"I like today and perhaps a little future still, but the past is really something I'm not interested in. So, as far as I'm concerned, I like only the past of things and people I don't know. When I know, I don't care because I knew how it was"
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A designer whose vocation was perpetual reinvention privileges now and next over then. The line draws a distinction between experience and imagination: the past you have lived is fixed, stripped of mystery, while the past of strangers retains an alluring margin of interpretation. Curiosity thrives on distance. Once knowledge closes the gap, romance evaporates. That is the psychology behind liking only the past of things and people one does not know.
For Karl Lagerfeld, this was not a paradox but a method. He mined history as an image bank rather than a shrine. The 18th century he adored, the archives of Chanel he revitalized, and the vast libraries he amassed were not places to mourn what was, but reservoirs of signs to edit, collage, and propel forward. He took the house codes tweed, camellias, chains and refused the museum vitrine, recutting them until they felt like news. The past worked when it was anonymous enough to be reimagined, when it served the present instead of dictating it.
There is also self-fashioning at play. He blurred his own biography, grooming a persona that floated outside time. Better to be an unfolding narrative than a closed file. Disinterest in personal nostalgia becomes a creative defense: sentimentality turns into ballast, and ballast slows velocity. The insistence on today and a little future keeps the engine of novelty humming.
Yet the statement acknowledges a human truth beyond fashion. Distance beautifies. The past we do not own is a canvas; the past we endured is cluttered with facts, disappointments, and proofs that puncture fantasy. By choosing curiosity over confession and editing over homage, Lagerfeld frames memory as material, not mandate. The lesson is bracing: love history as a vocabulary, not a verdict; keep moving, and let mystery do part of the work.
For Karl Lagerfeld, this was not a paradox but a method. He mined history as an image bank rather than a shrine. The 18th century he adored, the archives of Chanel he revitalized, and the vast libraries he amassed were not places to mourn what was, but reservoirs of signs to edit, collage, and propel forward. He took the house codes tweed, camellias, chains and refused the museum vitrine, recutting them until they felt like news. The past worked when it was anonymous enough to be reimagined, when it served the present instead of dictating it.
There is also self-fashioning at play. He blurred his own biography, grooming a persona that floated outside time. Better to be an unfolding narrative than a closed file. Disinterest in personal nostalgia becomes a creative defense: sentimentality turns into ballast, and ballast slows velocity. The insistence on today and a little future keeps the engine of novelty humming.
Yet the statement acknowledges a human truth beyond fashion. Distance beautifies. The past we do not own is a canvas; the past we endured is cluttered with facts, disappointments, and proofs that puncture fantasy. By choosing curiosity over confession and editing over homage, Lagerfeld frames memory as material, not mandate. The lesson is bracing: love history as a vocabulary, not a verdict; keep moving, and let mystery do part of the work.
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