My Holly Golightly

Madonna's Brother Tell All Book Drops July 15th

2008-07-10T19:44:00.001-04:00

Madonna's misery continues today as details of her brother's tell-all book emerge.

Christopher Ciccone claims that the singer - who has been rocked by divorce rumours as well as allegations that she is behind the marriage break-up of baseball player Alex Rodriguez - loves her career and herself more than husband Guy Ritchie.

The claims come amid widespread speculation that Madonna's marriage is breaking down and the allegations have angered the volatile pop star, sparking a huge family row.

In turmoil: Divorce rumours and allegations of an intimate relationship with Alex Rodriguez looked to be taking their toll as the singer left her apartment yesterday

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A spokeswoman said last night that Madonna was 'upset' by the book, in which Ciccone, a gay decorator and chef, depicts his sister as manipulative and self-obsessed.

'I hope that it is Kabbalah's lesson that she is not the centre of the universe,' Ciccone wrote in one of a number of barbed comments in Life With My Sister Madonna, which is due for release on Tuesday.

Yesterday the pop star emerged from her New York apartment looking tired and despondent in a sign the pressure of the past month is beginning to take its toll.

Tell-all book: Madonna pictured with Christopher in 1998, she is said to be 'upset' by the claims in his upcoming memoir

Her husband Guy Ritchie was seen leaving the Central Park West residence separately, accompanied by the couple's seven-year-old son Rocco.

The 49-year-old has been linked to the £50million marriage break-up of Rodriguez, the world's most expensive baseball player, and his wife Cynthia.

Reports claim that Rodriguez, 32 - in the first season of a £139million, 10-year contract with the New York Yankees - made a series of visits to Madonna's New York flat, and that he converted to Kabbalah, the mystical Jewish movement followed by Madonna. Cynthia, 34, filed for divorce earlier on Monday.

Madonna issued a statement Sunday saying that she has 'nothing to do with the state of his marriage or what spiritual path he may choose to study,' referring to reports that the she had introduced the sports star to Kabbalah.

The scandal comes just weeks after reports that Madonna and Guy marriage was on the rocks.

However the singer's estranged brother appears to defend their marriage in the 342-page book, published by Simon Spotlight Entertainment.

Ciccone says that he believes the couple are "passionately committed" to staying married, with the help of Kabbalah, a form of Jewish mysticism.

He describes Ritchie as a man's man undisturbed by homophobic humor, whose emergence in Madonna's life marks 'the death knell' of the Ciccones' brother-sister bond.

Ciccone portrays Madonna as a show business survivor - bossy and self-absorbed, sometimes compassionate, mindful of 'how little faith many people once had in her.'

Ex files: Alex Rodriguez with wife Cynthia, whose divorce lawyers have criticized his association with Madonna

His memoir includes everything from gossip about Madonna's sex life.

It says she lost her virginity to a 'guy named Russell', says ex-husband Sean Penn was referred to by Madonna as a 'paranoid control freak' and that Warren Beatty, another of Madonna's lovers, allegedly cornered Ciccone at a party and quizzed him intensely on what it was like to be gay.

The book offers snapshots of Bruce Willis allegedly chatting up other women while still married to Demi Moore, of Ciccone dancing with Moore at a drag queen club, of Madonna allegedly kissing Gwyneth Paltrow on the mouth during a New Year's Eve dance at which Ciccone said that he and Ritchie almost came to blows.

Ciccone, 47, worked often with his older sister, designing and directing her Girlie Show tour in 1993 and serving as artistic director of her 1991 documentary, Madonna: Truth or Dare.

But in his book, he says they are no longer close.

Cashing in: Christopher Ciccone's book - which couldn't come at a worse time for his sister - is due for release next week

Madonna's representative, Liz Rosenberg, said last night that the singer had not read the memoir but found it 'very upsetting' that Ciccone 'has decided to sell a book based on his sister.'

'I would have to assume she has come to terms with the fact that they do not have a close and loving relationship,' Miss Rosenberg said.

'And with the book coming out, I assume that will remove the chances of that ever happening.'

Life With My Sister Madonna was co-authored by celebrity biographer Wendy Leigh, who has written books on Liza Minnelli, Grace Kelly and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Simon Spotlight, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, has announced a first printing of 350,000.

Earlier this year, stores were asked to order the book "blind," without knowing the author or subject. Last month, the publisher released the subject matter - and the name of the author.

In 2006, William Morrow offered a mysterious tell-all that turned out to be by Princess Diana's former butler, Paul Burrell, who had already written about her. Retailers were angered and the book sold poorly.

Fashion Whispers SLIMANE Edition

2008-07-05T13:24:00.006-04:00

Your HG is jumping up and down for joy praying that the wicked whispers of the fashion world are true. Could it be? Is *heart skips a beat* our fashion G*d Hedi Slimane making his return to the world of Dior Homme? At the same time we hear that LMVH is also trying to set up an eponymous line for Hedi. We don't care we just want Hedi! BTW today, July 5th is Mr. Slimane's birthday, and Your Holly Golightly is sending out extra special birthday wishes to our fashion idol - Happy Birthday Hedi Slimane!

