall Street. As an example of how a designer thrives outside of the bubble of fashion, Ms. Agins includes a portrait of the designer Zoran–”proof that a niche player could survive in a cutthroat marketplace, where affluent women were buying fewer designer clothes and were most likely to trade down than up when they did.”

How successful is Zoran, whose simple, expensive, one-size-fits-all clothes change little from season to season? In 1997, he took Bill Blass to lunch at Da Silvano and asked if he could buy his business; he was thinking of expanding. Although intrigued by Zoran’s fiscal display, Mr. Blass wasn’t selling. At least not yet.

Billy’s List: Quiz time!

1. Who is Niki Sachs?

a. The lawyer who did the Condé Nast-Fairchild deal.

b. The chief executive and U.S. president of Hanro of Switzerland, the underwear purveyor that dressed Nicole Kidman in Eyes Wide Shut .

c. The newly elected president of the Council of Fashion Designers of America.

2. In fashionspeak, what are “biscuits”?

a. According to Vogue , those trendy little evening purses from Fendi.

b. According to Barneys’ new catalogue, the store’s little bargains.

c. According to Out magazine, an insulting reference to the overhang of a manly foot crammed into a delicate mule.

3. Clothes from which outfitter feature heavily in the Broadway play Voices in the Dark ?

a. Eddie Bauer.

b. Celine.

c. Vivienne Tam.

Answers: (1) b; (2) c; (3) a.



I Am Charlotte Bocly

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102306 article gurley I Am Charlotte BoclyOn a recent Sunday night, Charlotte Bocly, who is a 19-year-old sophomore at Marymount Manhattan College and lives on Park Avenue, swept into the bar at the Carlyle Hotel. Petite and winsome, with thick, long blond hair and pale blue eyes, she was wearing a brown Tory Burch jacket over a navy Valentino dress, accessorized by a vintage Gucci belt, a Bulgari necklace, a Patek Philippe man’s watch and a Fendi bag. She laughed, ordered a chamomile tea, and said that Matt Dillon had just tried to pick her up.

She was walking down Park Avenue, she said, and a man stopped right in front of her. She tried to maneuver around him, then looked up and saw that it was Mr. Dillon.

“I was like, ‘Oh my God, hello, how are you?’” she said. “He shakes my hand and doesn’t let go of it. And I was like, ‘Um, O.K., can I help you?’ He’s like, ‘I really like your style, blah blah blah blah blah, and can I get your number?’ He said he liked my bag. And I was like, ‘I like your Army hat.’ He said, ‘I’ll call you some time.’ And I was like, ‘You know, I’m not the one to give out my number, I always take numbers. How about I take your number?’ And he was like, ‘Oh, no, no, no.’ And I said, ‘Why not?’ I was trying to play my cards right. I said, ‘I’ve seen you before, met you before, at Butter, and you seemed a lot shorter then.’”

She paused, then said: “If he calls.”

Things like that happen to Charlotte Bocly. The night before, a modeling agent from the West Coast called her cell phone, saying he’d seen a photo of her at a party in the Hamptons posted on photographer Patrick McMullan’s Web site and wanted to use her for a photo shoot. The agent proceeded to read her a poem. “I couldn’t hear anything,” she said. “I’m on the street, there were like taxis, like constant horns and ambulances, and he read me this poem. And I said, ‘Life.’ And he’s like, ‘I like that. Do you have any, like, preferences on meals on the airplane?’ I was like, No, I don’t have time to fly to the West Coast.’

“I probably won’t do it,” she continued, “but it’s fun. And then I told my mother and she was like, ‘How did he get your number?’ So that sort of weirds me out.”

“I’m not like a big modeling type,” she said. “If I were to have like a face—you know, be more public—I wouldn’t want to do it through modeling at first. That’s something you do after, for fun. It’s a matter of principle, I think.”

She sipped her tea—no hard stuff. This past July, her partying had gotten out of hand and Charlotte checked herself into the Silver Hill rehab clinic in New Canaan, Conn.

“I’ve never really liked alcohol in general until I started drinking, you know, and then, you know, smoking a joint,” she said. “You find a level and you like it and, like a lot of kids growing up in New York City, you find it appealing, because it’s so easy to do it.”

The summer of 2006 had started out quietly enough. At her family’s house in Bridgehampton, Charlotte floated around in the pool, played tennis in a bikini, had lunch with her friends at the Maidstone Club (she’s not a member, but “I literally have gone there more than some members.”) Then, one evening, she had some friends over … then more friends. Then it was off to a nightclub.

