In 1978, at the tender age of 14, I won a special prize in a talent contest for young writers hosted by the British Vogue. The then-editor, Bea Miller, asked if there was anything she could do for me. Having nothing to lose, I replied, “Ideally, I’d love tickets to the next Bill Gibb fashion show.” To my astonishment, tickets were procured. In a hotel ballroom, models like Jerry Hall and Marie Helvin strutted their stuff in the foxtails, jerseys, and gleaming lace I had dreamt of, their long legs gliding down the runway, sending me to fashion nirvana.
Growing up in 70s Britain, a time of hardship with a three-day workweek, IRA bombings, and my parents’ divorce, I was captivated by the magic of fashion in its nascent years. Luckily, the new immersive exhibition opening this autumn at the Lightroom in London, “Vogue: Inventing the Runway,” recreates the shock and awe I felt back then. The exhibit delves into the history of the runway show through images and footage from different eras, showcasing Gabriel Chanel unveiling her latest creations in the 1930s, the elaborate shows of Christian Dior and Cristóbal Balenciaga in the 40s and 50s, and the edgy presentations of John Galliano and Alexander McQueen in the 90s. The exhibit also highlights the guests attending the shows, from socialites and buyers to influencers and today’s celebrities.
The display covers a broad spectrum, from the Belle Époque era when Lucile, known as Lady Duff-Gordon, captivated audiences with her unique creations for a select group of privileged individuals in England (and later France and the United States), to the global superstar designers of today. The shows of super-designers in particular have evolved into spectacles that resemble gigantic pop culture events, like Pharrell Williams’ Louis Vuitton Spring/Summer 2024 show, or otherworldly, unique locations like the Louis Vuitton Resort 2017 show directed by Nicolas Ghesquière in Rio de Janeiro.
It is worth noting that early fashion presentations were not shows at all, and even lacked the presence of humans. Before the concept of a live model wearing a garment, pioneered by Charles Frederick Worth in the 1850s (the father of fashion as we know it), fashionable women chose their clothing from miniature dolls dressed in the latest styles. Worth soon built a loyal clientele, opening his own shop and hosting presentations for aristocratic women in his private salon. Wealthy mistresses were also invited to the salon every Thursday morning (breaking this tradition was considered scandalous).
Half a century later, Gabrielle Chanel revolutionized the fashion world with the fashion show. Models (who, in the early 1920s, were high-class courtesans with a certain air of disdain) descended the lavishly decorated staircase of her salon on Rue Cambon and then strolled through the shop. The spring and autumn shows drew huge crowds from their first day onward, with identical shows occurring every day at the same time for about two weeks. However, it was in the 1940s that the fashion show became a truly global phenomenon. A young and brash Pierre Balmain, who had risen from the ranks of an assistant designer to become the first to build his own maison after working under Lucien Lelong, unveiled his first collection in 1945, a year after the war had finally ended. His designs celebrated femininity. Gertrude Stein, who sat front row with her poodle and a basket, contributed her first and last fashion critique to Vogue, praising Balmain.
But the exhilaration generated by Balmain’s debut paled in comparison to the joy with which Christian Dior, a quiet and slight man who had been a co-designer at Lucien Lelong, was celebrated. The clothes he designed at Lelong, presented in 1945 at the Théâtre de la Mode (a miniature doll-size fashion show that drew more spectators than buyers of the collections), were characterized by slim, cinched waists, soft shoulder lines, and voluminous skirts, a refreshing change from the boxy suits and simple skirts that had been the norm for so long. Then, on February 12, 1947, the Dior empire was firmly established. His Parisian headquarters on Avenue Montaigne, where numerous presentations would take place, were designed to showcase his designs, with the gray rooms exuding the chic beauty of the Belle Époque. Among the socialites eager to get a glimpse of the buzz were the Duchess of Windsor, Lady Diana Cooper, and Nancy Mitford.
Dior devotees were charming, chic, and impeccably put together (years later, the arrival of the black-haired, bob-haired Victoire Doutreleau instantly became an emblem of youthful radiance. A stark contrast to the traditional Dior girl, her clothes seemed sensationally modern).
When Dior passed away unexpectedly in 1957 at the young age of 52, his trusted right-hand man, Yves Saint Laurent, at only 21, was thrust into the spotlight, assuming responsibility for the massive maison. His collections were youthful and full of energy, achieving in two years what only a handful of designers had managed to accomplish over 30. But his Beatnik-inspired looks, introduced in the fall/winter 1960-61 collection, were inspired by the existentialists congregating on the Left Bank of the Seine in Paris, and were harshly criticized for not conforming to the sacred Dior aesthetic. The Dior maison, which had once helped Saint Laurent avoid being drafted into the military, didn’t hesitate to banish him (it should be noted that this period also saw the dawn of shows that pushed boundaries, a trend that would soon become commonplace).
