The Vogue Factor Read online

  First published in the United States of America in 2013 by Chronicle Books.

  First published in Australia in 2013 by Melbourne University Press,

  An imprint of Melbourne University Publishing Limited.

  First published in the UK in 2013

  by Faber and Faber Ltd.

  Copyright © 2013 by Kirstie Clements.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-4521-3463-5

  The Library of Congress has previously cataloged this title under

  ISBN 978-1-4521-3269-3

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  www.chroniclebooks.com

  CONTENTS

  May 2012: Regime Change

  7

  1 Not Your Average Desk Job

  10

  2 Location, Location

  29

  3 The Business of Beauty

  45

  4 Model Behaviour

  60

  5 The Paris Years

  70

  6 Upheaval

  86

  7 Fashion Fixations

  102

  8 The Editor’s Chair

  111

  9 King Karl

  128

  10 A Princess Diary

  142

  11 Showtime

  157

  12 Social Studies

  170

  13 Airbrushes with Fame

  180

  14 Next Top Drama

  188

  15 Golden Years

  194

  16 Final Deadline

  202

  Acknowledgements

  208

  MAY 2012: REGIME CHANGE

  It was 10 a.m. on a Wednesday. I had a scheduled meeting with Nicole Sheffield, the newly appointed CEO of NewsLifeMedia, the company owned by Rupert Murdoch that had held the licence for Vogue in Australia since 2007. We had met only once before, a quick and pleasant chat in her office in March a few weeks after she had started.

  I had been working at Vogue Australia for twenty-five years and in the editor’s chair for thirteen. She was my eighth CEO. Magazines were going through a tough time in the face of a digital onslaught, but Vogue was faring better than others. Circulation was steady, subscriptions and readership were at an all-time high, we reached our advertising targets each month and held the greater market share. We had also been voted Magazine of the Year the previous November at the annual Australian Magazine Awards, and were commended by industry leaders for our consistent excellence, innovation and quality. Given that Nicole had less experience in luxury publishing, in particular Vogue, I anticipated she would value my input.

  I took the elevator up to the second floor without any inkling of what was about to happen. Her assistant looked jumpy.

  ‘Hi, I’m here for my meeting with Nicole,’ I said cheerily.

  ‘Yes, they’re in there,’ she said, pointing towards a usually unoccupied office, quite clearly not Nicole’s. Something was up.

  The realisation began to dawn. It dripped down from my head to my toes in slow motion, as if treacle had been poured over me. I walked in and saw the human resources director sitting at the table with a folder and a jug of water, one of those cheap ones pretending to be a Georg Jensen. The presence of HR always meant bad news. Nicole was shifting in her chair, shooting longing glances at the open door—clearly in a hurry to do what she had come here for. I knew exactly what was going to happen.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ I said calmly.

  ‘I’m sure this is a shock, but I just think we need new leadership,’ Nicole said in rapid-fire. ‘Condé Nast are in full support of this.’ Condé Nast International is the parent company of Vogue Australia, and an organisation I had developed a strong relationship with over the years. Nicole repeated that Condé Nast knew all about it, probably thinking I was going to put up a protest and try to get the chairman, Jonathan Newhouse, on speed dial.

  But for some reason I felt strangely relieved. There had been increasing pressure on the brand, with reduced budgets and pages, and the retrenching of crucial editorial staff. The holy mantra was ‘digital’ and we had been waiting endlessly for funding to progress and evolve, but it felt as if the magazine itself was regarded as a burden. No one wanted to listen to my views on the importance of maintaining quality or protecting the brand. Not even Condé Nast. I was however, stunned by their lack of loyalty. Obviously their main interest was the licensing cheques.

  I decided not to let a wonderful, stimulating quarter-century at Vogue be diminished. How you conduct yourself on the way out is more important than how you went in. It didn’t occur to me to ask who the new ‘leader’ would be. I really didn’t care. Nicole had at this point left the room anyway, and I was faced with a scarlet-faced HR director who instructed me to leave the building immediately without speaking to my team—my amazing and loyal colleagues, some of whom I had worked with for more than thirteen years, and many of whom would also be shown the door shortly afterwards.

  The whole episode was devoid of any graciousness, and perfectly reflective of a new mood in publishing. As I picked up my handbag and walked out the door, I turned my phone on silent and braced myself for the media who would swoop like vultures.

  The Vogue I knew was over.

  1

  NOT YOUR AVERAGE DESK JOB

  I had two priorities after I finished high school. One was to get out of the Sutherland Shire, the conservative, soporific area south of Sydney, Australia where I grew up. Two was to write.

  I found the conformity in my home town stifling, and so decided that I should move to what appeared to be the least conformist suburb in Sydney: Kings Cross. In 1979 I broke the news to my mother at the age of seventeen that I was going to move into my own apartment. Although she had reservations about the seedy neighbourhood I had chosen, Mum knew I could take care of myself. My adventurous streak told me that travel, rather than university was what I needed, so I set my sights on getting out of there as soon as I could.