“It was just a crazy, crazy time,” she said. “Somehow, everyone ended up at my house, and everyone’s in my pool, everyone’s naked, Paul is naked—this is at 5 in the morning, by the way—then Alexandra drove up. Out of nowhere, there are like 20 cars. Alexandra disappeared with a house guest, and I disappeared with this boy I thought was cute—it’s been a year, it’s not my style—a good-looking boy who I found out was in high school the next morning, but looked much older. And then Emily goes off with Paul—Paul!—and I’m in my underwear and a bra and I’m chasing after this guy, and I’m on the lawn—this is a little scandalous. My father comes out in his underwear—you don’t wake up my dad—and he was yelling in French and everyone was out of there. The world was shaking. Then I passed out in bed. That was a great night, for the Hamptons.”

Charlotte has one sibling, a sister, Laura, who is 21 and lives in a Paris apartment with a small dog. “She’s doing her thing there,” said Charlotte. “By ‘her thing,’ I mean shopping—not doing anything.” Charlotte drives a Jeep Wrangler. “That basically describes me—and the fact that my sister drives a Range Rover describes her,” she said. “Because we chose which car.”

Besides apartments in New York and Paris, and the house in Bridgehampton, her parents have a chalet in Gstaad, Switzerland, where Charlotte says she’s a “member for life” at the super-exclusive Eagle Club (three-year waiting list to rub parkas with the likes of Roger Moore.)

She thought about ordering a glass of wine, which she said would be her first drink in two months. She decided against it. More tea.

After the naked pool party, the wild nights kept accumulating. “You could tell she was having a lot of fun for a while, and then—probably at the five-month mark—you could tell she was not having fun,” said a friend. “She looked unhealthy, too skinny, wasn’t eating at all, and looked a lot older.”

“I was like, ‘I’m done with it,’” Charlotte said. “You know, like drama, drama, drama, drama, drama, drama, drama. I needed time away.”

So she checked into Silver Hill.

“I think I had Billy Joel’s room,” she said. “I had a great time. I met great people. I went there to have the experience. I needed to change, and that just seemed like the biggest extreme way to do it, regardless of whether I needed to do it or not. I was actually just supposed to go for one week, and I loved it. I was like, ‘Mom I want to stay longer.’ Oh, I loved it! It was like a spa, there was a pool.

“I met this great girl who just cracked me up,” she continued. “She had anger issues in a funny, funny way. We’re both taking a nap in the TV room, and you’re not allowed to bring your blankets and pillows there. We didn’t care, so we did it. And there was one nurse who was just atrocious, and she has these buck teeth, and she’s like, ‘Maggie, you can’t have your sleepwear and pillows down here.’ And Maggie turns around and goes, ‘Shut the fuck up before I punch your glasses!’ I was on the floor laughing. And I keep in contact with her. She’s 21. And I met someone from Eton—I have a lot of friends in England. It’s crazy—I thought I was going to be there with perfect strangers. I met someone from the Hamptons.”

In the living room of the Boclys’ Park Avenue apartment are 20 red, leather-bound albums dated from 1987 to the present, documenting Charlotte’s life. While her bedroom boasts a closet stuffed with designer clothes, the rest of it—tiny desk, bed and chair—speaks to a girlish youth.

Charlotte’s father, Daniel Bocly, a stockbroker and race-car enthusiast, is the son of Raoul Lévy, a film producer who boosted the careers of Roger Vadim and Brigitte Bardot and directed Montgomery Clift’s last movie, The Defector, in 1966. That following New Year’s Eve, bankrupt and miserable at 44, Lévy committed suicide. His gravesite is by the water in Saint-Tropez, where he shot himself.

Charlotte’s mother, Marisol de la Begassière had a “pseudo-European” upbringing, according to Charlotte. In 1981, she appeared on the cover of Town & Country magazine for an article about the “beguiling” Blaffer women.

One of the most beguiling Blaffer women is Charlotte’s maternal grandmother, Joyce Blaffer Von Bothmer. The youngest daughter of Robert E. Lee Blaffer, who co-founded Humble Oil (which later merged into Exxon), she married a French marquis whose close relative, Ferdinand de Lesseps, was the driving force behind building the Suez Canal. After the marquis died, she married Dietrich Von Bothmer, an archaeologist and former chairman of Greek and Roman art at the Metropolitan Museum. Ms. Von Bothmer has given the Met over $5 million and enough Greek and Roman art to fill two galleries. Last spring, as she was leaving a Chanel exhibit at the museum, security guards accused Ms. Von Bothmer of swiping the Chanel suit she was wearing. She let the guards know that Coco Chanel herself had personally made it for her, then gave them some idea about how much inside the museum was hers, too.

Now 80, she lives at 1040 Fifth Avenue, where she became good friends with neighbor Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. She spends most of her time on Centre Island, Long Island. On weekends, Charlotte rides around the 12-acre estate in a golf cart.

