Enfant Terrible

The year is 1960. We are in Val-de-Grâce, a French military hospital in Paris. A heavily sedated young man has just undergone electroshock therapy for a nervous breakdown.  He is a thin, shy, bespectacled and rather gentle looking lad - an alluring prey for his fellow conscripts.  Hazing - in the form of verbal assault, bullying, physical injury or humiliation can be found in any army, and in extreme cases, it even leads to death. The young man did not die but barely 20 days into his forced military service, he had already checked himself into hospital, suffering from hazing stress.
And now here he is.

That young man's name is Yves Saint Laurent. He is 24 years old.

Just a few years ago, at the age of 21, he had been chosen by the defunct Christian Dior to be head designer for the House of Dior. At 22, his "trapeze" dress collection was credited to have saved the House from financial downfall and his name had spread internationally.

And now here he is, enclosed in a grim hospital, living a nightmare that he will later credit as being the origin of his lifelong mental disorders and his drug addiction.
What has gone wrong?

He remembers what launched the nightmare. To have it all and to have lost it, almost overnight. This is what he faces now. This is the torment he endures. The dream has ended. Because the vultures of the fashion world are rarely at rest, and also because one cannot let such a young man as Saint Laurent dare as he pleases, especially when one wishes to protect the Maison Dior's conservative fashion traditions. Mais ou allons nous?
This is why, alarmed by the avant-garde youth, Marcel Broussac, owner of the Maison Dior, has, almost overnight, toppled the conscripted Yves Saint Laurent from his reign as head Dior designer and 'fired' him.

And now, here he is. He's learned of his dismissal.

Shock-induced seizures the doctors say (or do not say), can make you forget.
Temporary amnesia... But will he forget this?

Yves Saint Laurent in his late teens with Salvador Dali

Photo by Alecio de Andrade

Now there's a drug for you. It's a wondrous souvenir. Of the only drug one ever needs...

As he lay in hospital, other images might have haunted him. Images of his past.

Like this one:

Was he afraid then? He was 17. He had designed a cocktail dress for a fashion drawing competition in Paris and won first prize.  He had even beaten the young German student, Karl Lagerfield.

Everything - from his discovery by Michel de Brunhoff, editor-in-chief of the French edition of Vogue magazine, to his subsequent tutelage by Christian Dior whom he continually impressed - it all seemed like a dream come true.

And here he was.

The dream might have ended here. Saint Laurent had suffered a terrible fashion coup. Never mind the army hazing. When one is bullied at a young age at school for having homosexual tendencies, one has seen much already. But this is war. Not the Algerian War of Independence, mind you. It is war beween the House of Dior and Saint Laurent.

As Broussac would soon find out, one did not simply 'fire' the determined Yves Saint Laurent.
Especially when a man like entrepreneur Pierre Bergé had taken Saint Laurent under his wing and, one must add - to his bed.

The lucky star which once shone on the young designer when Christian Dior had chosen him to be his successor, still burned bright. After his eventual release from hospital, Saint Laurent successfully sued the House of Dior for breach of contract. Then, in 1961, blessed with funds from millionaire J. Mack Robinson, he and his romantic partner Pierre Bergé founded the fashion house that would revolutionize women's wardrobe. Yves Saint Laurent YSL was born. The rest is history.

Behind his slight almost ethereal appearance, was a man of will, passion and genius. He brought more than fashion to women, he gave them a celebration of style and pushed the limits of gendered clothing.

Born a Leo, on 1 August 1936, Yves Saint Laurent was certainly a creative force, a lover of the limelight with a colorful personality who worshiped the visual arts and worked extremely hard, often producing four collections a year. He was also competitive and within the fashion world, wanted to be what all Leos wish to be, The Best.

He was a huge influence to the likes of Tom Ford, Jean-Paul Gaultier and most designers cite him as a huge inspiration.

This year's Cesar ceremony on 20th February will see two biopics about Yves Saint Laurent compete for various awards. There is Bertrand Bonello's Saint Laurent which has garnered 10 nominations and Jalil Lespert's Yves Saint Laurent which has 7 nominations. The two leads, Gaspart Ulliel and Pierre Niney will vie for Best Actor.  Australians will have a chance to catch Yves Saint Laurent in the Alliance Francaise French Film Festival in March.

