French fashion does dallas.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 1: INTRODUCTION.

“What’s the name of the chief Frog landing tonight Earl?”

“Hang on there E.C. Let’s just get that e-mail out again. Says here he’s called; “Bernard-Henri Flammarion.” My, My did his daddy have a sense of humour, saddling a boy with a name like that! It is a boy, right?”

“Yep, I believe so,” said E.C.Smith, the larger of the two Texans, resting his boots on the scuffed corner edge of the office desk. “Chief designer for Dior, another little hothouse bloom of our capitalist civilisation.”

“Has he ever been to Texas before? Does he know how we do things out here in the West?”

“Doesn’t say he does. Doesn’t say he does not,” drawled E.C.

“Well I hope he gets the idea of how we work real quick. Any fine store can dress a few women beautifully. At Neiman-Marcus our idea is to dress a whole community that way.”

Both men were senior executives of the company and were to receive the annual pilgrimage of French designers from Paris, a by-product of which was to cause a little envious pique in New York. Not that either of these Lone Star State indigenes lost much sleep over that. To their minds that east coast city was resolutely regarded as an outer province of Imperial Texas.

For E.C.Smith & Earl Hawkins, Monsieur Bernard-Henri Flammarion was coming, not to dazzle the back country with the wares of the City of Light. They expected him to come rather in the spirit of a Bogart stepping up to a Hollywood rostrum to receive an Oscar.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 2: THE FRENCH.

To the French contingent that landed at Dallas International that evening, their perspectives were, to say the least, different. The only Italian in the group; conceptual artist & photographer, Francesco Vezzoli had been before, about two years previously and had in fact worked there for some time. He knew that Dallas was and is a vastly rich town with oil fortunes sumptuously housed in sedulously watered suburbs. But it is still a ram-shackle town, and the backyard of a modern facade or a towering bank may still give onto the stripping billboards and alley cats before the yawning prairie takes over. Some of its characters lived in a world gone wrong and there were areas where the streets were dark with something more than night.

The “patron” of the group, the aforesaid mentioned Bernard-Henri, had taken the time to undertake some research back in France. He was versed in the fact that the first ambition to mass-produce high fashion in this town on the Texas plains, was in 1907 when it had hardly recovered from the recent depredations of the James brothers. At that time there were 222 saloons and the street paving, where there was any, was of wooden blocks, whilst most of the town’s 85,000 solid citizens still connected pearls with Belle Starr’s pearl-handled pistols. To Bernard-Henri, he was sceptical as to the success of the original mission of Stephen Austin a hundred years ago, “To redeem Texas from the wilderness.”

But the sudden death of the previous Dior head designer, Louis Althusser had meant that he was now obliged to shed his refined good manners and go native in this part of the world. The business involved, controlled by Neiman-Marcus was too big to ignore.

Bernard-Henri’s CV was as good as it gets. After attending the Lycée Louis-le-Grand in Paris, he enrolled in the elite and highly selective École Normale Supérieure in 1968, from which he graduated with a degree in fashion designing. Returning to Paris, Bernard became famous as the young founder of the “Nouveaux Mode” school. This was a group of designers, disenchanted with the conventional responses to the demand for something fresh and new in the way women in France dressed, and who articulated a fierce and uncompromising critique of post war dogmas in fashion.

His connections helped enormously, for Bernard-Henri had for years business ties with billionaire François Pinault, had befriended Jean-Luc Lagardère, who owned “Hachette Livre,” the largest publisher in France, and “Hachette Filipacchi Médias,” the largest magazine publisher in the world.

But French newspaper “Le Monde” and national daily newspaper “Liberation,” called Bernard; "a man whose intelligence is destroyed by his own ego”.

