I am one of those Project Runway, Say Yes to the Dress admirers that only wishes she could afford high quality clothing. I’ve gone into Louis Vuitton, touched a bag and swooned at the fact that it was real. I’ve watched clips from New York Fashion Week because I can’t actually go. I’ve had the heartache of knowing I can’t afford any of it lest I get a small coin purse or half a scarf from Burberry.
To top off my fashion depression, a designer, that I had finally decided I would save up some dough to get one of his pieces, died today. Alexander McQueen, the king of outlandish ideas committed suicide in his London apartment. Like many others, most from the fashion world, I was shocked. Pulling up the online version of The New York Times, it popped up. An article clearly stating their would be no more claw shaped shoes, no more Alexander McQueen drama.
Crushed. Just crushed. He was fabulous, his work incredibly lavish and out there. He took risks. Who else would stage their models as a human game of chess? McQueen would. In 1995, his Fall collection dared be named “Highland Rape,” featuring tailored plaid jackets and torn lace. It was vile, but the clothing impeccable.
In 2008, the dark Victorian Queen emerged from the runway. Alice in Wonderland had shown her Gothic side in an elegant and fanciful way and flowed into an Indian inspired chic prince.
He lost me in his last year, but as I had already fallen in love with his work, I was still determined to attain a piece of his art. The excessive pattern and trash bag-like look threw me. I am not a houndstooth kind of lady. It’s just not my thing, even if it’s Alexander McQueen.
So with the lost of this master, I can only hope there is enough of McQueen’s work out there that some day I may wear a piece of his legacy. Many will try, but none will ever really take his place in the world of fashion.