I've written a few obituaries in my time — and I think we owe it to ourselves to be honest about Karl Lagerfeld
Growing up in France, I was taught that Lagerfeld was a tortured genius. But now it's time to tell the whole truth
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Louise Thomas
Editor
Karl Lagerfeld died on Tuesday, leaving behind him countless contributions to fashion history, an indelible influence on runways around the world, and a complicated legacy.
It’s always tempting – and only human – to focus on the positives when speaking of the dead, especially so soon after their passing. Acknowledging some of the less palatable aspects of someone’s life at such a time can seem in poor taste, rude, and slightly unfair. Indeed, there has been abundant praise for Lagerfeld, who has been eulogised as a “legend”, a “creative force”, an “irreplaceable”, “iconic” genius, with model Claudia Schiffer going as far as to say: “What Warhol was to art, he was to fashion.”
Lagerfeld wasn’t just a fashion designer. For countless people, he was the designer – someone who was consumed by his art and who once said creating was as essential to him as breathing. A man who did things his way and lived life on his own terms.
But reckoning with the complexities of someone’s legacy isn’t the same thing as dragging their name through the mud. Suggesting that someone was less than perfect is not an insult. And when someone held considerable power and influence, as was the case for Lagerfeld, it’s a matter of intellectual honesty to paint a full picture of who they were.
Throughout his career, Lagerfeld built a persona out of making what The New York Times once called “tactless and offensive comments”. Those comments were aimed at a variety of targets, from migrants to fat people and models complaining of sexual harassment.
In November 2017, the German-born designer caused outrage when, speaking on French television, he gave the following take on Germany’s decision to take in migrants: “I’m going to say something horrible. You can’t – even if there are decades between both events – kill millions of Jewish people to then welcome millions of their worst enemies afterwards.”
Four years earlier, in 2013, Lagerfeld was asked – still on French television – about comments he had previously made, claiming that “no one wants to see curvy women” in fashion. “That’s kind of true,” he said, adding: “Especially curvy women, because curvy women don’t think they’re curvy.” The previous year, Lagerfeld had once again earned backlash, this time by publicly saying that singer Adele was “a little too fat” but had “a beautiful face and a divine voice”.
In April last year, Lagerfeld spoke out against the MeToo movement in an interview with fashion magazine Numéro, stating: “I read somewhere that now you must ask a model if she is comfortable with posing. It’s simply too much, from now on, as a designer, you can’t do anything.” He doubled down on his comments, adding: “If you don’t want your pants pulled about, don’t become a model! Join a nunnery, there’ll always be a place for you in the convent.”
Lagerfeld didn’t have to make those statements. He shared them willingly, on the record, knowing they would be published. Not saying anything is always an option – one Lagerfeld rarely gravitated towards. Holding him accountable for those remarks, and accepting that they are a part of his story, isn’t disrespectful – it’s fair.
When George H W Bush died last year, many of the obituaries published in the press were overwhelmingly positive, stripped almost entirely of criticism. The elder Bush’s death would have been an interesting time to reflect on some of his perceived shortcomings – from the way his foreign policy contributed to setting the stage for the Iraq War to his handling of the AIDS epidemic – but many seemed reluctant to broach those topics. Yet it’s only natural – and certainly not an insult – to suggest that anyone holding such a high-profile office would be bound to make at least some mistakes.
Obituaries are not eulogies. I have written a fair few, and each time, I have felt a strong sense of responsibility that comes with looking at a human life and deciding which parts should be highlighted, and how someone’s story should be told. Writing an obituary is the first step in shaping a person’s legacy. It’s our duty, when looking back, to take the full picture into account.
Here’s the thing: there’s little room for nuance in our brains. We tend to view people either as heroes or jerks. There’s also little room for nuance in the world of fashion: designers are either revered or vilified, their work is either adored or ignored, and you can rise to fame or fall from grace faster than it takes to say “Chanel”. Then, there are the stories we are told as children, which shape our understanding of the world.
Growing up in France, I was taught – by the overwhelming majority of people who liked Lagerfeld, by the fashion magazines I read and at times worked for, by my culture – that Lagerfeld was a tortured genius. I was taught that he was at times difficult but always talented. People often treated his outbursts as funny soundbites. There was an “Oh, Karl” attitude, a readiness to overlook his comments because, well, he was Karl. It can be hard to look back and challenge those narratives, especially as it forces us to acknowledge a person’s duality – namely, that someone can be a talented designer who also spreads inflammatory opinions.
Some will feel comfortable reckoning with Lagerfeld’s flaws. Others will find the mere suggestion disgraceful. But that is what Lagerfeld’s story is made of: the good and the bad, the spectacular runway shows and the disrespectful statements, the careers he launched and the people who felt alienated by his comments. Now’s the time to tell it in full.
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