The Vogue Factor: The Inside Story of Fashion's Most Illustrious Magazine (22 page)

We had to run through the performance twice, and everyone in the crowd overacted madly. I have such a soft spot for that film. It’s one of the most astute movies about fashion ever made. What really happens in the fashion world is sometimes so ridiculous, it requires a Zoolander level of irony to even come close to replicating it. I am quite proud to be able to claim I’m an extra in
Zoolander
.

It was again thanks to the incomparable Mr. Armani that in 2006 I was offered another once in a lifetime opportunity, this time to join him and a very small group of journalists on a tour of Hong Kong and Shanghai.

The day of my arrival in Hong Kong I was taken to meet Mr. Armani, who was doing a walk-through of the enormous Armani
shopping complex in Chater House, checking on the refurbishment of the Armani bar and the Armani Casa interiors store. My lovely friend Sally Pitt (head of Armani PR in Sydney) and I picked our way gingerly through the construction site and she introduced me to Mr. Armani, who was surveying the scene, impeccable in his navy pants and sweater and bright-white sneakers. “This is the editor of
Vogue Australia
,” said Sally. “And what a beautiful editor!” he exclaimed in Italian, kissing me on both cheeks. I’m sure he says that to all the editors but it worked and I immediately developed a crush on him.

There were only a handful of journalists on the trip, which meant that we had incredible proximity to Mr. Armani throughout the entire six days. It was as if we were on tour with him.

The first evening in Hong Kong we were treated to an Armani Privé show, which is the couture arm of his collections. Mr. Armani does not speak English, but will speak in French, so when the PR discovered I could hold my own in that language I was placed next to him for most lunches and dinners. It was such an honor to spend time with this great designer, there in the inner sanctum of Armani. Also on the trip was his niece Roberta, who was an absolute delight. She and I bonded over lunch at the Cipriani in Hong Kong when I asked her what she had wanted to do before she joined the family firm and she replied: “Acting.” Given that I am Australian, we moved on to the obvious. “I love Russell Crowe!” exclaimed Roberta to which I protested, “No, I love him more!” and we spent a good half an hour raving about Russell and
Gladiator
and Maximus and how we could dream up an event in Sydney to which we would invite him so we could sit next to him. Roberta, of course, had actually already met Russell in Rome after
Gladiator
was released, and shared a car with him, which had driven around the exterior of the Coliseum.

The Armani team were so inclusive and so effortlessly chic in their navy-blue cardigans and trainers, I wanted to join the family. I even flew with Mr. Armani from Hong Kong to Shanghai, and it was remarkable to see the stir he causes when he is out in public. He is as striking as he is famous, with his white hair gleaming against his tanned face. For the flight, he wore a white t-shirt under his navy jacket that said A1. “It’s always my seat number,” he laughed. I complimented him on the scent he was wearing and he sweetly gave me the bottle, which was a lab sample that the fragrance house was working on. I still have it.

When we arrived at the Shanghai airport, the 72-year-old Mr. Armani, true gentleman that he is, walked over to the baggage carousel and picked up my suitcase.

There were many more dinners and lunches in Shanghai, one I recall that had about ten courses of food, every one of them a greenish black color. Mr. Armani skipped that one, as he much preferred to eat Italian, traditional-style: three courses, one glass of wine. He is so disciplined and energetic, I found him to be a real inspiration. I spoke at length to him throughout the tour, culminating in an interview conducted on a sunny outdoor terrace after lunch. He had me hooked: on his values, his taste, his remarkable work ethic. By the end of the week I was tossing up buying a navy Emporio Armani outfit and some sneakers and just following them all back to Milan, hoping they wouldn’t notice I hadn’t gone home.

Armani visited Sydney the following year, in 2007, to attend a dinner at the Sydney Theater Company and be acknowledged as a patron by the STC artistic directors Cate Blanchett and her husband Andrew Upton. I joined up with the Armani posse once again, and we all ended up at Trademark nightclub in Kings Cross, Roberta and I
chatting on a banquette while Mr. Armani promptly got mobbed. Not quite the same level as the China experience.

In May 2010 I returned to Shanghai, this time to attend a Dior Cruise show and the lavish afterparty. The day of the show I was granted a very quick meeting and interview with designer John Galliano, on the vertiginous 93rd floor of the Park Hyatt hotel. I had never met Galliano, despite many seasons spent admiring his dazzling couture and RTW shows. On this occasion he was accompanied by a number of PRs who stayed in the room while we chatted, which I always find terribly disconcerting. I think it’s impossible to conduct a thorough and spontaneous interview when there is a PR present constantly looking at their watch.

Galliano wore his hair in braids, a jaunty feather in his hat, rolled-up trousers and a vest. I was taken aback by how handsome he was, with golden skin and huge brown eyes. He was so guileless and unaffected, sitting close to me on the lounge and flicking through an album, showing me photographs from his recent travels. He was chain-smoking cigarettes which he lit with a huge crocodile-Dunhill table lighter, and drinking a juice at the same time. “Detox, re-tox,” he joked.

A model entered wearing one of the exits we would be seeing that night, and he took me piece by piece through the “Nouvelle Vague” collection which was hanging on a rack nearby. I cannot say that we had a particularly profound conversation, but I found him to be charming. I watched with sadness as the unfortunate events at Dior later unfolded, and he was dismissed due to anti-Semitic remarks. Galliano was such a global traveler in real life and in his wondrous collections, the incident seems so incongruous. I do hope he returns to the world of fashion one day. I’d love to interview him again—with no one else in the room.

