I first heard about Alexander McQueen from a friend whose sister-in-law was simply mad about him and wore him all the time, almost exclusively, with odd hats and interesting shoes.
I still regret not buying a pair of bumster trousers and a long grey coat.
The trousers were sexy but not vulgar — in the way that low cut jeans became — maybe because the rest of the leg was loose. There was just the top of your bum popping up, the way that it looks when you’re pulling off your trousers in front of someone just before you get into bed with them, all plump and promise and perfect. And the coat! Grey wool with bright metal buttons, fitted and flared and regal and thick and supple. Very tough and very boy and angry and powerful, all those buttons like medals, and then, underneath you could imagine something silky and delicate and fragile and pale and vulnerable.
There’s the frivolous part of fashion — The what did she wear on the red carpet, Glamour Dos and Don’ts, wedges are in, that’s so 80s part of it — and then there’s this, this place where fashion becomes performance art, a conversation about how we perceive and manipulate and display the body, what we chose to hide or reveal, how we change our proportion, whether we stand out or blend in. And each morning I consider, what do I feel like saying today.