Manolo Blahnik: Fleeting Gestures and Obsessions

PEDRO AND MANOLO DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Pedro Almodóvar film director Manolo Blahnik shoe designer

Madrid, September 8, 2014

My first “encounter” with Pedro Almodóvar took place in 1983, in—if I remember correctly—what was then the Essoldo Cinema, on the corner of King’s Road and Old Church Street in Chelsea. It wasn’t an actual physical meeting—that was to come later. But it was an emotional one that was to last decades and that grew more intense as his work and his vision became more and more sophisticated. You see, it was thanks to his madcap and eccentric tale of the maverick nuns of the fictitious order of Las Redentoras Humilladas, in Entre tinieblas (Dark Habits), his third full-length feature, that I was given the opportunity to reconnect with a territory I had sadly thought I lost: that of my own country. This was an important time for Spain: fresh out of a severe dictatorship, full of energy and ideas, it was a rebellious and energetic time for the country I was born in. And here it was, on the big screen, being portrayed in a most surreal, yet strangely familiar, situation—the likes of which had not been produced since the great Luis Buñuel—by a director who would eventually turn out to be one of the most important in modern film. Through him, I have rediscovered not only some of my favorite moments of cinematographic history but also many characters, faces, and words that have made up my life. Almodóvar and I share an unleashed/uncontrollable passion for films: from Douglas Sirk and John M. Stahl melodramas to Visconti and Von Sternberg. Romy Schneider, Angela Molina, Marlene Dietrich, Françoise Dorléac, and Geneviève Page—to name but a few—are actresses we adore. We both live, breathe, and eat—no, devour—movies. So when Elsa Fernandez Santos, a journalist and a dear mutual friend, with whom I have also spent countless hours dissecting the most minute of scenes in the most obscure movies, suggested that we meet during my trip one of my trips to Madrid, it was impossible to say no. And so, on a hot Sunday afternoon, in a suite at the Ritz that gave it all a tinge of old-fashioned, almost Velázquean Madrid, the three of us got together to share some of the thousands of filmic—and, as it turned out, some musical—memories.

CHAPTER IV

CECIL BEATON: A Dream of England

CECIL BEATON July 2013, Bath

Yesterday, I went to Hamish Bowles’s fiftieth birthday party at Hanham House, in Bristol. It was one of those glorious English summer days, with the sun shining and not a cloud in sight. The perfect day for an afternoon garden party in the most beautiful surroundings. And since I had Cecil Beaton on my mind for this book, and it was the ideal temperature for a linen suit, I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to wear Cecil’s hat today?” So I did. How did I end up with Cecil Beaton’s hat, you may ask. Well, I bought it at auction. Actually, it wasn’t me, as I wasn’t in England when the sale took place. Robert Fraser, one of the first friends I made when I arrived in this country, had gone and bid for me on a couple of them, as well as a pair of eighteenth-century doorstops and some photographs—one of Daisy Fellowes arriving at the Beistegui Ball; the other of my dear, Christopher Gibbs—all of which I still think of as some of my most treasured possessions. Not because of commercial value—I doubt if they are worth very much, and I’ve never really been one to put a price on things anyway—but more because of the memories they hold. Memories of an era that is impossible to re-create now, hard as people may try to. At the party, the hat was a success. All the “children” there loved the idea that I actually had Cecil Beaton’s planter. I won’t tell you how many times I had to take it off to show the little label, with “C. Beaton” written on it. By hand! Can you imagine? It’s a little bit ratty, you know. The grosgrain is not very good, and I did give it a thorough cleaning when it came to me. But they loved it. Though I was shocked when someone, a young designer, admitted to not knowing much about Beaton. How could that be possible? I thought to myself. When I first arrived in England, I was already obsessed with Beaton and his set. Obsessed! As a student in Geneva, I had read all the books: Beaton, Messel, Rattigan, Snowdon . . . and even before that, I had seen his work on all the magazines that arrived to the Canary Islands. And the movies! His costumes! His sets! I survived on all that stuff. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when—through Christopher Gibbs, actually—I was first introduced to Beaton at the opening of one of his exhibitions. At a gallery in Bruton Street, I believe

CHAPTER III

MARIE ANTOINETTE: A conversation with Sofia Coppola

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