Kruse's Saturday

– by Alexandra Kruse

Helping myself so greedily to the studio pharmacy the other day was probably not such a good idea after all. Especially in combination with vodka and champagne. Not good. After a night of store openings and after-show parties I generously vomited, onto Place Vendome no less. My eyes oscillated between Van Cleef and Cartier jewelry. The engagement rings were definitely too much for me to stomach. Thank God I was holding a monogram - med bag and the business card of the hotel. A merciful cabby delivered me to the lobby and I fell into a 12-hour coma. Luckily no nudie pics have been found in Purple Diary. That’s the good news.

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The bad news is: I missed my plane to Berlin. I really wanted to see the Michalsky show, more because of Kaviar Gauche and Lala Berlin. I was promised front row! A dress in nude hues! A hairdo! It was pure blackmail, really. I mean I can dress myself, but blow-drying is not one of my virtues. Not in a 100 years. Never ever. Also I didn’t get an actual invitation (the assistant’s intern sent me a facebook message, that there was no chance of me getting in – I hope the other 1699 guests are having fun, though). But that’s a whole different story. Too many cooks in the kitchen. 

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The next flight to Berlin is about 500 Euros.  Money that would be much better spent on a pair of shoes, at Sanctum, the new star in the Berlin sky of shoes, the brainchild of a true shoe fetishist, which are as annoying as any other fetishist for that matter. My first choice would be Nina Ricci or John Galliano. I’m also sad I will miss Miriam Lambert’s yoga class to launch the new label Umasan. Health style wouldn’t do me any harm. Perhaps I should fly to Thailand for a thorough detox instead of everything else. ◊

Kruse's Friday

– by Alexandra Kruse

Today we had a photoshoot. Girls in Louboutins and fur jackets personally delivered jewelry to the studio. The treasures of the big fashion houses were packed into the largest bags. This created the most colorful picture. Even the pale models transformed within hours into bright dreams. Everyone did their best. The atmosphere got better. The photographer, whose name for reasons of personal discretion has to be withheld here, let’s call him ‘Depp’, was already picking up his lunch (sandwiches for those who still eat carbs, salad for those who don’t). I can understand how a super-sized handbag can ruin a shot, but when this bag happens to be a “Peek-A-Boo” by Fendi, then there’s no question. In the frame you go! I was beckoned to the studio telephone. It was Depp’s agent. After three solid minutes of “how are yous?” his message was short and sweet: Depp doesn’t feel the story. And he was unable to disclose this information to me in person. That’s why he asked Mr. Agent to step in. Out of line.
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We put on Alexander Wang’s American Sportswear and fought it out. That seemed like the only sensible solution. Depp’s reaction was professional. He dialed up the boss. I played Lily Allen’s “Fuck you, fuck you very muuuuuch” and was instantly gripped by a sudden migraine. I helped myself to the sumptuously equiped studio pharmacy. Stupidly, I followed my gut feeling instead of reading the French instructions. Minutes later everything was soft and wonderful if not entirely rainbowy. That’s what assistants are for. Kristin, a blonde bony-legged girl, obsessed with submission and order, did an excellent job. I operated exclusively from the sofa. From there I grinned stupidly uttering comments like: “I hate those shoes” or “fantastic!” I couldn’t even be bothered to question my multiple spies in Berlin about details of runway, backstage and dirty gossip over in Germany. Tomorrow I’ll be back. Half asleep I receive another email. “Everybody loves the story.” There you go. ◊

Kruse's Thursday

  – by Alexandra Kruse

Mon Dieu! I love Paris so much! To say it with a Kitsune T-shirt: Paris je t’aime!!! It feels like spring, perhaps that’s because parisiennes never wear tights, always wear too little, would rather drink than eat, always smoke and always look oh so so chic. You can get Givenchy in literally every department store and, oh well, let’s just leave it at that. Much more importantly: today is – according to facebook – international sweatpants day. Really. My days of fear of sweatpants are long gone (thank you Nike) and I spent most of January in them. Thanks to my sartorialist-friend and style-icon (yes, she is French) Garance Dore now even girls are officially allowed to wear sweatpants (not just Japanese tourists, who wear them with neon trainers and furry Hello Kitty accessories). To get a hold of her manifesto I bought the high-end version by Isabel Marant. Instead of getting drunk at Joop! or watch »topmodel« Barbara Meir stumble, I spent the day, pigging out on eclairs at Fouchon and going on a shopping raid in Rue du Temple. Bless temporarily moved into the new store by »Surface2Air« for the next couple of days. From April first onwards those in need of extending their stay can move into the Blessguesthouse. 
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In the evening I went to Colette and discussed the mythology of the American West and other things with Adam Kimmel. We looked at pictures by cowboy photographer Jim Krantz. Very Marlboro, very men! Smokers were my keyword of the night. I smoked in front of the door. And there he was, the antidote to all these androgynous mythical creatures (Dear Bill Kaulitz, I remember very well when we skimmed fashion magazines and Diesel refused to send us pants, damn!!!), fallen from the sky, healthy complexion, chiseled and with gleaming white teeth. His name is Gabriel. We didn’t talk for long. I only realized how lucky I really was when he put on sweatpants the next morning. I went to the Eglise Saint-Roch, in which the memorial ceremonies for Yves Saint Laurent took place, washed myself clean from sin with holy water and lit a candle for all the fallen angels. Long live the city of love! ◊

