Downtown NYC’s Biggest Stars Pose for Olivier Zahm’s New Iceberg Campaign

Kim Gordon for Iceberg SS15, art directed by Olivier Zahm

For its spring 2015 campaign, Iceberg CEO Paolo Gerani turned to the time-proven inspiration of the company’s original designer, Jean-Charles de Castelbajac, whose admiration for Andy Warhol in the 1970s spawned collaborations with the downtown figures at the time, namely the Factory.

To implement the campaign, Gerani brought in editor in chief of France’s Purple magazine Olivier Zahm to art direct. This isn’t the first time Iceberg has collaborated with star creative figures, so Zahm was able to look inward at Iceberg for inspiration — from Oliviero Toscani‘s I Contemporanei campaigns from the ’80s, which then featured figures like Andy Warhol, Vivienne Westwood, Franco Moschino, Ettore Sottsass, and Elio Fiorucci, to Steven Meisel‘s ’90s take with the Gente di oggi campaigns, photographing Farrah Fawcett, Sofia Coppola, Iggy Pop, and Isabella Rossellini. What emerged is a mash up of Iceberg’s fashions for spring 2015 and archival 1970s pieces that tell the story of the brand’s 40 year history through, as Zahm put it, the “iconic faces of  today’s New York.”

Artist Jeanette Hayes, musician Donald Cumming and his partner, actress Georgia Ford, writer Glenn O’Brien, legendary founder of Sonic Youth Kim Gordon, artist Olaf Breuning, Stella Schnabel, photographer Sandy Kim, artist Rita Ackermann, writer Karley Sciortino, and rapper and performer Mykki Blanco all sat for Zahm (who also posed) and photographer Gianni Oprandi for what resulted in Iceberg’s “Downtown Gallery.”

Take a look, then watch the portraits modeled on Andy Warhol’s screen tests, below.

Kim Gordon

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Donald Cumming and Georgia Ford

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Glenn O’Brien

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Jeanette Hayes

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Karley Sciortino

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Mykki Blanco

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Olaf Breuning

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Stella Schnabel

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Rita Ackermann

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andy Kim

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Olivier Zahm

Watch the videos:

Sandy Kim, photographer

Stella Schnabel, actress

Jeanette Hayes, artist

Karley Sciortino, writer

Mykki Blanco, rapper and performance artist

Kim Gordon, musician

Glenn O’Brien, writer and creative director

STYLE SCOOP: The Queen Honors Fashion Faves, Sophia Webster Puts Her Heeled Foot Down

Queen Elizabeth II added Celine’s Phoebe Philo and makeup artist Pat McGrath to her New Year Honors list with an OBE and MBE, respectively. The two managed to beat out David Beckham for a spot.

Shoe designer Sophia Webster took to Instagram to call out NastyGal for copying one of her bags too closely. As Stylite said, at least she didn’t sub-gram it.

A warrant has been issued for the owner of Tazreen Fashions Ltd., Delwar Hossein after a factory fire killed 112 in 2012. Five others were also issued warrants. Hossein is on the run.

Something to look forward to in 2014? Purple‘s Olivier Zahm is set to release Diary, a photographic book published by Rizzoli.

And: Models rapping.

Two Gorgeous New Books Explore The Unconscious and Inevitable

Sleep, according to those who don’t like to do much of it, is just practice for death. Two terrific new monographs, one from German fashion photographer Jork Weismann and the other by Mexican crime photographer Enrique Metinides, contemplate both the nightly practice for the afterlife and the real thing.

Weismann’s slightly ridiculous book, Asleep at the Chateau, (Damiani, $50) is, predictably, a series of portraits of celebrities asleep at the Chateau Marmont. The Chateau, for those uninitiated into the mysteries of show biz, is a Hollywood hotel where celebrities go to do drugs and contemplate the importance of their lives. It has a nice pool.

The images are pretty and provide insights into the lives of the dozers. Eva Longoria sleeps nude. So does, somewhat less attractively, Purple magazine’s Olivier Zahm. Lizzy Caplan sleeps with her sunglasses on. John Hodgman sleeps with his glasses off. RZA sleeps with a blunt in his hand, and Patti Smith (pictured above) evidently finds James Joyce a snooze.