CHARLOTTE WAS BORN IN MANHATTAN. She was sent home one day from the Madison Presbyterian nursery school for biting boys. When in Paris, her family stayed at the Hotel Powers, where Charlotte and her sister would throw cheese out the window. “Oh, I didn’t like French cheese, so we’d open them up a little bit and throw them on cars and it splattered,” she said. “It’s great.”

In New York, a chauffeur drove Charlotte to nursery school. “I hated him,” Charlotte’s mother, Marisol, recalled. “Now we have a young one; he’s so good-looking. But this old one, Andy, I hated him, because I would say, ‘Andy, could you please turn down the radio?’ And he’d say, ‘What radio?’ He was deaf and a danger—how we’re still alive, I don’t know! But he loved Charlotte. And one day she leaned over to me and said, ‘Mama, I have a problem—I talk in my head.’ And I said, ‘What do you mean Charlotte?’ She said, ‘I talk in my head. Can you hear it?’ It was a little child realizing she was thinking. And I said, ‘Well, no, Charlotte, you know, it’s in your mind—that’s how you know you’re intelligent, because you talk in your head.’ And she said, ‘Mama, I’m talking in my head!’ She thought there was something wrong with her.”

Charlotte started kindergarten at the Spence School, where she was friends with Bee Shaffer, Anna Wintour’s daughter. In 1995, the Boclys moved to Gstaad. Charlotte attended the Beau Soleil boarding school and got to know classmates who included one of Osama bin Laden’s nieces and the daughters of Adnan Khashoggi (“the Khashoggi girls,” she calls them). She said she’s still close with several friends from that time. “It’s great; I have great connections to a nice hotel, a nice this, wherever I travel,” she said. “They say you make your true friends when you’re younger that you keep forever.”

After five years, the Boclys moved back to New York and Charlotte entered the Lycée Français, where she consistently made the honor roll. “I was friends with all the guys; French girls are very bitchy.” She said she became known as “one of the kids in uniforms who smoked cigarettes.”

“My mother wasn’t really around that much, and it was partly my fault—like, I drove her away,” she said. “I love my dad. My dad gave me money like it was Kleenex.” She added that her father tends to be very tolerant of her friends, and cooks them breakfast after late nights when they sleep over.

As a young teen, she dated a few inappropriate boys to “spite” her mother and got her tongue pierced four times. “I would never get my tongue pierced again. I thought I was the shit with my tongue pierced.” (Since she’s been sober, Charlotte said, she and her mother have been spending a lot of time together, going to dinner and Broadway shows.)

Around that time, Charlotte and her older sister were left alone in a hotel in London for a few weeks, before summer camp in Rome. “We got into a lot of trouble because this was the summer of credit cards,” said Charlotte. “Designer stuff left and right.”

Next stop: Choate Rosemary Hall in Connecticut, where she entered the 10th grade.

“I went from a French school, where I could have a cigarette with my teachers, to having to hide behind a bush to smoke,” she said.

She added that she was high on marijuana during the graduation ceremony. She was wearing a somewhat slinky white dress; her grandmother whispered that her outfit was “inappropriate” and wrapped an Hermès scarf around her neck.

After high school, she was never far from a party. She spent the summer of 2005 whooping it up in the Hamptons, then went to the University of Paris for two months. During that time, her parents rented a “beautiful” and “huge” apartment in Paris for her and her sister. “My mom was like, ‘Honestly, I don’t know why we’re giving you this,’” she said.

Charlotte returned to New York by Thanksgiving. “I worked as the coat-check girl at Opia, a trendy place on 57th and Park,” she said. “I didn’t want to do that. My dad was like, ‘You withdrew from college, you have time to kill—Charlotte, you’re going to get a job.’ I was like, ‘Oh my God.’ And it was fine—you know, I made like $500 a night. I made French girlfriends that I worked with that were fabulous.”

She also enrolled at Marymount College, where she’s currently on the dean’s list. She hopes to transfer to Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville.

On Charlotte’s upper thigh is a “very chic” tattoo, a white outline of a snake. Recently, she took hip-hop dance lessons in Harlem, “on like 130th Street or something, and I was the only white girl—literally. My dad sat outside for two hours while I danced, and I never went back.”

She said she’s so lazy, she got all of her schoolbooks on Amazon.com because she didn’t want to go to the bookstore two blocks from her apartment. “And I overnighted all of them. Online shopping is so amazing.”

She doesn’t think she’ll have to worry about money, ever.

“I’m definitely aware of it,” she said. “I am, you know, spoiled. I am. Most of us are. The thing is, I’m not like a brat. You know, my two maids, Rubé and Maria, are like my best friends. I love Rubé and Maria; they will come in my room and go, ‘Charlotta, get up! Get out of bed, put on your shoes!’ I’m like, ‘Rubé, noooo.’ Then I’ll go and get her coffee, you know, they’re like family.” She said she adores her doormen and that, if she returns home with no money after a night of clubbing, the doormen pay the cab driver.

