Back

ALT in Russia

We were all congregating in a stuffy salon of a private jet, waiting for our flight back to Moscow. Andre Leon Talley was visibly upset. He’d just gotten the news – despite all of the negotiations, the Russian authorities would not grant him a visa extension. Russia was not a free country after all!
Yet, if it were up to him, ALT would have stayed here for at least another two weeks.

In total silence we fastened our seat belts, while Andre was telling us that he was lonely, unloved and uncared for in this strange land and we were doing nothing to help him through this difficult situation. Unaware of our small Greek tragedy, the plane began to roll without warning, rapidly gaining speed on the decrepit runway of Novgorod airport. The rattling and shaking increased quickly and dramatically and so did the volume and the tone of Andre’s delivery. Compensating for the roar of the airplane’s engines, ALT began to shout at the top of his lungs. His wrath and the violent shaking of the airplane felt apocalyptic. I began to fear that we were going to crash.

“Shut up, or we are going to die!” – I screamed, unable to keep my cool. At that moment we were all violently shoved into our seats by an incredible G-force. The jungle of fruit, h’ordeuvres, and spirits on the salon table flew off, covering our producer from head to toe with glass, food and liquids.

As it turned out, our jet had taken off military style, at an 80-degree angle, barely negotiating the extremely short and dangerously decrepit runway. This dramatic ascent into the Novgorod sky marked the very end of ALT’s visit to Russia, and therefore my short-lived association with this incredible man.

We met 5 days earlier, in Moscow’s Vnukovo International Airport. I immediately tried to take a picture of him. “You never point that camera at me, unless I tell you I’m ready”, ALT had announced right away. That pretty much contradicted my entire purpose – Vogue specifically wanted me to candidly document his experience in Russia. From that moment, our collaboration was a bit of a contest. But in the end, some rather marvelous things came out of this comical struggle.

ALT had arrived to Moscow from Paris. For a weeklong visit in Russia he brought with him many things, some of which were sent in advance. Among these things was a good-looking, 22 year old assistant, several boxes containing kimonos from Christian Dior Haute Couture, fur hats from robes, gowns and mantles from Chanel Haute Couture and Oscar de la Renta, track suites and blouses from Juicy Couture, three designer shoulder bags – one made from deer skin, another one from zebra hide and a third from crocodile leather. There was hardly anything missing from ALT’s long list of necessities during his Russian travel, except one thing: he did not have a visa to enter the country.

You can easily judge the importance of the man, or the strength of Russian Vogue’s connections by the fact that, even late on a Saturday afternoon, Andre Leon Talley was issued, on the spot, a five-day tourist visa and was allowed to pass the custom control. I observed the bureaucratic rigmarole from inside the airport’s virtual state border, and the possibility of success had looked pretty grim to me. Then I saw the impossible happen and our journey had begun.

If crossing into Russia was somewhat of a headache for ALT, once inside the country he was quickly surrounded by all the care, comfort and meticulous travel planning only Russian Vogue can provide. A three-kilo jar of prime black caviar was purchased to accompany ALT on his travels – health first. In order to make the journey as smooth as possible, a private jet was borrowed from the Russian vodka tycoon. A presidential suite was reserved for him at St. Petersburg’s Astoria Hotel. Prince Charles, who was visiting St. Petersburg on the same days, and wanted to stay in the presidential suite, was bumped off. Three cities were slated to visit in 5 days – St. Petersburg, Novgorod the Great and Vologda. Hinging on whether or not Russian authorities would grant ALT a visa extension, the travel could have extended to 7 days and judging by the ease with which he had gained access into the country, no one had a single doubt that it would.

Boarding our private jet I clearly remembered ALT’s warning not to point my camera at him until he felt he was ready. And I wasn’t pointing. I realized that from now on the entire progression of our journey, including my photo coverage was in the hands of higher powers. In fact I felt confident and relaxed, ready to taste vodka, caviar, and champagne while cruising the skies of the Russian Federation in the company of a world celebrity.