Mind you, Bernard played the part to the hilt, thriving on the publicity whether flattering or adverse. With his third wife, he became a regular fixture in “Paris Match” magazine, wearing his trademark unbuttoned white shirts and designer suits. Some attributed to him a reputation for narcissism. One article about him coined the dictum, "God is dead but my hair is perfect." Then there was of course the benediction of France’s first lady, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy who made a point of wearing his creations.

The hired cars whisked them from the airport to the hotel and the PR girl prattled on in an intoned manner to anyone who would give her perfunctionary attention. Tomorrow there would be the initial meeting of the two parties, review of presented designs and a photo shoot. The Americans had insisted on their own home grown models for the latter, for to their way of thinking Texas had an outrageously justifiable claim in the comeliness of the female raw material involved.

“Dear Lord,” reflected Bernard, sinking back into the burgundy coloured leather of the limo, “What am I in for tomorrow with these cowboys!”

[Steven Hunley]

This is what I like, a clash of cultures. Shall I gush? I think so! I love it! But underneath, you understand, I'm extrememly jealous. But don't worry, I'll get over it.

[MANICHAEAN]

I've had to cry with envy into my pillow a few times after reading a few of yours my friend as well.

So thats the mutual appreciation society in place!

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 3. THE TWO CULTURES.

E.C Smith strode across the thick red carpet of his office and grasped Bernard-Henri’s hand in his. Earl Hawkins followed in his wake and everyone stood around, in a manner somewhat akin to a transit lounge limbo, each assessing the other.

EC thought Bernard a bit too delicate for his liking. “Don’t suppose he has ever sat on a horse, let alone a woman,” was his first thought.

“Mon Dieu. C’est John Wayne!” thought the other, taking in the jeans, heeled boots and clip button shirt.

They both smiled at each other as per the ritual of convention, whilst the rest of the party took the lead. Within a short time, in the manner of a Federal Marshal, EC had them rounded up and corralled around a long low table surrounded by armchairs, and the submission of designs commenced.

“Well Bernard, they are certainly different,” he said, “How’d you come up with them?”

Bernard drew a breath, his patter rehearsed beforehand.

“Well EC, a designer who is afraid to over-reach himself is as useless as a general who is afraid to be wrong. It is what in France we call, “Les aventures de la liberté,” or “La pureté dangereuse."

Earl winched.

“There is a need for intensity. From time to time, you have to forsake harmony. You even have to forsake truth. You have to, when you need to, energetically embrace excessive things. The average critic never recognizes an achievement when it happens. He explains it after it has become respectable.”

EC reflected on something his daddy had once told him, “Son, some men have got it, and some men haven’t, and some guys are just full of it.”

Bernard continued his mantra, “You cannot recapture the mood of creation, the state of innocence, much less the animal gusto you had when you had very little else. Everything a designer learns about the art or craft takes just a little away from his need or desire to create at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say. No designer can please them all, no designer should try. So you see EC, this thinking is how the House of Dior respects the desire of women, whether in Paris or Dallas for something fresh and nouvelle.”

“What about the men?” growled Earl from opposite, “What do you think they want?”

“I presume the same Earl. What do you yourself look for in a woman?”

“A great ***!” replied Earl.

“On the contrary, “Môn ami,” little asses are much more sexy.”

Earl smiled. He was warming to this man and the element of fight in him.

At the far end of the table EC’s secretary was uncomfortably adverse to these exchanges, and therefore delayed rising to get more coffee, she of the substantial glutes that were worked on assiduously in the gym twice a week.

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

PART 2: THE FRENCH.

...He knew that Dallas was and is a vastly rich town with oil fortunes sumptuously housed in sedulously watered suburbs. But it is still a ram-shackle town, and the backyard of a modern facade or a towering bank may still give onto the stripping billboards and alley cats before the yawning prairie takes over. Some of its characters lived in a world gone wrong and there were areas where the streets were dark with something more than night.

...“Dear Lord,” reflected Bernard, sinking back into the burgundy coloured leather of the limo, “What am I in for tomorrow with these cowboys!”