CHARLOTTE’S SELF-ASSURANCE CAN BE disarming. Or charming. Here’s some of what she knows a lot about: Charlotte on Gstaad: “Gstaad is New York City without, like—I’m not going to say like the commoners, but you take a certain group of people and you just put them together in a little world, in a bubble, and that’s what it is,” she said. “I have come to love it. I had a phase where I was like, ‘Fuck all these people; it’s not real life.’ I’ve come to love it because I can go there, have fun with people I think are ridiculous, just enjoy their company.”

Last New Year’s Eve, she was sitting at a table in Gstaad with Paris Hilton. “Paris Hilton has her baby voice, like, ‘Hiiiiiii, I’m Parissss?’ said Charlotte. “Then she has her real voice, and when it comes out, it’s like deep and raspy. She’s smart, she uses her baby voice to be like, ‘I’m sweet and innocent and I want, you know, this and that, and I don’t wanna talk about my big feet.’”

Charlotte said Ms. Hilton didn’t really get the hang of Gstaad.

“Gstaad is a cozy chalet place, and people like Paris Hilton look really funny being there, because it’s like families and everyone knows everyone—literally,” she said.

During her visit to Gstaad, Ms. Hilton apparently thought she needed security, and hired a big local guy that Charlotte had known for years. “He used to give us karate lessons when we were like 5,” Charlotte said. “Here he is, we’re sitting at my table, and he’s her bodyguard. It was really funny. He would push me out of the way for her to go to the bathroom like 20 times. Poor karate teacher. Paris was like back and forth, back and forth.”

Charlotte on dating: “I have this thing for Eton boys. One summer, I was dating this Eton boy—I’ve had three in three different countries. They all come to Gstaad in the summer for polo. Polo is so much fun, because all the polo players come, and we all go out together and they’re so sleazy, they’re so fun, just to go to their hotel rooms with a big group of people and order room service and ice cream and go out. It’s great—that’s all they’re good for. That’s as far as it goes!” She’s had five serious boyfriends. “And a lot of summer lovers, ha-ha!” she said. “Definitely a lot of them—you know, flings. I’m big on flings. The beauty of a fling is you can have fun, do what you want and there’s no bad ending; everyone’s always happy. It’s like you can be emotional, you can be in love, but there’s no hassle, there’s no label, there’s no pressure, it’s all lax. It only ends when something else is over, not the relationship. Like when the vacation’s over, the fling will end …. I’m never going to get married. My dad has been married four times; my mother has been married twice. My mother said, ‘Charlotte, always marry someone who loves you more, who’s a nice guy, because, you know, love doesn’t last.’”

Charlotte on New York’s beau monde: “It’s jet-setting—you go from one little place to the next and it’s like a bubble, you live in this bubble,” she said. “I can go anywhere in the world and I have one or more friends there, even in a country like Uzbekistan. I’m lucky enough to do the whole New York thing and fly to London for the weekend. I flew there one weekend my senior year. I got off the plane, got to the hotel, didn’t take a shower, went out to Tantra nightclub, saw my sister, my friend from boarding school, my boyfriend, all his friends, ran into some other friends—like I was in New York seven hours before. Ate some tandoori chicken—it was so good. We can do that, you know, and like enjoy it, and that’s why we’re spoiled. I can do that, and I appreciate it. You can’t always just stop and be like, ‘This is like so great that I have this money’—because you live it. Sometimes you forget.”

Charlotte on herself possibly being Brigitte Bardot’s granddaughter:

“There is this theory, which is really funny, that I am Brigitte Bardot’s granddaughter.” She explained that her grandfather, the movie producer Raoul Lévy, slept with women left and right while her grandmother, 10 years older, remained loyal.

“He would go off and like cheat with women, have sex. And she thought of it like, ‘I’m the wife, and it’s normal.’ I have this theory that when you’re married, if your husband, 50 years later, needs to go out and like have sex, I think it means nothing if it’s not spoken of. You still love him. You know?”

I nodded eagerly. So I could be talking to Brigitte Bardot’s granddaughter?

“You could. I’d love that,” she said. “She was one of the most gorgeous women on the face of the earth.”

People have told her she resembles Ms. Bardot, she said, “and I’m like, ‘Oh my God, I love you for saying that.’ I’ve gotten Jessica Simpson, too, and that’s not a compliment. I don’t look like Jessica Simpson, thank you very much.”

A FEW DAYS LATER, WE RECONNECTED at the Metropolitan Museum. That morning she’d woken up at 11 a.m., having decided to sleep the night before in her sister’s bedroom, in a French canopy “Versailles-looking” bed, which has been in her family for “years and years and is so comfortable,” she said. “Whenever I have someone sleep over and it’s a guy, he can’t fit in the bed, because it’s for like mini-people, back in the day when people were little.”

