I’ve always felt really drawn to Lee McQueen - or as much as I ever knew of him.
As for the clothes? I thought they were amazing too, just not really up my alley. I found them too new romantic / Taboo club / Leigh Bowery and that whole mid-80s vibe for my personal tastes. In my head I’d clearly catalogued him, along with Galliano, as the naughty-boy younger siblings of Westwood. McQueen shorthand went along the lines of: tailoring, Savile Row, outrage, the Prince Charles legend-in-the-lining, cultural magpie, fashion-as-body-armour.
I only went to the V&A exhibition really just to tick my own boxes, but was blown away instead.
The full-on exposure to the McQueen archive left me elated by his ecstasies of imagination and folly; the incredible sharpness and wit of his cut; the subversion; the knowledge of fashion and political history and the extraordinary breadth of influences on display, from the classical beauty of kimonos to his eerie, fairytale takes on Nature and love of the grotesque: from reptile skin and builder’s bums to fetishist masks and medical equipment.
The dress of razor clam shells took my breath away.