See the set at Vogue.
See the set at Vogue.
Not Obama (or Osama), but McQueen. After dressing the bride for the Royal Wedding, Alexander McQueen is the subject of an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute titled "Savage Beauty" which opens Wednesday, May 4th and runs through July 31st.
Today at 5pm, Daphne Guinness will pay tribute to McQueen - and to the woman who is given credit for "making him", Isabella Blow - by dressing for the Costume Institute's Gala (that will take place later tonight) in one of Barney's windows on Madison Avenue as a sort of performance art piece. You can watch it via live feed here.
Here, Flavorwire compiles a few moments from McQueen's runway shows over the years for an overview of his fashion-as-performance/art approach.
Liz, every scandal, terrible headline, intrusive paparazzi, every lie — everything I came to hate about my fame — now I am so grateful for. Without all that, I never would have been able to do what I have been able to do for AIDS. Fame means nothing. It stopped having meaning for me many years ago. I thought it was absurd that I was still famous, that people still wanted to look at me or write about me.
Then I saw what was happening with AIDS. That nobody was doing anything. But maybe I could. And I did. And why? Because of my ridiculous fame. My name still meant something. People wanted to pay big money to see if I was fat or have violet eyes or whatever. Bring it on, I thought. And I thanked God that my fame and my life had finally made sense.
(Thank you, Spencer and David.)
Reviewing the final McQueen collection, I kept poring through the images, at the construction, at the designs. Looking for meaning or looking for some fatal flaw that would push someone to suicide, a realization was reached: This wasn’t something I or anyone could see, or sense in some other way. That is the horror, and the reality, of depression.
(And shame on catwalking.com for attempting to monopolize the images, using a man’s death for personal gain. They are the equivalent of paparazzi at a funeral.)
I'm not saying "sign of the apocalypse", but postmortem tweet analysis? Think about that a second.
(Do I sound old yet?)