She was wearing a red scarf covered with skulls by Alexander McQueen (“Skulls are definitely in”), a white designer T-shirt by Francesco (“I got it for free, so I’m representing for him”), white vintage jeans and red vintage shoes from Screaming Mimi’s, her favorite store.

We entered the museum and walked around the corner to the Von Bothmer Gallery, full of artifacts her grandmother has given the museum. “This is all Greek art of the fifth century,” she said. She gestured toward a priceless plate and joked, “I had dinner off of that the other day.”

Her heels clack-clacked over to the main stairs, where she stopped at a list of names of benefactors.

“This is my mother,” she said, pointing. “This is my aunt. This is also my aunt. Palm Beach. Egypt. New York.”

Clack, clack up the stairs.

“My great-uncle has a gallery here.”

She wasn’t sure where it was. She asked a guard for directions to the Gelman gallery, then asked a lady at the information booth, but we couldn’t find it. Then, by accident, we stumbled on it: the Jacques and Natasha Gelman gallery, three rooms packed with 20th-century works by Matisse, Chagall, Braque, Derain, Mondrian, Klee, Bacon.

“I wish I could come here and go shopping,” she said, laughing. “I can look, but I can’t have it and, you know, decorate my room. This would make a nice ashtray.”

We decided to have lunch at Le Bilboquet, the East 63rd Street restaurant with no name out front. Charlotte noted that Matt Dillon still hadn’t called.


At Repetto Fête, Charlotte Ronson Exalts Jane Birkin, Brigitte Bardot, Kate Moss

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010908 cronson 120407 At Repetto Fête, Charlotte Ronson Exalts Jane Birkin, Brigitte Bardot, Kate MossLast night brought together a spirited mix of New York’s cutting-edge fashion designers and artists—young representatives from two industries that are impossible to keep apart these days.

Designer Philip Lim, model Jessica Stam, stylist Kate Schelter, Vogue’s Stephanie LaCava, socialite Genevieve Jones, men’s wear designer Thom Browne and supermarket mogul Ron Burkle were among the revelers swirling around the Max Lang gallery in Chelsea—a smallish, brightly-lit, bi-level space on Tenth Ave. It’s where French shoemaker Repetto was celebrating its 60th anniversary traveling exhibition and the launch of their eponymous charitable foundation.

It had been nearly two months since we last ran into Charlotte Ronson, the fashion designer-socialite daughter of Ann Dexter-Jones, so we stopped by for an update. Ms. Ronson, wearing a bohemian-chic ensemble of her own design over knee-high brown leather boots, said she was a little worn out after having spent the entire day at a trade show.

But she’s also been keeping busy getting her Fall 2008 collection ready to show. “It’s kind of a little Jane Birkin, I’d say. Just that style of sixties-seventies music, France—it’s a bit of…” Ms. Ronson said of her forthcoming collection’s aesthetic, trailing off in a way that remained descriptive.

Though she looked to Ms. Birkin, a reigning doyenne of French fashion, to create her Fall collection, Ms. Ronson said she draws inspiration from famous figures every season. Old movie stars like Brigitte Bardot and Audrey Hepburn, she told The Daily Transom, are tireless muses. Ms. Ronson looks up to more contemporary style icons, too—namely Kate Moss, who, she added, “made [fashion] all about making it your own. With her, it’s not about labels.”


Brigitte Bardot Guilty of Racial Comments

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bardot060308 Brigitte Bardot Guilty of Racial CommentsFrench muse Brigitte Bardot has been convicted of provoking discrimination and racial hatred for writing that Muslims are destroying France.

Ms. Bardot, 73, reportedly sent a letter in 2006 to the then Interior Minister Nicolas Sarkozy, writing that France is "tired of being led by the nose by this population that is destroying us, destroying our country by imposing its acts."

The actress, who is a passionate animal rights activist, was referring to the Muslim feast of Aid el-Kebir, celebrated by slaughtering sheep.

But, the country’s anti-racism laws forbid individuals from inciting hatred and discrimination on racial or religious grounds and a lawsuit was filed against her by the anti-racism group, MRAP.

Ms. Bardot was ordered to pay a $23,325 fine and $1,555 in damages to MRAP. This is her fourth time being convicted of inciting racial hatred since she has previously been fined for making comments against the growth of Mosques in France, against Muslims, and against the same Muslin holiday in her book, Le Carre de Pluton.

Her lawyer, Francois-Xavier Kelidjian, said, "She is tired of this type of proceedings. She has the impression that people want to silence her. She will not be silenced in her defense of animal rights."


