Free Finding Myself in Fashion by Jeanne Beker Page B

was aimed at showing us all why Saint Laurent so rightly deserved the title of king.
    It was the hottest ticket in recent Paris memory, and I was both thrilled and honoured to be among the recipients. Unfortunately, the invitation was solely for me—I wasn’t allowed to bring my cameraman, since podium space for TV crews was limited. Fashion Television would have to make do with a house tape of the show. Any quotes I got from the invited guests would have to be used for my newspaper reportage alone. And so, notebook in hand and wearing a little black dress, I took a taxi to Beaubourg, knowing that the coming fashion show would be one of the most poignant and moving I would ever see.
    Outside the Pompidou Centre, scalpers were charging up to 350 euros for the chance to see the master’s last runway presentation and gawk at the bevy of international designers who had assembled to pay tribute, including Jean-Paul Gaultier, Yohji Yamamoto, Kenzo, Oscar de la Renta, Vivienne Westwood, Fernando Sanchez, Sonia Rykiel, Paul Smith, Alber Elbaz, and the retired Hubert de Givenchy. Saint Laurent’s devoted clients—from Bianca Jagger and Paloma Picasso to Nan Kempner, Diane Wolfe, and the biggest collector of them all, Mouna Ayoub—also came out in droves.
    As I took my seat, watching the glitterati assemble and waiting for the show to start, I thought back to the first time I met Saint Laurent, in the mid-1980s, shortly after the launch of Fashion Television . In those days, his presentations were held in the posh mirrored ballroom of the Paris Intercontinental Hotel, with its ornate ceilings, luxe chandeliers, and small, elegant gilt chairs. The intimate atmosphere was a far cry from the media circus that high-profile fashion presentations have evolved into today. There may have been a couple of local TV news crews backstage, along with Elsa Klensch’s CNN crew, but that was about it. The media’s appetite for fashion had barely been whetted then. In retrospect, it was a peaceful time, the likes of which we’ll never see again. Nonetheless, it was wildly exciting for me to be in the midst ofsuch grandeur, and to witness the kind of refined artistry that today has become more rare.
    Saint Laurent’s vision for spring that season was particularly upbeat, with a dramatic and joyful rose motif. As we filed backstage to voice our praise, I was delighted to run into the designer’s mother, Lucienne, a thin, bird-like woman dressed to the nines in YSL couture. Madame Saint Laurent’s staunch support of her son’s work was well known, and we briefly chatted about the pride she took in his success. Backstage in the crush of well-wishers, my cameraman and I found the tired but smiling designer. Saint Laurent was known for his fragile nerves, but on that morning, he was the portrait of calm. Eyes twinkling, he generously allowed me to engage him for a few moments.
    â€œYou seem very happy today, Mr. Saint Laurent,” I said. “What makes you so happy?”
    He closed his eyes briefly, basking in contentment, drinking in the moment. After a few beats, he looked into my eyes and, grinning, shrugged his huge shoulders and answered, in a great, deep voice, “I don’t know,” as if he too was surprised by his own fleeting happiness.
    â€œ Est-que c’est dur d’être un artiste? ” I asked him.
    â€œ Oui ,” he said, and laughed, evidently charmed by the question. “Très, très dur .”
    â€œHe is completely consumed by his work. He doesn’t conceive of the creative process without a sense of gravity, of urgency,” explained David Teboul, a filmmaker I interviewed just before the premiere of 5 avenue Marceau , his 2002 documentary about YSL. “There is an air of good feeling,” Teboul told me, speaking of the master’s work, “but the good feeling only comes when it’s over.” Teboul, who had the privilege of