Oh hey Carine!

For years you’ve dazzled the fashion industry with your easily-identifiable brand of sexy rock ‘n’ roll cool alongside your trademarked Parisian je ne sais quoi, sparking carnal lust in men and greedy desire in more feminine card-wielders. You’ve managed to out-shock the competition with your devilish “sex sells” mantra and Margiela-swathed strut, frolicking in the natural attention and reveling in the Moet-popping excess. Does it come as any surprise to hear that you’ve revolutionized modern fashion as we know it? You and BFF Emanuelle Alt have diabolically put the Park Avenue royalties’ style to shame. The “Do Not Disturb” sign so icily cementing the classy attire heralded by Anna Wintour and her perfectly-coiffed and lacquered gang has been ripped off for you to replace it with an Emilio Pucci-biased bouncer. You’ve knocked the style heavy-hitters out of the ballpark with your Balmain and Rick Owens (which have both flourished under your tutelage) and broadened our interpretations of “polish.” While women once swooned over a princess-cut De La Renta, they now dream of a cut-out, curve-hugging Alexander Wang. Elaborately caged, dangerously provocative platforms have unapologetically replaced restrained stilettos in captivation of shoe fetishist hearts. Gothic silver jewelry and a quintessentially French style of fresh, natural beauty (messy bedroom hair and appealingly dewy skin) have contributed to your characteristic rebellious streak, along with a heavy hand of highly pigmented black eye kohl. And where lifeless minimalism and girlish romance once took up ad space, consumers are now treated to hard-edged glamour with erotic currents and racy art direction. It’s all kinda genius. What warm-blooded human isn’t going to stop and stare with our dominating primitive instincts? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you brought sexy back before JT ever set foot on a disco ball. The only thing preventing your high fashion material from becoming fodder for unseemly membership sites are the gangly models and thousand-euro designs they’re sporting (am I right, legs-wide-open Natasha Poly?).

And as the rivalry between your French Vogue camp and le Wintour’s looming American division has grown to near NBA standards, your rapscallion spirit has seemed more and more a reflection of the anti-American sentiments popularized during the Bush era. Coincidence? For all your ironic wit and humorous sartorial comments on modern society, I’d venture to guess you quite enjoy mocking the try-hard, too-perfect glamour (and imminent downfall) of Hollywood celebrities and uptown socialites… Adriana Lima in logo-strewn baby tops and diamond-encrusted shades? A+ on that comedic caricature. Mockery of goddess Anna and her Park Avenue style? Snejana killed it! And neurotic Amy Winehouse as portrayed by a sizzling Isabeli Fontana? You know your pop culture. The obvious dare and adventure displayed in your mag’s pages is a chic contrast to the safe and conservatively charming styles of America’s best-sellers- and it looks like you’re effortlessly converting fashion folk to your naughty inclinations. It’s hardly a secret that you actually adore being the antagonist to the increasingly stale mastheads at American glossies with your nipple-baring, nearly obscene Lara Stone spreads and androgyny-exploring eds, plus your reputation as one half of a nightclubbing mother-daughter duo and a saucy vixen in your own right. But could there be a little trouble in paradise? Or am I the only one noticing the Frenchie “inspirations” in the recently renovated pages of the Times Square Conde’s most fashionable money-maker?

It all started during the rumors… you remember the ones- right, doll? Everyone from here to Timbuktu was claiming you’d be stealing Anna’s throne, and naturally, the gossip queens of the fashion world were in a frenzy. Sides were taken, loyalties assumed, and I’ll admit, I was on Anna’s team (I’m afraid your genius would not translate so well on this side of the Atlantic, darling). Obviously the blather turned out to be nothing more than water-cooler chatter, and the traditional hierarchy was kept in order. But then I noticed the changes… It seemed a little surprising to find party-hopping sparkly minidresses in US Vogue, shot by your boy Mario, and featuring a few of your all-star girls (Anna Selezneva, Catherine McNeil, Anna Jagodzinska, Lily Donaldson, and Raquel Zimmerman- in one spread). But it retained a sense of playful cuteness (in comparison to your edginess, at least) with Karlie’s baby-doll smile and Arlenis’ effervescence, Anna J.’s glossy iron-curled blonde mane and some terribly awkward wannabe-raver wigs. But this was just the tip of the iceberg. After the Voguettes started recruiting their new model posse, they enlisted your styling staffer Marie-Amelie Sauve more frequently and introduced middle America to the unusually orthodox work of your go-to photographers. A little dash of Natasha here, a sprinkle of Terry Richardson there, and maybe a shot of a no-faced model’s behind for good measure. Did I mention Edita Vilkeviciute was featured, followed by your buddy Lara Stone, and now- wait for it… Iris Strubegger?! Yeah, I know- who does that sorcière think she is?! Either the Ice Queen has made a deal with the devil or caught on to the trend… but you’re being imitated by the villain, and Tinsley is undoubtedly receiving the Heimlich as I write. Next thing we know, Lara Stone will be shooting a back-of-issue special on lingerie with Mario Sorrenti, or perhaps we should expect a little Anja Rubik rolling around in shaggy furs in the halls of Versailles? You don’t need me to tell you this is despicable. Now I know some girls say “imitation is the best form of flattery… blah blah blah.” Fortunately for you, I’m not one of those girls. And quite frankly, those little chicas are the ones getting their toes stepped all over and being pushed around- and we know you’re a fierce independent woman (plus those Balenciaga platforms are just too hot to allow for abuse). So what is a forward-thinking Givenchy-attired maven to do when her blood-sworn enemy (hyperbole, kids) creeps in on her territory?

I’ll always remember my first official brush with devil-may-care French Vogue royalty, at the Nina Ricci S/S 08 show in the Parisian tuileries. (Obviously this event had me in throes of ecstasy all morning.) I encountered you backstage after the presentation, congratulating Olivier with your chic arm sling (refuting the phrase’s oxymoron status), looking fabulous and untouchably chic. Clearly, babe, whether in the company of fashion-worshipping stylophiles or womanizing club-owners, all those in your presence would willingly bow at your Alaia-clad feet, kiss them with cherry-red YSL gloss pur, and then obey every whim pronounced by your dangerously husky voice. I don’t think you need me to tell you that’s quite the mean feat, though I guess it’s made a little easier by those irresistible clingy mini-dresses you’re so partial to. (Who says women over fifty can’t show off toned olive gams?) And ever since that day that I first feasted my eyes on your sexy style and sensibilities, I’ve dabbled in its realms to find myself quite literally addicted to giant heels (boys better live with the fact that I’m already 6′1″), obsessed with slinky bandage dresses (I would live in those babies if my budget allowed), and grasping for any leather clothing I can get my hands on (HOT). Seeing such alarming temptations watered down and recycled for the masses in Vogue until they eventually make their way down to Seventeen is about as exciting as reading the plot-line to a Matthew McConaughey flick- you’re quite positive you’ve seen the same thing a million times before and that by this point, the novelty is as insipid as a limited-edition Lucky Charm marshmallow. You’ve already got the lead, you just need to find the next direction.

Anna will never be able to reproduce your (almost offensively) raunchy, wildly chic art and dirty, slept-in glamour will never make it’s way into her American pages (our Western provincial hearts just couldn’t handle the shock!). She may take cues from your explicit content and applaud you for such boldly brazen endeavors, but her safe and business-savvy glossy will never replace yours as the quintessential international style bible (don’t worry, no one deems French literacy necessary for interpretation of your louche glamour).

XOXO,

MJS