"I didn't feel that at all," Stewart demurred backstage. "The computer follows my sketches."Įven so, it was an extraordinarily ominous scenario. "But I sketch everything," Lagerfeld insisted. At the same time, there was the peculiar Terminator-like subtext, machines replacing man, even in the art of design. Lagerfeld was tickled pink at the thought of the most iconic jacket of the 20th century recreated for the 21st, using techniques that would have blown Chanel's mind. Then, while the chosen few gambled, the cookie-cutter models circled, production-line androids in seamless clothes that had been printed-some of them at least-by a computer the Chanel-ers call Sweetie. She was quickly followed by a platoon of Karl's muses: Geraldine Chaplin, Rinko Kikuchi, Rita Ora, Lara Stone, Vanessa Paradis, Stella Tennant, and, finally, Julianne Moore, each of them wearing an outfit Lagerfeld had specially designed to reflect the way he saw them, for them and them alone. Kristen Stewart emerged tentatively, crossed to a table, took a seat. The space vibrated with a spooky subsonic intensity. The casino was deserted, the roulette tables empty.
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