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“Juicy/Couture,” by Sally Singer, was originally published in the April 2003 issue of Vogue.
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It’s backstage at the Chanel couture show, and the Juicys, with yours truly in tow, are looking for Lagerfeld. The Juicys—Gela Taylor and Pam Skaist-Levy (also known as Fluffy and Fluffy, also known as the women behind Juicy Couture)—are dressed identically, as is their wont. Gela wears a brown tweed, fur-collared Chanel mini suit with a Juicy tee proclaiming REBEL COUTURE, three-year-old boots from Burberry, and a whole lot of ice. And Pam—like Gela, lithe, long-haired, elfin—wears exactly the same thing, exactly. Theirs is an ultraluxe, “I’m with the band” glamour. I am in a black Chanel dress and lace jacket, Veronique Branquinho boots, and a pay-me-no-heed parka from Habitual, no ice.
“Karl? I saw him in the cabine with the clothes,” says a pretty PR in black, wallflower-chic Chanel, and off we charge into a makeshift changing room where Stella Tennant is bouncing her baby on her knee, Natasha Vojnovic is being fitted into a confection of deconstructed tulle and tweed, and everything everywhere is pale, pale pink. Nope, il n’est pas là. So it’s on to the makeup cabine, which means the Juicys and I crash, La Femme Nikita style, through the kitchen of the Pavillon Ledoyen restaurant, where penguin-suited waiters are furiously scooping up fruit salads (this is Paris, and the restaurant is not going to let a little matter of the couture stop the cuisine).
Photo: Robert Fairer
In makeup, still no Karl, but we’re getting hotter. Amanda Harlech, his muse, is here, dressed in black don’t-mind-me Chanel couture. She bows to the Juicys and asks if it is “their first couture.” They say yes. And she replies, “I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not see the couture, when the clothes are brought down to the atelier after a long night and he starts working. I would miss the passion, the pride, the emotion. . . .”
“It’s the same for us,” says Gela, no doubt thinking of all-night fittings in Pacoima, California, for that perfect low-waisted sweatpant. Lady Harlech thinks her boss might just be back in the cabine with the clothes, so it’s through the kitchen again, but not before the Juicys are tackled by a British fashion journalist croaking, “The Juicys are here! I love the Juicys!” (No doubt thinking of the Beatles-like hysteria the pair caused when they opened their boutique at Harvey Nichols this year; there were lines around the block, and Englishwomen are not in the habit of lining up for clothes.) We run into Issy Blow, dressed for a Venetian ball at 10:00 A.M. in mask and cape. “Hello, Juicys!” she hollers. “Love your sparklers!” And then, there he is, Herr Lagerfeld himself: lithe, long-haired, elfin. Pam and Gela approach nervously and turn pale, pale pink when introduced. “We’ve brought you a present,” they say in unison. The designer beams. “Welcome, welcome! I love a present!” It’s a velour tracksuit, and it’s monogrammed SLIM.
Photo: Robert Fairer
The pilgrimage from Pacoima to Paris, and from basse couture to haute couture, is not as improbable as one might think. Pictures of Lagerfeld and Valentino, torn from pages of magazines, are tacked to the wall above Gela Taylor’s desk, while Pam gazes up at Yohji; pictures of Galliano frocks are everywhere. For some time now, the girls have been sending specially made T-shirts to their fashion heroes—call it Juicy Couture couture—in the hope of making a connection between the dingy industrial parks and Taco Bells of their San Fernando Valley headquarters and the City of Light. To Galliano they sent a KING OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSE tee, and to McQueen, MCQUEEN OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSE. Although these offerings have never been acknowledged, they have received word of Galliano jogging along the Seine in said top. Nothing could be more thrilling to the Juicys; these are women who love fashion, wear fashion, dream fashion. When I called to invite them to the Paris collections, unfeigned screams of joy (Pam: “I have to call my husband!”) and the clatter of high heels jumping for joy (really) sounded in my ear. “You are our Ed McMahon!” said Gela. “We’ve won the golden ticket.”
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