Lorenzo Martone Didn’t Want to Be Our Date for Diane von Fürstenberg’s Dinner at Indochine

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Dear Lorenzo! Please take us next time! Solange Knowles: from DJ to front row! Diane von Fürstenberg andher right-hand man! One of our favorite looks! Barbara Walters The arrival of Molly Sims and Rachel Zoe shut down the runway... Even heavy-weights, Anna Wintour and Oscar de la Renta, curtsy and bow for DvF.

Sunday afternoon at the Tents is always a scene. The climax is when legendary designer/aristocrat, Diane von Fürstenberg takes the stage. CFDA President-regnant; she is fashion royalty and attracts a fitting crowd:

Olivier Zahm from Purple magazine carried on with Terry Richardson

“Could we get a word with you, Mr. Richardson?” we asked.

“No!” was the tart response.

All the same faces—no one fresh and inspiring. We’re running out of options this Fashion Week. Clothes can’t entertain and inform forever!

Ah-ha! Barbara Walters! She would be stupendous. The Observer stealthily began meandering past chic throngs of French editors and buyers. We weren’t more than a few steps from our target when—”We’re done!” snapped a KCD Gestapo.

Humph, back we dashed to our seat in A-6-1.

“A rendezvous is a meeting with suspense and expectation…” stated Ms. von Fürstenberg and creative-head Yvan Mispelaere. “Glamorous at a moment’s notice, she is alive with anticipation,” the program read.

The lights dimmed and Brigitte Bardot’s seductive voice purred sweetly. Out sashayed 48 ravishing looks: Parisian elegance worked in rich hues of scarlet, sea foam, lapis and glossy obsidian. Wrap dresses hugged the body with sophistication, but exuded a confident sexiness. There were DvF prints on crepe satin, including puzzle pieces, which had also decorated our invitations.

Was that a scowl from Cathy Horyn? We can’t tell when she’s pleased or horrified. But we love her and The New York Time’s, Eric Wilson (juste à côté), all the same!

While a few outfits would have been cozy on the dance floor at Studio 54, the majority of looks suggested an elegant femme fatale, who is a tad more timeless.

As applause filled the Tent, von Fürstenberg (guided by Mispelaere) greeted her guests with much aplomb, waving to her subjects and giving double-cheek kisses to her VIP pals…

Oh quelle chance, Lorenzo Martone!

“What are you wearing?” The Observer prodded, “is it vintage?”

“No it’s Marni,” the man about town laughed.

Very nice! So are you going to Diane’s dinner at Indochine tonight?” (More like: can we be your date?)

“Yes…. I think I am!” Martone dished.

Do you have a date? we wanted to know.

“Yes I’m bringing my friend, she’s an artist…”

What happened to Studio 54? Where is the Studio 54 of today?” we pressed on.

“I actually went to an event last year that recreated studio 54—it was great!”

…and no, we didn’t attend DvF’s intimate feast.

 

Photos: Patrick McMullan

Fashion Week Ends, Fur Lives On!

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A stand-out toggle fur coat from Dennis Basso. Joan Rivers, Susan Lucci, Ivanka Trump, Kristin Cavallari, Emily Gyermek, and Mary Alice Stephenson at Dennis Basso. Olivia Chantecaille attended Wes Gordon's presentation... Brigitte Bardot served as the muse for Kate Spade's winter 2012/13 collection... she won't wear fur, but we'd tote this bag all over town! A trip down the Rio Grande do Sul with Carlos Miele doesn't mean we won't be bringing our cinnamon knitted fox throw! Timo Weiland dreamt up collegiate fox options for that spoiled Yalie. Derek Lam offered lavish fur stoles for his collection. Christian Cota's fur will be in our Aspen mountain house's walk-in by November! J. Mendel's furs and "unapologetic luxury" had the hunched-over Olsen Twins drooling for more... Glenn Close was seated front and center at Bibhu Mohapatra. Here she had a Cruella de Vil full-circle moment-- magical! When asked why he liked Carolina Herrera, Patrick Demarchelier replied, "It's so sexy!" Prabal Gurung's patent leather coat with sheared mink, fox and goat: How many animals does it take to make a killer coat? Hundreds! Peter Som's fantastic fox patchwork coat might keep Somers Farkas warmer... she needs something for insulation! Tess Giberson's goat fur is precisely what we'd wear to our next art opening to piss off Stacy Engman! We're gonna steal your fire betch!

New York fashion week has finally come to a close. Amen! For those less-fortunate editors and fashion authorities (or perhaps we are the lucky ones) that have not jetted off to London or Milan, we finally get a moment to recover.

In retrospect, we relished the young talents of Prabal Gurung and Jason Wu. The Observer will never forget the spectacle and grandeur of Alexander Wang—or the impeccable quality of Simon Spurr’s suiting. With such a busy social schedule and so many shows, it’s hard to remember all the garments we evaluated with a careful eye.