Kruse's Wednesday

– by Alexandra Kruse

Fashion Week doesn’t even make sense when it’s snowy and icy. In Siberian weather, what does one wear? Fashion Week without heels? New Years Eve already ended with me stealing a pair of snow boots – it just had to happen. Uggs at Bebelplatz? Watching the shows from inside a sleeping bag, filled with the highest quality goose down? Unthinkable. My dream look would be something between between Bernhard Wilhelm’s dinosaurs and the hardcore ski outfits he showed on giant swings. But, if I had my way, I would also grow a beard, and then take a shower in glitter.
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Should I take seriously the fact that Berlin’s fashionistas are trying turn the city’s most renowned museums (Neue Nationalgalerie and Hamburger Bahnhof) into runways? What about those spray-painted cardboard boxes that will inevitably strut down the runway, to be sold for a million Euro as special editions? Will I end up gawking like the bloggers sitting in the front row? Will Vogue be looking for a new cover girl on the internet? Can Hugo Boss find one on Facebook?
It’s all Tavi’s fault, who, after gracing the cover of Pop magazine, surpassed everyone, summiting Olympus with her lesbian hairdo and random combinations of Comme des Garcons and Rodarte. Maybe I should just grab a cotton candy wig a la Louis Vuitton made of Indian peasants’ hair and wear it with a garbage bag a la Courtney Love, in order to make sure that I show up on all the street fashion blogs, whose prints hang mostly in dentist offices in New Jersey.
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No, no I decided to flee the city and to entertain myself in Paris. Shit, the Ritz is fully booked! Maybe I’ll just sleep in a tunnel like Diana. Besides, Men’s Fashion Week sounds totally tempting: seduction in the form of plaid shirts and tight pants. Bloody young hotties with full lips – they can thaw my frosted hands immediately. With a side of macarons and other specialties (fois gras in Derriere?). Plus-size models are totally in now anyways. Whatever I eat will be washed down with Champagne. That’s for sure. Boys, I’ll be looking for you in Le Baron. And you know I get what I want! ◊

Kruse's Saturday

– by Alexandra Kruse

My last memory is of golden tinsel cascading from the ceiling of Bar Tausend. We woke up in cocktail gowns. Sarah was lying next to me and we spiked little cocktail stirrers decorated with sea horses and swans into our hair. After that, we listened to Jennifer Rush and nibbled on little berries. It is a well-known industry fact, that a fashion show that starts before noon is not a fashion show, it‘s a no-go. Anyways, some blogs revealed that Marcel Ostertag received high heel standing ovations. Too bad I had also missed the show of Lena Hoschek, a designer who finally makes fashion for people with just one defined gender. When I finally reached Bebelplatz and I saw HER! Christiane Arp. In person. Hair discreetly balled up in the most elegant petit chignon. This was no surprise, but the tattoo underneath! I couldn’t really make out what it was, because I got distracted by the random contents of the dazzling golden goody-bag by BREE: hair something, volume something, green tea, a mascara which I took for a pen (it was a mascara and a pen), a lint roller (seriously) and a votive candle holder.
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I was still trying to decode the inner logic of these items when I bumped into my favorite photographer and his fabulous wife and we strolled to Café Einstein. Einstein serves the most incredible club sandwiches; even Mary Kate Olsen would skip her low-carb diet for a bite (but she’s in Dubai for the gaudy inauguration of The Palm). While some people were watching homeless people strut it for Patrick Mohr’s collection, we browsed shops and galleries around happy Mulackstrasse. At Kiosk we saw hand-picked vintage gowns in rainbow colors by Margiela and Chanel and an endearing little art show named “From Black Q Tip to Sashiko Embroidery - 51 Things to buy at little Nippon. Firma had these genious Gropius bags (for the Bauhaus anniversary) and free Champagne, the first of the day. I hopped over to The Corner to stare at the glistening shoes from The Wizard of OZ Ruby Slipper Collection. As the sky changed to psychedelic hues it was time once again to slip into a cocktail dress.   ◊

