I finally found a free weekend where I wasn’t working and seized the opportunity to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art bright and early for a chance to catch a glimpse of the much publicized Alexander McQueen exhibit, Savage Beauty before its end date. While I have high regards for the designer and believe his untimely death—a suicide—to be a tragic blow to the fashion industry, I’ll be honest: I’ve never been his greatest fan, perhaps because our aesthetics couldn’t lie in more parallel universes from one another.

Nearly three hours were spent waiting in line. The queue was scraggly, thick, winding down a myriad of wings and halls that began in Asia. It was hot—hot with the musk of a sweaty mass of hundreds of people gathered from near and afar. Waiting, wrapped around the better part of the Met’s entire second level, a human snake. I catch the slightest whiff of Coco Mademoiselle in the mix, probably from the group of European women in their Petit Bateau shirts and beautiful, makeup-less faces.

Three steps at a time—five if we’re lucky. I’m beginning to regret leaving my newly bought copy of ELLE UK at home; it would have been nice to have some sort of distraction from the ridiculous wait and muggy heat. Instead I’m forced to people-watch (I lie… I love it). You can easily pick out and separate the Europeans and Americans; Americans are shiny. The women, that is—faces shiny with melting makeup, feet in flip flops, trainers or ridiculously high stilettos, patent Yves Saint Laurent Tribute rip-offs. It’s a cliché but valid observation (and stereotype); European tourists are always far more put together yet still blasé. It’s effortless, their outfits, and breathable and still chic in this heatwave. They’re makeup-less, perhaps just a swipe of lipstick and nothing more, putting forth only a clean face which radiates a healthy, girlish, youthful complexion. I make mental notes to end the face makeup affixation (I’ve weaned it off to just a bit of contouring and blush) and go back to my mascara and lipstick only routine.

Hitting the hour-and-a-half mark has permitted my mind to wander aimlessly. I wonder if this soon-to-be three hour wait is worth it. Patience is a virtue, or so they say, and the relief, gratification and appreciation that comes with finally being able (and fortunate enough) to see such a coveted, beautiful thing should make any wait worth its while. But I’m impatient. McQueen was revolutionary. Genius, maybe, in that tortured, creatively unparalleled sense. But again, his aesthetics couldn’t be more dissimilar from my tastes. I confess: I’ve never caught a breath, never teared, never felt moved when viewing his collections. Perhaps the 2D, pixelated screen distorted the magnificence of the reality. I don’t know. It’s opinions like this that make me question my claim of interest in fashion—everyone praised his ingeniousness. They swooned over his work and called this Met exhibit “tear-inducing” and some. What if I thought otherwise? Maybe I just didn’t get it. Maybe I didn’t like (not love!) fashion enough to understand true brilliance when I came face to face (or face to screen, rather) to it. Is it blasphemous of me to think otherwise of McQueen? I was writing as I waited, noting to not bother with reviewing the exhibit if I didn’t cry…

Almost there. Or so I thought. It’s cooler in this wing (Western Central Asia), and I anticipate what I’ll see. Something dark and passionate? I’ve already read of the exhibition’s unprecedented ability to move visitors, hyped up by press, Met members and fashion moguls alike. I’m a little nervous, but woman with a Goyard tote distracts me. It solidifies my belief that a great bag can make the woman, sartorially speaking.

Clearly my attention span is short-lived.

I’ve weaned off of worrying about whether or not I’ll cry or simply walk out of Savage Beauty completely indifferent by returning to playing the part of The Sartorialist, photographing and making notes with my eyes instead of a camera. I’ve decided that all these short hemlines (all found on Americans!) are either unflattering or only appropriate for an evening out. I sound so jaded and old when I say that a length hitting right below the knee is most beautiful, feminine and ideal. But rest assured I am 19. Call me insane, or maybe a hypocrite since I can’t see myself purging my closet of anything shorter than knee-length at the moment. The exception, however, is shorts. Micro denim, all the way!

A young woman walks—no, struts—by as if affirming my stance on short shorts. She wears a simple but beautiful outfit: black tank, loose-ish, tailored grey shorts, a hybrid between the pointy-toe and almond-toe pump in black with a black leather hobo strung off her shoulder. In my mind I replace said bag with the Louis Vuitton Mahina XL in back—I could own just multiple color variations of that handbag and never tire of it.

