Thursday night, Louis Vuitton opened up their gilded doors and let the world in to see the masterpiece that is, their brand new maison on Bond Street. As we walked in, glasses of champagne were guided into our hands by disastrously good-looking waiters, who coaxed us around the brightly-lit store, all gold and wooden in its interior, beautiful shiny glass cabinets glittering with purses, handbags and chunky pieces of jewelery. In this sense, the store is like a castle, all majestic with an air of splendour about it, the vintage trunks painted with over with Damien Hirst butterflies paralleled with the huge peep-toed wedges and sequined dresses. Led through the ogling crowd (who were nice and buzzed at this point due to the constant re-filling of the champagne glasses) we entered one of the elevators, and after punching in a certain code, were led to the uber-private, appointment only, one-of-a-kind 'Apartment' where customers are treated like royalty, served in the lap of luxury in plush dressing rooms and living rooms adorned with the artworks of Jeff Koons and Richard Prince. The idea behind the 'Apartment' is that if you are one of the special customers, you simply ring up, request the daily code and go up, where, unlike downstairs, there is no need to mingle with the riff-raff of other customers. The collection is fantastic, obviously there were the usual Louis Vuitton studded monstrosities, but the mannequin display was a highlight room centrepiece, dressed in gorgeous chiffon gowns and petticoats.
Unbeknown to LBF, there was also a 'surprise.' Some special location that was invitation-only to the certain few. At a second location, far away past the West End our taxi opened up to an enormous warehouse, where a small door brandishing a bronze plate with the 'Louis Vuitton' logo was guarded by two burly looking men in suits, who, after checking us off their list, let us enter to enjoy mysterious 'experience.'
Imagine a room out of your nightmares. Five doors, all lit by one flickering light bulb were arranged in a hexagon, and a woman who looked as though she had been transported from a cinema in the 1930's, took me by the hand and led me through a door. Each door revealed a corridor, with a tinge of 'insane asylum' proximity to it, the smell of incense heady in the walls and the hazy lighting making it a bit of a fumble in heels to navigate, thus I was forced to trust wholeheartedly my somewhat, interesting, guide.
Each room was more bizarre and deliciously exciting than the next... Actors dressed like tramps crawled about the floor, twitched the back of your dress, swept beside you in grand athletic feats in a room made to look like a warehouse, filled with giant crates piled to the ceiling. The next room was a shock, a beautifully ornate parlour, with antiquities from across the globe under lit in compartments in the walls. African headdresses were paired next to live models who subtly changed their body expressions, completely in trance. The next room I was told was the 'forest'. Now, I had supposed it would be a metaphor, come on, a forest? The ground beneath my feet suddenly became cold, crunchy with earth, the smell of pine was overwhelming, and rough hands scraped my shoulders and calves. The forest was indeed, a forest, full of huge Christmas trees, a crack of light illuminating the ethereal scene as the guests slowly winded their way through, like the scene in the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe where the wardrobe full of fur coats slowly morph into trees and lead them into Narnia (on my way out I managed to pass a rather dazed-looking Kevin Spacey, no doubt he was in wrapped in the 'experience' too)
Such was my experience, except, instead of Narnia with a glacial white witch, the forest mystique was abruptly ended as a gentleman in a suit and flashlight grabbed my hand, and led me with two others in our party to a concrete tunnel, rickshaw waiting at the top.
You can imagine my fears when one person said, 'Don't worry, it's not dangerous- it'll shake you a bit though' Hesitant, but with a twitch of adrenaline- induced anticipation, I clambered into the back of the rickshaw, the tips of the feathery trinkets brushing my head lightly. As the ride began we picked up speed, gently maneuvering round a curve, down into a underpass grotto full of graffiti, where suddenly deafeningly loud music rang out, and getting out in confusion we were each led away, and a man dressed in only black trousers and black eyeliner took me by the waist, guiding me into a secluded corner furnished quizzically with an ornate chair, table and two glasses of whisky. Slowly he began touching my hair, rubbing his hands gently down my arms, brushing my neck with his cheek, coming up close to my face, his expression dead serious, holding me in a tight, erotic/sensual/lady gaga embrace. It was, unexpected needless to say, but completely exhilarating.
LBF loves being part of the experience.
Each room, I later discovered (unfortunately no photos were allowed, thus to 'preserve' the authenticity of the experience) was a documentation of Louis Vuitton's journey, from humble beginnings as a shop in Paris, to modern-day worldwide domination. The company who curated the show are an artistic troupe called Punch Drunk, who specialise in art installation and theatrical performance that steps outside the rules of convention, where the audience are allowed, rather encouraged, to touch and feel, and become 'part' of it all.
As we left, I couldn't help but feel completely brainwashed, light on my feet, oblivious to the real life of the West End laden with its annoying tourists. At the end of the night, all I could say was, bravo Louis Vuitton.
Readers can check out the Punch Drunk website here
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