XOXO - YOUR HOLLY GOLIGHTLY

HEDI SLIMANE OFFICIAL SITE

Summer Reading

2008-07-05T12:52:00.005-04:00

**Your HG apologizes for the MIA status as of late, you know how the warm weather calls us all to the sandy beaches of the Cape. In celebration of the summer's beach blanket bonanza I find it only acceptable to tell you about a new summer read. And what's better than a book that combines both our love for literature and *happiness* the Hermes Birkin Bag. So run to the nearest book store and pick up Bringing Home the Birkin.**

Here's a quick Q+A with the book's author Michael Tonello.

Questions for Herms hype–buster Michael Tonello.

Widely prized, legendarily elusive, and outrageously expensive, the Hermès Birkin bag possesses a mythic stature. In his new book, Bringing Home the Birkin (William Morrow, $25.95), Michael Tonello, cofounder of Boston-based advertising collaborative Team, proves you don't have to be married to Tom Cruise to snag a $25,000 It bag—or to resell it on eBay.

Q: You say the bag's fabled two-year wait list is, in fact, a fable. So how do you get your hands on a Birkin?

A: Money talks. Then money talks some more. If you spend $1,000 on something else at Hermès first, the bags magically appear. Between September and Christmas 2004, I purchased and resold 130 or 140 Birkins.
Q: Didn't Hermès catch on to your game?
A: I had a half-dozen credit cards, all with slightly different names. But there were still a few stores where I became persona non grata.
Q: It was rumored that an advance copy of your book went for nearly $1,000 on eBay. It seems you took luxury marketing techniques to heart.
A: We gave out press copies in a Birkin-shaped box because we wanted to put the book on par with the Hermès brand. I'm trying to get it into the hands of celebs. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that word of mouth fuels itself.

YSL The End of an Era

2008-06-02T15:41:00.002-04:00

1936 - 2008

Yves Saint Laurent, one of the most influential designers of the 20th century, died on Sunday after a year long battle with brain cancer.

The 71-year-old designer was part of a generation of designers including Christian Dior and Coc Canel that made Paris the fashion capital of the world. His designs have been said to empower women throughout the world. He once said: “Fashion is not only supposed to make women beautiful, but to reassure them, to give them confidence, to allow them to come to terms with themselves.''

Tributes have been pouring in from all over the fashion world with Tommy Hillfiger describing his sadness at the loss of a “creative genius” and a “legendary talent.” Calvin Klein designer Francisco Costa said Laurent had “revolutionized modern fashion” while France's Prime Minister said Laurent had “contributed to France's influence in the world.”

Yves Saint Laurent was born Aug. 1, 1936, in Algeria. He first emerged as a promising designer at the age of 17, winning first prize in a contest sponsored by the International Wool Secretariat for a cocktail dress design.

After only three months as a student he was introduced to Christian Dior, then regarded as the greatest creator of his day. Dior was so impressed with Saint Laurent's talent that he hired him on the spot. When Dior died suddenly in 1957, Saint Laurent was named head of the House of Dior at the age of 21.

In 1962 he opened his own haute couture fashion house with Berge. The pair later started a chain of Rive Gauche ready-to-wear boutiques. Saint Laurent's simple androgynous designs were his hallmarks. His navy blue pea coat over white pants, his smoking jacket remade the tux as a high fashion statement for both sexes. Beatnik chic also came in the sixties. Showing that women could wear tailored men's clothes became a statement.

In 1983 the Metropolitan Museum of Art devoted a show to his work, the first ever to a living designer and in 1985 he was awarded the Legion d'Honneur. Rive-Gauche, his ready-to-wear label was sold to Gucci in 1999 for $70 million cash and royalties, still has boutiques around the world.

When Saint Laurent announced his retirement in 2002 and the closure of the Paris-based haute couture house, it was mourned in the fashion world as the end of an era.

Boston Nightlife Needs Help

2008-05-24T16:05:00.005-04:00

Recently I hit the town with some of my favorite girlfriends. We began our night at the Liberty Hotel's Alibi. While I usually love this trendy former prison turned swank hotel lounge, that night something was off. Maybe it was the fact that the doorman insisted he id-card everyone, and well to borrow a line from Cher Horowitz 'an I.D. doesn't really go with this outfit.' I turned my Louboutin around and returned with my proof of age -- moisturizer does a face well. Inside was utter chaos. The usually low-key, high fashion lounge was filled with loud ruffians dressed "trying" to impress.
After my cocktail (which now was made with an overload of minced mint--umm NO) and now with a headache from the overly crowded scene, the girls and I headed to "suppose hot spot" Saint. We headed downstairs to the lounge...You call this a lounge? It was basically a dressier college frat party. The once present couches were no more and people were packed in to a small dance area with one long bar. I was ready to call it a night, but didn't want to rain on the parade as one friend had taken to chatting up a decent looking Aussie. I made my way to the bar "a diet coke please" (why waste calories on such a night). It was right at that moment I felt a jirating thing against my leg - I had had a familiar experience with a friend's chihuahua, but surely no dogs were out at a club. Totally repulsed I turned to see the source of the leg-humping...ugh a greasy haired Boston-boy...listen guys, humping a girls leg is not considered dancing, and will only get you a diet coke to the face. Luckily for him I was thirsty but I did insist he go find another leg or pole to enjoy.
I had had enough. WHAT IS WITH BOSTON's LACK OF QUALITY NIGHTLIFE. Tip Boston, add more swank and lose the sleaze...oh and please bring back couches and bottle service, it keeps the freaks away.