Then a girl with the Celine My Luggage tote—black with a cool brown (like NARS Coconut Grove for a visual representation)—hurries by. It’s my first time seeing that cult-favorite in real life (I sound like such a little groupie here, but it what it is). It’s a beauty and I am deeply, deeply lusting after it…

Alas we (we meaning my mother and I)reach the entrance. It’s dark, spooky, kind of like entering a cheesy haunted house, and I become that annoying girl furiously scribbling notes and sketching pathetic recreations in my newly acquired (!) Archie Grand notebook and proving to be a fire hazard and roadblock. At one point a boy and I were doing the same in front of a particular dress—the two of us could only look at each other and laugh at how adorably (okay, maybe not) geeky we appeared. Anyway.

A wall introduced us to McQueen’s belief in philosophical Romanticism—individualism, historicism, nationalism, exoticism, primitivism and naturalism—or, “a lot of of ‘-ism’s’ as one woman was so astute to point out. Fashion and politics, and fashion and emotion were linked inexorably to him—a lack of separation that perhaps led to his incredible depression.

But before I proceed, I’ll make my disclaimer (as I will continue to do throughout the article): I am not that well acquainted with McQueen (obviously) or his designs, nor am I a massive fan. Call me blasphemous, but I’ve never swooned or thought him to be of unprecedented ingenuity.

I said it.

Piece number one (see above left) was one of the most beautiful numbers of the exhibit; forget my predilection with the color red. Red acrylic (?) shingles made the bodice before seamlessly transitioning into a feather plumage. Red ostrich feathers were layers in an
ombré effect that transitioned into a deep, grey-purple. It was so sexual but evil—something Jezebel’s ostentatious alter ego would wear, with the asymmetrical shoulder and open side.

The second piece was made of a material with ripples that mimicked that of a shells, alabaster in color (when I was finally able to read the description my guess was in fact right—the dress consisted entirely of razor clam shells, stripped and varnished. I found it strangely romantic and fitting that it was razor clam shells—the name a bit violent and dark—and that they were, well, stripped. McQueen was an artist of metaphors indeed, or perhaps I’m just over analyzing as per usual). In any case, it was cold. The dress. It reminded me of fingernails…

“The Romantic Mind”

The tuxedo jackets were beautifully constructed and well-tailored. Romantic aspects are confined indeed with bustles and sharp shoulders to emphasize tiny waists. Titled “Jack the Ripper Stalks his Victims” (1992), they were lined with red silk encapsulated with human hair. Again, the literal, creative interpretation is well-thought out.

“I design from the side; that way I get the worst angle of the body… That way I get a cut and proportion and silhouette that works all the way around the body.”

Smart man.

My favorite pieces were from his SS 2010 collection, “Plato’s Atlantis,” if not just for the title itself. The jellyfish pattern, evocative of the revolution in digital prints, is manipulated into swirls which emphasize the woman’s curves: the breasts, the waists, the hips. It’s stunning, flattering, genius. There’s a running theme where the woman’s (traditional/ideal) figure is never masked despite his exploration of different silhouettes: the hourglass is never hidden, but rather always brought out.

(The masks and “head treatments” are by Guido Palau, by the way. I’m not a fan. There’s a different type of darkness to them that jars with McQueen’s darkness, at least in my opinion—Malau’s designs are malevolent, whereas McQueen’s darkness is more so depressed and desolate with an aching longing for something despite his claim for indulging in the “macabre, old austere ascenticism.” But that’s my two cents.)

One mannequin wore a killer pair of black boots; I didn’t even bother looking at the costume.

There was another piece from AW 1996-1997 which I wasn’t a fan of in terms of overall look. However, the combination of lilac silk faille appliquéd with black silk lace and embroidered with jet beads was genius. Beautiful, feminine and sensual instead of outright sexual. 

A breathtaking (duck) feather manteau, painted or brushed gold, was truly stunning. It was cut to just glide over the hourglass shape of a woman, the collar elegant and pretentious as it cupped the neck but exposed the décolletage beautifully. Out from beneath the coat was a tulle mermaid tail with gold bead embroidery. While there was still an element of the morose (or perhaps it was the blackened mirrors in baroque frames that covered the room?), it was the most optimistic (shall we say) display of the entire exhibit.

