People are always asking Marc Jacobs what he’ll think when he’s 80. Will he regret the SpongeBob SquarePants on his right arm if it wrinkles or droops? Or will he feel sorry about the line drawing on his stomach of a sofa by Jean-Michel Frank, or the sketch of a laughing Elizabeth Taylor wearing 3-D glasses, or any of the words, like oui, lui (both name-checking seventies adult magazines), shameless, or bros before hos (he was going through a breakup)? And if he ever abandons his strict regimen of juices and the gym, would he feel differently about that famous scene from Poltergeist sliding down his back?
His answer is: Who knows what he’ll think about all of this 30 years from now? But even more than that: Who cares?