Saint Laurent went on to strike out on his own, assuming control of his own maison in December 1961 with the help of his lover, Pierre Bergé, and his muse, Doutreleau. His early collections, presented in the former home of the Impressionist painter Jean-Louis Forain, known for his edgy style, exemplified the epitome of elegance. But by 1966, he had grown tired of the fact that haute couture only appealed to a select group of extremely wealthy customers, and launched the Rive Gauche prêt-à-porter collection. His unadorned simple pieces in vibrant colors captured the powerful mood of young people driving social change, a spirit quickly echoed by Courrèges and Paco Rabanne (the former had been a tailor for Balenciaga, while the latter had created beautiful buttons for Balenciaga). At Courrèges’ shows, models with the youthful innocence of a Françoise Hardy, such as Françoise Ardhuy, sported flat chests, miniskirts, and childishly styled wigs, and, accompanied by a jazz soundtrack, expressed a new mood. The clean lines of his clothing were sharp, lacking any curves whatsoever (think of the films “Potiche” and “Belle de Jour”).
For Saint Laurent, a whole new group of young customers (and their entourage) emerged. One can only imagine how different these women—Catherine Deneuve, Betty Catroux, Paloma Picasso, Marisa Berenson, Nan Kempner, Loulou de la Falaise—were from those who had worn his clothes during the Dior years. Eventually, the excitement spilled over into the couture world. Decades later, long after Saint Laurent had retired, I sat with Deneuve, awaiting the start of a Gaultier couture show, the time of which remained a mystery. Deneuve, impeccably dressed as a couture client should be, suddenly let out a piercing, spine-chilling shriek, like a Moorish woman announcing a wedding or a funeral. The Gaultier show began immediately afterward.
Meanwhile, Halston embodied the New York air and runway of the 1970s. His showroom at Olympic Tower in Midtown Manhattan attracted his friends, including Bianca Jagger, Andy Warhol, and Jacqueline Kennedy, all impeccably dressed, not to be outdone by the “Halstonettes” who walked the runway, such as Pat Cleveland, Karen Bjornson, and Anjelica Huston.
I first visited New York for a show in 1986, a year in which Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, and Perry Ellis were the main attractions, but Halston, who had been hailed as the god of American fashion not too long before, was by then a shadow of his former self, his business having crumbled. Two years later, he would vanish from the scene due to complications from AIDS. The Perry Ellis show in the fall/winter 1986-87 season was energetic and fun, but Ellis, weakened and emaciated, had to be carried onto the stage by two assistants at the end of the show to give his final bow. He passed away three weeks later.
Designers like Oscar de la Renta, Bill Blass, and Carolyn Roehm showed their collections to Upper East Side ladies. Clients such as Brooke Astor, Nancy Kissinger, and Barbara Walters all attended the shows dressed in their favorite pieces from previous seasons.
London in the 80s was, needless to say, a hotbed of talent and wild exuberance. I attended shows fully decked out in John Galliano—men’s skirts, cropped jackets, oversized shirts made of dyed patches of cotton—a look that caught everyone’s attention. From the brand BodyMap, David Holah and Stevie Stewart presented cutting-edge and magical collections—leggings, Hilde Smith patterns, Lycra tops, and silhouettes so large they encompassed every size—with choreographer Michael Clark leading a large crew to create shows filled with friends and family members of all ages. Lee Bowery, a performer who came from the sunshine of Australia, conquered the Cha Cha Club and Camden Palace in no time, and in 1985, opened Taboo. The club was called Taboo because there were no taboos there. His fashion was outrageous self-expression, and the shows were a wild spectacle, the audience going crazy. Lee reveled in the confusion of gender, and his world, both on and off the runway, was wild, scandalous, and brilliant. His art and fashion reflected his life and community.
When John Galliano was about to graduate from Central Saint Martins as a fashion illustrator, his design professor, Sheridan Barnett, was so captivated by his graduate thesis illustrations that she convinced him to actually make them and present them in a show. What resulted was the show “Les Incroyables,” which lasted only three or four minutes but remains forever etched in my mind. In it, his friends and other striking figures he had encountered during his travels ranted and raved, releasing a torrent of extreme energy, much like the French revolutionaries. The collection sold out in Brown’s, with Barbra Streisand and Diana Ross among its first patrons.
