A Ralph in Paris
by Tom Stubbs20 April 2010 - Online exclusive
Springtime in Paris began this week with Ralph Lauren opening his new French shop on Boulevard St. Germain. In the four year renovation of the 17th century hotel, Lauren enlisted archaeologists, historians and a team of French interior restoration experts. Known as a hôtel particulier, it was an original Parisian townhouse. It’s a splendid place with sweeping stairs and enormous windows, authentic mouldings, parquet flooring and an American style restaurant cunningly named Ralph’s. I was there for the opening Tuesday night, a ‘biggy’ attended by the family Lauren and fashion luminaries such as Lagerfeld, Rykiel and Carine Roitfeld. A significant week all round for the American who also received the prestigious Chevalier de la légion d’honneur from president Nicolas Sarkozy, at the Elysée Palace, in recognition of good deeds in style, business, philanthropy and cowboy boots. The beginning of spring was momentous for me too, as during the shoot I was styling, themed‘A Ralph in Paris’ for The Rake magazine, I managed to loose my ‘real bow tie virginity’. I have never managed to pull one off live in front of a photographic team before, but somehow I went into a knot-trance positioned firmly behind my George: Michael/Hamilton and Clooney-o-like model, Francois. He’s an actor by trade so he’s probably used to it. He commanded a certain presence in the rakish role. His female counter-part far less so. She gave the oars festooning Ralph’s collegiate room, a run for their money on a scale of woodiness.
Two days shooting, in the new shop on Boulevard St.Germain, began with the ‘Rake’ team and our French crew headed by photographer Thomas Lavelle. I discovered American Vogue was working there simultaneously. My opposite number on the team was fashion force of nature, Andre Leon Tally.
I watched him case the location resplendent in tasselled leather poncho and train formation entourage. He looked a bit like Don King in a Darth Vader outfit. Nous somme arrivez, it would appear. Later his team actually turfed my team out of our initial base set up on the rococo women’s floor. I returned to retrieve a lost clothing ticket, an hour later, where the full Vogue crew were now entrenched. “You-can’t-go-in-there, you-cant-go-in there!” trilled the bevy of camp yanks. I breezed past them, entered U.S fash’ space, pointing out they’re not actually the CIA or the presidential bodyguard. Andre was reclining pertly on a massive chez lounge with a blanket thrown over him while his team fused and twitched to his every gesticulation. “You comfy on there Andre?” I asked to the dismay of the team. “Ve-ry comfort-able thenk you.” Andre beamed back. Nice chap. I think we shared a little fashion moment.
Other locations for The Rake shoot included the bar at hotel Le Meurice and some Parisian’s plush apartment. This plateau of luxury surroundings was maintained all week. Ralph’s lot had vigorously pushed the bateau out, spoiling me rotten with lodgings in the Hôtel Plazza Athénée. A delightfully grandiose experience put a whole new slant on the term ‘work’; a man in a white tux came to my room on the second night and filleted my sole and when clothes were delivered from the van, they came on a very chic porters rail. From my point of view, the week took on a certain glamorous ‘par de deux’
Although I am a quarter French by blood, my linguistic skills sit on a par with Prince Philip’s talent for international diplomacy. However, at one point during a shot I managed to command in French, “Monsieur le coiffeur, regarde le derrièr de la cheveux”. He dully reacted without sniggering and it was another proud personal ‘châteaubriand’ moment for me.
The shoot finished and I found myself with two hours to kill and a massive Cohiba, which was one of the un-used props. I plotted, outside the Hôtel Plazza Athénée with the very rich old men and their cigars, trying to blend in. Four glasses of Sancerre and a pile of Cuban ash later and I had blended so much I nearly missed the last Eurostar to England. Aerospace above Europe was sealed off by Icelandic ash and the train was packed full to capacity. The swollen numbers caused a sandwich dearth, prompting near riots in first class. Angry Brits vented spleen in a most undignified manner at the staff. Sans sandwich, I gratefully recalled my week of sumptuous treatment, and shuddered at what A.L.T’s Vogue firm would have made of this catering catastrophe. Bread rolls were given out, but I doubt Vogue do ‘improv’ rations, or travel with their own supply of ‘‘coup de gras’ to go with the pain.
Ralph Lauren: 173 Boulevard St. Germain 75006 Paris
Tags: Paris, Ralph Lauren
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