  I applied for a job advertised in the newspaper and became a stock-broking clerk. It was a boom time for the market, and a number of lucrative bonuses enabled me to travel Europe for one year at the age of eighteen, then again at twenty-one. No backpacks—I would like to clarify that straight away. No hippie stuff. Always a suitcase. And always in full makeup.

  I wrote constantly when on the road, short stories just for myself; in hotel rooms in Rome, on trains to Berlin, in hostels in Athens and bedsits in London. I travelled until the money ran out.

  By 1985 I had returned to Sydney and was working as a sales assistant at an arty bookshop. My boyfriend at the time was running the famous Chauvel Cinema in Paddington, so I would leave work in the afternoon and join him in the evening, selling tickets or running the bar. It was an exciting, formative period. I read books all day and saw almost every important film ever made at night. I became immersed in French Nouvelle Vague, Japanese porn, film noir, Visconti and Fassbinder. Actors such as Judy Davis would come into the store to buy poetry and plays.

  But I was twenty-three, and dusting the books was getting on my nerves. One day during my lunch break, I scanned the Jobs Vacant section of the Sydney Morning Herald and there was a tiny advertisement. ‘Receptionist wanted at Vogue.’

  ‘Imagine,’ I thought to myself. ‘Imagine the world that would open up!’

  I rang the number numerous times until—bingo—I scored an interview. As I could not leave the bookstore until 5 p.m., I was to be the last candidate interviewed the next day, at 6 p.m. I rushed home after work to shower, put on the best dress I owned and a pa
ir of pink ballet slippers, and took a taxi I couldn’t afford to make sure I would be right on time.

  Vogue at that time was housed in a charming older building in Sydney, spread across a number of floors, all serviced by a clanking elevator operated by a driver called Col. I sat down for my interview with a woman named Norma Mary Marshall. She was probably in her mid-sixties and absolutely stunning. She had bright-blue eyes, an elegant puff of white-blonde hair and a knockout pair of legs. She’d worked at Vogue forever and was—I discovered later—quite the party girl. I never knew what her exact role was, but it might as well have been something like ‘glamorous ambassador’. She was sipping from a bone-china teacup that I’m pretty sure was filled with gin. I liked her on sight.

  Norma Mary asked me if I had ever worked a switchboard. I lied and said, ‘Of course’.

  ‘Well, I’ve seen twenty girls, and you’re the last but you’re the prettiest,’ she said, and we laughed. ‘But I’ve already decided on someone else, so I think I’ll put her on for a week and then you for a week, for a trial.’

  I don’t know what made me say it, as I was terribly nervous, but I replied: ‘Why don’t you put me on first? If I work out, then I can just stay and it will save you the trouble.’ I was in.

  A week or so later I was sitting at the Vogue reception desk. I hadn’t been able to sleep the night before from nerves and excitement. It appeared that absolutely every individual who worked in the building was fabulous. Nobody walked past my desk, they swept past, jackets flung over shoulders, silk scarves flying out behind them. Everyone was always in a very dramatic and stylish rush to be somewhere else.

  The editor-in-chief at the time was June McCallum, who was feared and revered. Fiercely intelligent and equally impatient, June was famous for getting straight to the point. She had spent many years working as a journalist in London and had a view on far more than just fashion. She also had a closed-door policy, and people would wait nervously for days for an appointment to see her. The only contact I had with June for my first six months at Vogue was to catch a glimpse of her through the glass, swishing past on her way to the elevator, a formidable brunette with her signature wooden bangles rattling loudly.

  The fashion office was on the ground floor, to the right of reception, and that was where all the action happened. I had managed to master the very basic switchboard in about five minutes on Day One, so I was sitting excitedly at the desk, anticipating all kinds of wild and improbable happenings, when an incredibly handsome young man walked in and handed me his modelling portfolio. And then another. And then another. Soon the area had filled up with gorgeous male specimens, who sat casually on the seagrass-matting floor making small talk between themselves, as well as to me, when the chairs had run out. Day One and, as luck would have it, it was male model casting day.

  Then came the delivery of all the latest international fashion magazines, to be handed out to staff later. I could read any or all of them. Clothes were being constantly delivered by couriers and Vogue staff members kept darting by, shooting me dazzling, friendly smiles.

  The beauty editor Karin Upton sauntered past at one point, wearing a Claude Montana raincoat with stupendous eighties shoulder pads and a tiny short-skirted Chanel suit. ‘Karin, did you get your hair cut while you were away?’ asked Judith Cook, the fashion director, who was in reception to collect a model’s portfolio.

  ‘No, no, I would never let anyone in New York touch my hair!’ replied Karin.

  I decided then and there I was never going to leave.

  The managing director of Condé Nast was (surprisingly forward-thinking for those times) a woman, Eve Harman. Tall and elegant, with high cheekbones and a silvery-blonde bob, Eve had the most beautiful diction, smoked cigarettes and called everyone ‘darling’. I was in awe of her. Then again, I was in awe of almost everyone.