While Britain was at the time a force to be reckoned with in terms of ideas, innovation, and creativity, it was a disaster in business. Galliano eventually relocated to Paris. In that Paris, in the 80s, was Karl Lagerfeld, witty, effervescent, and exquisitely refined. “I am a working-class man,” Lagerfeld said, and it was true. In the early 80s, he was constantly on the go, working nonstop for Chloé (for which he had been designing since the 60s), and of course for Chanel, which he took over in 1983, working 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. At the time, Chanel was a shadow of its former self. The models were dull, and the clientele, while wealthy, didn’t wear the latest styles. Lagerfeld transformed that situation, both in the studio and on the runway. Inès de la Fressange, tall, slim, and aristocratic, became his muse, eventually surpassing all others. However, by the late 80s, her reign was over, replaced by Victoire de Castellane, a model with a voluptuous body, a black bustle, and a corset. She was charming and popular. Lagerfeld would go on to use every top model on the runway, but he made special, low-heeled shoes for Claudia Schiffer because she couldn’t handle the towering heels that seasoned runway models wore.
In 1984, I saw my first Chanel couture show. The grand public show took place at the Paris Opera, but the ticket I had gotten was for a show that would be held in the Rue Cambon boutique after the main show. The clothes were different from anything else, but they felt a bit stiff. However, I went on to see almost every haute couture and prêt-à-porter show Lagerfeld designed for Chanel, and I was quickly mesmerized. His ideas were endless, and he knew how to keep things fresh. He reconstructed the show experience with astonishing staging, like the surprising 2014-15 fall/winter “supermarket” collection, where he created a supermarket set with hundreds of products, each with its own specially designed label, and then sent out women dressed in the latest creations.
The same could be said for Gianni Versace, who in the late 80s switched from mannequin-like runway models to those who graced the pages of high-fashion magazines. Versace’s shows became more about showcasing Christy, Naomi, Linda, and Cindy wearing the clothes than the clothes themselves. Music played on the runway, and the shows transformed from fashion industry events into cultural events, as you can see from the fall/winter 1991-92 Versace show in which the four models mouthed George Michael’s “Freedom! ’90.”
Then there was Christian Lacroix. His magical couture shows, which lasted only about 45 minutes (Saint Laurent’s shows were two hours long), had my colleagues and me clapping in a daze at every dress unveiled, throwing the crimson carnations that the maison had placed on our chairs when Lacroix triumphantly emerged. Ironically, it was Lacroix, whose work and thought process were the polar opposite of those of Helmut Lang, who introduced me to Lang. I went to see Lang’s creations, slightly bewildered, and chose a linen trachoma jacket with mismatched buttons for a photoshoot. By the 90s, however, Lang had come into his own as a designer. His shows featured male and female models appearing on the runway like robots, walking away with machine-like precision. It was a completely new way to showcase unadorned, simple clothes. Calvin Klein and his wife, Kelly, were mesmerized by the show, and Klein did the same thing with his clothing the following season. The Calvin Klein runway, once populated by supermodels, was now occupied by cool women with their hair pulled back and natural makeup. One of them, needless to say, was Kate Moss.
I missed Martin Margiela’s first show and rushed to his showroom, which was located far from the center of town, where a crowd of people in white coats talked excitedly, as if they had just discovered a priceless work of art, about the astounding creations. I managed to catch his next show, but I found his clothes impenetrable, and I much preferred Lacroix’s wide-brimmed hats. The models were stoic and didn’t look particularly glamorous, but I reluctantly acknowledged the compelling aura of the clothes. Eventually, it was impossible not to notice the four distinctive stitches on the back of his designs, as worn by the fashionistas who thronged to his shows.
In the 90s, Alexander McQueen, with his outré shows that were more sensational than seductive, exploded onto the scene. McQueen’s shows had a feeling of foreboding about them. They made me feel uneasy, wondering what kind of mishap might occur with his embodiment of fantasy. In 20 years of attending shows, I had never experienced anything like it. He brought his fall/winter 1996-97 show to New York to introduce the American public to his latest work. It had been previously shown in London at Christ Church Spitalfields, and had elicited both fierce criticism and praise. Hundreds of people crowded outside the closed synagogue where it was being held, a chaotic scene as many were unable to get in. The collection featured pants with a low waist that revealed the hips, bodices with unfinished edges, and lace hoods. McQueen continued to create shows that changed the mind, such as the spring/summer 1999 collection in which robots sprayed Shalom Harlow, who was dressed in a bouncy dress, with spray paint, and the spring/summer 2001 collection, which was staged in an insane asylum. The spring/summer 2005 collection featured a show titled “It’s Only a Game,” with models transformed into chess pieces.
