Nuit Blanche
This morning at 4:30 a.m.*, while you were all sleeping **, I was sitting in front of my suitcase, posed in a perfect Thinker by Rodin, but in leopard print boy-shorts and with a cup of coffee in hand.
spotlight
Gap & moi
For their 40th anniversary, Gap asked to put together a collection of my sketches, photos, and anything else I would want for an exhibition in London during fashion week. FOR THEIR 40TH ANNIVERSARY, GAP ASKED ME TO PUT TOGETHER A COLLECTION OF MY SKETCHES, PHOTOS, AND ANYTHING ELSE I WOULD WANT FOR AN EXHIBITION IN LONDON DURING FASHION WEEK.
sweet little angel
Last time I was at the flea market looking for Farrah Fawcett posters, I came across a booth stock full of the craziest pairs of shorts.
They had every size and color you could imagine, all for 10 bucks and I bought ‘em all up (that’s totally why my wardrobe fell over on my face, but that’s a whole other story). I was sure all my friends would each love a pair.
Me & my bike
So, obviously, the photo above here isn’t me, nor is it my bike. But just to show you the coolitude of biking in Amsterdam, you needed to see at least one real Dutch girl on a real Dutch bike.
Because you’re constantly passing cool girls on bikes in Amsterdam. It’s simple, I asked around. It’s that no one knows anyone who doesn’t have a bike. Whoa, that’s a tough one. I’ll try again: everyone has a bike.
“It’s so great. You all have rock hard thighs,” I said. I’m so perceptive.
“It’s not that,” Ramona said. “Our legs don’t get anything from biking now. They’re too used to it.”
Aha. It’s still not fair.
Ramona was my guardian angel during these few wonderful days in Amsterdam. She was the one who glued me to my bike for the first half hour. She was also the one that taught me these :
- When you park your bike in the middle of the 350 other bikes all clustered together in each spot, if you knock them all over, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. It’s the owners’ fault who poorly parked them. “Even if you make ALL of them fall, Ramona?” “Yes, Garance. As long as yours is standing tall, you can leave with your head up. No one will say a thing.” Duly noted. And more than once.
- You can do everything on your bike… Talk on the phone, Google a restaurant, eat a sandwich, hold an umbrella in the rain (EVERYONE does that. It’s impressive.), CHANGE YOUR SHOES WHILE PEDDLING, TAKE A NAP. You can even do some streetstyle on them. The proof is right above with Elza. When we found her, we were riding our bikes. We followed her for a bit, like true crazies on bikes.
- You have to give a name to your bike. It’s essential and that’s just how it is. When I asked what Ramona had named hers, she couldn’t tell me. But I really wanted to believe this whole name thing… like really… Check out this photo below and you’ll see, see what I’m saying?
There he was, lost in a sea of others. When I saw him, I knew he was mine. My bike, my ally, my companion. I couldn’t not give him a name.
Chuck Bass. Yep. What better name could define the mix of purebred elegance and risqué style? Because I’m telling you, with Chuck Bass, I promise you that no matter where you go, you’ll never go unnoticed. Aaaah, yep, it’s gotta be the stretch limo.
Yours truly looking ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS with my little red and white sign that said, “Hey there, I’m a tourist. So whenever you feel like cutting me off and being all pissy and irritated, go right ahead my dear ladies and gentlemen of Amsterdam.”
Oh who cares? It’s Chuck Bass and me, and I love him. And then this morning, looking at him for one last time before taking my train, I felt a little tear drop down my cheek. He didn’t even move.
These bikes, they’re such bastards.
Translation : Tim Sullivan
Creatures of Comfort
To return to a concept, mentioned right here no later than yesterday, an ever present concept in this living, breathing, palpitating moment that is f_sh_n w__k, a living, breathing, palpating moment that is in its final day and I can’t even say the word f_a__i_n as it gives me palpatashions, and honestly, I no longer can understand why I see girls running around in platforms all the day long, it sends me into the flames of reflecshion.
But where are all these girls off to, huh? Where Garance, where?!?!? Oh my.
Okay. To return to a concept mentioned right here no later than yesterday, right now, I speak in Franglish je shoppe à mort dans mon closet. And even, at times, in my boyfriend’s closet, asking him to grab me the most oversized worn-out stuff he can find.
