Marc jacobs biography vogue italiano

Perhaps wanting to show rather than tell, Jacobs, cigarette in hand, jumps out of his chair and takes me over to the racks. As we walk through the collection, he is a jazz-talker, improvising, flitting around an idea—but almost always arriving at something worth waiting for: “The idea of lightness, prettiness, gentleness, but strong shapes. Organza overlays, feathered, studded, stoned, plastic flowers.” He picks up a bracelet. “Cuffs with bells, but with pearls inside that tremble and rattle.” Then we consider another rack of dresses. “Bed linens. Beautiful fagoting and tufts on pillowcases. Beautiful beds, women in bed, nightgowns, evening gowns, lots of layers, cellophane, layers of transparency. . . .” He drifts off for a moment, drags on his cigarette, and says, “Air.”

None of the above, by the way, prepares me for the astonishment that is Jacobs’s Vuitton show a couple of days later. It’s a beautiful morning as the audience files through the Cour Carrée into what is essentially a giant white box. Inside is a round room, in the middle of which there is a runway circling a giant white cylindrical curtain. As we take our seats, there are dozens of LV-monogrammed young ladies wearing white aprons and serving white chocolate–covered cherries, White Russians, and white macaron

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