Poster for Jalil Lespert's Yves Saint Laurent 

starring Pierre Niney as the designer (I hope he wins!)

****

In 1999, YSL was taken over by Gucci, who asked Tom Ford to lead the prêt-a-porter collection while Yves Saint Laurent continued with haute couture designs.
In 2008, Yves Saint Laurent died of a brain tumor. He had long retired from the public eye.

Here are some facts about his amazing life and his enduring fashion legacy.


1960 - The leather jacket

Possibly empowered by the recognition of his own sexuality and wishing to liberate women (or project onto them), Yves Saint Laurent was the first designer to dress his runway models in a biker leather jacket.

1963 - The Cuissardes

Think Brigitte Bardot in leather thigh-high boots. Or even the later film, Barbarella, where Jane Fonda is squeezed in similarly tight cuissardes.

1963 saw Yves Saint Laurent's first invitation to women to cross gender roles. He is credited with bringing thigh-high leather boots to mainstream fashion. Actually he was not the first, but his famous crocodile-skin cuissardes are those that are most-remembered. Thigh-high boots - symbolic of pirates, conquistadores, adventurers and other men of action, carried a strong masculine image. To wear a pair of cuissardes is a woman's claim to instant virility. She becomes the agent of her own sexuality.

That's what Yves Saint Laurent was prepared to give women.


1966 - The Tuxedo

Highly influenced by noir films and the likes of Marlene Dietrich, Yves Saint Laurent gave women the tuxedo which blurred the lines between male and female yet again.

1967 - The Safari jacket and trouser suit

Yves Saint Laurent himself often donned the Safari jacket so it was only right that he be able to dress women in his image.

1968 - Transparent dress

A great favorite, where dark diaphanous fabric espouses lush black feathers and the sheerness reveals a woman in all her splendor. Yves Saint Laurent was a great fan of nudity.

He once said, "Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it."


Drugs and Alcohol

Along with Dali and Andy Warhol, Yves Saint Laurent had no problems passing through the whimsical club entry requirements of Studio 54. He used cocaine frequently, suffered regular bouts of sadness and fits of temper and quite deserved the nickname of enfant terrible.

Much like a spoilt child, it was said that he was adept at manipulating others into forgiving his faults - so much so that nothing was ever refused him.

One should not refuse a Leo anything so it's only right...

Posing Nude

In 1971, Yves Saint Laurent, then in his glorious mid-thirties, posed nude and became the face of the first YSL Eau de Toilette for men, Pour Homme. Photography is by Jeanloup Sieff.

Other men's perfumes followed, notably Jazz and Kouros. There was a time in my teens when I could not go out with Lebanese male friends without inhaling Jazz. My dad wore Kouros.

I'm ashamed to say I wore Dior's Farenheit.
At least it was a gender crossing...


Ethnic Influences

Yves Saint Laurent is known as the first designer to introduce ethnic women into his runway.
Most of us would remember Iman, the beautiful Somali model who became known through him.

Yves Saint Laurent loved women of any nationality and of varying features. In his choice of models, he embraced departures from the standard beauty ideals of the time, preferring the exotic and often, the androgynous.

He dressed French celebrities Jeanne Moreau, Jean Marais, Isabelle Adjani and Arletty but it is his friendship with muse Catherine Deneuve for which he is most known.

The Orientalist

Like French painter and orientalist, Horace Vernet, who returned again and again to Egypt and Syria, wrote about his travels and felt comfortable in ethnic clothing, Yves Saint Laurent had a bond with Morrocco.

He liked nothing better than lounging in an oriental garb and was an avid collector of art.

Yves Saint Laurent's love for the Oriental probably had its roots in his childhood. He was born and raised in Oran, Algeria and only arrived in Paris at the age of 17.

He had two villas in Marrakech and a property in Normandy, France.

One can see his love for art and oriental decor in these photos from Villa Oasis in Marrakech.

You will not find the designer's tomb at the reputed Père Lachaise cemetery.  When Yves Saint Laurent passed away, his body was cremated and his ashes were scattered in the Majorelle Garden of Marrakech, Morocco.

French Bulldog

Oh yes, Yves Saint Laurent had a French bulldog.

Instant bonus points.

In his later years, he spent much of his time with his beloved dog, Moujik.