Thank you xoxo Your Holly Golightly

Artist You Should Know: Chuck Close

2008-05-24T15:59:00.003-04:00

Artist: Chuck Close

NYMag Does Lagerfeld

2008-05-09T13:01:00.005-04:00

“I Love Fashion!” “I Love the Girl!” The force that is Karl Lagerfeld powers through Chanel’s preshow prep like a black-clad dervish with a powdered ponytail throwing out new ideas. This season: camellias and double-Cs on the carousel, not on the girls.

The white ponytail, the dark glasses, the always-black jacket and jeans. Karl Lagerfeld is one of—if not the—most recognizable fashion designers in the world, and a seemingly endless source of new ideas. Twice a year, in the span of two months, he presents four new collections: Chanel couture in January and, a month later, ready-to-wear for Fendi, Chanel, and his own Karl Lagerfeld label. And each collection has its own, distinct point of view. He’s also cheerfully verbose, with opinions on any topic ranging from celebrities to diets to other designers’ work. In the few days before a show, Lagerfeld manages to oversee the goings-on of his presentations (including the involved creation of a huge Chanel carousel set) while coolly meeting the demands of the fashion press and his celebrity friends.

Have you previewed the clothes before? I photograph a dossier de presse [press kit] about a week before the show. It’s a dress rehearsal for the hair and makeup teams, as well as the studio with the clothing and the shoes. Most of the important looks are often not ready then—a week before is a long time in dressmaking—but it’s important to do these photos to see where we are.

Which editors visit the studio? People I really like and respect (they are even allowed not to like what they see) and who have their own opinion about fashion, style, or looks. No flattering—please! And celebrities? Last season it was the Olsen twins, who are divine, talented, and so clever. I love the Olsen twins. But “celebrities” I don’t know well, I prefer not to see them in the studio before the show. Editors are used to fittings and unfinished things. But it’s different if the “celebrity” is a close friend.

How did your initial inspiration change over the course of the fittings? I decided to de-accessorize the clothes and deconstruct the tweed. I put the accessories as symbols on the merry-go-round and showed a collection with few accessories, except beautifully worked buttons and belts. As others showed tons of necklaces, I was happy not to do it as I normally do.

What external influences affect your creative process? I want to know everything. I want to see everything, and this curiosity helps me to find inspiration in the most unconnected of strange situations. But there is no rule—or only one: Keep the eyes open and do it your way.

What’s it like before the shows? There are two days in which each girl comes to have her final fittings and hair and makeup tests and Polaroids taken for the running order. I also visit the set—late in the evening after the fittings, but also during the daytime to see the light, as we show in the morning. People think the last 24 hours are crazy—but a collection has to be ready before.

What was the idea behind the stage set, with the carousel covered in Chanel icons? We had all the symbols typical of Chanel: the camellia, the buttons, the pearls, the handbag, everything. But in the show there was almost nothing, just one small handbag. Logos and branding are so important in the world we live in. They are the experience of luxury. In a big part of the world, people cannot read English or French—but they are great in remembering signs.

After so many years, how do you approach each collection fresh?
I love fashion!
I love the girl!
I love to watch times change!
I love to do fittings!
I love to photograph clothes, and
I love sketching them.
I am not blasé, and I only believe in the next collection. I am never satisfied with myself and that is what keeps me going—I have no post-satisfaction.

Marc Jacobs GQ Interview

2008-05-09T12:44:00.004-04:00

Marc Jacobs Doesn't Give A Fuck- (GQ)

We've witnessed his total physical transformation, read his increasingly outspoken comments, and wondered: What makes a highly successful man who's the creative vision behind a $5 billion business resolve to change his body, dye his hair blue, date a former escort, and start speaking his mind? Well, ask the man himself. by Lucy Kaylin

Chances are that over the past few weeks, Marc Jacobs has done something outrageous. Maybe he’s at the center of a Spitzer-sized sex scandal or tapped Flavor Flav to be the new face of Louis Vuitton. There’s no evidence, as yet, of either, but the way the perfectly zany Jacobs narrative is hurtling along, anything seems possible.

Consider the highlights of the past year: a porn star crowing online about threesomes with Jacobs and Jacobs’s former-escort boyfriend; a tune-up in rehab; allegations that his line paid bribes for use of New York’s 26th Street Armory for his shows; then starting those shows at least two hours late, turning the normally adoring fashion press into a pitchfork-wielding mob. And yet nothing has created a greater stir than his startling new look. Where he once had long greasy locks and the pallor of a shut-in, he now, at 45, has an iridescent blue crop, honking Harry Winston diamond studs, a gallery of tattoos, and a painstakingly ripped bod. After years of hiding in baggy sweatshirts while contemplating the beauty of others—of pondering any human facade but his own—Jacobs has discovered the consuming joy of narcissism. It’s his new addiction. Some would say, his midlife crisis.

