Free Finding Myself in Fashion by Jeanne Beker

the loudspeaker, we heard the marquis’ words, quotes from his philosophical writings. Out of nowhere, a vinyl-clad dominatrix appeared, leading a maiden on a leash. I wasn’t sure I wanted to watch much more, but the proceedings were too preposterous to miss. Cardin looked intrigued. The dominatrix led the maiden behind a backlit screen. We watched their silhouettes as the maiden fell to her knees and slowly began licking the thighs of the dominatrix. Cardin was fixated, but I couldn’t tell whether he thought this was all very hot or all very silly.
    Within a couple of minutes, the lewd act ended. I engaged Cardin in a conversation about the synergy between fashion and art. He told me that he had wanted to be an actor and dancer when he was young, but instead he began designing costumes for Jean Cocteau, the great poet, playwright, and filmmaker. I asked Cardin if he identified with the Marquis de Sade at all, at least in terms of his efforts to entertain and enlighten people. “Not exactly,” he said. “That’s not my mentality. But he was such a free writer, such a free man. And that was two centuriesago. The one thing we can at least do today is say, ‘Thank you, sir … Merci , Monsieur Marquis.’”
    I reluctantly left the party at 2:00 a.m. True to form, my Sergio Rossis were killing me! But I heard that the hedonistic dancing at the château that night went on until dawn. I’m not sure just how raunchy the party got, but the Marquis de Sade would have undoubtedly been proud—and probably would have thanked Pierre Cardin not only for hosting such a theatrically wild celebration, but for trying to keep a dark sense of daring alive.

ACHING FOR ART
    OF ALL THE FASCINATING PEOPLE I’m privileged to rub shoulders with on a regular basis, it’s the designers I admire the most. Their passion and creativity, coupled with their technical mastery and disciplined work habits, are a constant source of inspiration for me. Their sheer tenacity to come back each season and reinvent the wheel, as well as the courage they have to oppose convention and make their voices heard, fills me with reverence. While none of them may ever save the planet, they all make the world a more beautiful place.
    For some designers—like many sensitive souls who sacrifice so much for their art—life is especially complicated and difficult. They experience a level of suffering that becomes part of their personal fabric. Of all the great designers I have met over the years, I always had the suspicion that the inimitable Yves Saint Laurent, a gentle giant of a man, had a particularly painful life. As celebrated as he was, he always seemed to exude a profound and unrelenting sadness as he struggled to come to terms with his place in an arena whose ideals and values were so rapidly changing.
    Saint Laurent was born in Algeria, and his career ambitions formed when he was still in high school. He won third place in a sketchingcompetition organized by the International Wool Secretariat and was invited to Paris for the awards ceremony. While he and his mother were there, they met the editor of the French edition of Vogue , Michel de Brunhoff, who encouraged Saint Laurent to pursue his fashion dreams. The aspiring young designer enrolled at the famous Chambre Syndicale as soon as he finished high school. Before long (and shortly after winning a design competition against a young German student, Karl Lagerfeld), Saint Laurent was hired as Christian Dior’s assistant. He was only seventeen. Four years later, Dior told Saint Laurent’s mother that he had chosen her talented son to succeed him. He was only fifty-two at the time, so Saint Laurent’s mother was puzzled by his remark. But a few months later, Dior died suddenly of a massive heart attack. At the age of twenty-one, Saint Laurent took the reins at the illustrious fashion house.
    He shot to international stardom with his spring