  The Vogue women in those years were in a league of their own. Their style was not just related to fashion, or which designer was hot or not. They lived and breathed Vogue, their taste extending through to their homes, their art, their dinner parties, their holidays. There was Marion von Adlerstein, the travel editor, whippet-thin with her crisp white shirts, skinny black pants, silver cropped hair and long cigarellos. Judith Cook, the ultra-chic fashion director, whose interest in art, literature and film informed all her fashion choices. Nancy Pilcher, the executive editor who originally hailed from the US, with her tiny waist, thick, long, blonde hair, and her incredible Santa Fe/Ralph Lauren style. Carolyn ‘Charlie’ Lockhart, the editor of the groundbreaking Vogue Entertaining Guide: again, in a class all of her own. I had been transported to a world of infinite taste, mentored by women who were neither snobbish nor judgemental. They were warm, intelligent and wickedly funny.

  As good as the reception desk was, it had its quiet moments, and I began to look for other things to do. I noticed that the fashion stockroom needed tidying. Note to any future interns reading this book: fashion stockrooms always need tidying. As I was on good terms with all the girls in the fashion office, I thought I may as well offer my services. I approached Judith and timidly asked if I could reorganise the drawers containing the stockings and socks. My request was met with gratitude. So I began to ask for more and more things I could do. I wanted to be busy, but I also wanted to know more about Vogue.

  Nancy had just returned from the international shows, so I suggested that I type up her notes for her. And could I help pack suitcases for the shoots? Also, did Karin need help rearranging the beauty cupboard? Without really thinking too much about it I began to make myself more and more useful. Then one day, as Nancy rushed past, I decided to push my luck. ‘Nancy, if by any chance you are ever looking for an assistant, could I ask that you consider me?’ I had developed a bit of a girl crush on Nancy. She is one of those people who lights up a room.

  And so she made it happen. Coincidentally, there was a position open for an assistant in Vogue promotions. This is the department in a magazine that produces advertising pages for clients, which have an editorial look and feel. I was offered the job, on the provision that I would also assist Nancy. Not even six months since I had started and I was off the reception desk.

  Promotions was a brilliant training ground because you worked on every detail of a job, from conceptualising the shoot, casting the models, and choosing the clothes, the photographer and the location. Naturally I put my hand up for every task. Could I write the captions? Could I also try writing the headings? In promotions, you also learned to manage client expectations, while trying to maintain artistic integrity. It was an invaluable introduction to magazine politics and the inevitable dance between commerce and creativity.

  It was then I began to understand the level of perfectionism expected at Vogue. It was extraordinary. Corners were never, and I mean never, to be cut. The dress, the tablecloth, the heading all had to be just so. It was all very Madame Bovary. Nothing was ever good enough. A philosophy that could drive you mad or spur you to do better. I chose the latter.

  For one job, we were to shoot an image for Schiaparelli hosiery that required a good pair of legs and some shoes. I called in dozens and dozens of shoes for Nancy to choose from. She settled on one pair she liked. I then proceeded to set up a model casting, just for legs. Models can have particular attributes that they specialise in—hand models, foot models, models who can smile. We spent all day asking dozens of girls from four different agencies to parade around the creative services office and show us their legs, until finally Nancy said: ‘No, none of these are right.’ And this casting was only for the legs, not the top half. My mind was reeling at the thought that one day I was going to have to find a whole model who passed the Vogue test, top to bottom.

  The shoot was the next day. The photographer had been booked. Time was ticking. I paced the office in a panic and then collapsed dramatically across the desk of the art assistant Fiona. I looked down and noticed something I already knew. She had really fantastic legs.

  The next day Fiona, t
he photographer Monty Coles and I were outside taking the shot. Monty strode purposefully up and down the street numerous times until he found the exact place he wanted Fiona to stand. There also happened to be a great, huge wad of chewing gum that had dried rock hard on the pavement right there. ‘Can you get that off?’ he said to me. Retouching was rare during that period, reserved mostly for covers or beauty shots. ‘And hurry, because we are losing light,’ he added. As I began to frantically scrape the gum with my fingernails, I naively asked Monty if maybe he could move to another, less gummy part of the street. It was then I learnt my first 1 esson about photographers, one that stayed true for the next twenty-five years. They will never, ever, do anything the easy way.

  The fun really started when it was decided that Nancy and I would produce a twice-yearly supplement, called Vogue Men, to be attached to the back of Vogue. This meant producing editorial, which to me was the pinnacle. You had an entirely blank slate, forty-eight-plus empty pages ready to be brainstormed and produced. Total artistic licence. This is the core of magazine publishing and—right up until the day I left—was always the part of the job that thrilled me the most. It is also now the aspect of magazine publishing that is most under threat from commercial pressures.

  Because we would be producing editorial I began to join in on general meetings, terrifying as they were. June would sit at the table, tapping her perfectly manicured blood-red fingernails on the desk if anybody stayed on one point for too long. I kept quiet for many months, just soaking it all in. I would volunteer to stack the slides from the ready-to-wear (RTW) shows into the carousel so I had something useful to do. They were then projected on the wall, and the machine would jam umpteen times while Judith and Nancy discussed which shows they had seen in Paris and Milan, what they liked, and what stories for the magazine would stem from them.