If sleep is shallow death and celebrities inhabit the shallow depth, 101 Tragedies of Enrique Metinides (Aperture, $50) plumbs more profound pools. Metinides, often called the Mexican Weegee, spent his career photographing crime scenes for Mexican nota roja, the daily papers whose pages drip with victims’ blood. This book consists of 101 of the most striking selections from his gruesome oeuvre.


The slumber from which his subjects suffer was rarely arrived upon gently and never in a less–than–spectacular manner. Perhaps one of the best images—if best can be a word used in connection with human calamity—is the portrait of Adela Legarreta Rivas, a Mexican journalist killed in an automobile accident in 1979. Rivas, the book notes, was on her way to a press conference, her hair and make–up done, when she was struck by a white Datsun.

Many of the other images from the book depict the notably less manicured: Buses aflame, car crash victims impaled, the shot atop the irregular crimson outflow of blood. Most of the images are of the dead, but some, including one Metinides shot in flagrante delicto of a supermarket shootout, push the viewer into the uncomfortable position of feeling awe at the capturing of a moment, admiration of the beauty of it, and horror at the human misery it depicts.

Though Metinides has slowed down with age, a new generation of Mexican photojournalists have had more than enough carnage to capture. There have been 5,037 murders in Mexico so far this year alone. But taken as an unlikely pair, these books drive home the point that death can visit you anywhere; in a car, the street, the supermarket, or even at your suite at the Chateau Marmont.

Can Le Baron & André Saraiva Save New York Nightlife?

Even with a two-person crew working to tidy nightlife impresario André Saraiva’s new Chinatown apartment for the busy weekend ahead, it’s impossible to ignore the high-pitched shrieks coming from the shower in the back room. Saraiva is “having breakfast,” I’m vaguely assured, with his girlfriend, socialite Annabelle Dexter-Jones. It’s Friday, a quarter past noon.

Construction wrapped only a few days ago on 39-year-old Saraiva’s gallery-white space, just in time for New York Fashion Week. What few objects there are—a copy of Where the Wild Things Are, an unhung coat rack fitted with colorful balls—feel carefully curated. Someone has taken a black Sharpie and scrawled “Annabelle + André = Amour” on a long wooden table; a cluster of black hearts floating below punctuates the sentiment. “Either André and Annabelle were having sex in the shower,” a partygoer will say to me later that weekend, “or someone was strangling a crocodile.”

Born in Sweden to Portuguese parents who moved to Paris, Saraiva has arranged things so that the apartment can double as the semi-official headquarters of Le Baron, the long-awaited stateside outpost of the exclusive, artsy-cool Parisian nightclub of the same name, which he opened in 2004. (Another opened in Tokyo two years later.) Saraiva also runs club Paris Paris and restaurant La Fidélité in the French capital, and Hotel Ermitage in Saint Tropez, but to New Yorkers, he’s best known for his involvement with the Standard Hotel’s Le Bain and the now-shuttered, much-bereaved Beatrice Inn. Now, after months of delay and pending final permits from Bloomberg’s offices, Le Baron, édition Amérique, will open sometime this spring.

Among the handful of people trying very hard to ignore what’s happening in the bathroom—a delighted scream tears down the hallway—are Gildas Loaëc, co-founder of music and Gallic-prep fashion label Kitsuné, and Vincent Darré, the faultlessly dressed interior decorator, designer, and Parisian nightlife veteran. (Last year, he released a collection of crustacean-shaped furniture.) Darré, who arrived only moments before—the day starts late for Saraiva’s tight-knit clan—is sketching designs on a large pad of paper for the interior of the new Le Baron. What look like faux-bois bamboo poles crisscross to form a fence.

Darré collaborated on several upholstery patterns with artist Pierre Le-Tan, the father of Olympia Le-Tan, an artist and former girlfriend of Saraiva’s. On Sunday night, Saraiva will throw Le-Tan and filmmaker Spike Jonze a champagne-soaked, friends-only party at his apartment to celebrate their collaboration on the short animated film Mourir Auprès de Toi [To Die By Your Side], for which Olympia handcrafted winsome characters out of felt. (Olympia is perhaps best known for her literature-inspired accessories, which emblazon made-up covers of masterworks on book-shaped purses.) A little after 7pm, an intercontinental confederation of vaguely bohemian fixtures—some of whom accompany Saraiva on his global party circuit—will arrive: designers Charlotte Ronson (Annabelle’s half-sister), Waris Ahluwalia, and Johan Lindeberg; Oscar-nominated actor Rinko Kikuchi; Opening Ceremony co-founder Humberto Leon; and actor Clémence Poésy. Before the party is over, Saraiva will slip away to attend an event at Milk Studios called Annabelle + Andre = Love Collaboration Release. image