Kruse's Friday

– by Alexandra Kruse

Kids are the new handbag. It has become a totally commonplace to see them adorning the laps of front row guests, or taking bows on the catwalk like Leyla Pieyadesh‘s daughter, baby Lou. Her mom‘s show was so good that I immediately wanted to buy the entire collection. The final jacket, a Berlin realization of Michael Jackson, was particularly covetable. From this I suffered a medium hormonal rush that could only be quelled by immediate intoxication. –
The mother-son act at Wunderkind was soaked in Pimm’s. I’m not ready for the responsibility required for wearing Wunderkind’s caliber of art – the probability of me spilling a drink on the fine silk or tripping into a pile of glass shards is just too big. Luckily glasses are never empty during fashion weeks. At worst they end up shattered or placed on the curb Münzstrasse – another indicator that a lot is going on. You even have to wait on line to get into American Apparel – you can either take a number or change into your Berlin-Mitte uniform. I can‘t see another pair of leggings, except for my own, which happen to cost about ten times more than Lurex. For that money they dont shine. They‘re made up of chafed black tears. The effect is somewhere between Catwoman and a ninja. This outfit, plus a 20-pound handbag filled with press info, plus ninety degree weather makes for a Bikram sweat experience. You feel the flab melting away. The last thing I could remember eating were three strawberries, so I was delighted when I was served Currywurst in the Mercedes-Benz Sponsors Lounge. Suzy Menkes enjoyed one as well. I got hungrier and the events got more stressful, but I managed to employ my last bit of energy to look at a wonderful pair of Kostas Murkudis shoes for Flip Flop. Then I made it across the street to Mädchenitaliener. My savior. I sat there all lined up with my friends like pearls on a necklace– each one cuter than the last. We were talking about having babies when it began raining outside. The trigger: a bunch of toddlers jumping in the gathering puddles. They were ignorant of fashion, wearing folded newspaper hats.    ◊

Kruse's Thursday

– by Alexandra Kruse

Staying at home is the new luxury. While everyone else amuses themselves at the Vice Party, stands on line for hours in front of Bar 25 or ruins their high heels at the Boss Orange barbecue, we‘re at home on our green couch smoking joints and telling secrets. I‘ve seen it all these last days: dwarfs in wrestling masks stripping at a second-class sneaker presentation, displaying their dwarfed weenies. That ended up being  just the right event to go to with my host family in Berlin. We slept in the next day anyhow. Unfortunately I didn‘t make it to Michael Sontag–the boy‘s got talent! Also didn‘t make it to Penkov. But, after an exclusive backstage viewing of the dresses, I can definitively say, that this a great look: grown up elves of beauty and mind. If I happen to get married next season, it‘s gotta be in Penkov. Hats off to Bernadette!

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What happened next was anything but delightful. I was hustled into a front row seat at Kilian Kerner, who can appropriately be called a young designer. He actually admits he‘s a fan of the Kelly Family. I was luckily seated next to the actor getting the most media attention, and was blinded by the paparazzi flash storm. So I could only partially see the show. Everyone else was hacking at their Blackberrys looking serious. The whole thing made absolutely no sense. The models wore silk stockings with cheap peeptoes! You cannot over-emphasize the importance of a good stylist. And the right shoes. No man is an island. I was so proud of my friend Sarah, who styled the Peek & Cloppenburg show Designer for Tomorrow, that I almost burst. I officially decree that the winner, Sam, will have a golden career. We celebrated his victory on the roof terrace of the Hotel de Rome (don‘t tell anyone, but in addition to the breath-taking view, it has the most pristine woman‘s bathroom in the city). We left immediately after the last drop of champagne had been poured. After a quick change of clothes, and finishing up my work, life will become post-fashion week, as it was pre-fashion week. Paul, you can pick me and my suitcase up at Panorama Bar on Sunday afternoon. Don‘t forget the limo!   ◊

Kruse's Wednesday

– by Alexandra Kruse

As always, everything began harmlessly. Drank a coffee on the street in a pink nightie. It was gonna get hot. Then the phone started ringing and it didn‘t stop. Where should the seating tickets be sent? Was I on the list, if so, the right ones? Lots of little girls who had been honored with the job of checking the lists by phone, in hope of one day becoming the bigger, nastier girls, who get to make the lists themselves. „We look forward to seeing you,“ they lied, „we‘ll try our best.“ I believed them, and then I started losing my shit. I still had to get on AB 8211, which was leaving the Zurich airport in exactly one hour, heading for the Fernsehturm, with or without me. I needed a driver ready to risk our lives for my flight. I rewarded him with an apricot tart; the right driver means everything.
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We made it, of course. My punishment was airport security. I was pulled out of the line by a 250 pound woman who discovered cause of the whole mess with her equally oversized metal detector: the soles of my Bottega Veneta sandals. She let me go. I doused myself with a bit of Eau de Sisley 2 to freshen up, and was overcome by the anticipation of everything to come. Happy landing. As if it couldn‘t get better, my driver, Paul, was already waiting for me at Tegel, sign bearing my name in hand. Paul greeted me with a brand new E-Class Benz Coupé, the gentleman of limousines. Seated comfortably in the back seat, I started sorting the 240 invitations by like, dislike, drinks, designers, sneakers, line-up and catering. The result was a merciless schedule. We stopped at Aldi to pick up a case of Champagne, just in case, and drove on to Torstrasse. Then Paul carried my 50 pound suitcase up to the fifth floor without pausing. I was ready to go. Drykorn was nice enough to invite Mando Diau and me to the Columbiahalle. Finally when „Dance with Somebody“ came on, we could throw our hands in the air and take off our T-shirts. Then the sky went black and it began to storm. I went to bed early; most likely for the last time this week. Suzy Menkes is finally in the city. And at last Fashion Week is a big deal.   ◊