Hey buddy!, I resemble that!
Nice little ditty you are developing.
Neiman Marcus aka "Needless Markup"

Here's a fitting tribute to your ram-shackle town:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJjEqWHrODc


Gilliatt

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 4: THE SHOOT.

A large studio room was situated in the basement of the Dallas corporate headquarters for the photography session, and adjacent down the corridor in a spacious lounge, the models were assembled for review and assessment.

“My God,” was Bernard’s first reaction, “In the main, heavy on the hoof, not a heifer, let alone a mature calf anywhere. I know everything in Texas is supposed to be big, but these are Amazons with muscle tones terrifying to any man not concurrently endowed”

“Well Bernard, Francesco, what do you think? Some fine looking women,” boomed in EC. “We breed em real fine in the South, fit to be seen whether on a horse or on some lucky man’s arm.”

“Interesting,” responded Bernard. “Never really had to work with anything quite like this before.”

Francesco said nothing but moved politely throughout the models, viewing the profiles, moving a head to one side here and there, appraising and selecting, for this was his domain.

And Bernard respected that it was hands off, apart from the odd murmur of assent. For he knew the fiery temper of this Italian combined with the technical and artistic ability of his work. For Bernard, clothes were his forte not the bodies they adorned.

In fact they had discussed this subject once before. Francesco had explained how the women he dreamt about were not those who make you dream, who provoke fantasy. They were the ones he made himself, the ones which his dreams created, the ones his art modelled and which he brought to life.

It was an awkward scene, the models nervous and trying to please. One tall blonde indulged in talking bad French at the top of her voice, and then laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. To EC’s chagrin, she was cut loose very soon as the Italian moved in on a model who looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair. Such gold as is woven into sunbeams, and they gave to her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little of the fascination of a sinner.

Another was a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulder-blades who stepped awkwardly out from behind a sofa, and held out a long, bony hand with spatulate fingers. “Gazelle,” Francesco whispered to her, and she looked into those velvet eyes that enveloped her, and she blushed.

Chosen also; Alana from Austin who was tall and straight-backed, with a calm and handsome if not fashionably beautiful face. Her figure certainly was unfashionable in the current lathe-thin era—deep bosomed, small-waisted, with wide hips and long legs. Her gleaming chestnut hair was coiled behind her head, and seemed to be healthy rather than expensive. She wore a simple white dress which improved a medium-gold suntan, no jewellery, and only a touch of makeup round the eyes, which alone set her off from the other women in the room. He put her age at thirty, and later learned it was thirty-two.

The final choice was from out of town, a pale Creole with wide set dark eyes, high cheekbones and lustrous dark hair that fell in waves down her back. As Francesco came abreast of her she bestowed a wide and happy smile. Politeness should have forbidden him to stare, but he could not help it. Upon request she walked the room barefoot with the straight-backed grace of the island girls. Her skin, without the aid of oils or lotions, was a deep bronze.

EC sidled up to the side of Bernard. “The ones your photographer has chosen. Not exactly what I would have picked, don’t you think its tempting Providence a bit Bernard?”

“On the contrary “Môn Cher EC,” surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.”

“I don’t think it is quite right, that’s all” retorted EC drawing himself up.

“Nothing interesting ever is,” said the Frenchman.

The selection made, the shoot commenced in the main studio, one by one with this small selection of models. The four girls chosen were taken off for the make-up as required by Francesco to reflect whatever side of their visual aspects he wished to focus on, whilst the others were dismissed, “the strut taken out of their stuff” as they left the building.

In the studio below Francesco had the young Creole girl appearing to walk as if along a beach backdrop. She wore a white cotton pareu with a scarlet motif, knotted under the left arm. It fell to just below her hips. He supposed she must be wearing something underneath it, but a fan blew the cotton shift against her, outlining for a second the firm young breasts and small waist. He got the shot, was pleased, and then the fan turned and the cloth fell straight again. He thought of when the wind blows in the trees and the leaves rustle. He imagined it as the soft cry of body hair if he ran his hand over it.

