Chanel slaat weer toe
On Tuesday morning around ten o'clock, all fashion people, mainly dressed in black and with Chanel bag a Chanel bag over their shoulder, head towards the Grand Palais. It is rented four times a year by Karl Lagerfeld to showcase his fresh Chanel goods.
And no euro is spared, I can tell you. From a globe with a diameter of 15 meters to lunar landscapes, art galleries, and last time a complete supermarket with only Chanel products. Everything is possible in the world of Karl and Coco.
This year, something very spectacular had to be conceived. It certainly took up a lot of space because 30% fewer tickets could be given away. As a result, a third of the fashion posse wandered through Paris grumbling, and the show-without-tickets was the topic of the day.
When I arrived this morning, Grand Palais I briefly thought I had taken the wrong door. Instead of the center court of the Grand Palais, I found a Parisian street. After a moment of wonder, it was still early, you know, the street sign provided clarity. Boulevard Chanel. Ah, Karl had concocted something again.
I secretly text the amayzine editors a picture of the spectacle and wish for a wallpaper of this street. I immediately understand where the ticket shortage comes from. It is a straight street, which means the large side spaces of the Grand Palais are not utilized, and therefore many fewer people can be in the hall. I am so glad to be inside.
Some men come onto the catwalk with watering cans to create some puddles on the street. It may be a particularly sunny day now, but when you think of a Parisian street, a puddle belongs there. Behind me, I hear someone shout loudly, “everybody first look.” The models are going to change. There are 86 of them. I see Gisèle, Cara, Joan Smalls, our Dutch brigade Daphne Groeneveld, Maartje Verhoef, Julia Bergshoef and Saskia de Brauw, Binx Walton, Anna Ewers, Sam Rollinson. Everyone who counts is walking this show.
A model explosion thunders down the catwalk. In typical tweed, with whimsically flowered rain boots, and bags with prints like ‘we need tweed’. There is a hum of noise in the hall before the finale begins. It is a demonstration, a fashion strike, with Karl and Cara at the forefront. As they shout slogans like “We need tweed’ and “Make fashion not war” into Chanel megaphones that I immediately want, I hear someone next to me say that Karl is making a bit of Coco-Cola couture because a deeper message might be lacking.
I couldn't care less. I see an abundance of beauty, an explosion of top models, and at least 47 things I want to have. I can only conclude one thing; Karl strikes again.