There were many other trips around the world, quaffing champagne at fabulous parties courtesy of the great fashion houses, in particular the incomparable Louis Vuitton. In 2000 I found myself chatting with Xena, Warrior Princess, aka actress Lucy Lawless, at an ice bar for the Louis Vuitton Cup. Another time, I was at a roller disco held in a spaceship that had been built in a Tokyo park, watching Grace Jones perform while the designer Marc Jacobs danced happily next to me. At perhaps the best party I have ever attended, I wandered through a mind-bending maze of curiosities in a London warehouse with Gwyneth Paltrow and Kirsten Dunst, and then clapped along to Donna Summer and Marc Jacobs singing together on stage.

Another trip to Tokyo, courtesy of the executive vice president of Global Communications for Calvin Klein, Malcolm Carfrae, who is an Aussie expatriate and a great friend. Over a long lunch at the Park Hyatt I interviewed both Francisco Costa, the designer of Calvin Klein Collection, and Kevin Carrigan, global creative director of ck Calvin Klein, who are both so talented, open and unpretentious. Although I was part of a group of Asia-Pacific journalists, the boys decided that I needed to stay with the Calvin Klein team and thus I ended up after the event at the official Calvin Klein company dinner, sitting in between Malcolm and Francisco. The company’s CEO Tom Murry rose to congratulate everyone and talk a little business when he noticed me. “Kirstie, you just need to put your hands over your ears for a few minutes,” he said.

Later that evening we ended up in a windowless, smoke-filled nightclub in Tokyo that was about the size of a small living room with the entire Calvin Klein team, and all the male models who had been part of the installation. Having the good fortune to be the only woman in the room, I began talking to one gorgeous nineteen-year-old
boy from Germany, with the regulation floppy hair, long Roman nose and bee-stung lips. There was a line of them along the banquette who all looked exactly the same—that is, perfect. I started in with some unwanted lecture about how he should think about a career outside of modeling and once you’d done Calvin Klein you’d pretty much peaked, blah blah blah. He listened to me very politely until I stopped to take a self-important breath and said very politely, “Thanks for your feedback. I should be okay. I’m studying to be a nuclear physicist.”

It is difficult to compare and contrast all the wondrous events that I was invited to be a part of, but the fortieth anniversary celebration of Ralph Lauren in New York would have to be a standout. My publisher Grant Pearce and I travelled together to attend the Spring 2008 collection show, as well as the black tie dinner afterwards for a select 450 people worldwide. The show was held in an enormous white tent that had been erected on the edge of Manhattan’s Central Park Conservatory Garden. Immaculately dressed celebrities and guests filed past the enormous flower-filled urns at the park gates. It was the pinnacle of American power, glamour and refinement.

The show itself was a triumph, and at the finale Ralph Lauren walked out to crazy applause and Frank Sinatra singing “The Best Is Yet to Come.” At that point the painted backdrop at the end of the runway slid back to reveal—with precise timing, and to great dramatic effect—a magical garden, replete with a flowing fountain, waiters with silver trays of champagne and a platform built high in the treetops strung with crystal chandeliers. This was where we would be dining.

Grant was so overcome by the perfection of it all, he burst into tears. I stood by the fountain and smiled at Barbara Walters, like it was the most normal thing in the world. As we mounted the stairs to
our dinner in the sky, I chatted with Sarah Jessica Parker. I was seated beside an editor from the
Wall Street Journal
and we discussed the fact that Rupert Murdoch had just bought the newspaper, before Mayor Bloomberg began his toast to Ralph.

It so happened that I had struck up an acquaintance with Lauren Bush when she had been living and studying in Sydney, so she and I greeted each other and I met her soon-to-be husband, David Lauren, Ralph’s son. Just like my previous daydreams in Denmark, I simply surrendered myself to the elegance and theater of it all. I caught up with fellow editor-in-chief Christiane Arp from
Vogue Germany
a few days later and we both raved about the night. “That’s the sort of party that people think
Vogue
editors go to all the time,” she commented. She and I both agreed it was one of the most remarkable events we had ever witnessed. That night I had certainly seen the best of New York.

In 2004, just prior to the Olympics, I flew to Athens with a photographic team to produce a Greek-inspired December issue featuring models Gemma Ward and Nicole Trunfio. While I was there, suffering through what proved to be the shoot from hell due to horribly dysfunctional team dynamics, I received an invitation from the editor-in-chief of
Vogue Greece
, Elena Makris, to attend a charity dinner she was hosting. The evening was to begin with a Luciano Pavarotti concert held in the ancient Odeon of Herodes Atticus amphitheater, followed by a glittering outdoor dinner on the slopes of the Acropolis.

My great friend, the hugely successful makeup guru Napoleon Perdis, was also on the trip—thank goodness—and was thrilled for me to have the chance to experience the country of his heritage in such a
profoundly glamorous way. I went to his suite at the sumptuous Hotel Grande Bretagne in Syntagma Square before the evening’s proceedings, and he generously did my makeup, as he has done on numerous occasions. I adore makeup and I adore Napoleon, so we’re a good pair. It’s a tough call to say who loves eyeliner more.

The Pavarotti concert was of course sublime, especially in the historic and ambient amphitheater. As I made my way to dinner afterwards I was touched to find that Elena had placed me at one of the head tables and I was seated next to supermodel Naomi Campbell, and opposite legendary British photographer David Bailey. Naomi was wearing a pleated Grecian-goddess silk dress and had delicate braids through her hair, also Grecian-style. She was shimmering. She is a spectacular beauty. Naomi has a reputation for being tricky, but I found her to have a charm that was completely disarming. She had recently been to New Zealand, and we chatted over dinner about the Maori culture, and life in general. David Bailey was also friendly and witty, with a soft spot for Australia, as he had once made a photographic trip around the outback solo. On a balmy night in Athens, with the illuminated ruins of the Acropolis behind us and a star-filled sky overhead, I did remind myself, yet again, what a privilege it was to work for
Vogue
.