And finally,

He Looked amazing in glasses!!!

The dream lives on. Thank you Yves Saint Laurent for the style and for being you.

INFJ Musings

The more I age, the more my admiration is sparked by the quiet humility of those who have lived and who keep quiet about having lived. There is grace and modesty in true wisdom.

I love the greyness of age, with its nebulous thoughts, its gentle ideas that roam without ever seizing upon a truth. I love this refusal to reveal one’s experience, this silent resolve to let others learn and grow of themselves.

I love age. I love its contemplation, its determination to abstain from judgment, its compassion for others and its ability to step aside gracefully and just observe.

I think in the next years of my life, I shall be doing a lot of observing. Self-effacement is a joyous thing.

The more I age, the more astounded I am with the arrogance of youth, the self-sufficiency of those who judge and who by way of remarkable shortcuts of the mind, arrive to simplistic conclusions about all things.

Every day, the same song repeats and tires me.

Who am I? What am I thinking? Did you understand my motivations? I see by the judgment you pronounce and what you say to me that you err in your understanding and behold, this confidence you have, how it thrives, how your eloquent voice resounds to all who may hear and you, you really think you know me, that you know all. How do you do it?

I make no attempt to shift your assessment. I leave you with that understanding, the one you made, in your haste to judge, I leave you to maintain your erroneous belief because I know that it is the only thing you are capable of ever grasping. I do that to my detriment, even though it wounds my honor, but I live content in the belief that I will never have to explain myself to those who truly see me rather than project onto me.

Never mind all that. Be safe with your judgment and be content knowing that your judgment serves you. After all, it was designed to serve you and uphold all that you are. Your judgments are reflections of your soul, and the faster, the more nimble your mind is at forming them, the more ingrained your attitudes, the more unbending your spirit. You live for your judgment because through it, you assert your ephemeral self in the hope it will live forever.

But I love, love the ephemeral. I love the way it floats aimlessly, I love its caress and the thin veil that exists between it and nothingness. I am not afraid of nothingness, the abyss does not threaten my ego. I care little about having an opinion; I can settle with just feeling your soul.

Because I can feel your soul, did you know that?

I have eyes where the mind does not go.  Your motions are just memories to me.

All of this, it will mean nothing to you. How well you ground yourself to the concrete, I wish I could know it all, like you do. How do you do it?

As for me, vague I remain. And in this vagueness, there exists the universe, and within it, you and I, we are consumed and disappear.

La Befana - The Witches Come!

La Befana vien di notte

Con le scarpe tutte rotte

Con un sacco pien di doni

Da portare ai bimbi buoni

“La Befana comes by night, 

With her shoes all tattered and torn,

And a bag full of presents 

to deliver to good children.”

Happy La Befana to all! 

So what did you get? Sweets or a lump of coal?

Yes, today is La Befana, and in Italy over the eve of 6th January, an old witch has flown across and brought gifts to the little children. Centuries of folklore and ancient tradition has made this celebrated female figure as well known overseas as she is in her native Italy. 

Santa should be very worried, because we love her!

This year, to help you celebrate La Befana with all its magic and intrigue, I invite you to discover a time in late medieval Venice when La Befana was as present as she is today in people's minds.

The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice, a historical mystery with supernatural themes has just been released on paperback and should reach all Amazon* territories by the end of the week. The Mascherari is an epistolary novel set in 1422 from the Winter Solstice to La Befana. You can read more about it here.  

Priced at $14.99 USD with a gorgeous cover illustration created by designer Caryn Gillespie, it is a treasure to behold for now and years to come. 

*  Available next month from The Book Depository, Barnes & Noble and Angus & Robertson websites.

How would you like to own The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice for free? Then don't miss my Q & A at Unusual Historicals on 18th January 2015, where I will be speaking about the Venice of The Mascherari and giving away a FREE paperback copy to one lucky reader. Viva La Befana!

Below is an excerpt from The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice.

"Here, along the Grand Canal, a band of old men, as old as tradition demands, have scrubbed their skin with paint, strapped disfigurement upon their faces and donned their tattered witch’s costume.  Hideous they are with their crooked noses and wrinkled skin. Hirsute old hags, they would rouse fear if it were not for the cheerful tales spread of them. For everyone in Venezia awaits them now and only those children who have been bad ought to fear. 