“Andre’s got way more friends than I have,” says Loaëc, a slight man with large ears and crisply scissored dark hair. “You’ll see, you’re going to be his friend in two minutes.” Loaëc and Saraiva recently released a compilation CD called Kitsuné Parisien featuring a line-up of mostly unknown acts based in the City of Light. Saraiva did the artwork for the album cover, and Loaëc, who releases Kitsuné compilations a couple times a year—he worked closely with Daft Punk for 15 years—took care of the tunes. “I was thinking we should do a French compilation, and then something Parisian to make it even more interesting,” he says of the dancey-druggy mix. “We get along well. I’m really a fan of his sense of style. I was never into graffiti whatsoever, but I thought his Mr. A character was fantastic.”

Loaëc is referring to Saraiva’s penchant for tagging walls, bar mirrors, and garage doors with his trademark figure, Mr. A, which looks like a cross between Jack Skellington and Rich Uncle Pennybags. Saraiva claims to have been beaten by four gendarmes for spray-painting a train as a teenager. His notoriety in his hometown, however, has made this particular type of nocturnal maneuvering a challenge. “Mr. A, he’s really chic and elegant for graffiti,” says Loaëc.

Just then, Saraiva and Dexter-Jones appear. “It’s a miracle!” says Darré. “It’s the nouvelle vague!”

Saraiva is petite and handsome. He’s wearing artfully tattered jeans, a thickly-braided silver bracelet, and a chunky sweater over a well-muscled torso that once appeared on the cover of his good friend Olivier Zahm’s Purple magazine. Before he sits down, he amiably rubs my shoulders, points at Darré, and says, “Did you know he’s my favorite? He’s a genius. I always liked him and one day I became friends with him.” Coffee is requested. (Darré asks for green tea. Does he have a second choice? “Dirt-tea.”) Dexter-Jones, a blonde sylph in a schoolboy blazer and a bow in her hair, sits on the floor across the room near a socket into which she plugs her phone. “I had to find a reason to be in New York,” Saraiva says, peering at her with an unblinking gaze. Later, he’ll kiss the tip of his finger and wiggle it in her direction.

Darré, Loaëc, and Saraiva, in roughly descending order, speak English with the kind of French accents that linger on parts of the vocal chords most Americans are incapable of stimulating. When they use the words “nostalgia” and “naive,” which they do often, I come to realize they mean the more Latinate definitions of the words—essentially, guileless. “André is very naive,” says Darré. “He likes to go out every night, to present, ‘Oh, this is a friend of mine—he is American.’”

“Nightlife is the soul of the city,” says Saraiva. “It’s true. I think nightclubs are sometimes the most interesting way for culture and people to spread through the city.” He has a soft, lean-in-closely voice, the kind of pipes you can’t imagine barking across a dance floor. “If there wasn’t nightlife, there wouldn’t be freedom, ideas, creation, poetry. D’accord, Vincent?”

Loaëc answers first. “It’s very political.” He appears half serious, half ribbing—an orientation he often has toward Saraiva. “They close the clubs because you don’t have the right to dance.” He’s referring to New York’s superannuated cabaret laws.

“When I go to cities and there’s no graffiti and no nightlife, they’re dead cities,” says Saraiva. “There’s no creation.”

“Like which ones?” asks Loaëc.

“Every place I go.”

“Yeah, but give me a name.”

“Like, cities in Eastern Europe.”

“They have nightlife in Eastern Europe.”

“Yeah, but when do they have nightlife and a big graffiti scene? Those two go together. When they don’t have those two things, most of the time, it’s kind of a fascist country.”

Graffiti is how Saraiva first became involved in club entrepreneurship. “Graffiti takes place at the same time as nightlife. That’s the relation,” he says. Does Saraiva dare to leave his calling card on New York’s streets?

“I don’t even care about going to jail. I’ve been. The thing is, they would never allow me to come back here. Never come back? That’s tough… ” He looks at Dexter-Jones.

“You’re getting wise,” says Loaëc.

“I’m getting… mature.” Everyone laughs.