“I don’t feel like I’m in crisis, and I don’t know that it’s the middle of my life,” Jacobs says, looking a little like Jeff Goldblum circa The Fly—large, dark, worried eyes weirdly belied by a dome physique. It’s a measure of how closely he is watched and the stir he has caused that even a self-described attention whore like Jacobs is starting to weary of the scrutiny.

“Why is there this division all of a sudden between people in support of me and people against me? How did this happen? I haven’t done anything to anybody! I look at Karl Lagerfeld and John Galliano—everybody has their shtick. And just because this wasn’t my shtick two years ago, it’s a problem.”

As Jacobs tells it, before now he simply had no budget in his psyche for self-maintenance: “I didn’t care what I looked like, because I knew I’d be on the floor picking up pins or drawing all day.” It’s a Friday afternoon in his cluttered, loftlike office in SoHo where boxes of Wheat Thins are stashed next to packs of Marlboro Lights and cheapo lighters. His hair juts like a Mohawk—the effect is thrusting, roosterish, in contrast to the Pre-Raphaelite languor of the long-haired Marc Jacobs in the photo on the wall behind him.

“I thought, Who cares about my appearance? They only care about what I’m making.”Then he got the existential bitch-slap of ulcerative colitis, the disease that led to his father’s death when Jacobs was only 7. A nutritionist, Lindsey Duncan, recommended a monastic diet—no flour, dairy, sugar, or caffeine—as well as exercise. Jacobs was so enamored of the results he made the regimen his religion.“The thing I love about the gym is not having to make choices,” he notes. “My trainer says, ‘You’re gonna lift this; you’re gonna do that ten times.’ Okay, great—just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. It’s the same thing with my nutritionist. All I have to do is follow instructions. I love that. This is not about ‘Would it be better in red or blue?’ There isn’t a lot of abstract, circular thinking involved. And it’s great. Those times are really nice for me.”

Because it’s hard being the decider—the face of a $5 billion business, the guy whose whims about pants width and buttons and colors can create an enormously lucrative global ripple. It’s hard being him. Torture, actually, much of the time.For years now, the Jacobs universe has been where everyone wanted to be. It radiates from that simple, ubiquitous sans-serif logo—a guilelessness, a downtown ease that never postures or preens. Consider the Jacobs signatures—retro cardigans and high-water pants with trainers for guys who look like they’ve actually read a book; slouchy, deconstructed sweaters worn with long, bulky skirts and flats for girls who don’t lead with their tits. The statement-making bags, the glamorizing of grunge, the pairing of fashion and anime…. If Ralph Lauren is a lifestyle, Marc Jacobs is an ethos. With his pitch-perfect instincts—say, using laconic, large-nosed Sofia Coppola in grainy, era-defining ads—he exerts an almost messianic pull. But how can he be both a messiah and a mess? How can an industry titan, the most important person in fashion, be so fragile? Or is the fragility endemic to the success, the very thing that keeps us so riveted?

For a fixture in the haughtiest of worlds, Jacobs is curiously grounded about his work—he bristles when what he does is referred to as art. Whereas his competitors shroud themselves in mystique, Jacobs serves up his flaws and insecurities like canapés.

“There are those gray, rainy days where it’s sad and you just think, God, I’m so lonely and it’s such a big world and there’s so much to do,” he says. According to Jacobs’s business partner of twenty-five years, Robert Duffy, “Marc is a very emotional person, and he takes his work extremely seriously. Some days it’s hard and some days it’s not—it depends on his mood swings. I don’t know if you’ve ever worked with a drug addict,” Duffy tells me over the phone while Jacobs sketches a shoe a few feet away. “Even though he’s been in recovery now for a while, it’s not an easy process. There’s the continual process of staying sober.”

Jacobs’s father was an agent at William Morris and his mother a receptionist. (His uncle was the president of the company, and Jacobs worked in the legendary mailroom during high school.) When I ask him what he remembers about his father, he rests his chin in his hand and stares off. There was a trip to Puerto Rico, to the circus… And then he was gone. Thus began a chaotic period of power dating and failed marriages for his mother. Naturally, it’s the clothes he remembers best.

“I hate the term ‘bad taste,’ but my mother wasn’t, like, a very chic person,” he says. “Jane Fonda in Klute was definitely one of her role models, much to my father’s dismay. But when I’d watch my mother getting dressed up to go out on dates and she’d be putting on three rows of false eyelashes and some hideous fox-trimmed brocade coat with a wet-look miniskirt and knee-high boots, I thought she was fabulous.”

The feeling wouldn’t last. After she relocated to be with one husband or another, Jacobs went to live with his grandmother in Manhattan, where he attended the High School of Art and Design. At a certain point he cut ties to his mother, as well as to his brother and sister, both of whom, he says, couldn’t be less like him. Jacobs says they reached out some years ago—to borrow money.

“But that’s just a little detail from a story that’s way more complicated,” he notes. I cast around, trying to figure out what could have happened. Did they have a problem with his being gay? I ask.Jacobs scoffs at the suggestion—as if it were anything that simple.Not that he didn’t struggle with his sexuality, with “being the only kid in a big group that doesn’t want to play football and buy stereos and drive cars. When I went to sleepaway camp, I just kind of wanted to sit there and make an ashtray or do a lanyard necklace or paint my jeans,” he says. “And then to stand there and not be chosen for a baseball team—it’s like, force me to do something and then don’t choose me to do it. Okay, what am I supposed to enjoy about that process? How am I supposed to feel good about myself with all that going on?”

