Alexander McQueen | Spring 2017

Like many people who have worked in fashion for a long time it's hard not to question why anyone needs another dress or t-shirt or dare I say, another handbag.  Fashion week seems to be happening all the time now and I'm starting to suffer from fashion-OCD, where either out of habit or responsibility to my career I am compelled to click through Every. Single. Show but at the same time, I absorb almost nothing.  I guess you could say I have crossed the rubicon into fashion fatigue-dom.

But then through all the blog posts, instagram selfies, and street-style shots something genuine blasts through your jaded core and reminds you that even though fashion has become a relentlessly commercial, data-driven, and wasteful industry there are still moments of artistry, respect for craft, and magic.

There were two shows in particular that moved me this season: Dries Van Noten and Alexander McQueen.  The former, who's purity of vision not only demonstrates how consistently true to himself he is after over 30 years of unfiltered, private ownership but who is also able to raise the bar season after season; the latter, who's legacy and genius has somehow been enhanced, if not improved, by his disciple and successor, Sarah Burton.  McQueen, the house, has often had a way with knitwear that surprises and astounds; for me, this season did that yet again.  I can't say the fairisle patchworks scream "Spring!" but climate change and fashion calendar chaos has made the conventional concept of seasons obsolete.  Perhaps then the intricate gossamer lace dresses knitted from baby fine wool will appeal to one's breezier aspirations.  Wearable?  Well, that may be a trickier proposition but sometimes it's just plain nice to suspend practicality and sales figures and appreciate something beautiful.

All photos courtesy of Vogue.com

McQ Alexander McQueen FW2013

via: fashiongonerogue

via: fashiongonerogue

Alexander McQueen | Tortured Beauty

Within the larger context of mythology, the story of the tortured artist is perhaps one of the more glorified.  Slivers of greatness enshrined by our voyeurism remind us just how delicate the human condition can be.  Does struggling for one's art make one a genius or does the struggle taint genius, crush it even, by the inevitable tragedy lurking within?

In the fashion world, the word "genius" gets tossed around a lot.  So much so in fact that I cringe every time I hear it and I'm quite sure hardly anyone knows how to identify the real deal.  Yet genius does exist and it should be reserved only for the type of brilliance that Alexander McQueen possessed.

McQueen was an incendiary talent who oozed molten lava and shot flames straight through the obsidian core of an industry that guts and deserts people as quickly as they clamour to praise them.

I saw "Savage Beauty" at the MET for the second time last week and I had one of those rare moments of lost time.  I thought I would pass through quickly on this go-around since I was with a large group of co-workers but instead I meandered; studying each seam, each choice the curators made of what to place next to what, the choices of music and clips from certain shows, the choice of manequins, the respect given to his collaborators who helped flesh out the story he wanted to tell.

The genius of McQueen was contagious: to those who worked with him, to those who put together the show, and for a brief moment, I think, made even the least creative spectator understand the heavy load he must have carried every moment of his life.  To possess such talent seems enviable from an outsider's perspective but I suspect there's a fine line between obeying one's deepest creative inclinations and succumbing to the dark caverns of one's mind...