It’s strange business writing about a stranger’s death. I didn’t know Alexander McQueen. I don’t have poignant tales of late night chats over flat champagne or heartbroken rehashes over Saturday brunch. The only clothes I have of his I scored at Century 21 – the perfect black dress stranded in the leisure wear department, the lace blouse I snatched when the girl in the (awful) purple coat wasn’t looking.
Mourning brings the selfish out in all of us. Who knew him the best? Who knew him first? Who loved him more fiercely? Who, finally, misses him most? Not I.
But I mourn his death the way an admirer mourns the death of someone admired, beloved, unknown.
Alexander McQueen created worlds with his clothes. His point of view was his own, always. His clothes could be grotesque but they were always gorgeous. The draping, the embroidery, the fabrics – entire stories contained in a single look.
Here is a sampling from some of my favourite collections. I’ll leave the words to those who knew him best. (All images property of Conde Nast Publications. Click on images to see larger)
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Fall 2006
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Fall 2008
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Spring 2010
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Ugh. This post—the words and the pictures—captures my feelings exactly. What a shame. What a tragedy. It’s interesting (not the right word but a better one fails me at the moment) that a man who created such teeming, alive and vibrant things lived such a dark life. Does genius only come with such darkness?