Chanel strikes again
Tuesday morning as the clock struck ten, hordes of fashion people dressed mostly in black and with Chanel-bags hanging off their shoulders, move towards the Grand Palais. It is rented by Karl Lagerfeld four times per year to show off his new Chanel-wears to the people.
No euro is spared for this event, I can promise you that. From a 15 metre in diameter globe of the earth to a moonscape, art gallery and last time they even had a complete supermarket selling only Chanel products. Anything is possible in the world of Karl and Coco.
This year he must have come up with something spectacular. Whatever it was must have taken up a lot of space because they gave away 30% less tickets than last year. Leaving a third of the fashion-posse grinding their teeth through the streets of Paris, and the show-without-tickets being the main topic of conversation.
When I arrived at the Grand Palais this morning, I thought I had taken a wrong door. Instead of the centre court of the Grand Palais, I found a Parisian street. After a moment of doubt, it was early okay, it was early, I looked up at a street name and found clarity. Boulevard Chanel. Ah, Karl you’ve done it again.
I secretly What’sApp’d an image of this spectacular piece to the amayzine editors and wished I could have wallpaper made of this street. I understand now why there were less tickets. It’s a straight street so the side areas of the Grand Palais could not be used, so far less people could fit in the hall. So glad that I’m inside.
Men are walking along the catwalk with watering cans creating puddles of water on the street. It may be a startlingly sunny day, but if you imagine a Parisian street it has puddles on it. I hear a loud “everybody first look” behind me. The models are getting changed. All 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 that counts is walking in this show.
An explosion of models hit the catwalk. In typical tweed, with cheerful flower patterned rain boots, and bags that had ‘we need tweed’ written on them. And then a loud groan through the hall just as the finale begins. It’s a demonstration, a fashion-strike, with Karl and Cara in front. As they shout loudly through Chanel-megaphones ‘We need tweed’ and ‘Make fashion not war’, I overhear someone next to me say that Karl is very busy making Coco-Cola couture without any deeper message.
I don’t care. I am overwhelmed by beauty, an explosion of top-models and at least 47 things I absolutely must have. There is only one conclusion: Karl strikes again.