Indeed, I was relieved to know that paparazzi-style coverage of ALT’s travels was no longer an option. Yet at the same time I had a feeling that the big headache was to come and that many boxes of Couture accompanying ALT were not there merely to impress local oligarchs. And true – ALT had very different plans for our little photo production. I didn’t have to wait very long. The show began the moment we landed in St. Petersburg.

Throughout its history, Europe and Russia have seen many tsars, tyrants and dictators. While showcasing high fashion, ALT brilliantly reenacted, deliberately or otherwise, these types of characters for the camera. His performance on the steps of St. Petersburg’s Hermitage, next to two giant marble Atlases was evocative of Il Duce’s eccentric public appearances in Rome. His posing inside the walls of the New Jerusalem Monastery seemed to come straight out of Sergei Eisenstein’s film “Ivan the Terrible.” I’m sure that these impersonations were not intentional, but it was Count Dracula that came to mind when I photographed the grand man of fashion in front of Georgiev Cathedral. Dressed in a bright red gown and silver fur hat, in front of the walls of Volokolamsky Monastery, he appeared like Genghis Khan, the mighty conqueror of Russian lands. It wasn’t easy to convince him to step down into the mud of the lake surrounding the monastery, or to raise his noble knee to accentuate the pose and to bring the image home.

But ALT obliged and the game went on. In front of the wooden churches of Vitoslavitsa, in a deadly August heat, ALT donned a black military coat from Christian Dior and turned into Napoleon Bonaparte at his battlefield. The man’s superb acting definitely played tricks on my imagination.
And not only mine. There were also random people – crowds actually, gawking in disbelief at our initial production on the steps of St.Petersburg’s Hermitage. There were old babushkas, who watched in horror as a large black man, clad in a sparkling mantle and furs, dropped to his knees and began to pray in front of the white temples of Uriev Monastery. They simply could not believe their eyes. They thought that aliens had landed. And then there were those who thought that ALT was an African Prince; a lucky charm of sorts. They all wanted to pose with him, as if having a picture taken with this strange giant would bring them health, wealth and endless happiness. A large crowd surrounded ALT in front of the Peterhof Palace, near St. Petersburg, many wanting only to touch the man, or at least his zebra-hide purse. I had to fight off the mob to clear some room and to take a few pictures. That’s when I realized that our nearly perfect production was missing something – a squadron of bodyguards.

But then, there were other, much calmer moments.

A gentle August breeze was inflating ALT’s magnificent grey gown. It was beginning to look as if at any moment the Fashion Editor at Large was going to rise above the Chesmensky Chapel and float away into the azure Russian skies. The pink, pseudo-gothic cathedral created a perfect backdrop for ALT’s Bedouin-style robe from Oscar de la Renta.

On that quiet Sunday afternoon everything and everyone felt inspired – an occasional churchgoer by ALT, ALT by the pink architectural wonder, and our production crew watching him do his thing in front of all that splendor. There were no tour buses or crowds of bystanders. No one was trying to touch ALT or to get in the picture with him. Two teenage girls came up to him to practice a little English, very casually and politely. They gave him a present. A small group of beautiful, intelligent looking young people showed up for a short and modest wedding ceremony – no hype, no fanfares, no rice throwing. Their priest looked young, smart and stylish with gorgeous silver cross adorning his black robe. Leaving the church, he approached ALT and spoke with him at length in good English. From where we stood, their communion looked like a meeting of two religious dignitaries. The civility and the casual air of what was going on in front of the Chesmensky Chapel that day felt very good. In the presence of this newly found equilibrium the spirit of tyrants had suddenly vanished making space for a completely different image of ALT in Russia.

Through out our journey I’d gone along with ALT’s wishes and did not insist on taking pictures behind the scenes. A journalist at heart, I usually do not to let go of an opportunity to capture a unique slice of life, but not this time. ALT’s most original approach to glamour and self-image was so infectious that for the duration of our travels I found myself well under its spell. The very moment he had ascended the steps of Hermitage wearing one of his shiny gowns I knew that although he was in Russia, he wanted to be photographed out of its real context. In a sense he was setting out to create Russia of his own imagination and I enthusiastically took part in that game. The result is this book – an iconographic depiction of ALT’s Russian travels with credit justly split between him and myself.