“The Romantic Gothic & Cabinet of Curiosities”

I hated this part of the exhibit, this idea of “Cabinet of Curiosities.” While it was an interesting concept, something about it was off for me. Again I’ll make my disclaimer: I probably just “don’t get it (or fashion, rather)” and am not that well acquainted with McQueen (obviously) or his designs, but I don’t know. Something about this display was malevolent, whereas I perceived the original showings of these pieces to be more so a dive into mysticism and the taboo.

One of the first pieces was a spine corset with an elongated tailbone. A literal interpretation of the human (ish?!) anatomy, but it was cruel, cold, confining. I left this portion as soon as possible.

“Romantic Nationalism”

Classic McQueenism. The period of exploration of Scottish plaid—the signature “McQueen wool tartan” was one of my favorites in terms of design and backstory. I wish I was able to find decent pictures of the tartan collections… regardless. These collections—”Highland Rape” from AW 1995-1996 and “Widows of Culloden” from AW 2006-2007—were fashioned around autobiographical narratives that reflect his Scottish heritage which meant “everything” to him. This national and cultural pride is admirable and most prevalent in the “Highland Rape” pieces. Press thought it to be a base on the rape of women as the collection was shown on semi-naked, staggering models splattered in blood to which McQueen was quick to refute (he thought they were stupid, those literal interpretations). His intention was to convey the rape of Scotland by the English. And yet his ties to England as the country he lived in were evident as well—thus producing collections of often conflicting energies, ironically patriotic and inwardly torn between his mother country and his home…

Beautiful dresses were shown here, tartan embellished with jet beads embroidered into the pattern to emphasize, again, the breasts, waist and hips. Strategic placement of fabric and cut were made to round the breast, hips and derriere and draw attention to the pelvic region while minimizing the waist. Such design would be altered with collars and necklines that revealed the beauty of a woman’s jawline, neck and collarbones. I can’t help but note that McQueen brings out the beauty but dark sensuality of a woman… in my notebook I write, “Is the the Jezebel, the Eve, the temptress? Or is she admired and revered?”

While McQueen did say fashion was but a “medium” for his artistic expression—and fashion is a predominantly female-centered industry—I can’t help but question is reasons. From my perspective he loves but hates the woman, and is inwardly conflicted by these opposing pulls. He reveres the woman by sensualizing and emphasizing her curves without sexual exploitation. And yet, I think him to be misogynist: he confines her with these structured, binding pieces, swaddling straight-jacket-like pieces, repressing corsetry and headgear…

One particular piece from the “Highland Rape” collection was made entirely of green and bronze cotton synthetic lace which evoked the image of a tortured, woodland nymph… Needless to say it was romantic and beautiful all the same. Another sensual piece, less structured than the majority of McQueen’s designs.

“Romantic Exoticism”

I actually liked the display of this portion of the exhibit with each mannequin its own fun-house mirror section. Some spun in eerie rotations, like a ballerina in a music box…

Chinese and Japanese design and cultural influences were undoubtedly prevalent. There was one qípáo-inspired dress—one of the few I actually coveted—made of what seemed like patches of embroidered red flower patches, pieced together with some peek-a-boo action. It was fitted, ending with a mermaid train of ostrich plumes in a blackened red. It was nothing short of stunning in terms of color, fit and visual impact.

“Romantic Primitivism”

Another section of the exhibit was dedicated towards pieces of African inspiration. There seems to a pattern here; McQueen seems to take inspiration from cultures and and nations with a tortured past, one tainted with blood and repression all the same. A connection, perhaps, between his Scottish heritage and that of other oppressed peoples? Or one between his depressed soul?

But I digress. This was another visually and sartorially stunning section with a significantly greater, if not more obvious, focus on female sensuality.

“Animals…fascinate me because you can find a force, an energy, a fear in that also exists in sex.”