The worn-out boyfriend jean. Yep. That’s it. That does it for me.
They’re good. They’re good lookin’, too good lookin’ even. They make all girls cool and sexy. Yeah so in a word, they’re sublime. On top of all that, they’re comfortable.
Comfort. Voilà. Herein lies my problem.
So spending most of my time away from the apartment, always eating whatever and wherever between two shows (yeah, okay, i get the feeling you know where i’m going) and always comfortable in my boyfriend jeans, my boyfriend pants, and all the things that make life cool, class, and coolass, i’m wondering if ever a day will come when I can go back to squeezing into these:
And here we have a wonderful pair of jeans, slim AND worn-out. I’ve seen a few of these around, tailored short with pumps like back in the 80s, and honestly, they’re making me a little jealous. So today, picture this, here’s me in front of my mirror, we’re talking à la Rocky III, here I am declaring that this weekend marks the beginning of my fa__i_n rehab. We’ll start Friday with a massage, you always have to save the best for the beginning, (and by the way, if you know a good massage place in Paris, tell me!). And then we’ll need some raw vegetables and raw egg-whites…. and then we’ll be wearing some sneakers WITHOUT heels, and we’ll make our way up the steps to the Sacré Coeur, running early in the morning and screaming out Adrieeeeeeeen!!!
…
So before I head off to my jump-rope and finish jumping around this rather non-thesis driven post, well, i guess it’s just as usual, where the whole point is, in it of itself, to talk about myself, but I did want to give you to notice something. See this jacket just above? It’s the same coat as mine!!! Okay here, this jacket used to be a coat from Zara, and I have the same one in my closet. Susan had the magnificent idea of cutting it. And now it’s this double-breasted oversized absolutely wonderful jacket.
So there you go, just a quick idea for shopping your closet in passing, because if you’re going to push these concepts with all you got, you gotta walk the walk some too, no? Okay, so it definitely wasn’t me that came up with it, but still…
Bonne journée!
Translation : Tim Padraic Sullivan
New York I 
You
New York, I love you, but I gotta go. And it breaks my heart because its always so good, because there’ll be plenty of things I’ll be missin’ when I get back to Paree, the little restaurants, coffees to go, taxis, the bookshops, the way of life, so different than our own.
And at the same time I am excited to return for one reason: I am terrible at packing. I MUST get back to find all my stuff. I forgot EVERYTHING. I left Paris a little bit in a mega rush and it wasn’t until after I got here that I realized that I brought fourteen of the same pair of pants but not one skirt, ten pairs of heals but no flats and I spend all day everyday walking, and that I just simply forgot… to pack underwear. Oh, but wait, the socks thing, got that covered. I brought about 45 pairs. And 12 pairs of tights on top of that in case I get the urge to cut up my pants to make a skirt in a desperate closet-makeover flash of inspiration. I mean, you never know.
I’m at the max of excess luggage… because of some socks. Pffff.
And this brings me to the following question: how do others do it? How does she do it, Mira, here above, (Yes, you recognized her), who plays with fashion like you play with a rag doll.
Do they make a list of outfits? Do they check the weather? Do they travel with four suitcases to have a choice? Do they do all their shopping after they arrive?
Me, on the other hand, I’ve never been able to find a response to the delicate question of the suitcase. And that’s why I never know what to say when I get emails asking me how to travel light, travel cool, travel chic. I don’t know! You already know I don’t have access to the special VIP lounge.
I’m just saying, there has to have been something that my mom never taught me, something about how to fold everything, how to figure out how many tops to bring, how many pairs of pants, cocktail dresses, casual dresses, all that. There just has to be, no?
It’s that yes, I return today to Paris, but then I leave again Sunday for London and then off to Milan. And I’m tired of always looking like I came out of the back pocket of a pile of luggage in the middle of all of these fellow travelers who seem to have it all figured out. And so, s’il vous plait…. Help meeeeee!
Other than that, I’ll have everything by Marc by Marc, and I’ll have everything by Proenza. Who cares about baggage limits! I’ve got every right… right?
And thanks for all yours comments, and big hugs to all, and à très très très vite!
Translation : Tim Padraic Sullivan
