When Derek Blasberg was in high school back in St Louis, Missouri, his mother, Carol, reports that he wrote on his bedsheets in marker pen: “New York or bust.”
It’s Paris haute couture week, July 2015, and it’s so hot outside that everyone is reduced to a listless crawl; everyone, that is, except Derek Blasberg. Fresh as a mint julep in Prada, golden-skinned with the obligatory hip smattering of beard, Blasberg arrives at the Versace show flashing a smile that implies megawatt wickedness. He’s cruising the front row, chatting up a storm, continental-kissing his “pals” (his moniker for Michelle Williams, Joan Smalls and collaborative photographers Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott … everyone who’s anyone, really) and busting out one-liners like an out-of-control tennis-ball machine.
Blasberg’s two books on how to…