Creating le buzz
The head styliste at a top Parisian fashion house has to do more than create saleable clothing—he or she has to generate a buzz, and, again, the fashion house doesn’t care if this is a German, American or British buzz. The only important thing is for the brand name to be in the magazines and on the celebs’ backs and backsides. This is why people with their own strong image, like Lagerfeld and the eccentric Galliano, or a famous name, like Stella McCartney, are perfect. In any case, the world of Parisian fashion may all look very refined and elegant, but it is governed by hard-nosed commercial thinking of a type few would associate with France, supposedly the capital of bad service and work-shy workers.
The hardest work of all goes on behind the scenes during Fashion Week. The shows themselves don’t really have that much of an impact on ordinary Parisians—a few trendy restaurants are suddenly fuller than usual of thin people with designer sunglasses and ever-active iPhones, TV newsreaders will raise an amused eyebrow while introducing a few seconds of models gangling along catwalks, and occasionally a public space like the Gare de l’Est forecourt will be partly cordoned off so that models can prance up and down without bumping into commuters.
However, the important thing is that even someone like me, who can’t conceive how a handbag can possibly cost more than 50 euros, is aware of Paris Fashion Week. And this is thanks to some very un-Parisian backroom work by the industry. Susan Oubari explained the mechanics:
‘Before the week begins, a Parisian brand will bring in experienced sales people to cater for each different set of buyers. Americans will be hired to sell the collection to Americans, Italians for Italians, and so on. They will see a presentation given by the marketing people about the concept behind the collection, the techniques and materials used, and how to sell it into different markets. These sales people will then go away and prepare their pitches to the buyers who will—hopefully, if the catwalk show itself goes well—come to the showrooms.’
The danger is, of course, that the sellers might live up, or down, to everyone’s preconception about French service—this being the total failure to notice that someone wants serving, and/or the shrug of indifference if the customer complains. But Susan assured me that the welcome given to potential fashion buyers bears no resemblance to the reception she got the first—and last—time she dared to order a coffee while sitting at a Parisian café table laid for lunch: ‘People from the fashion house will be on hand to welcome the buyers, in English or whatever language it takes. They’ll ask about their hotel, recommend restaurants and parties, all the while gauging reactions to the clothes. The French want to make sure that all the international buyers get a magical Paris experience, so that they’ll come back again. It’s not what we imagine about France at all.’
Furthermore, like movie directors, the fashion shows will use the Opéra, the Grand Palais, the Tuileries, the Louvre, all the big monuments, getting the city to sell their clothes for them. All of which points to the conclusion that Paris’s fashion houses are discreetly undermining some key myths about the city. They’re proving that the Parisian artistic establishment does not have to be elitist and set in its ways. When necessary, Paris can treat its culture simultaneously as art—to be swooned over—and as a business—to be ruthlessly sold.
And they’re also showing that French customer service can be as good as any in the world.** But only when it really wants to be, of course.
Paris libéré
Being a Parisian fashion designer has to be a bit like singing opera at La Scala or surfing in Hawaii. You are where it’s at. You have, as the French would say, arrived. To find out how this feels, I talked to Marie-Christine Frison, a Strasbourgeoise who started her career designing handbags and accessories for Nina Ricci, and who now co-runs her own fashion company, AD&MCF.
As well as designing for other clients, Marie-Christine and her partner have their own brand, Bandits Manchots (‘one-armed bandits’), for which they are currently developing a line of postcards made of leather. Marie-Christine got the idea from seeing rolls of unused cowskin after the launch of a collection of chic handbags. It was top-quality material, dyed in beautiful colours, that was destined for the dustbin or the incinerator because the fashion house wasn’t going to use it once the season was over. Bandits Manchots bought the leather and had it cut into postcard-sized rectangles, on to which they have printed messages and tattoo-like motifs. To me, it seemed a very Parisian idea—taking a seemingly down-market concept like a postcard and raising the tone a notch. The kind of thing Jean-Paul Gaultier introduced into French fashion in the ’80s, and that Karl Lagerfeld is continuing with schemes like his limited-edition Diet Coke bottle.
I put the point to Marie-Christine as we sit in a café in the 9th arrondissement that, perhaps like her postcards, is trying its best not to look too chic, and looking all the more chic for doing so.
‘I never thought of it as a Parisian idea,’ she says. ‘I never try to be Parisian.’
‘But when you started at Nina Ricci, didn’t they tell you that they wanted your designs to be Parisian?’
‘No. They expected the designs to reflect the spirit of the brand, with a soft, romantic feel. And my job was simply to take the art director’s wishes and make them reality. No one talked about being Parisian. Sorry, this isn’t helping you at all, is it?’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ I lie, being as courteously Parisian as I can. ‘But what about when you arrived in Paris, didn’t you notice something typically Parisian about the way people looked?’
‘Oh yes. But it wasn’t because their clothes looked Parisian.’
‘No?’
‘It
