I don't remember which Met exhibition held Alexander McQueen's Oyster Dress? Must've been Anglomania.
It brought me to tears.
I'd never seen a dress like that, not in person, and it was magical.
The dress had a life of its own, like The Tempest meets cotton candy, and I'd have given anything to reach through the glass and touch it.
Since then, I've been lucky enough to see lots of McQueen in real life, mostly on Daphne Guinness who wears it like a second skin, and a handful of fashion editors-- my version of rock stars-- who carry his clothes off with aplomb.
Tim Blanks wrote, "It always felt to me like he’d be the last man standing." Sure, there's loads of other creative talent out there, but McQueen was like a brilliant ball of energy burning in the middle of what sometimes felt like an endless parade of beige. His influence was everywhere - fashion, music, art - and though his collections often earned a "controversial" label, they were the collection everyone was talking about about at the end of each season.
I cried this morning when Lauren called to tell me he'd killed himself. I can't imagine fashion without him. And, to be perfectly blunt, going from show to show in this miserable daze sucks.