“Mature!” says Darré. “So mature.” image

Much later that night, at Le Bain, the summery half of the top floor of the Standard Hotel famous for its Jacuzzi-fueled bacchanals—the Top of the Standard (ubiquitously referred to as the Boom Boom Room) occupies the other half—Le Baron hosts its contribution to New York Fashion Week by officially taking over the space. Saraiva and hotelier André Balazs opened Le Bain together—“I really like people who have the same name as me,” jokes Saraiva. There’s a line at the door downstairs; upstairs, it’s surprisingly tame. People are having fun, but not indulging in the frenzied, flesh-baring, hedonistic behavior that made Beatrice Inn a legend. Absent, too, are the bold-faced names that the crowd, dressed in the leathery plumage of Fashion Week, most likely came here to see. That’s because Saraiva is nowhere to be found.

Around 2:30am, I venture next door to a relatively empty Boom Boom Room, where I find Loaëc and Lionel Bensemoun, one of Saraiva’s original partners in Paris’ Le Baron. Bensemoun is wearing a ’70s-era psychedelic button-up and dark glasses. He’s friendly and ready to laugh, and instructs me on which arrondissements to visit when I’m next in Paris (the 8th and 10th). Loaëc explains that Saraiva has thrown out his back. “Annabelle, she… ” For lack of the word “piggyback,” he makes a motion like he’s slinging on a large backpack and winces.

The next night, Saturday, Saraiva’s back is healed—but that doesn’t make him easier to find. The Boom Boom Room is packed to the gills for a Purple and Zac Posen party. The coat room is too full to accept any more winter parkas, and there’s more pushing, squeezing, spilling, and groping than usual. Sharply-dressed men slip the bathroom attendants money, then vanish together into one of the ladies’ rooms. “The music sucks,” says one jostled invitee.

But here, at last, are the celebrities. Jared Leto is wrapped in what looks like a patterned Slanket, wandering blankly with a coterie of model-types in tow. There are many actual models. Actor Chloë Sevigny and the Misshape’s Leigh Lezark pose for photos and then check the results. Artist Francesco Clemente and actor Paz de la Huerta, in a silvery liquid-tight dress, rush by conspiratorially. Designer Alexander Wang dances with characteristic abandon. Despite Purple’s reputation for well-oiled loucheness, there’s nothing particularly sexy about this party. There are too many cameras for that; everyone is too self-conscious. A little after midnight, Tolga Al, one of several Le Baron employees managing the event, shuts off entry to the Boom Boom Room, hoping the crowd will thin out. image

According to Saraiva, Le Baron will be different. “It’s going to be even more tough,” he says of continuing his clubs’ notoriously discerning door policies. “The club is going to be empty. Everyone’s going to be waiting outside.” While he’s half kidding, Saraiva does admit to a lifelong obsession with legendary nightclubs like New York’s Studio 54 and Paris’ Le Palace, institutions that for a generation not only reflected but defined those cities’ subcultures. Studio 54’s owner, Steve Rubell, was known to leave his dance floor desolate as flocks outside crowed for entry.

For many young New Yorkers, Beatrice Inn was a similarly elusive and directional club. “I don’t know the people I want,” says Saraiva of the new Le Baron. “I know the people I don’t want. I don’t want any people who do TV. I don’t want any people who have cars. I don’t want any people who go to Marquee or 1Oak. If you go to 1Oak, never come to Le Baron.” Consider yourself warned.

A close friend of Saraiva’s, DJ Rachel Chandler, helped start a weekly party through Paul Sevigny (another close friend) at the Beatrice, as it was called, possessively, in 2007. “Hopefully it will give back some of what was lost when Beatrice was shut down,” Chandler wrote of Le Baron in an email. “It won’t ever be the same, nor should it, because Beatrice happened at a specific time in a specific place.” Says Saraiva, “I miss Beatrice. When people used to say, ‘Let’s go to Beatrice,’ it was sincere, like, ‘Let’s go to a place we like.’ And New York is missing that. We go to places where it’s okay to go, but there’s nowhere we feel is ours.”

Saraiva explains that his idols past and present—“Most of the artists I like are dead”—are nightlife people. Experience, however, has taught him that sometimes it’s better not to meet the people you most admire. Darré agrees. “You know the stories of Proust?” he asks. “It is this: You dream about something and you think it’s the best in the world, but after you meet it, you’re very disappointed.”

