By  on October 27, 2008

Backstage at Louis Vuitton, just before 2:30 P.M., the show’s scheduled start time, a bevy of flamboyant teens—all glitzed-out, feathered-up microminis and euphorically frizzed ponytails—is lined up atop supersculptural platforms in what masquerades as precision, chatting, twisting handbag straps and shifting their scant weight from one foot to the other. Aside from their impatient, girlish squirming, the scene plays as remarkably calm. Only makeup maestro extraordinaire Pat McGrath breaks the holding pattern with shouts of “No powder on the nose and chin!”

Marc Jacobs, the man whose name is, if not on the door, then the rock-star presence behind the name on the door, looks positively dapper, having ditched his recent uniform of a Comme des Garçons men’s skirt for a proper tailored suit. He strolls about coolly, silently flaunting his readiness to start the show while verbalizing the fact that he can’t just yet; he must wait for the biggest VIP of all, Bernard Arnault. “I want Mr. Arnault to say to me that he thinks that I did a great job,” Jacobs says later. “For so many years, all I wanted was a little bit of praise from him. Now I really get it, and it’s really great.”

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