A Genius Fades Out

I had only met Alexander McQueen once. In 2008 my colleague Emili Vesilind and I attended a party to celebrate the opening of McQueen’s Melrose Avenue boutique, held in the store’s back parking lot paved with purple carpet for the occasion. Usual fare, usual celebrities, raucous performance by Beth Ditto, who was encased in red latex as though parodying the video for Britney Spears’ Oops I Did it Again. For whatever reason I expected an aloof designer when I talked to McQueen, who wore a black tie, a blue button-front shirt covering a bit of paunch, cuffed jeans with a wallet chain affixed.

I was wrong. How could one of fashion’s greatest minds be so warm, so approachable? I wanted to discuss his groundbreaking fashion shows, like "Highland Rape" (fall 1995) and "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" (spring 2004). He was more interested in chatting about my blue Nooka watch. 

After McQueen reportedly hanged himself and was found Thursday in his London apartment, I quickly compiled a list of People You Call for a Fashion Quote. Simon Doonan, the creative director of Barneys New York, is usually on the top of such a list, but as I waited for him to pick up the phone, I immediately realized the error of my ways. I didn’t need a quip, I needed a eulogy. So when he answered the call, naturally I fumbled, asking him if he was surprised by McQueen’s death (one of the more idiotic questions a reporter can ask). “Um … yes. Weren’t you?” he responded. But true to form, Doonan was charitable with his insight: “[McQueen] had that incredible imagination, that creative rage, if you will, that comes out of the English working classes, people like John Galliano and Vivienne Westwood who have this extraordinary imagination and desire.”

From there, we wanted a take on McQueen’s legacy as told by some of our local fashion experts—those who knew his work well and savored his subversive aesthetic. Here are four remembrances.

Fashion in Ruins: An M.C. Escher inspired gown stands out among props from runways past during McQueen's fall 2010 collection at Paris Fashion Week last March.

McQueen, Punk Rocker

Rose Apodaca, co-founder of A+R, author of From A to Zoe: The Art of Fashion, Beauty & Everything Glamour; former west coast bureau chief for Women’s Wear Daily

Like so many other fans, my first piece of Alexander McQueen's was his signature skull-dotted scarf, a wisp of white silk printed in black which I've managed not to lose since I picked it up six years ago at his "debut" in Los Angeles, a daytime fashion presentation and trunk show at the Chateau Marmont (that was only trumped in local fashion news once Helmut Newton, who was also at the event, crashed and died there two days later). Mr. McQueen spoke to my fashion lust and punk rock sensibility, a bundle of aggro and skill and heir to Vivienne Westwood. (Andy, my husband, wore his McQueen tux jacket when we last saw Dame Westwood, and she admired him for it.)

Unlike Westwood, however, McQueen demonstrated, spectacularly, so many times since then, an even greater revolutionary and, yes, genius. He proved that season after season, and the prospect that we will never know what would've been in a couple weeks on the Paris runway is an artistic loss. I only met him a couple of times, and the last was on the opening night of his L.A. store two years ago. He was among the freaks and geeks in our group, jumping up and down, rock fist in air, as a red latex-sheathed Beth Ditto roared between us. It was a very punk rock moment that happened to be at a shop party instead of a nightclub, and it will always feel very raw and real and alive to me. At some point in the evening I snapped a photo of him with the Bishop, the infamous pimp daddy OG, who was clad in a pink and green suit that night. Lee was giddy about the Bishop's M.O. and mugged for the moment with a goofy face.

I don't want to understand why he had to off himself. Fashion will go on, of course, as will life. But it will be a little less magical without him.