I haven’t seen the real Mr. A all night. “He’s here,” a publicist insists. But I’m reminded of something Saraiva said to me earlier: “I always tell the people who work with me to never say that I’m away, to always say, ‘I just saw him, he’s somewhere.’ It works.” I toggle over to Le Bain, where Olivier Zahm is performing a mashed potato-like twist with a young woman. Paul Sevigny occupies the DJ booth, where Tolga Al later tells me he will stay for nearly four hours spinning “New York music.” As I’m getting ready to leave, I spot Saraiva in the liminal zone between the two clubs. He kisses both my cheeks and disappears into a sea of revelers.

Back at Saraiva’s apartment, coffee has finally arrived. Dexter-Jones has removed her blazer to reveal a navy shirt striped with red, which perfectly matches Saraiva’s own navy sweater with red stripes. She buries her face into his neck, the two murmuring to each other. “I think André is a brand also,” Loaëc says. “When you go to Le Baron, you actually know you’re going to see André there, living in the place.”

“He’s in New York, he’s in Paris,” says Darré. “I don’t know how he has time to do it. Maybe there are many little Andrés. A clone.”

Photography by Ruvan Wijesooriya.

Olivier Zahm Likes Ladies’ Beautiful Side, Denies Recession

Purple Fashion’s Olivier Zahm, who has fast become synonymous with T&A and a dash of haute couture, is the latest heavyweight to be featured in’s ongoing series “The Future of Fashion.” (Hedi Slimane’s Q&A was prior.) In the interview, the scion of the Gainsbourg school of thought discusses his often NSFW blog, Purple Diary, as well as his French-made magazine. “What surprised me is the number of people coming, because I print 60,000 copies of Purple [a season] and I have 100,000 [weekly Web site visitors], more visitors a week on the blog than I have readers in one season with the magazine.” But, while Zahm has figured out how to make money on the niche magazine, or at least break even, he has yet to monetize his online presence. “I haven’t found the right way to make a little money off it because I don’t want regular advertising … but I haven’t found it yet and it’s not my priority.”

As for the women that punctuate his blog, Zahm claims he has the utmost “respect” for them. Which means, during shared moments of intimacy (which seems to essentially suggest sex), “I love to keep pictures of the girls in these private moments because they are giving you the most beautiful side of themselves. It’s like a gift from God.” Zahm also addresses the subject of print vs. digital: simply put, he thinks the idea that the former will die out is bullshit. “You don’t want to look at a fashion shoot on your screen, do you?” Besides, “To me, the Internet is just an extension of reality. It can’t replace reality.” So, be they in print or digitally showcased, expect a steady flow of hottie-fueled photos for years to come. “I want to become a photographer, not just an editor.”

Also, Zahm doesn’t really believe in the economic crises. “To me this economic crisis is just a massive intoxication. We are rich and we are smart and we are, let’s say, beautiful, so what’s the problem? It’s just a way to scare people and to make them work more. There is no crisis. I don’t see the crisis. To me there is no crisis.” Crisis, believe it or not, Zahm is actually a supporter of the American Apparel diet: “I’m doing a fashion magazine and I know I’m [being] recorded, but I would love all the people who love fashion to buy a minimum of fashion, just what they really like and wash carefully their clothes.”

Man Trends: Heavage & Meggings

The body consciousness especially prevalent in women’s wear in recent seasons (no pants, transparency, and bandage styles for starters) is making its way into the men’s department. Extreme cleavage isn’t just for women hitting the runway or the red carpet anymore; men are following suit with what the Wall Street Journal is calling “heavage.” “We wanted to go back to a more natural body, a more ’70s body with the models, getting away from the super skinny,” designer Michael Bastian told the newspaper — exposed chest hair, décolletage, and, in some cases, full pecs when losing one’s shirt altogether.

Meanwhile, below the belt, some men are taking skinny to a whole new level when it comes to pants. In particular, Jefferson Hack — the editor in chief of Dazed & Confused magazine as well as baby daddy to Kate Moss’ daughter — is a newfound fan of leggings, or “meggings” as fashion has unfortunately dubbed the style. Hack was snapped by fashion’s favorite provocateur Olivier Zahm on Purple Fashion’s‘s Purple Diary this week at Miami’s Art Basel. The style he appears to be wearing is a black pair of leggings accented with leather panels (which Helmut Lang among other brands have put forth for FW09). Whether meggings or heavage will take off with the masses remains to be seen. But let’s at least try to coin better names.