Each of the five men holds a broom and steps inside a boat.  The race is soon to start, the race that will lead them to the Rialto.  And before long, the coarse haired witch rowers make their way in silence. They sweep with force toward San Marco, gliding beneath a clouded sun. A sinister sight they are these odd witches, hunched at the prow, their muscles tense where they ought to be frail, their vessels creeping forth through the gray winter mist. 

The witches come! These lagoon creatures ought to make one shiver. Instead, the costumed men in their boats are serenaded by cheers all along the canals.

In the Campo di Rialto, all Venezia bustles. Maffeo watches them all. He recounts them all. He has a brilliant memory, Maffeo. Doctors and lawyers in their black robes, move among the rich citizens toward the Bridge.  Velvet clad patrician merchants and tradesmen alike—the Arsenalotti in their red sashes and white shoes, the Nicolotti in black—all have brought their children with them to see the Regatta della Befana.  Many of them are masked men and women, still eager to enjoy Carnivale before the Lenten days begin.  It is a sinister sight, that of masked children of all ages, shrieking in the campo and singing La Befana songs, while their equally masked parents look on."

Tommaso Mocenigo

Tommaso Mocenigo (1343 - 1423)

Tommaso Mocenigo was Doge of Venice from 1414 right up to his death from a long illness in 1423. 

Mocenigo was an admiral  and merchant by profession. He traded in pepper with Syria. Prior to being Doge, he was Duke of Candia (the Venetian name for the island of Crete) and in 1405 was named Procurator of San Marco. In his younger years he was also elected to the Council of Ten, Venice's highly secretive security body.

Under his reign, he encouraged commerce, and Venice's dominion over the sea was at its apogee.  It is said that knowing well that he would be too ill to benefit from a new palace, he organised for the reconstruction of the ducal palace, then known as the Ziani Palace, and commenced the library of Venice.

Prior to his death, in 1423, Mocenigo made an impassioned plea to his Pregadi (Senate) warning them against electing Francesco Foscari as his successor. The brazen and military minded Foscari, he said, would ruin Venice. The main difference between these two men was that Foscari favored military expansion into terrafirma, while Mocenigo was all about the sea and peaceful trade.

Mocenigo is buried in the Basilica dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo. 

Tomb of Mocenigo

Various excerpts from The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice, featuring Doge Mocenigo.

“Tommaso Mocenigo is very ill,” he explained, gesturing gravely toward the Doge apartments to our left. “He has been confined to bed for weeks already. When the New Year commences next March, do not be surprised if the patricians are called upon to appoint a new Doge. It is not known how many months Tommaso has to live but I feel his time is near.  And between you and me,” he whispered, “our young procurator, Francesco Foscari*, would want this time to be nearer still.” - Almoro Donato from the Council of Ten 

As the door opened, I saw that it was a much afflicted man, pale in face with a thin aquiline nose and eyes so transparently gray that they seemed to belong to another world. By the sunken cheeks on his pallid face I took him to be at least eighty in years.

“Bonna notte,” he began, his frail voice, at first, barely audible.  - Antonio da Parma describes his encounter with Doge Mocenigo

“I understand you, Antonio.” His voice rose. “In the words of our great Petrarch, ‘you wish to go beyond the fire that burns you’.  I see it in your eyes.  This sentiment you have, that something must be, I know it well.  I know how it devours and urges.

“Then I will ask you to yield to what must be.  Pay heed to your inner voice, as I do mine.  Let it guide you to your destiny.  - Tommaso Mocenigo in The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice

“I bid you go, Antonio. Pray for me, your Doge, that I may persuade my Pregadi and save Venezia from the wars Francesco Foscari would have her wage upon my death.  You do that for me, Antonio?” - Tommaso Mocenigo in The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice

_____*Francesco Foscari - was elected Doge shortly after Tommaso Mocenigo's death. Despite the tradition of electing patricians who were at least 60 years of age, Francesco was only 49 when he became Doge. 

The Year I Tie the Knot

I haven't written much on life for a while and it leaves one to wonder whether I may have gotten lost somewhere in 15th century Venice, while scribing The Mascherari. Fear not, the twenty-first century is well and truly my reality.

I think.

