Have you ever wanted to see inside the closet of Carine Roitfeld? Of course you have! Unfortunately in the photographs the doors to Carine's closet are closed so we must rely on the words of others for a description of the contents. As her daughter Julia Restoin-Roitfeld shares with us, “Her wardrobe's not so big, actually. She's very organised and it seems she has tons and tons of stuff, but she has her favourite pieces that she wears over and over. They become collector's pieces, then she mixes them with the new ones.” Her son Vladimir says, "Actually, my mum has never had a lot of clothes, and she has a tiny wardrobe. She knows exactly what she likes to wear. There's one long cupboard in her bedroom, and you never see shoes lying about anywhere else. I've got more clothes than she has."
We also have this detailed account from Vogue as they explore Carine Roitfeld's wardrobe:
By this stage, we're in her bedroom and she's about to throw open the first door in the 20-foot-long closet of hanging spaces, shelves, and shoe racks housed behind her bed. And here, laid out in fantastic order, is the complete story of a woman's fashion life and times—the teenybopper, the hippie, the LA rock chick, the international icon of unerring fashion sophistication. Inside door one: her city skirts, all narrow, knee-length, mainly black. "You see, they are all the same but not the same." Above are shelves devoted to piles of little nothing cashmere sweaters either in black or classic beige or jewel-colored for summer. Next door, the tops—sexy black slithers of things with tough details, all with the air of tshirts. "I've never been a punk, but this is what I like," she says pulling out zip-slashed tops by Gucci and McQueen, a studded Comme des Garçons tshirt, and a priceless vintage Sex Pistols NO FUTURE tshirt. Below are stacks and stacks of high-rise black stilettos from Manolo and Gucci, all spikes, ankle straps, a hint of S&M for everyday.
And then, here's the other side of Roitfeld, the jeans closet, her very own personal vintage collection, full of boot-legs, cords, tiny hipsters she's acquired nonstop since she was a teenager, in every beautiful washed-out color and texture from shredded Levi's to soft pink, beige, and khaki. "I like them completely destroyed," she says, fondly stroking their flanks. Farthest along is the LA/St Barth's/Morocco drawer, chock full of color, print, and fabric, for vacations and fashion shoots in hot places. "I'm very ethnic. I've been buying these muumuus, djellabas, peasant skirts since I was 20, when I had no money," she says."I give my personal trend to it—nothing to do with the seasons." And finally here we are with the hats, a rocking squashed pink straw Stetson, and the pièce de resistance: a black fur hat. Plonking it on her head so that only her dark eyes shine out beneath the fur she cries, "Me as a Russian girl!" All of a sudden, it is very now, very funny, and very, very her.