Clothes promised deliverance from all that, and Jacobs became obsessed with the possibilities. “I’d look at my babysitter and her boyfriend and long to be at an age where I could wear what they were wearing,” he says. Clothes had the stirring, transformative power of music—of rock, punk, and particularly grunge. “There was a beaten-down glamour about the whole thing,” Jacobs says, “something so kind of romantic and beautiful.”

In 1992, Jacobs, as vice president of women’s design at Perry Ellis, conjured a daring ode to grunge—Seattle plaids in silk and waffle shirts in cashmere. Though the show was a commercial failure and quickly got him and Duffy fired, the collection was a Jacobs landmark in the way it mined a cultural moment and turned alienation into something sort of beautiful.

In 1997, Jacobs and Duffy were named artistic director and studio director, respectively, of the musty luxury-goods house Louis Vuitton, the chief perk of which was that parent company LVMH agreed to bankroll a line bearing Jacobs’s name. Since then, the two have quadrupled Vuitton’s business, thanks to pure-Jacobs masterstrokes that signaled a new exuberance for the century-old house, like collaborating with the artist Takashi Murakami on a line of leather goods at the height of our collective fetish for all things Japan; Murakami’s candied, anime take on Vuitton’s stately brown logo spurred $300 million in sales in 2003. (Jacobs, the minister at the lucrative marriage of fashion and art, has collaborated on another line of bags with kitsch-appropriator Richard Prince.)

I find myself wondering if the ultimate revenge on a tacky mother is to become a worldwide fashion icon, though the theory would surely leave Jacobs cold. He is also blasé on the subject of his success, but he’s very clear on the role his own difficulties have played. Clothes, really, were the only thing he loved during a bleak and fractured childhood. “The pain,” he says, “is proportionate to the pleasure.” I ask Jacobs if he’s ever curious about his mother—where she is, what she’s doing now. “Not at all,” he says mordantly. “Utterly cold on the subject. I never believed that idea that you’re supposed to love the members of your family. I hate the idea of obliged feelings—I just think that’s a huge waste of time. But I’ve had enough conversations with people to realize that I’m the oddball in this category. I can’t think of anyone as detached from their family as I am. Or as detached as I say I am.”

It's thursday morning at New York’s David Barton Gym, where Jacobs is starting his day in the usual way: with a two-and-a-half-hour workout. Small and wiry, he rolls up on the balls of his feet as he moves from one end of the gym floor to another, greeting strangers, inviting scrutiny. Closely tended by his trainer, Eric “Easy” Forlines, Jacobs grabs a pair of metal rings on the biceps machine, stares deeply into Easy’s eyes, and pulls down hard.“Exercising is fun—the best part of my day,” Jacobs says with effort. “I’m such a catastrophic thinker that when anything happens, I figure I better just live life to the fullest—buy a diamond necklace, get another tattoo, work out with Easy.”
Between sets, they compare new tattoos—Easy’s got a Smith & Wesson revolver on his flank, while Jacobs reveals a midcentury-style couch, of all things, a couple of inches long, on the taut, tanned skin above his hip bone. On the street after the workout, they swig protein drinks while reminiscing about the time they met, a year and a half ago, after a mutual hairstylist friend suggested they do so. At the time, the name Marc Jacobs meant little to Easy.
“Because my name wasn’t Dolce or Gabbana, he had no idea who I was,” snarks Jacobs, crouching in a tweed Dior coat and a tangerine cashmere scarf, huddled like a regular around his Marlboro Light—his last vice since swearing off everything from heroin to absinthe years ago.

By the time they met, Jacobs was already dieting. “I never saw the bigger Marc,” Easy says, behind aviator shades etched with mj, a Louis Vuitton gym bag at his feet.

“The fat guy that I kicked?” says Jacobs. “The fat guy that we’d beat up if we saw him on the street,” Easy laughs.

“The soft, blubbery Marc Jacobs,” says Marc Jacobs. Over the course of their relationship, Easy has seen the Jacobs evolution up close. “The contact lenses were a big part,” he says. “Then the hair got shorter and shorter. Then it got really short, and he’s like, ‘Damn, it looks good.’ Then the bling started happening. I was all for it. I said, ‘Dawg, you’re a superfamous fashion designer—like, what about some bling? Let’s do it!’ I can’t do it, so I live vicariously through all the awesome jewelry that he has.”

“Nooo, you get some,” Jacobs notes.

Easy hesitates, then offers his wrist, which boasts a gold Rolex—a birthday present from Jacobs. On the back, it’s inscribed love you dawg, mj. “I’m really proud of it,” Easy says quietly. Then Jacobs holds up his own wrist, revealing the same watch, but with a black face. They put them together like power bracelets.