We’re still a smidgen bitter about a few mishaps with Oscar de la Renta and PR Consulting… but we forgive easily… Oscar might possibly have been the best women’s collection in town! Best of luck obtaining the financial means to swing the $15,000 price tag…

One thing we do recall in our hazy fatigue, is the undeniable fact that fur is back. Yes, yes it never really left! But honestly!

“It’s so glamorous and luxe!” proclaimed Joan Rivers about fur, backstage at Dennis Basso.

Perhaps Ms. Rivers is in the right. Has there ever been so much mink, chinchilla, fox, raccoon, coyote, goat, rabbit, astrakhan, Mongolian lamb, ermine and sable shown in New York? Probably… but let’s peruse The Oberserver’s favorites— shall we?

Images: GETTY and Patrick McMullan.

Brigitte Your Heart Out: Fall Fashion Channels Top French Pop Stars of the 1960s

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As Paris Fashion Week draws to a close, we’ve all seen enough “How to Dress Like a French Girl!” slideshows to choke a frog. In truth, French girls, much like American girls, British girls, Lebanese girls and all other girls, come in many different varieties. You might even say they’re all different; they don’t all like nude manicures or cat-eye makeup or carbs.

But there is one very specific type of French girl who’s easy to channel this fall: the ’60s pop chanteuse. The 1960s were a golden age for French pop music, thanks to stars like Françoise Hardy, Brigitte Bardot and Serge Gainsbourg. This was also a great time for style. It was all about boots, miniskirts, fur coats and messy bangs.

And last spring, many of the designers sent ’60s-esque looks down the runways for fall and winter. Here are some of the best French pop songs of the ’60s, along with the best fall fashion items for channelling your favorite sexy-but-kooky French singer.

To warm us up, here is, oh, one of the best songs in history:

• “Bonnie and Clyde” by Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot.

Why is it so fun to listen to Brigitte Bardot over-enunciate “Bonnie Parker “? What motivated her to go the spoken-word-rap route in the second stanza? How does her hair stay like that? It’s tough to tell. But obviously we have to start this style guide with a black beret, the preferred head adornment of French pop stars and famed 19th-century American criminals (???) everywhere. Here’s one from American Apparel for $24.

American Apparel wool beret.

American Apparel wool beret.

• Françoise Hardy — “Le Temps de L’Amour”

It’s the time of the love, baby. Don’t sleep on this music video; it opens with a slow pan backwards from a picture of Ms. Hardy’s face. Then, surprise, that face is actually just a backdrop for Ms. Hardy’s actual face, which is walking toward the camera now in order to sing for you.

To get Mademoiselle Hardy’s look in this video, keep things boxy with a tan crewneck sweater and a thin, suede coat with wide lapels, like this one from Michael Michael Kors. Don’t cinch it! Keep it haphazard like the bored French chanteuse you are.

Suede coat by Michael Michael Kors, $595. (Photo via Net-a-Porter)

Suede coat by Michael Michael Kors, $595. (Photo via Net-a-Porter)

 

Sylvie Vartan — “La Plus Belle Pour Aller Danser”

Sylvie Vartan is pretty sure she's better at dancing than you. (Screengrab via YouTube)

Sylvie Vartan is pretty sure she’s better at dancing than you. (Screengrab via YouTube)

Ms. Vartan surely has the most enviable retro hairdo of this entire group, and she’s the sassiest — this song is all about how she’s the prettiest dancer up in the club. The bubble-bob is not quite on trend for 2014, but it’s probably never going to truly come back so maybe we should all just go for it; it’s timeless at this point.

To achieve her chilled out, casually confident look, try this rumpled sweater dress from Nasty Gal. It’s only $68 so feel free to Sharpie a couple of V-stripes onto the front for added authenticity.

Nasty Gal dress.

Nasty Gal dress.

Or, to channel Ms. Vartan more in spirit than aesthetic, go for Alexander Wang’s pocketed deep-V minidress. It’s probably the single coolest ready-to-wear item this fall, and it’s definitely her vibe.

Alexander Wang minidress (Photo via Net-a-Porter)

Alexander Wang minidress (Photo via Net-a-Porter)

• Françoise Hardy — “Soleil”

For this look, you will need one (1) giant brown fur coat, a handful of altar servers jumping on a trampoline and a half dozen vicars. As you trudge through a bleak, industrial hellscape full of dead plants, you will make intermittent eye contact with the camera while frowning and lip-synching. Impressively, you will do this all in a single cut!

To replicate the vibe of this video for yourself, simply hop onto the waiting list for this $3,985 faux fur coat from Lanvin’s autumn winter 2014 collection.

