ichèle Lamy is sitting on her terrace at the Owenscorp headquarters in Paris, eating from a cheeseboard prepared by the cook. Much has been written of Lamy’s ethereal qualities, her raspy voice and witchy air, just as there are several books that feature the famed residence and office she has created with her husband, Rick Owens, in the city’s 7th arrondissement. Lamy, however, is not the eddy of cigarette smoke I’d anticipated. Wearing a small black dress and pointed mules, her skin taut and shiny as a nut, she has the toned body and practical air of someone used to making things. Their office – the fabled dark lair