“We’re BFFs,” says Jacobs, glancing at Easy—so grateful for a sherpa in the foreign land of self-love.Jacobs is what you might call a framily man; lacking any meaningful blood ties, he’s put himself in the hands of Team Jacobs (Easy, Dr. Duncan, his shrink, Duffy—even the chauffeur he affectionately refers to as “my boss”).

He forges tight, obsessive relationships with people who can handle his compulsive need to share, the residue of years of therapy. Proponents of that work know it’s all good, whatever “it” may be. Express it, get it out there, own it. Taking on Jacobs means taking on his…stuff, which includes falling off the wagon from time to time and trying to make it work with his club-loving sometime boyfriend, Jason Preston, who is seventeen years younger and has Jacobs’s name inked the full length of his forearm.

Later in the afternoon, Jacobs is in the backseat of his silver Mercedes jeep, checking e-mails. We’ve just come from a few galleries in Chelsea, where red carpets are all but rolled out when he arrives. Jacobs’s becoming a serious collector in recent years has coincided neatly with a roaring surge in the art market, although perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised; pieces by John Currin, Richard Prince, Damien Hirst, and Ed Ruscha fill his Paris duplex (his primary residence). Typically, it was the scene, not the work, that first drew him to art.

“Maybe it’s the same bull**** and politics,” Jacobs says, “maybe it’s the same lies, but because it’s not my world, it seemed great and amusing and beautiful, and I felt like the lives of these artists were so charmed.” We arrive at the Mercer Hotel, where Jacobs lives when he’s in New York.

Before lunch we sit on the bench outside so he can enjoy a cigarette, Jacobs crunched up on the bench absentmindedly riveted by the footwear of virtually every passerby. Conversation turns to his ever growing collection of tattoos. When I ask the significance of getting a bright yellow SpongeBob on his biceps, a scene from Poltergeist between his shoulder blades, and of course, that couch, Jacobs pretty much shrugs—the images just struck him in the moment. He couldn’t care less about the disfiguring permanence. When people say, “What about when you’re 80?”—as in, how’s that couch gonna look then?—he says, “I don’t know if I’m even going to get to be 80. And who would want to see me at 80, anyway? But maybe somebody will—and maybe they’ll be tattooed, too.”This constant, almost compulsive tinkering with his appearance—I wonder where he’ll draw the line.

What about Botox and plastic surgery? I ask.“I’ve learned at this point to never say never to anything,” Jacobs says. “I look at Tom [Ford] and he looks great. Whatever he’s doing works for him. And I don’t know if he does anything, but I’m not opposed. Whatever makes me feel good, I want more of. If work is going well, I want to do more clothes. If the gym thing is working for me, I want to be bigger. If getting my hair cut makes me look younger, I want to play with the color. So I could see myself slipping down that road so quickly.”

He’s already had a little work done on his nose, an approximation of the swelling that resulted when he ran into a glass door. “It got so swollen here,” he says, indicating the bridge, “and I thought, This is so hot.” Twisting and slouching in the restaurant’s banquette now, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of diligently worked abdomen, Jacobs looks hungry—not for a meal, but for contact, connection, recognition. He scans the room—surely there must be someone he knows…. Superstar hairstylist Oribe has already come and gone; is there not a stranger here who’d care to drop by? Getting up to go have another cigarette, Jacobs turns to the woman at the next table.“Nice dress,” he says.“It’s yours,” she replies.“I know!” he says, delighted.

Lunch is grilled salmon, with a side of supplements and antioxidants. “He’s never been such a healthy eater, although he still smokes five packs of cigarettes with all that healthy food,” says Duffy, who is as devoted to Jacobs as he is realistic. “There have been many times in the course of our relationship that he’s been clean and sober—it’s not my first time around the block with that, with him.” That said, it’s a long way from the days of being drunk enough to win a contest over who can hold a lit cigarette against the skin the longest, of getting kicked o? planes because he’d passed out in the bathroom. Chalk it up to appallingly low self-esteem, the kind that comes from not having a parent repeatedly telling you you’re the ****.

“I’d walk in a room and all I’d think about is, How many people in this room hate me right now?” Jacobs says. “They think I’m ugly, or whatever. It was the idea of not living in the moment, of thinking you can control results by your actions, of not feeling good-looking enough, not tall enough, not clever enough—I guess that’s how I’ve felt pretty much most of my life.”

Hence the clothes that so viscerally appeal to anyone who’s ever feinted, or compensated, or didn’t quite fit; anyone who, like Jacobs, abhors the idea of popular, mandated notions of what’s sexy or cool. But now that he’s in lockstep with the gym rats, worshipping surfaces, using Posh Spice to sell clothes...now what? Shouldn’t we all feel a little betrayed? In what sense does Jacobs, who once decried the idea of “oozing sexuality” as being too overt, too obvious, not now ooze sexuality? “It’s still only a facade,” he says. “I’m still the same person.

My sex life, my sexual interests, my libido, are exactly the same as they always were. It hasn’t changed my wiring or my instincts.” Which is to say, Jacobs is flaunting his stuff like he always has. It may look different—and it may look different still six months from now—but it’s the same impulse, the same cri de coeur, from a stubbornly neurotic genius, who turns it all into the best clothes in town. As a shrink surely told him somewhere along the line, redemption is in admitting what you’re up to.