Since the end of 2014 is looming fast, I thought it might be a good idea to express my gratitude for the wonderful things that are coming my way next year.

Because 2015 sure promises to be a freaking ride!

January

So firstly, The Mascherari will be available on Paperback. (Did I say this post would only be about 'life'? Too bad. I lied.) 356 pages of time travel set in 15th C Venice on cream paper.  I am working hard at it right now.

With this, can I say how grateful I am for having writer friends? I counted over twenty on Facebook the other day and felt truly blessed. It's wonderful to connect with like-minded people who love history, love writing and go through the same hardships, the same fears, the same hopes and damn, who just love reading! And to think that three years ago, I only had a couple writer friends. I love the surprises that life brings along the way.

Since I am on the topic of books, I'll mention another historical novel. This time it's one classic beast written by an Australian journalist in the 19th century. For the Term of His Natural Life is one of the darkest novels I've read and it's very much in my mind at the moment as I'll be heading to Tasmania (where the novel is set) in early January and am looking forward to visiting Hobart and Port Arthur.

This is a huge deal for me. In my twenty-nine years in Australia, since arriving at aged 10, I've never seen Tasmania. I can't wait! What a great start to the year.

March

Still on the subject of books and writing and writers, I am very much looking forward to attending the first Historical Novel Society Australasia Conference and to meeting some special, talented people. Oh my goodness, and I get to meet Colin Falconer in the flesh! That's The Colin Falconer who has written over 30 books and is one of my favorite historical novelists and an AMAZING human being.

May 

2015 is also doubly special as I'll be tying the knot with my partner of over 5 years. Oh my Lord Poseidon, that's like, 6 months away...

I've not even got a dress.

We have chosen the venue in Brisbane so that's a start. I am on the lookout for a good photographer but I'm not too worried: given my partner's background is film, the reception will likely be the equivalent of a large film crew. No kidding. That includes my lovely friend make-up artist, Billie Weston.

She did this to me five years ago:

I am fondly looking forward to my wedding day (that I haven't really planned yet...) and to seeing my friends again.

Because you know what? I do have an invite list. Invite lists are always a pain when you are young but when you are turning 40 next year (oh my God, did I say that?), invite lists are easy. The only difficult part is that I'll be missing out on the presence of so many people who live overseas and who I've never met in person and only wish I could.

You reach an age where it becomes obvious who you want in your life and who you want to share your special experiences with.

Which brings me to the inevitable...

October

I am indeed turning 40 next year. There's no turning back. I'll never wear 9-inch heels again. (Ok, maybe just a little bit.)

Like, WOW.

Me? Cute little me? Asian shorty me? 40 years old. Like, Wow.

I remember as a kid when someone told me they were 40. I would think they were ancient. (Like bloody old.)

And now I think, are you kidding, that's just the start of my adventure! :)

Because another upcoming joy for 2015 is Summer. Summer and all the love I have for this wonderful seaside place called Coogee and which has been my home for over 14 months.

I am immensely grateful to live in a place I could only dream of ten years ago. Grateful, for every walk I take along the magical ocean and every sunset and wave that paint a picture perfect landscape every second of the day.

I can't tell you how much I love this place.

And having unveiled sun-bathed Coogee, I'll get to the point. The point, the point, the point, is that...

And I feel a little embarrassed revealing this,

This summer, thanks to this shopping-porn-of-a-site called SammyDress, I actually have a bikini to wear for each day of the week. How cool is that? I have a Sky blue and leopard print bikini, a flimsy orange bikini that would make a Brazilian babe salivate, a classic white and red striped bikini, a halter neck snake-skin bikini, a very 80s dark green bikini with gold metal rings, a bling (and wog-ish) Gold & Black bikini, and a hippie style pastel print bikini. I'm all set!

Because you only freaking live once!

And there comes the icing on the cake: I also know what I'm getting for Xmas. These are the funnest and least pretentious presents I've ever received because let's face it: weddings are expensive.

So present number one is swimming goggles - to see underwater and swim and shit. (And like, for pretending I'm a mermaid in my orange bikini while swimming around Coogee. It all makes sense now!)

And present number two -  is a blowtorch.

With butane gas.

So that I can burn the shit out of my creme brulee.

Because I am SO making crème brûlée all over 2015.

And Croquembouche.

Maybe.