Just make sure to frown. (Photo via Getty)

Pout not included. (Photo via Getty)

• Jacques Dutronc — “Mini, Mini, Mini”

Huh. (Screengrab via YouTube)

Huh. (Screengrab via YouTube)

In this truly amazing music video, a miniscule Jacques Dutronc performs a janky dad-dance as a gigantic Françoise Hardy looms over him. Robotically, he sings lyrics that, translated into English, contain lines like “small, small, small, all is mini in our life.” It’s basically an extended pun on the word miniskirt.

Mr. Dutronc and Ms. Hardy would later start dating and have a son together before getting married “for tax reasons.” They’ve been separated and seeing other people since at least 1998. You can’t get much more French than that.

This fall’s ubiquitous Chelsea boot is perfect for copying this video’s look. Try these beauts from Dieppa Restrepo at $368, or white patent zip-ups from Cheap Monday for $130.

Cheap Monday booties. (Screengrab via Urban Outfitters)

Cheap Monday booties. (Screengrab via Urban Outfitters)

Of course, you’ll also need a striped miniskirt. Try this one from Alexander Wang.

Alexander Wang's vaguely stripey space mountain skirt. (Photo via Saks)

Alexander Wang’s vaguely stripey space mountain skirt. (Photo via Saks)

 

• Serge Gainsbourg and Anna Karina — “Ne Dis Rien”

anna karina serge gainsbourg

*I’m not creeped out I’m not creeped out* (Screengrab via YouTube)

I bet you didn’t know actress/Jean-Luc Godard muse Anna Karina also dabbled in singing! It turns out a lot of French actresses did that back in the ’60s; they were kind of like Ariana Grande and Selena Gomez today, but cool.

In this video, Ms. Karina and Mr. Gainsbourg slow dance while singing a duet directly into each other’s faces. Ms. Karina does as good a job she can to appear pleased with the situation. To get her look, how about this high-necked, glitter-tweed dress from Saint Laurent’s autumn winter 2014 collection, and a Xanax?

Dress by Saint Laurent. (Photo via Net-a-Porter)

Dress by Saint Laurent. (Photo via Net-a-Porter)

France Gall — “Les Sucettes”

Poor France Gall :( (Screengrab via YouTube)

Poor France Gall :( (Screengrab via YouTube)

Are those a bunch of giant lollipops or are you just happy to see me?

Are those a bunch of giant lollipops or are you just happy to see me?

Okay, this one’s not so much as style guide as a PSA. This music video is actually the result of Serge Gainsbourg reaching the high point of his creep crescendo.

He wrote the song, “Les Sucettes,” or “The Lollipops,” for France Gall to perform. In the video, pauvre Ms. Gall lisps around a soundstage, singing in a high voice and bobbing her head like a five-year-old, while she and other teenagers repeatedly slide “sucettes” (lollipops) in and out of their mouths. She sings about a little girl named Annie who loves lollipops and buys them for “pennies.” Guess what word sounds exactly like “pennies” in French. She sings the lines, “When the candy stick/With anise flavor/Goes down Annie’s throat/She is in heaven.” A gang of enormous “lollipops” bob and weave around her.

You get the picture. Ms. Gall, 18 at the time, sadly did not.

Let this be a reminder that although everything seemed a lot more chic in the ’60s, this is the kind of shit people got away with before women’s lib! And Serge Gainsbourg, for all his indie cred, was not exactly hip to the feminist scene. But anyway, if you still want to get the look, just copy Ms. Gall’s sleek bangs and stop there.

• Brigitte Bardot — “Harley Davidson”

(Photo via bikermatchmaking.com) (lol)

(Photo via bikermatchmaking.com) (lol)

 

Let’s end this puppy on a high note. Here is Brigitte Bardot vamping around, probably in the Hell’s Angels’ Versailles chapter, and yelling “HAHR-LAY. DAH-VEED. SONE!” Come for the amazing lyrics; stay for the close-ups, which reveal Ms. Bardot’s hair in peak form, long and smooth and soooo voluminous.

You can’t actually get this look; no one can. But you can pretend with these Maison Martin Margiela thigh-high gogo boots, and a little elbow grease (or argan oil, as the case may be).

Possibly the best gogo boots in history by Maison Martin Margiela. (Screengrab via Net-a-Porter)

Possibly the best gogo boots in history by Maison Martin Margiela. (Screengrab via Net-a-Porter)

Let Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly Inspire Your 4th of July Wardrobe

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Independence Day is around the corner, and with it comes the need to pack strategically for beachside vacations.

Brigitte Bardot Joins OkCupid

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Last night I made a fake OkCupid account with a photo of Brigitte Bardot.

Fashion’s Favorite Denim Line Branches Out Into Swimwear

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Frame Denim introduces bikinis into their Spring 2016 lineup.

Birthday Twins Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot Got Great Gifts This Year

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Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot are being celebrated this week by the fashion world's best.

Style at the Cannes Film Festival Has Always Been Lavish

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Where else would Elizabeth Taylor wear a jewel-festooned crown?
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