A little sign on a stick was all that was posted outside Le Grand Palais. It read simply “Karl For Ever” and, in the bright light of the Parisian midsummer late afternoon, the only people milling around it were uniformly beautiful young men in suits, white T-shirts and white Stan Smiths, getting ready to usher in the 2500 guests who would soon be arriving to attend the memorial of Karl Lagerfeld.
I arrived early because I always did for Karl, even though he was, famously, always late. I’d got into the habit of viewing what was taking place outside as Act One of what was always a theatrical experience.