The show took place in Grand Palais, the iconic monument in the heart of Paris, that was transformed beyond recognition into a snug but elegant cavernous library, furnished with cozy reading nooks, decorative Persian rugs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Dazed also notes that the Chanel library collection itself emanated bookish vibes – with buttoned-up lace collars, full tweed skirts, nipped-in trouser suits, and specs, it fit perfectly in the picturesque bookscape.
The library collection was a debut of Virginie Viard as head designer of Chanel – Karl Lagerfeld’s right-hand woman for over 30 years and now, his successor.
It’s common knowledge that Karl was a voracious reader, estimated to have owned up to 350,000 books in his personal library and famous for the floor-to-ceiling monumental bookshelves. Similarly, Coco was known to be an avid fan of Flaubert, Stendhal, and Montaigne, whose works stacked the shelves of her 31 Rue Cambon apartment.
With art nouveau lamps reminiscent of Gabrielle’s youth, shelves filled with her favorite authors and the style so similar to this of late Lagerfeld’s home, the Chanel library collection pays a beautifully thoughtful tribute to both Coco and Karl in the most personal way possible.
The fashion verdict is clear: a good book is the only accessory you’ll need this autumn.
Fascinated by how books influence culture and society, and especially keen on fiction. Still not fully convinced to ebooks, Kasia reads on a Kindle from time to time. But, whenever possible, she'll always pick print.
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Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling water and swore that one day it would never pass his lips again. But this was not that day. He needed to eat a large bowl of the anemic stuff, and drink every drop of broth, to prevent his stomach from growling during the reaping ceremony. It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum. That at eighteen, the heir to the once-great house of Snow had nothing to live on but his wits.
His shirt for the reaping was worrying him. He had an acceptable pair of dark dress pants bought on the black market last year, but the shirt was what people looked at. Fortunately, the Academy provided the uniforms it required for daily use. For today’s ceremony, however, students were instructed to be dressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated. Tigris had said to trust her, and he did. Only his cousin’s cleverness with a needle had saved him so far. Still, he couldn’t expect miracles.
The shirt they’d dug from the back of the wardrobe—his father’s, from better days—was stained and yellowed with age, half the buttons missing, a cigarette burn on one cuff. Too damaged to sell in even the worst of times, and this was to be his reaping shirt? This morning he had gone to her room at daybreak, only to find both his cousin and the shirt missing. Not a good sign. Had Tigris given up on the old thing and braved the black market in some last-ditch effort to find him proper clothing? And what on earth would she possess worth trading for it? Only one thing—herself—and the house of Snow had not yet fallen that far. Or was it falling now as he salted the cabbage?
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