He finished late that evening, the last model being Alana. He bent forward over the camera. She perceived the way he concentrated, his absorption. It gave his face a look of innocence, something almost child-like. “Why are men so beautiful?”

They hadn’t spoken since he started his preparations, and it felt as if this silence was making her more naked, not in an indecent way in what little she wore.

She tried not to watch, she simply concentrated on not moving, which soon caused her to ache. She could feel the cold on her skin, but there was a warmth building up inside her taut body.

The session finished, she was ready to leave, when the words come out of her mouth, she asked “Can I sleep with you?”

He smiled imperceptibly, his eyes turned away, he bent over the tripod and said it was too early for him; he wanted to do some more work.

“If only he would kiss me, show one sign of tenderness.” She waited for a while, she felt so uncomfortable. But nothing happened; he let her leave without making any gesture, with only a slightly sorry smile, a polite smile.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 5: FINI.

The range once presented was a great success and EC in particular was of that Texan ilk, pragmatic enough to put the bottom line in fat profits way before his personal tastes in women & fashion.

Mostly the critical responses internationally were very positive, though there were some notable poor reviews in the “New York Times” by Michiko Kakutani and Anthony Quinn. Lorin Stein from “Salon” and now editor of “The Paris Review” was also a bit *****y, whilst the “Wall Street Journal” gave mixed reviews.

“The anaemic subtleties of the litterateurs” was how Bernard summed it up and brushed it off.

EC & Earl were more forthright.

“What the heck in a pig’s *** does the Wall Street Journal know about women’s fashion Earl?”

“Your right EC. East coast jackasses, the lot of them.”

Bernard had insisted upon a small dinner for himself, EC & Earl at an upmarket and somewhat overpriced French restaurant before his return to Paris. It was normal for him not to eat without the company of women, but then it was business this time. He’d noticed over the years throughout the English speaking world that men and women are more separate, especially in their dining habits. He’d often see women eating out together, which for the French a single-sex dinner would be considered boring. It seemed to him as if they were separate species who met occasionally for reproduction.

Over the meal EC was interested to understand the character of French women whose acquaintances he was not overtly familiar with. He ventured to suggest that they were reputed to be a bit “feminist.”

“Aux contraire, mon ami, they are not. But let’s take the point further and look at feminism as perhaps the root of political correctness. Of this I am not persuaded. The actual source is much nastier and dares not speak its name, which is simply dislike for old people. The question of domination between men and women is relatively secondary—important but still secondary—which is that we are now trapped in a world of kids. Old kids. An old guy or woman today is just a useless ruin. The thing we value most of all is youth, which means that life automatically becomes depressing, because life consists, on the whole, of getting old.”

In the background there were the banal refrains of Julio Iglesias’s “To all the girls ----“

The three men had warmed to each other considerably over the last few days and now was the time to part. The flight to Paris was early next morning.

The owner/manager brought the bill and Bernard picked up the tab.

“Was everything to Monsieur’s pleasure and satisfaction?” Bernard detected a Quebec Canadian accent.

“The oil used for dressing would have been better utilised in a car engine, the wine was like vinegar and the prices are obscene. Apart from that it was formidable,” said Bernard standing and looking him straight in the eye.

Earl smiled. “Feisty little bantam ****!”

Outside on the pavement, the sleek dark limos waiting, the men said their goodbyes and Bernard embraced both EC and Earl warmly on both their cheeks Latin style.

“Remember mes amies, in this business, beauty is only skin deep.”

Grinning mischievously he got into the car and was driven into the night.

“Not a bad guy for a Frog,” said Earl looking furtively around at anyone who might have witnessed the scene.

“Yep, your right EC, but I will be watching out for those kisses next time. Hell, he hadn’t even shaved properly!”