“It’s like saying, ‘I want to look hot.’ That is such a dumb thing to say,” Jacobs notes. “But what’s so cool about it is that you can say it. Yeah, I want a bunch of muscle queens at David Barton Gym to think that my body looks dope. And I might think that was an awkward and dumb thing to say, but I still like that I’ll throw it out there. Because it’s true, you know?”

A place for every Shoe Lover

2008-05-04T20:04:00.003-04:00

Calling all shoephiles, Your Holly Golightly has stumbled across this new free social networking club for individuals who love shoes and getting together to wear them. Ever have the most wonderful pair of shoes and nowhere to wear them? Join the Shoe Club and you'll always have the right occasion for your favorite shoes. Better yet, you'll always have a handy excuse to buy a new pair. The Shoe Club is an informal gathering of individuals of all ages who love shoes.

xoxo Your HG

The Next Jackson Pollock

2008-05-04T19:56:00.003-04:00

Legendary abstract expressionist painter Jackson Pollock popularized the technique of 'action painting,' his works capture the ongoing battle between artist and blank canvas. A new Boston-based artist, Jeanine Heller is quickly gaining the same notiriety for the ability to capture emotion to canvas in the same way Pollock did while remains cutting edge and contemporary — a sure sign for future success.
(Galactica, 2008 Courtesy Jeanine Heller Gallery)

Bag of the Day

2008-04-28T10:21:00.005-04:00

Isn't it beautiful? It's the Marc Jacobs Ostrich bag, now named "BB" in honor of our (insert Tyra finger wag) FIEEERCE friend Bryanboy. You are all fabulous and we know it.

Holly + MJ+ BryanBoy = True Love

Monday Monday

2008-04-28T10:15:00.004-04:00

For all of us suffering from a case of the Mondays. Your Holly Golightly loves you. xo

MARC JACOBS - STYLE FILE

2008-04-23T14:27:00.003-04:00

From today's NYTimes Style Mag:

Marc Jacobs has had more than his fair share of headlines lately. Thanks to the press’s due diligence, we’ve learned that he eats health food and has a personal trainer; that he’s dyed his hair blue (it’s back to brown), got tattoos and bought four diamond studs; that he collects art; and — somebody call the vice squad! — that he’s rumored to have landed a date or two online.

But what everyone seems to neglect is his work at Louis Vuitton and for his own label, which is consistently ahead of the curve. This season, he explored a new kind of sexiness with purposely disheveled, lingerie-inspired looks — the kind of balance between innovation and sophistication that a cool French actress like Élodie Bouchez (four months pregnant at the time of this shoot, and with no patience for maternity duds) can appreciate. Bouchez, whose latest project is ‘‘Après Lui,’’ with Catherine Deneuve, spent time in America guest-starring on ‘‘Alias,’’ but she met Jacobs in Paris. ‘‘We appreciate the work each of us does,’’ she says. ‘‘His clothes are different but at the same time respectful of women.’’

HOLLY + MJ = FOREVER

VA-CAY-CAY

2008-04-18T18:57:00.004-04:00

I have just spent a few days at Le Touessrok hotel in Mauritius and discovered that my reputation as an auctioneer extraordinaire followed me to the Indian Ocean. While polishing off pudding on the night of the resort's anniversary dinner, I was asked to auction a picture for charity. Having washed down all 10 courses of dinner with copious amounts of wine, I was a little nervous. In fact, I was worried that I would get up in front of 300 guests and be unable to talk - or even walk. And the result? Well, just call me Little Miss Smug. They had hoped to raise about Pounds 1,200 but, thanks to the silver tongue of mwah, they were presented with a cheque for more than Pounds 5,000.

The next day I decided to go for an early-morning run down to the sea. As I had a private beach, I set off wearing nothing but a smile, only to run straight into a little German man. Last time we had met, he shouted at me for playing my Three Tenors CD too loudly. This time, he was so surprised that he couldn't look me in the eye, until he realised that it was more embarrassing to look anywhere else. After a few mumbled apologies he hurried away and, I have to say, he was very nice to me after that, although his wife shot me some poisonous glances.

Weekend Shopping - HG Insider

2008-04-18T18:31:00.003-04:00

South Shore socialite butterflies have been flying into Gia B since it opened at Hingham's Derby Street last fall. This beautiful shop is filled with the latest in designer party frocks including our fave Alexander McQueen, Alice + Olivia, Cosabella (for something fun), and Valentino Red.

Gia B, Derby Street Shoppes, Hingham, 781-749-5510

HG + Gia B. = Match Made in Heaven

Artist Post : Richard Prince

2008-04-08T11:37:00.002-04:00

Artist: Richard Prince

Dating in Boston - The Truth

2008-04-06T11:22:00.006-04:00

According to Sunday's Boston Globe writer Richard Florida confirms our belief (our being the single gals) that women on the our side of the country have a much harder time finding a man than if they lived on the West Coast.

While one may read this article and conclude that there must be something wrong with East Coast women, in this case Bostonian ladies, Your Holly Golightly unveils the truth of the matter...We women of Boston have a hard time dating due to the lack of this cities quality men.

