The Vogue Factor: The Inside Story of Fashion's Most Illustrious Magazine (25 page)

The sitting was arranged to take place at The Dorchester Hotel. Lisa would be attending so it was crucial that I be there to make sure proceedings flowed smoothly and we achieved the four covers we needed. I was also doubling as the stylist.

Lisa and I met for breakfast and stationed ourselves in the hotel’s grand lobby, waiting for Cate’s arrival. She had a day off from her shooting schedule and was dropping her children at school first. She swept in briskly, with total professionalism as usual, and we took the lift to the suite we had booked for the day.

It’s something I love about Cate; she’s always ready to get straight to work. She had chosen to wear four designers: Balenciaga, Alexander McQueen, Giorgio Armani and Australian Martin Grant. They were very lavish, very formal pieces, as Cate seems to fall into a shoot more comfortably if there is a sense of theater about the clothes.

I had also organized for some very special and hugely expensive Tiffany jewels, necklaces and rings to be flown in, and they were there with their own bodyguard. Cate and I did the prerequisite try-on of all the clothes I had hanging in the dressing room until we settled on what she felt best in. I mentioned that I could hardly wait to see her in the upcoming Sydney Theater Company production of
A Streetcar Named Desire
. “Oh no, don’t put so much pressure on me,” Cate laughed. I was stunned to hear that even someone with the formidable talent of Cate Blanchett possessed an element of self-doubt. I voiced my surprise. “I often think I am Blanche DuBois,” I confessed, admitting my penchant for complicated Tennessee Williams heroines. “You know, there’s a little bit of Blanche in all of us,” Cate replied.

The process of the sitting was unusual in that the team, which included the amazing hairstylist Sam McKnight and makeup artist Dotti, would get Cate ready in full hair, makeup, clothes and accessories, and present her to David. Afterwards, we retired to my room, leaving them alone to capture the moment. Normally a shoot will have at least ten people on set, but David’s work required intimacy, and a personal connection to his subject. Each sketch took approximately half an hour, after which David would summon us back to the suite to start over again. These were the initial drawings, which he would later work on and perfect to produce the final images. It felt rather old-school and marvelous. It was also, for me as an editor, a joy to have such a controllable process—we could execute a headshot, a full length, a three-quarter length, whatever we desired, in the knowledge
that every one of them would work. We could make them work. You cannot do that with film. You either get the shot, or you don’t. But with illustration, we could embellish, tweak, play. I felt—well I hoped—the reader would see them as a present. They were exquisite enough to be framed.

Writing the book was one thing; producing the fiftieth anniversary issue was another. But nothing was more stressful than planning the fiftieth anniversary party. Deciding who should be on the guest list was exhausting and highly political, as we strove to create a delicate balance of past and present, and of industry, clients and party people. News Magazines events director Fiona Westall managed to secure the sound stage at Fox Studios, in Sydney’s Moore Park, a venue that had never previously been used for a party. The building itself had the appropriate grandeur, with a flight of stone steps leading to the entrance doors. Add searchlights and you had dazzling, Hollywood-style glamour. Rizer Productions built a clever and sumptuous venue within a venue, creating an “intimate” feel for what was to be around 900 guests.

Despite a global financial crisis, gloomy publishing predictions and a not insignificant cost, News Limited came to the party, so to speak. There were numerous requests on my party wish list: “Neverending magnums of ice-cold Moët & Chandon,” “an oyster bar serving dirty martinis” and “indoor trees,” but my greatest wish was that Cate Blanchett be there to launch our fabulous covers. As the stress (and the costs) were mounting exponentially in the weeks leading up to the night, I received a phone call from Cate’s local agent. Her client was unfortunately going to have to decline the party, as she was right in the middle of rehearsals for
Streetcar
.

I was driving to work when I got the news. I pulled the car over and burst into tears. (When I look back I spent a great deal of time in my car trying to sort out problems.) It’s difficult to get celebrities to events these days. It’s all marketing and business. Unless they are promoting something for themselves they’re not interested. In many cases, you have to pay them. It’s a minefield of tedious negotiations. I find the idea of paying someone to go to a party odious. Cate never demands money, and I accepted that she was in rehearsal.

I felt miserable about it for a couple of days and then I decided to make one more last ditch attempt. It’s part of my career philosophy—it won’t hurt to ask. I think my Scottish grandmother taught me that, although her version was: “If you don’t ask, you won’t git.”

I called Lisa Kasteler and was completely transparent. “Lisa, I know how it all works, believe me. I understand that Cate is busy. But this means so much to me, not in order to get publicity for
Vogue
in particular, but to me personally. I’m so proud of this project.”

Lisa said “Leave it with me,” and hung up.

Cate confirmed her attendance a few days later. Honesty is the best policy. A Hollywood agent, just like a gossip columnist, can spot a scam a mile away. Lisa and Cate were simply being gracious.

I had been rehearsing my speech for about, oh, six months, lying awake in bed between the hours of 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. It was such a momentous occasion for
Vogue
—and for me—I had to get it right. I wanted to acknowledge everyone who had contributed to
Vogue
over the years, what fifty years in fashion publishing meant, why we were celebrating, everything
Vogue Australia
had achieved. All without sounding like a gushy fool.

The night of the party, I dressed at Lee Tulloch’s home beforehand. To avoid the problem of favoring one designer, I chose a black, forties-vintage dress that I had found in Paris for $91. My hair and
makeup channeled the fifties, B-grade actress once again, with a lot of backcombing by my date for the evening, trusty hairdresser Bruce Packer, and with help from Kate from Napoleon, who layered on the eyeliner and lipstick with a trowel (at my insistence).

