“SHE IS A LITTLE TOO FAT, but she has a beautiful face and a divine voice.” Thus spake Karl Lagerfeld when some journalist or other asked him for his opinion of Adele.
Karl’s now legendary quote set the blogosphere afire. The response was explosive and immediate. How dare he? Why is he hating on her? Why is he drinking haterade? Just how full of bile is his daily glass of Châteauneuf-du-Hate?
Karl-gate-hate was major. That relatively innocuous comment, enrobed in praise for Adele’s beauty and her voice, was treated as high treason. If he had pulled out a revolver and shot her, he would have received a less outraged response.
I cannot help feeling that the Adele brouhaha would never have gotten any momentum if those young bloggy folks had been more familiar with Karl’s gloriously bitchy history. Compared to the other things Karl has said about people over the years, this comment about Adele was so straightforward and so wildly vanilla as to be almost albino. In many ways, Adele got off very lightly.
Karl Lagerfeld is an enduring genius and a true fashion icon. He is also a tart-tongued Teutonic legend of long standing, a guy who is so bitchy that he can be bitchy in six languages, no less. He is the sultan of sarcasm.
When the legendary Pierre Cardin banned the press from his shows later in his career, Karl said, “That’s like a woman without lovers asking for the Pill.”
When the Metropolitan Museum of Art announced its Jackie Kennedy exhibit, circa 2001, Karl said, “It’s perfect. They can call it the Necropolitan Museum.” (Karl had hoped that they would mount a Chanel exhibit instead.)
On defeating the deposed president of Chanel: “The good news is that Kitty D’Alessio has been made director of special projects. The bad news is, there are no special projects.” (For the record: The glamorous Kitty is a fashion legend—with a serious jet-black side-flip coiffure—who I admire greatly. Her many accomplishments include having masterminded those famous midcentury Maidenform pointy brassiere ads: “I dreamed I went on safari in my Maidenform bra.” In Mad Men terms, she was the original Peggy.)
On being succeeded at Chloé by Stella McCartney, Karl said, “I think they should have taken a big name. They did—but in music, not fashion.”
According to Karl, Miuccia Prada makes “flea-market clothes.” And Michael Kors? Lagerfeld told CNN that he had nothing against the American designer, but that was only because he barely knew who he was.
Regarding the adulation surrounding Alaïa: “If you want to see a retrospective of Azzedine Alaïa, just take a look at what he’s doing now.”
It is important to note that Karl’s fabulously reckless bitchiness is often directed toward himself: “I respect nothing, no one, including myself. Respect is not a very creative thing.”
And before anyone can make fun of him, he often makes fun of himself.
“When I was four, I asked my mother for a valet for my birthday.”
His favorite names? “Louis XIV, Louis XV, Louis XVI.”
Who are the Lagerfelds of today? Do they exist? Has this glorious genre of sarcasm gone out of fashion?
I am rather afraid it has. Karl is something of a unicorn. There is a dearth of barbed bon mots. There are no Oscar Wildes or Dorothy Parkers of the runway. Fashion editorials and reviews are always positive. Witty Lagerfeldian denunciations are rare. If you want to enjoy some modish bitchery, you have to trawl back through history in search of these hard-to-find nuggets. Here’s a typical example of what I’m talking about: Years ago a pal of mine named Adrian Cartmell launched a collection he dubbed “throw-away chic.” The temptation to riff on this concept was too great for one journalist, who opined that “some of it was chic, but most of it should be thrown away.”
Forty years later such gems are virtually unheard of.
But please don’t despair. There is hope. There exists one brave individual, other than Karl, who is doing all he can to keep it alive.
Not long ago at a fashion cocktail party . . .
An old pal was bending my ear with descriptions of some new low-brow reality-show obsession. (Is there anything more boring than somebody banging on in endless detail about a TV show which one has yet to see?) One particular character had caught his attention. When he described her as “a blousy, braying, tackily dressed plastic surgery victim,” I simply could not resist. “For you that must be like looking into a mirror,” I said, with a concerned look.
