There's a former never quite a top rock star, whom I cannot even mention by name here as whenever we do, down in the basement, the servers swelter and buckle under the strain, but be assured, he's was an incredibly influential figure in his time, and later, with nary a skip of a beat and precious few good songs, but a few very good ones nonetheless, parlayed his early fame and fortune, despite what the British Courts seemed to suggest were quite scurrilous and despicable deeds regarding his former band-mates, into a lengthy apparently indissoluble cult career. Cult. I was once traveling on a bus through East LA and I overheard someone, who despite riding the bus, apparently knew him well, chatting on their phone about his taste in shirts. The shirts shredded from his back most nights by ravenous fans. YSL he prefers I heard the person say. But he won't pay for retail and he doesn't want to be seen to be negotiating personally. That's what a stylist is for.
I have big ears and love to Yvesdrop.
So, although for most, Yves Saint Laurent has been dead since the Opium debacle, as you see, he still had his devotees. And I can't even start on Yves single handed invention of the pant suit. My thoughts are far too complex.
As an older person I have liked the label. Trimming. Yes. There's something self-reassuring bout it too.
I am a fan of the legends. Lagerfeld, Dior, Halston, Laurent. These are the men who put London, Paris and New York on one map for women. On one box at least.
I remember my first YSL shirt as surely as some people remember whatever it is they bother to cherish enough to recall with the words "I remember my first..." Really whatever. What a great day. I had been driven to the store by my friend Cromwell in her boyfriends lovingly restored, almost vintage Cadillac, if fins are vintage, and on the way back she had sideswiped a laundry truck and that took a whole lot of explaining and Charles her boyfriend couldn't bring himself to speak to her for three days. But Oh how I loved that shirt and I know even now it was worth every little bit of their trouble.
I had told my then wife that the shirt had cost very little, at a garage sale.
Not maliciously, I am sure, it was destroyed by a washing machine, a little later. And cry though I might, I couldn't, given abjectness of our finances ever mention that that beautiful, sheer, black and silver threaded shirt had cost more than the rent. Over the years Yves has remained my secret and only now that he is gone can I tell.
The Pixievic Pixiekisses book launch at the ORT Cafe