Karl Lagerfeld an icon and iconoclast at the same time
Since the house of Chanel confirmed Karl Lagerfeld’s death Tuesday morning, the fashion world has been reflecting on the designer’s outsized impact on the industry and pop culture at large.
The legendary designer, who redefined the word “prolific” with his unparalleled work ethic, was thought to be 85. Given that he had been stubbornly enigmatic about his birth date over the years, his actual age may be buried with him.
An icon and an iconoclast at the same time, he failed to appear on the runway following Chanel’s January haute couture presentation. The industry, which had come to see him as a reassuring constant in a constantly changing world, feared the worst. You can tell by the speed at which rich and researched tributes flooded online in the moments after his death was announced that media everywhere had reluctantly braced for the loss of fashion’s biggest star.
The fashion world is notorious for its burnout rate: many bril- liant designers succumb to exhaustion or substance abuse issues. Lagerfeld drank nothing stronger than Diet Coke. He never balked at work, nor was he ever dramatic or precious about it. He sat down with precision and discipline and got it done, commanding inspiration to appear at his will. And he continued to do so as his peers, including Valentino Garavani and the late Yves Saint Laurent, retired to their grand vacation homes to rest on their laurels and enjoy the gilded life.
Not Lagerfeld, who produced an unthinkable 14 collections each year. He held a “lifetime contract” with both Chanel and Fendi that allowed him to pursue any side projects that struck his polymath fancies.
He had been designing for Fendi since 1965 and took the reins at Chanel in 1983. It was then — and is even more so today — the biggest job in fashion. He also designed his own eponymous line, and he took all the photos and shot all the films of his work. He spoke German, English, French and Italian. He was a passionate bibliophile and a voracious collector — of furniture, art, homes — but after he had mastered each fresh obsession, he would sell off the lot without hesitation.
Make no mistake, Karl Lagerfeld was terrifying in person. A dozen years ago, a few of us were allowed into the Chanel atelier on Rue Cambon to watch the master at work. We were warned, in hushed tones, not to attract his attention. If you irked him in any way, it was implied, you would be unceremoniously ejected from his sightlines.
Interviewing him was even more stressful, as he could look at you like you were gum on the shoe of the universe. But if you stood your ground and waited out the withering, Lagerfeld was a wit who trafficked in playful and pointed aphorisms. He would then suddenly be all charm and bons mots. And then, basically, you walked away backward while thanking him, as though he were some stateless royal.
I did once get the most unusual opportunity to stare at him up close for an extended period of time. At the Gianni Versace tribute show a few months after the Milanese master’s death in 1997, all of fashion’s design stars came to honour their fallen brother. As international press, we Canadians used to get some nifty seats in those pre-celebrity and pre-blogger front rows. I was sitting directly behind Lagerfeld, who was seated beside Miuccia Prada.
I am not certain I took in any air for that hour, as the Versace supermodels got all slinky with Gianni’s greatest hits. I know for a fact that I didn’t move a muscle. But I did memorize the back of Lagerfeld’s ponytail, sculpted into place with purple paste.
He still had the fan back then. (Remember the fan? That was such a delicious affectation, a brilliant bit of theatrical business.) I remember being thrilled to feel the whoosh as he waggled and snapped it impatiently. He was clearly not accustomed to being in the audience.
Lagerfeld aged well: circa 2002, he released a book detailing the diet on which he said he lost 92 pounds. That was when he took up the Hedi Slimane for Dior suits, a skinny black uniform that became iconic, paired with the crisp white shirts with exaggerated tall collars that he bought by the dozens. He was a
virtuoso of personal branding: cartoon versions of Kaiser Karl are immediately recognizable on T-shirts, sneakers, even as a sellout doll.
He pumped up the volume on spectacle as the fashion world shifted from salon showings for editors and buyers to made-forthe-internet extravaganzas. He dreamed up massive production spectacles of boggling detail and richness of theme, throwing around millions of dollars on fantasy sets. Imagine the logistics involved with towing in an iceberg from Sweden to the Grand Palais, setting up an allChanel supermarket for the models to “shop” or building a fullsize cruise ship.
In his design as well, Lagerfeld mashed up the quotidian with the glamorous. He commanded extravagant fabrics and exquisite beadwork, lace and embroidery from the ateliers of “petites mains,” then piled on the pop culture references at full blast. Chanel surfboard, anyone?
The quality that unified his work was irreverence. He always spoke his mind, even when it got him into trouble — he caught flack for saying that sweatpants are “a sign of defeat” and for calling Adele “a little too fat.” Vanessa Friedman, the fashion editor at the New York Times, used the sharpest quote from Lagerfeld in her obituary. He said: “Chanel is an institution, and you have to treat an institution like a whore — and then you get something out of her.”
With that typically edgy perspective, he made the Chanel logo one of the world’s most sought after luxury signifiers while subverting the classic hallmarks of the heritage brand passed down from founder Coco Chanel: pearls, tweed jackets, masculine tailoring, sportswear, quilting, costume jewelry, spectator pumps. Chanel by Lagerfeld’s hand was always fresh and yet also timeless. And such was the man’s place in pop culture that even non-fashion-fans know who he was, what Chanel is and that he had a little cat named Choupette, who had her own maids.
Because this was a man whose accomplishments and impact on our culture had earned him the freedom to be as original (read: eccentric) as he damn well pleased.