The TV enthusiast winced visibly and strode off. He was later heard telling pals that I was behaving “like a menopausal maniac.” When I heard this, I felt a chill wind. Clearly, sarcasm, one of the greatest achievements of mankind, or “unkind” as I prefer to call it, is no longer à la mode.
Sarcasm—the word is from the Greek sarkazein, meaning “to rend the flesh”—is one of the building blocks of civilization. The ability to express an unwelcome observation in a wickedly passive-aggressive manner is, at the very least, a great alternative to old-fashioned fisticuffs or rape ’n’ pillage. When I think about those ancient Greeks and the carte blanche they enjoyed to say horrid things to each other, I get quite jealous. For example: If you were strolling through downtown Thebes and you ran into a pal who was looking particularly soiled and unkempt, you might say, “Going somewhere special?” to which the other Greek might good-naturedly reply, “Oh, you and your flesh-rending ironic observations!” It’s sad to think that such a remark would, in our squishy and oversensitive age, be met with accusations of “hating.”
If sarcasm is no longer understood and accepted, then what, pray, will become of the little children of today. Sardonic irony is as critical to healthy child development as vitamins and checking for ticks. Raising your brats on an exclusive diet of sincerity is a recipe for disaster. The current mania for relentless positivity and self-esteem building leaves me convinced that we are in real danger of turning out an entire generation of inspirational speakers. Tony Robbins, watch your back.
Not long ago at another cocktail party . . .
There I was, swanning about at the mingle fest which precedes the Council of Fashion Designers of America Awards at the New York Public Library. This event is not as raucous and freewheeling as you might imagine. When Fashion, with a capital F, celebrates herself, she can get a little serious. The attendees in gowns and tuxes were a tad tight-assed. Adding to the solemnity was the sad fact that Yves Saint Laurent had died the day before. Yves was the quintessence of bohemian, faux-hemian, caftan-wearing Euro-fabulosity. I have a pair of tasseled YSL couture thigh boots which I keep on my mantelpiece as a reminder of this fact.
I was scheduled to present an award to Dries van Noten. Feeling it incumbent on myself to wear Dries, I had ransacked the city for something apropos and found a nifty black kimono thingy. I convinced myself that this jacket, worn with a ruffled white shirt and a narrow tie, fell under that category of “creative black-tie.” It screamed jujitsu. I had justified it to myself as “something David Beckham might wear.” When I arrived, a pal commented on my ensemble.
“You look as if you bolted out of the salon chair prematurely in that black tent they make you wear. I half expected to see chunks of foil in your hair.”
So far, so good.
Then I ran into Dries van Noten himself and drew his attention to my purchase. He seemed to have no recollection of ever designing it. “You look very Kill Bill,” he said.
Glowing from all this positive attention, I went to grab a drink. The barman seemed happy to see me.
“How is the show going? Do you think you will get another season?”
“Which of my blockbuster media appearances are you referring to?”
“You’re on Will & Grace, right? Aren’t you Beverley Leslie?”
Before I had time to decide if this constituted an insult, a gonging sound drowned out further conversation, indicating that we should take our places for the awards ceremony.
Hostess Fran Lebowitz was très drôle. Nonetheless, even she was having a hard time injecting the mood with levity. The crowd felt stiff and self-conscious. An enema was required. At the very least, a laxative. Somebody needed to loosen everyone up. Would Yves have wanted us to be glum all evening? Pas du tout! Somebody should really take it upon him or herself to inject these proceedings with a little raucous informality.
Then it occurred to me: Maybe that someone should be moi!
I headed for the podium to present Monsieur van Noten, the most talented designer present, with his “International” award. Overcome with feelings of altruism and responsibility, I vowed to use my brief stage appearance to perk up the crowd. A little British debunkery. That’s all that is ever needed.
Fran introduces me. I stride manfully onstage and embark on what I feel sure is my side-splittingly amusing, Belgian-themed speechlet. I announce to the crowd that Dries will be producing a new TV show titled The Real Housewives of Antwerp. Instead of the usual plastic Barbie dolls, the housewives will be very mopey, artsy, poetic and pale. When disagreements erupt, they will settle arguments by pelting each other with Belgian chocolates.
Funny, right? Apparently not.