Forever 21 Makes Mag, Olivier Zahm Does It for Chanel

What do the designer-mimicking mavens at Forever 21 and Karl Lagerfeld have in common? Well, apparently they both love magazines — starting their own, that is. Launching this Friday is the premiere issue of Forever 21’s new fashion, beauty, and lifestyle magazine. “Each issue will include two to three features, a fashion gallery of looks with styling tips, coverage of trends available at Forever 21, street style, makeup and beauty tutorials, a lifestyle section including the latest in books/art/music, coverage of noteworthy Forever 21 collaborations, and an interview with a notable VIP,” says Nitrolicious. In other words, the seasonal publication will likely follow much in the same vein as fellow fast-fashion mecca H&M’s eponymous magazine (which is published four times a year and also showcased online).

Meanwhile, it turns out Chanel is getting into the print magazine game as well. Of a photo posted recently on his blog Purple Diary, Purple Fashion’s Olivier Zahm says: “this is the first issue of 31 Rue Cambon, the first Chanel magazine which I have art directed and designed for Karl Lagerfeld, to be distributed worldwide in all the Chanel stores.” Based on the spreads visible in the photo (one includes a recent Chanel advert with Freja as well as pages entitled Chanel Couture and Chanel Make-Up), not surprisingly, one can assume the magazine — named after the address of Chanel’s first and oldest Paris boutique — will be heavily self-promotional. And, given Zahm’s attachment, it’ll probably look quite good too. While retailers and brands generating their own original editorial content has become the norm in recent seasons (from Burberry launching its own social networking site to boutiques like Net-a-Porter and Intermix putting out the equivalent of e-zines), print publications have been few and far between (though Acne PAPER is yet another exception to the rule). Now, with Chanel and Forever 21 adding themselves into the publishing mix, maybe print isn’t quite dead after all.

Olivier Zahm’s First Art Show

In case you haven’t gotten enough of Olivier Zahm and his T&A-filled photos, they’re coming to the Lower East Side. The king of soft core-meets-couture is having his debut art show at NYC’s Half Gallery. Opening December 1 and on view through the new year, the show is likely to feature many of the same photos one can find on Purple Fashion’s blog, Purple Diary. Lots of naked ladies, hard-partying celebrities, and the occasional beautiful shot of a Parisian garden or NYC skyline.

The image (pictured here) which currently graces the Half Gallery’s homepage may seem demure, but this exhibit is likely to house as explicit photos as those filing Purple’s pages. Whatever your thoughts on Zahm’s increasingly larger-than-life persona, the exhibition is bound to draw quite a crowd and a fair bit of press attention. Whether or not it’ll encourage feelings of Zahm being New York’s best or worst human being remains to be seen.

Olivier Zahm Incarnates Magazine, Has Five Friends

Forever outfitted in Ray-Ban aviators, a head of unkempt brown curls, and some form of slim-fitting pant and snug jacket, Olivier Zahm — co-founder and editor in chief of Paris’ Purple Fashion magazine — is a unique breed of provocateur. He’s the one who put Vincent Gallo in a Balenciaga floral mini, Baptiste Giabiconi in “prostitute shoes,” not to mention the one who has photographed countless women nude, funneling their photos into both his quarterly magazine as well as his relatively new blog, The Purple Diary (where he may have accidentally blown the cover on a relaunched Beatrice Inn). But for a man who obviously has no qualms about speaking his mind and shaking things up, the after-hours fashion party fixture is decidedly press-shy. Perhaps he’s just choosy or keen to generate an increasing air of mystery around himself and his mag. Nevertheless, a Japanese “high-fashion” magazine’s recent interview with Zahm offers a rare glimpse of the editor.

“This is a disguise,” Zahm says of his now iconic style. “Five or six years ago, I decided to wear this kind of outfit and behave as if I were a celebrity. It’s not out of narcissism. It’s for the magazine. For an independent magazine to exist, I had to incarnate it personally,” he continues. “The Internet is not the place for creation. It’s the same as television. Was there any creation that proceeded from television? No! At its best, television produced good documentaries,” adds Zahm, who, let it be said, frequently updates both Purple Fashion’s blog and Twitter. Zahm goes on to further criticize the falsity of social networking: “What about the Internet? It’s only a place for contact and passage. I’m supposed to have hundreds of friends on the Internet, but in reality, I have five friends.”