Yes you heard me, it's not that the women are doing something wrong, it's the guys. In hope of changing the status quo of the Bostonian dating scene, Your Holly Golightly is here to lend the men some key tips:

1. NEVER, and I repeat Never is it a good idea to begin an convo with a woman by insulting her. Yes, we understand you are joking but it still makes you look like a child and any interest we might have had is now completely gone.

2. If you are at a bar with "your buddies" (god I hate that phrase) please refrain from shouting in our ear. We are standing close enough to hear you at a normal tone, please spare our hearing.

3. If you ask a girl out to dinner plan something nice and DO NOT bring her to a chain restaurant (ie. Cheesecake Factory)... ugh! Boston has many fine restaurants, try one.

4. Put some effort into your appearance...Abercrombie + Fitch was cool in high school, it is no longer attractive. Splurge and invest in a pair of great jeans and some Dior. Find out who Brian Kinney is and copy his exact look, so everything except the gay factor.

5. Even though we love our Sox and Pats, there is a lot more going on in today's world. Pick up the NY Times and educate yourself on current events. A guy who knows about more than sports is an instant girl magnet.

6. oh and stop with that Horrible Boston man-boy haircut. The crew cut should be left behind with the A+F clothing. It's hideous. Oh and become one with male beauty products...yes they make them for men and trust me you will love them.

XOXO
HG

Updating the Blog

2008-04-04T22:57:00.000-04:00

We are in the process of updating the blog ... new design + all the glitz.
Should be back up and running by Sunday
xoxo

HG

Holly's Restaurant Pick

2008-04-03T10:25:00.004-04:00

Oishii Sushi Bar
612 Hammond St., Chestnut Hill, MA 02467-2101
Phone: (617) 277-7888

While Your Holly Golightly would like to keep her favorite sushi haunt a secret, today we are feeling mighty generous and will spill the beans - it is Boston afterall (beans, Boston...no?). While it has been around for a while, Oishii is our pick for the finest and freshest sushi. Watch out Nobu, Oishii is giving you a run for your money.

Fashion 101

2008-03-31T17:08:00.003-04:00

Wanna be a luxury goods exec? Now Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois is offering a course. Or you could study at the ESSEC in France. Personally, I'd say go to France. That's where the luxury good companies are, after all. Read the article here.

Luxury Laundry

2008-03-28T22:20:00.004-04:00

Your Holly Golightly is quickly finding out how Bostonians differ from New Yorkers. Most astonishing (to date) would be Bostonians desire to do their own laundry. In New York it is common to send your laundry out, meaning the dirty laundry is picked up at your home and returned a few hours later clean and folded in a way that only the magical laundress can do. You can imagine Your HG's terror when faced with the un-norm. Luckily we found our own magical help, The Laundress line of luxury fabric care products take the chore out of doing the laundry.

The website also has handy every day tips such as:

Q : Red lipstick and red wine are stubborn stains. Any advice?

A : The best time to treat a stain is right when it happens. For lipstick and red wine, soak (in hot water for cotton or warm water for linen) then spot clean. If the item is silk, spot clean with cool tepid water and do not soak for more than 15 minutes.

Your HG's fav product (though so hard to pick because we LOVE them all) is Fabric Fresh ($14), keeps our closet smelling fresh!

HG + THE LAUNDRESS = LOVE

Great Gift Idea

2008-03-28T22:01:00.004-04:00

Here's an artsy fun gift idea for that hard to buy person. Blurb has introduced its BookSmart product that lets users produce sophisticated high-quality books. Best of all the book editing software is FREE! Unlike other photo albums produced with products like iPhoto, Blurb’s product helps produce books based around a variety of content types like cookbooks, portfolios, art, baby books and, yes, photo books. So what are you waiting for? Put those old photos and memories to good use, who knows, you might just get published.

Celebrity stylist - new products

2008-03-24T10:25:00.005-04:00

Sally Hershberger is one of the most influential and sought after hairstylists in Hollywood and New York, a personal favorite of directors and celebrities alike for her trendsetting vision and extraordinary skill that marks her individuality. Equally in demand in the world of fashion, she has been the top choice for a number of the world's most renowned photographers and models, shooting multi-million dollar ad campaigns along with covers for the best fashion magazines in the world. She is also the only person Your HG will let touch her hair...which makes the fact that we now live in Boston a rather expensive haircut - but amazing nevertheless.

Sally has just launched a new line of hair care products and we are certainly going to stock up. You can even order right from the website.

Zara opens in Boston

2008-03-23T10:30:00.004-04:00

Opening up shop where the former Armani Cafe (*tears*) use to be Zara opened their 214 Newbury Street store on Thursday. Those unfamiliar with Zara, Your HG would best describe it as a small step up from your local H&M. Great for last minute going out wear, not so great for that glamourous gala.

Boston's store offers 2 floors for women and 1 for men, "boo-hoo boys". Dresses run around $60 to $120, not too shabby. We miss our Armani Cafe.

Fashion Must Have

2008-03-22T11:26:00.008-04:00

Your Holly Golightly is going crazy for this classically striking silk organza Paul & Joe 's Black Georgel mini. How gorg this would be for a night on the town - Carrie Bradshaw watch out Holly's in town. Thanks P+J Holly love you!