Patrick Demarchelier, 1943–2022
Whether working in his studio or on some far-flung location, the legendary photographer had an infectious joie de vivre. Grace Coddington pays tribute.
Patrick Demarchelier lived for photography. He was never happier than when he had a camera in his hand— he just loved working, whether it was on location in some faraway place for a fashion shoot, the dunes of Montauk for a Vogue cover, or in his studio for a portrait of an artist or celebrity. He was constantly jumping on a plane. Travel connected him to the world, and it never fazed him—nothing fazed him. He was up at the crack of dawn to catch that early light, and he was forever in a good mood.
Planning a shoot with Patrick always started the same way: The minute he knew he was doing it with you, you couldn’t get him off the phone. He absolutely loved talking, and kept us transfixed for hours, even if what he was saying in that Gallic mumble of his was barely decipherable! Anna Wintour once said: “Patrick never sounds so French as when he is speaking English.” She was right.
I don’t think many people could understand Patrick, but he just kept saying “Ça va…okay, bébé…fab-ulous…” to all his subjects. It made both you and them laugh. The images he took of Princess Diana made him famous because he showed a member of the British royal family as she had never been seen before—real, personable, relaxed—and I’m pretty
sure he said the exact same things to her: “Fab-u-lous, bébé, fantastique….” That was part of his charm, and Patrick was super, super charming.
You can see that in his portraits of Linda, Kate, Naomi, and Christy. (One of his all-time favorite pictures, I’m told, was Christy in a huge rose hat for British Vogue from 1992.) In all his portraits of first ladies and presidents, stars and celebrities, though, they look happy. He even got a smile out of the grim-faced Rudy Giuliani.
One of my funniest times with Patrick was when we shot the crew of The September Issue as props just before the film came out. I was tired of the group following us around for a year, so I turned the tables on them! Patrick had Bob Richman, the documentary cameraman, mercilessly jumping up and down with model Caroline Trentini. Bob was a little large at that time, but Patrick kept saying, again and again: “Jump, Bob, jump! You look fantastique!” Later on, the art department wanted to slim down poor Bob’s stomach, but neither Patrick nor I would allow them. After all, Bob was not a male model: He is a gifted cinematographer!
I first met Patrick a long, long time ago in Paris. I was at British Vogue back then and often crossed the Channel to work with the young, incredibly good-looking “new wave’’ photographers. Bill Cunningham had christened them “the Frenchies,” even though they weren’t, strictly, all French. They took fashion out of the studio, where it seemed stuffy and old, and put it on the cobbled streets of Paris. They photographed the uptight French couture sitting outside a café or running round the Place de la Concorde. You would find Hans Feurer on one corner for the back light, Arthur Elgort on another, and Patrick on another. They brought fashion to life and gave it joy. Then America discovered them, and it wasn’t long before Patrick found his way to New York, bringing with him his own
particular style of working, which was a breath of fresh air. The rest of the group soon followed.
I don’t remember the first time we worked together. I think it was a trip to Barbados for British Vogue with a new model, Bonnie Berman, who had been discovered while working as a hat-check girl at Mr Chow. In those days, trips were long, maybe even two weeks. Watching Bonnie grow each day as she shot with Patrick and me was fascinating—those pictures likely launched her very successful career.
For American Vogue we went to Anguilla with Naomi Campbell, Tyra Banks, and Beverly Peele. With little in the way of props—just miles and miles of beautiful white-sand beaches and blue, blue sky and sea—it was all down to the girls and how they would interact. Patrick was an avid sailor and had hired a huge yacht for us for the shoot, and we all set sail. There was so much shrieking and screaming and laughter going on, I began to worry we would all end up in the water and the clothes would be ruined! But Naomi, ever the mother figure, reeled in the girls and saved the day.
If Patrick wasn’t working with me at Vogue, he worked with Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele. He did brilliant pictures with her, totally different to those he shot with me. He’d adjust to everyone: With Carlyne it was chic, chic, chic, and so French. She is a master of styling, particularly with accessories. Three watches on each wrist? “Ça va, no problem!” Carlyne would say. Ten bracelets? “Ça va, no problem!”
I loved some pictures that Patrick and Carlyne did of Christy, all shot sitting on one small rock on the beach at Cabo San Lucas (a favorite location of his). The dawn light was gorgeous, and Christy was drop-dead beautiful. All of the images were in black and white—never a big hit with Anna—but they ran because these simple pictures were done with such strength and conviction. (A few years later, he and sittings editor Phyllis Posnick would become a force to be reckoned with for their striking beauty images.) Patrick was always totally decisive and fast—essential on many occasions, particularly with actors who might love to be filmed but for whom fashion pictures were just not their thing.
In 2008 he and I did a couture story that will go down in history with model Natalia Vodianova and all the white-coated seamstresses and artisans—les petites mains, as they are called—from each couture house, out on the streets of Paris. His graciousness and patience—and, of course, his speaking their language— really paid off.
I miss Patrick already. He was someone who was always happy to collaborate. He was generous, and he never became difficult just to prove something. He was right for the moment and he moved with the moment. He understood that the times called for a woman who is strong and full of confidence. And he loved beautiful clothes. Well, of course—after all, he was French, wasn’t he?