How many of you ask that question? Am I the only one who doesn't quite get it? Not that it's any sort of joke or trick question, but what exactly is it? Fashion always has its patron saints. There was Wallis, Mona Bismarck, Babe Paley, Nan Kempner, Jacqueline, Anna Piaggi, Isabella Blow and lesser nuns who lived and died for the sake of fashion and for us, its pilgrims. These girls gave it their all. Some gracefully and others less so. All in all, they devoted their every moment on this earth to fashion, to style. Maybe it's the times we live in where everything is racing, racing to some unknown end. With that acceleration comes shortened nerves and shortened attention spans.
Fast is the operative word. Fast fashion and even faster trendsetters. Then there is Daphne, the tiny, turbo-charged tornado, the fastest fashion flack in the North, South, East and West. I don't think anyone has ever gobbled up the trends and spit them out any faster than this girl. She may have been an offshore weather disturbance a couple of years ago, content to be Mrs. Spyros Niarchos. Suddenly, there was a shift in the wind patterns and this little gale force breeze developed into a Hurricane strength, Haute Hellion. In her wake are the splintered remains of every important collection, opening, party and funeral. No venue or event of cultural importance has been left standing without signs of her path. Debris, quel Debris!
On the one hand, I must stand back and applaud her incredible energy, focus and passion. Daphne has given a new definition to the word possessed. If fashion needed one cheer leader to keep the home team energized and in the winner's circle it would be she. Her embrace of all things avant is fearless and stunning to behold. There are hordes of the fashion obsessed who must see her as messianic, a veritable force of biblical proportions. No one does it sooner, bigger, grander or more outrageously than Le Daphne. A divorce settlement of 20 million pounds helps keep the shopping bags full. That said, what's up with all this manic drive? When did fashion, or more specifically, a dress or shoe become someone's raison d'etre.
I wasn't particularly interested in her until she started showing up for the openings of paper bags all over the world almost daily. The hair, the blinding style choices, her way of appearing in public and in print in the most over the top get ups all screamed, "Over here! Over here!" She was BFF's with Isabella Blow, Alexander McQueen( she refers to him as Lee....they were that close) FWB's with french pseudo-philosopher Bernard-Henri Levy and the patroness of every couture house from here to Avenue Montaigne.
Bells went off when my plans to attend the Christie's auction of "Issie's" personal effects were scuttled. There was a particular Philip Treacy designed litter box I HAD to have and Le Daph decided that she couldn't let the "hoi poloi" (pas moi) get their unannointed paws on these treasures. After consulting all 270,000 of her FB and Twitter friends, she was advised to purchase the estate in full and keep it safe for Issie's memory. This was a huge gesture of generosity, but one I still find disingenuous, even self-aggrandizing. Perhaps, Issie would be alive today had her financial woes and depression not gotten the better of her fragile sense of self. She cried for help to more than just McQueen. Daphne was on that conference call as well. The ex-wife of Greece's largest shipping magnate and an heiress to the Guinness Brewery fortune didn't appear to do very much to help one of her best friends. I'm sure there are 6 sides to this story, but in the end she was more than willing to take possession of Isabella's personal effects. It looked a bit like she'd rather save the clothes. I know that sounds heartless and mean. Maybe it is. Maybe she is. The image of her in billowing mourning couture at McQueen's funeral is a perfect example of erring on the side of humility. More than likely, she's nothing more than another confused person just trying to find love and admiration in all the wrong magazines, newspapers, front rows, blogs, VIP sections and watering holes.
Opinions are just that; the thoughts of others, and usually have little to do with the person being discussed. I could be totally off base and take responsibility for that. Gossip is so outre, and this is a mix of that and other ingredients. Sorry, mean it.
Her 3 kids who range in age from 21 to 15 are no longer babies. As a bride at 19, she did her mommying early and is free to indulge her interests. Still, they must be content to spend quality time with Mummy through the pages of rags and mags. That's unfortunate. It's not the same as being there, but in the case of Le Daph, that's life in the dressing room.
I've spotted her around town with a strikingly outrageous black man, her male alter ego. I believe he's called Martin. Together they make an amazing visual statement. It's a floor show of the loudest order. If it weren't fashion no one would pay any attention.
I love this last picture of Daphne with Lynn Wyatt and Lagerfeld; the original with the sequel. Sequels rarely entertain like the original version. They tend to be club footed in comparison.
Le Daph appears to be a skunk haired, pint sized, line backer shouldered, malnourished, champagne swilling, ambitious little Heiress. "Last Empresses for $1000.00, Alex?".
On The Street…Bedford Ave Station, Brooklyn
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