Summary
I remember my days as a fashion editor on the New York-Milan- Paris circuit in many tasty little ways. The shoes! The shops! The thrilling prospect of a Versace show in the days when Gianni was at the helm, and the girls up there on the runway were household names Linda, Christy, Naomi, Cindy, and the other one who I forget now strutting out under the searing flare and flash of the cameras. I remember eating courgette flowers at Bagutta, steak frites at La Coupole, my first sushi at the Royalton in New York. I remember standing on Milan's via Montenapoleone in the rain, shouting at a copytaker back on the newspaper in London: 'No!' I'd yell into an early, brick-sized mobile phone, 'Armhole! I said armhole!' for all the world like a war correspondent filing despatches from the frontline (but with better accessories).
But one of the keenest memories I have is quite how much fur that lot would wear, even in the relative warmth of a city spring day. Continentals and a certain type of New Yorker wear fur as we might wear leather: without so much as a second thought for its provenance. I once quizzed a Milanese woman about her Gianfranco FerrE sable, a coat which made her look like she was being assaulted by a bear and liking it and she was genuinely astonished that wearing the pelts of small dead mammals could be offensive to anyone. I might as well have queried the veal shins in her osso bucco or the oxtail in her coda alla vaccinara.See the full content of this document
Extract
Let the Fur Fly ; Fashion for Life
And, so, it comes as no surprise that Milan's winter catwalks were awa...
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