The silence in the Celeste Bartos Forum is deafening. You could hear the crickets all the way to Staten Island. If the gowned attendees were chuckling, they were doing it behind their clutch purses.
In a desperate attempt to wring a few laughs out of the assembled fashionrati, I decide to extemporize.
Directly in my field of vision sits a stately, glamorous legend. Mr. André Leon Talley. He is wearing a loosely tied neoclassical turban. It looks like the headgear from a Rembrandt or Ingres painting. The turban in question is classic Talley: seemingly effortless yet over-the-top glamorous. Adorning the turban is a jeweled pin.
HE LOOKS UTTERLY GORGEOUS.
It’s worth reflecting on the majesty of Mr. Talley. André Leon Talley is one of the pillars of the fashion community. His knowledge of the nuances of style and his ability to communicate his passions to others is unmatched. He is outrageous and generous and eccentric and extraordinary.
I worship that fabulous, glamorous bitch!
Of all the attendees at this particular awards show, he has displayed the most unbridled panache. And isn’t that what fashion is all about?
So why not give him a shout-out?
Moving closer to the mike, I spontaneously suggest that André Leon Talley should “hock the fabulous diamond pin on that turban which you rented to come here tonight,” and use the resulting moolah to fund Dries’s Antwerp Housewives show.
To say that it simply did not work would be accurate.
André is not amused by my en passant reference to his headgear. The phrase “visibly affronted” would best describe his reaction. Ditto his date, Naomi Campbell, who lets out a protective hiss.
My bowels lurch and a vomitaceous feeling engulfs me. Of all the people in that room he—André, the Ab-fabulous, the brilliant, the most life enhancing—was the last person on earth I wished to offend. My intention in singling out this remarkable accessory is to express solidarity with the wearer, the majestically adorned Mr. Talley. Here is an oasis of flamboyance in a sea of formality. I hoped, through the lens of humor, to spotlight ALT and pay homage. My goal—please believe me, André dahling!—was to j’adore the shit out of you.
As I staggered back to my seat in a state of dry-mouthed panic, I began to trawl the deep recesses of my consciousness. From whence had sprung this horrid notion of rented accessories? How did I conceive of such a Dada idea?
Then I remembered: Dame Edna, aka Australian comedian and writer Barry Humphries.
In the mid-seventies I wandered into a Knightsbridge bookstore and found Dame Edna Everage, Barry Humphries’s alter ego, in housewife drag, autographing a stack of her latest lifestyle tome for a small crowd of admirers. A fan of long standing, I immediately grabbed a book and joined the line.
The lady who preceded me was an aging Sloane Ranger with an entitled air. She seemed to have no idea that she was dealing with a seven-foot Australian bloke in drag and proceeded to ask the author a lot of turgid, probing questions about housewifery, the Australian dried-fruit industry, the climate Down Under and such. When the Sloane declined to purchase a book, the Dame responded by thanking her profusely “for renting that little mink collar to come here and see me today.”
Funny and memorable, right?
Back to the turban debacle.
As you can well imagine, I felt ghastly. Sarcasm is no fun unless the audience, victims included, is chuckling right along with you. As a result of my failed attempt, I spent the rest of the evening staring into the middle distance like Whistler’s mother. I felt like I should toss my green card out of the window and go back to the Are You Being Served? department store where my fashion journey had begun three decades earlier.
Barely had the sun risen the next morning when peonies were dispatched to Mr. Talley, accompanied by an effusive apology note.
His assistant called mine to say that André would prefer orchids. The hauteur of this response felt like the sharp, stinging smack of an Hermès riding crop, or what I imagine that would feel like were I into sadomasochism. I shivered with humiliation. Before you could say “Inès de la Fressange” or “Princess Gloria von Thurn und Taxis,” the substitution was made.
Time is a great healer. In the intervening years, André has seen fit to forgive and forget.
Since André forgave me, I had no choice but to forgive myself. And why not? After all, it was not my fault. The truth of the matter is that I have always had a forked tongue. And I am not to blame. I was raised that way.
