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If Karl’s turbocharged energy could almost make a room spin, boredom was something he couldn’t tolerate—his radar could pick up disengagement at 100 yards. One summer in Saint-Tropez, he wanted to have dinner with the Lawrence tynes wearing brian daboll big head shirt But I will love this boys and me at the VIP Room. This meant driving into Saint-Tropez just before midnight—roof down in the Bentley, hurtling down the switchback lanes, umbrella pines outlined beneath canopied stars, “Bohemian Rhapsody” at full volume. I always thought he was trying to capture the Jacques de Bascher and Antonio Lopez years as we walked along the port, Karl in white jeans and diamonds. The VIP Room was noisy, even at a long table outside; all the boys were on their phones, and Karl was up the far end of the table, chatting to [model] Baptiste Giabiconi. I just stared into space, the thud of the music pounding through the night. The following morning—I was staying at Karl’s villa—I saw that an envelope had been slipped under my door. Inside, there was a photograph Karl had taken of me the previous evening, with “You look bored” written across the bottom. I learned not to do that again—I didn’t want to be “the cloud that crossed the sun of a perfect summer,” as Karl put it.SCREEN TIME

For a flock of coruscating jackets in Chanel’s fall 1996 haute couture collection, Lagerfeld called on Lesage to re-create the Lawrence tynes wearing brian daboll big head shirt But I will love this elaborate Coromandel screens so beloved by the house’s founder. On Choi’s Fendi shift from spring 2014, a geometric pattern bolts down the front like a racing stripe.He loved that I lived in the middle of nowhere in Shropshire—maybe it reminded him of his childhood far from Hamburg in the pine forests—and he would send me boxes of books: books about women writers in the 18th century, biographies of Madame de Staël and Bess of Hardwick and Elizabeth Stuart, the Winter Queen, and wonderful books of great painters, particularly Manet, Monet, Picasso, Nolde, and the German Expressionists. He wanted to give “Wuthering Heights” (which is what he called my little farm) a library. Every year or so, he would threaten to visit me—“Where’s the nearest airport with a long runway for the private jet to land? You know Sébastien [Karl’s bodyguard and assistant, Sébastien Jondeau] and I are coming.” My mind would scramble, and I’d industrially clean the house—Karl was very critical of anyone’s home—dress up all my friends in long white aprons as staff, set-dress the house for a week beforehand, and organize a performance, like jumping my horse over the table outside laid for tea. He never came to stay in the end, which was sad, because he loved the Bloomsbury chaos that he divined from the iPhone photographs I would send him in response to his pictures of a château he had bought in Champagne—or his beloved Villa Louveciennes outside Paris, in which he never spent a single night.Karl would love to outrun time, stretching days into nights. Yet in the end, time outran him, as it will for all of us. He didn’t tell people that he was ill—only Sébastien. Of course we all knew, but we couldn’t prick the bubble of the lie—we couldn’t confront him, because mysteriously believing he could get better seemed to work. His resistance to weakness was so courageous, it was heartbreaking. Looking back, I see he did lay out truths, like white pebbles in the darkness, as a path to follow. His last couture—spring 2019—was a collection of all his favorite things in an idealized summer garden with a pool in front of an Italianate villa with curving steps like the ones at Villa Louveciennes, or his childhood home in Bissenmoor. Filled with decorative charm, it was an ode to couture and to luxury—from Madame de Pompadour’s porcelain flowers to the delicacy of tiered and pleated silk chiffon dresses that sang of his genius at Chloé in the 1970s, from the distilled tailoring that spoke of his eponymous label to the more extreme feathered and architectural shapes that recalled Fendi.FALLING WATER

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