Saturday Morning, Coming Down - click for photos
Written by Timothy Hagy
PARIS, July 3 - In the garden of the Swedish Cultural Center on Saturday
morning, Marcel Marongiu sent out a summertime collection of snappy
white suits and candy-striped jackets - the sugary theme even worked
its way into raspberry-colored shirts blossoming with red flowers. Embroidery
crept into lapels, around waistlines of jeans and even enigmatically on
the underside of shirts worn open to the navel.
Marongiu sent around cool bottles of Corona beer with lime - and just in
time, as most of the guests looked like they were just working off the last
buzz from the Mattout party, held in the wee hours of the previous/present
day.
Listening to an exchange on the front row was like tuning into gossip central.
"X. must have been doing lines of coke last night," said
one editor.
"Did he at least keep his shirt on this time for his catwalk appearance?"
asked another.
"Yes. At 43, going sans chemise doesn't exactly catch many fish."
"Better stay wrapped up."
"Ever heard him speak?"
"Yeah. It's kind of a Cockney queen thing."
"Hey_did you get Givenchy. I got the party not the show."
"I got the show, not the party."
"Well, how do you get invited?"
Silence
It wasn't hard to find the way to the next show, as all you had to do was
trek behind a clump of young models. One Scotsman, dressed in a dirty, ripped
T-shirt, was carrying a nearly empty magnum of champagne. His friends, also
members of the Click/Next/Bananas profession, steered him discretely through
the Marais, while the F-not-for-Fox-word echoed across the narrow streets
with enough force to have made Uncle Dick Cheney swoon.
"I'm F-ing ready," he assured his friends.
And on they charged in one fearless band into the appropriately named Musée
de la Chasse for the Rogosky show. The vignette thus continues with one
extremely nervous casting director escorting the motley crew through their
paces, when the young Adonis of this story unwittingly stumbled into a room
full of ogling queen -fashion editors. The champagne now having worked its
magic, the young Scott folded his arms and shrieked in falsetto "Don't
look at me - the show hasn't started!"
And it wasn't even lunchtime yet.
Saturday Morning, Coming Down - click for photos
|
 |