PR supremo Tracy Baker was also working on the event, and instead of a red carpet had installed a long stretch of zebra, flanked down each side by male models in black tie. John Hartigan and I stood and received every guest, as seemed fitting, but unfortunately there was a bottleneck for a period which meant a few of the guests were shivering outside in the chilly night air. Then suddenly, the space was filled. I was standing by the side of the stage, chatting to Joel Edgerton, who was also in rehearsals for
Streetcar
, playing Stanley. I mentioned I was about to go up and speak. “You don’t seem very nervous,” he said. “Well, I don’t think anyone wants me to fail, do they?” I said hopefully, and he agreed that was the best way to approach it.

That and two champagnes.

Sandra Hook and John Hartigan both gave short, succinct speeches and then Bernard Leser, the man who was responsible for
Vogue Australia
, delivered my favorite line of the night during his elegant address: “Do quality work first and the profits will follow.” You won’t hear anybody in management say things like that anymore.

Then it was my turn. The audience gave me a cheer, and I felt so buoyed and grateful and happy to be there it seemed to be over in seconds. The event was not to celebrate me as custodian, or to give lofty pronouncements on the power and authority of
Vogue
. It was to celebrate each and every person in the room, who had in some way contributed to the magazine over time. Afterwards, I was led down the steep stairs from the stage by two male models and walked over to stand next to Cate Blanchett, looking splendid in a red Ossie Clark vintage dress. “Gee, you really know how to deliver a good speech,” she
said. This, coming from Cate Blanchett, the world’s greatest actress. You could have picked me up off the floor. I’ll remember that compliment forever.

A few minutes later the DJ played “Vogue” by Madonna, and the party ignited. The staff, the entire Australian fashion industry and I hit the dance floor and stayed there until closing.

A week later we held a fiftieth anniversary celebration dinner in Melbourne, which was momentous for the fact that there were three
Vogue Australia
ex-editors present: Sheila Scotter, June McCallum and Nancy Pilcher.

Sheila, who has since sadly passed away, was well into her nineties, so to have all these impressive women in the same room was quite an achievement. Sheila certainly had all her wits about her, but she could be cantankerous to the point of nastiness, so I paired her off with the charming and patient
vogue.com.au
editor Damien Woolnough for the evening. John Hartigan made a surprise appearance during the night, and presented me with the
de rigueur
Tiffany box, containing two Elsa Peretti bangles, to commemorate my ten years as editor of
Vogue
.

The fiftieth anniversary issue, September 2009, was launched: four different covers, one in a limited edition gold box. A few months later I was thrilled to find that the issue was voted one of US
Time
magazine’s Top Ten Covers of the Year. We were nominated for Best Magazine at the annual News Limited Awards and I thought we were a shoo-in, but
GQ Australia
won for reasons unknown.

Well, at least the editor of
Time
appreciated what we’d done. As did John Hartigan, who wrote me a lovely congratulatory note. I’m not usually one to pat myself on the back. In fact, I always think I can do better. But for once, I allowed myself to accept the praise.

I
n late 2011 Condé Nast International Chairman Jonathan Newhouse proposed that every
Vogue
editor-in-chief should travel to Tokyo to host a very special Fashion’s Night Out, a celebration that had been originally instigated in 2009 by Anna Wintour in the United States. The general idea was to create a party-like atmosphere for one night in the stores, and it was designed to help stimulate retail by involving designers, models and celebrities. Each
Vogue
editor globally hosts the event in their respective cities, all on the same date in September.

Japan was still reeling from the devastation caused by the recent earthquake and tsunami, and to have all the editors come together to show our support, including Anna, was a landmark event for Condé Nast. Our first task was to assemble in the foyer of the Grand Hyatt hotel, and be ushered into a room to have a group photograph taken.

Seating positions had clearly been worked out beforehand, with Anna front and center, flanked by Franca Sozzani from
Vogue Italia
and British
Vogue
’s Alexandra Shulman, and Emmanuelle Alt from Paris
Vogue
seated on the floor in front. I was at the back on the left,
half obscured by Yolanda Sacristan from
Vogue Spain
. The pecking order was breathtakingly apparent. I had grown used to acknowledging the power and importance of the bigger
Vogue
s, but the emergence of markets such as China, India and Turkey and their commonsense editors had helped to make me feel a little less marginalized.

I had no dealings with Anna Wintour over the years, and on the few occasions we were introduced her sense of froideur was palpable. The deference she commands from people is astonishing to watch. There appears to exist some kind of psychological condition that causes seemingly sane and successful adults to prostrate themselves in her presence. It’s not just respect—it’s something else. People actually want to be scared witless of her, so she obliges. It’s very clever when you think about it. Many times over the years, people, after they had met me would say, “Oh gee, you’re so nice and normal,” often I think with a tinge of disappointment, wishing I’d been just a little bit like Anna. I could never really win. I was either expected to be terrifying or snobbish. And I don’t consider myself either.

The next afternoon the editors were put into pairs (apart from Anna, who was with her daughter Bee) and taken to visit various stores and boutiques around Tokyo. The crowd scenes that erupted around any appearance of Anna were astonishing. I was with Alex Shulman from British
Vogue
and if we saw that Anna was approaching the store we were in, we would beat a hasty path out to avoid being crushed in the mob. It was one of the craziest days in my career.

Earlier in the proceedings the editors and all the visiting designers, including Michael Kors, Christopher Bailey from Burberry and Peter Copping from Nina Ricci, had been herded into a multi-leveled shopping mall, and into a specially erected backstage area. A large board covered in tactical diagrams had been set up, and a Japanese organizer with
limited English and a long wooden pointer explained that we were to all file into the mall, and be announced one by one to the waiting crowd. It was like a demented military operation.