During New York Fashion Week I didn't notice a Paradis #5 launch party. Or maybe I simply wasn't invited which is understandable given my very bad reputation . Maybe there was a lavish dinner party at the St Regis and Juergen Teller and Charlotte Rampling and David Hockney and Hans Ulrich Obrist gargled with Dom Perignon and ate caviar off of each other's stomachs. If so, the tree fell in the forest undocumented . In the blur of PopPurpleAnotherLast blasts I completely lost focus of what gives these magazines their individual identity. As a gesture of protest I'm going to rip out random pages of all these mags , put it all in one big binder and tell everybody I have an advance of the new SelfService-ish.
Which is why I loved Paradis' fuck you, plain brown wrapper of a cover. The subject inside sure ain't revolutionary but I found the interview with David Hockney to be astonishingly good as was the Comme des Garcons retrospective of the brand's Shirt ads . Sapphic erotica by Mario Sorrenti? Par for the course. A wacky Lee Scratch Perry interview? Predictable but entertaining nonetheless. Paradis 5 logs in at more than 400 pages with scarcely any ads, with most of the few in existence being jewelry spots. Which makes perfect sense for a Paris based erotic/art driven publication. You see, that's what hot about Paradis. She know exactly who she is. And all of a sudden Raquel Zimmerman strikes me as being far more brave than I presumed.