Again, I’m disappointed that photographs were prohibited, but for visual reference, do refer to my (shoddy) sketches for an approximation. Perhaps I loved these collections most for its undeniable femininity and wearability (I’m quite boring when it comes to fashion); regardless, these retained McQueen’s astute attention to detail without sacrificing ability to translate seamlessly from art to a woman’s wardrobe.

A beaded dress top from “Eshu” (AW 2000-2001), made from synthetic net with a mud-dipped (!) skirt and wooden beads painted ivory and yellow was so simple, but so genius.

From SS 2003 was a dress, “Irere” made of black leather with a curt-out sweetheart neckline. Very gothic romantic.

A bodysuit (unitard), a bit like signature Mark Fast pieces in terms of design and pattern, was made with black glass beads—visually satisfying and so sexy.

I swooned over two other dresses from the “Irere” collection (needless to say they’re amongst my favorites). The Oyster dress, from SS 2008, made of ivory silk organza, georgette, & chiffon. A breathtaking gown with impeccable craftsmanship and attention to detail. The second was the Shipwreck dress, from SS 2003—a beige silk chiffon gown with shredded train and bits that was every bit Pirates of the Caribbean worthy for the modern day woman.

Of the entire collection, they were the two of three that moved me. With intense appreciation, of course, but mostly lust.

“Romantic Naturalism”

Featuring his most modern and futuristic pieces. Snake, jellyfish and other animal prints in a digitalized color palette in futuristic silhouettes (the mini-dress, reinterpreted). It’s his most optimistic, spectacular and wearable collection yet, from SS 2010, where he explores what he calls a new silhouette: the shortened hem that places emphasis on the hips with ruffles, folds, etc. Patterns play up the pelvic region for a modern, scientific approach to sex appeal.

Concluding thoughts, the raw deal, my uninvited two cents:

This exploration of darkness lends itself into delving into different types of darkness. Again, I’m no expert at psychology or anything of the sort, but there’s discrepancies in the exhibit and McQueen’s designs themselves, I think. The masks, for example—save for the wrapped head treatment with gold feathers and blackened tips—exuded malevolence. Something I didn’t or perhaps never saw (or chose to saw, rather, since I like to see the good in things) in McQueen. McQueen was more Tim Burton (but less optimistic? Oh god, running out of words here. Mom, if you’re reading this, can you buy me an Oxford’s thesaurus for Christmas?).

I can’t help but think McQueen deeply loved and loathed women. He never exploited a woman’s sexuality though, instead bringing to light its sensuality. But she was also a dark temptress, one that deserved to be swathed in binding, constricting, oppressing clothing. For she, he created deathly beautiful things which both accentuated her beauty while it bound and confined her.

He was a conflicted soul—that is indisputable.

“For me, what I do is an artistic expression which is channeled through me. Fashion is just the medium.”

I suppose you all want to know if this is a story of how I came in to the exhibit not thinking much of McQueen and left a changed woman, if I, like the thousands of others before me—self-professed fashion mavens and non-fashion-obsessive visitors alike, were moved by some sort of powerful emotion.

No.

I didn’t clench my jaw to withhold sobs or tears. The hologram of the woman in a dress was breathtaking, and while I felt like I should have walked away feeling vulnerable and reverential and inspired et. al., I only felt myself occupied with thoughts of (a) people are so rude these days, and children need to be taught manners and, (b) imagine that dress on a dancer!

I don’t know. Call me blasphemous. I don’t deny the beauty or creative ingenuity of Alexander McQueen. I will always respect him as an artist, but I found myself more fascinated by the inspirations behind the designs rather than the dress itself (save for a few choice pieces). I thoroughly enjoyed trying to step in his shoes and adopting his perspective—that, I loved.

Maybe I really just don’t “get” fashion. As melodramatic as I can be about “swooning” and “le-sighing” and “dying” over this and that, clothes don’t really evoke emotion in me unless it’s a piece that brings back memories. Clothes are personal, so unless I’ve worn it, I will always feel a gap in connection.

Was it worth the wait? Yes. Did it live up to its hype? Maybe.

I just felt deeply appreciative of being given the chance to see such revered a designer’s archives in person.

.   .   .

I want to hear your opinions! Agree? Disagree? I love a good discussion, always.

x

{photos of the exhibition via & their respective links; all other photos are mine}