I am happy to say that I was barraged with sarcasm during my formative years. My teachers specialized in subtle-but-withering verbal assaults. Many incidents spring to mind. After jackhammering my way through an entire page of Ulysses in a robotic monotone—how was I supposed to know that James Joyce expected the reader to insert the lilts, pauses and commas intuitively?—my English teacher announced that he was overcome by the “sensitivity” of my reading and would need to “nip out for a fag” in order to compose himself. While the entire class roared with laughter, I flinched and cringed. But I eventually recovered. Better to be verbally humiliated than whacked upside the head, an outcome which was also on offer.
My home life was equally sarco enriched and sincerity free. I was raised by two members of what Tom Brokaw called the “Greatest Generation” and what I call the “Greatest Sarcastic Generation.” When I began to embrace the satins and velvets of glam rock, my parents began pointedly tracking the movements of local traveling circuses and keeping me posted on their whereabouts.
Pops and Mamma saved their best sarcasm for each other, often after drinking vats of homemade sloe gin. Like many dudes of his generation, my dad had a tendency to treat his kids, the fruit of his loins, like some random encumbrance which fate had dumped upon him. My mum was quick to nip this line of thinking in the bud with a little liquor-fueled faux gratitude. “It really was so good of you to take me in off the street, especially with these two children in tow. Have I ever thanked you formally?”
If you were raised amid sarcasm, as opposed to sincerity, you have no choice but to seek out kindred spirits. It’s a tribal thing. If you attempt to consort with sincere types, it can only end in mayhem and bloodshed, metaphorically, of course. I knew my Jonny was the one for me when I met his lovely old dad. When I announced my intention to take Jonny white-water rafting, Dad-in-law responded by deadpanning, “Where do you both wish to be buried?”
Sustaining a healthy sarcasm-based relationship is no easy matter and requires effort and creativity. I am fortunate to be married to somebody who is always prepared to go the distance. A couple of months back my Jonny presented me with a greeting card. Naturally, I smelled a rat. He had never given me a card before. Why now? And why was he watching me with such sincere anticipation?
My suspicions were confirmed when I opened the envelope. The inscription, emblazoned across a mumsy floral vista à la Thomas Kinkade, began as follows:
I know how trapped you must feel
In that traitor of a body of yours . . .
I don’t recall the rest of the verse. I know that it contained sympathetic commiserations regarding the imprisoning effects of the aforementioned body. I had to admire his ingenuity: repurposing a sincere sympathy card into a lacerating insult—without changing a thing—is an impressive feat of sarcasm.
Delivered via e-mail, Jonny’s assault would have lost much of its lethal malevolence. Maybe that’s why Karl got so much shit for his remark about Adele. If it had been delivered in person, he could have added a little sarcastic je ne sais quoi.
Bonjour, Adele! Your smartest move would have been to respond to Karl with a bitchy bon mot or two. Given that Karl’s comment was fairly straightforward and sarcasm free, you could easily have upstaged him with something really wicked. Just to get your juices going, here is an inspirational example of a Karl slag-off, penned by Barry Humphries—yes, coincidentally, Dame Edna again!—in a recent issue of the Spectator:
“It is hard not to pick up a periodical without seeing a picture of Karl Lagerfeld, surely one of the most absurd-looking people on the planet, rivaled only by Colonel Gaddafi and Donald Trump. Herr Lagerfeld is probably a very good dress designer, especially compared with Colonel Gaddafi . . .”
I have no idea if Herr Lagerfeld ever clocked this little gem of a comment. Were he to have read it, I suspect he would have had a good laugh behind his fan, metaphorically of course, since he no longer carries one.
In order to hit the spot and rise above the level of mere insult, sarcasm needs this kind of Wildean panache. Here, for your delectation and inspiration, is one final example of haute couture dissing: Once upon a time, the great Harold Pinter left his très chic actress wife, Vivien Merchant, for the aristocratic authoress and grande dame of British letters, Lady Antonia Fraser. His action caused a scandal of epic proportions. One fine day the press knocked on Viv’s door and asked her for a comment about Harold’s hasty departure sans wardrobe. La Merchant’s sarcastic response gave us Brits a good chuckle.
“Harold didn’t need to take a change of shoes,” declared the petite thespian, adding, “He can always wear Antonia’s. She has very big feet, you know.”
Cue the sound of rending flesh.