Meanwhile, John Galliano, a man of mad talent (and often provocative), had been presenting remarkable collections in Paris, but he had no funds to put a collection together for the fall/winter 1994-95 season and intended to skip the show. But three weeks before the start of the season, André Leon Talley urged Galliano that if he didn’t do a show, he would lose his audience and have to shut down his shop. Galliano, haunted by Talley’s words, put a collection together, and somehow managed to procure funding and models (Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell, Christy Turlington, Helena Christensen, and Linda Evangelista all volunteered their services), as well as a stunning location: the magnificent 17th-century Hôtel de Saint-Sulpice. His subsequent success is well known, as he moved from Givenchy to Dior. I was enthralled by all his collections. His first couture show for Givenchy was a magical opening, with models dressed in voluminous ball gowns inspired by Worth, standing on mountains of mattresses, with the music (by DJ Jeremy Healy) creating a thrilling atmosphere. Later, the show only got more lavish, thanks to the brilliant stage that was Dior.
John Galliano’s eponymous shows were equally astonishing, with women emerging from vintage cars in suits from the 1950s for the spring/summer 1995 collection, and then walking around on snow-covered Parisian rooftops for the fall/winter 1995-96 collection.
There were designers, like the Cypriot-British Hussein Chalayan, who brought an extraordinary intellect to the fashion world. When he had just graduated from Central Saint Martins, I instructed Anna Wintour to go see this rising star, but I should have thought twice. To reach his office, located high above the street, one had to climb an extremely dangerous staircase made of metal grates outdoors, and I should have warned Wintour to avoid wearing Manolo heels. Chalayan’s publicist, a talkative Glaswegian, explained in a thick accent how Chalayan had buried his graduation collection clothes underground. Wintour was completely flummoxed, unable to understand what he was saying. But by the year 2000, she had become a fan of Chalayan. In the fall/winter 2000-01 show, Natalia Semanova stood in a hole cut in the center of a 1950s coffee table, and the show closed with her pulling up the edges of the hole and wearing them like a stiff skirt.
Just a few years earlier, Prada and Gucci emerged as the fierce rivals who divided Milan Fashion Week in two. In the fall/winter 1995-96 season, Tom Ford unveiled a stunning collection for Gucci, inspired by the 1970s, which made me think of the thrilling nights at Studio 54. Ford’s name became synonymous with Gucci, with gorgeously dressed men and women bathed in spotlights on the jet-black runway. In the same season, Miuccia Prada presented polished clothes with a 1960s vibe. The sleek tailoring and the models’ uniform appearance looked magnificent on the white runway. Milan was buzzing with excitement, as if to say, “Take your pick.”
Runway shows had evolved from simply presenting clothes to becoming a powerful tool for promoting brands and solidifying their positions. Outside, fans went wild, behaving like members of a cult. It was actually extremely difficult to get into the Gucci show at the time.
In America, the front row of shows became filled with actresses and socialites instead of simply buyers and fashion editors (later, these stars were paid for their appearances). Front-row guests sometimes attended morning shows in evening gowns (wearing shoes that had been shown on the runway), as exemplified by Tinsley Mortimer in the early 2000s. By the fall of 2008, fashion bloggers were not only attending shows but also taking front-row seats, as at the Dolce & Gabbana show, for example. I was taken aback by this situation, but after taking a breath, I considered the role they played. Yes, they were connected to millions of fashion-crazed kids. In October 2018, when Valentino and the designer at the time, Pierpaolo Piccioli, invited fashion-related press to Tokyo to showcase their latest resort collection, the bloggers had a completely different Valentino handler than the traditional media journalists and myself. They were experts at creating visual-led experiences, which digital journalists replicated in real time. I found it fascinating. Soon, photographers specializing in street snaps, like Scott Schuman and Phil Oh, began photographing influencers on their way to shows. It was as if the ordinary people attending the shows had become more important than the people on the runway.
Nowadays, I can go to any show. From Marc Jacobs’ fall/winter 2012-13 Louis Vuitton show, in which the models emerged on a glamorous set riding steam locomotives, to Rick Owens’ spring/summer 2014 show, which featured a casting of tough, scowling dancers, to Jonathan Anderson’s Loewe fall/winter 2024-25 show, with its humorous menswear, and the final year presentations of Central Saint Martins’ students.
But the moment when the first look appears on the runway is always exhilarating, innovative, and revelatory. It’s common knowledge that thousands of people are watching shows simultaneously from their homes or offices. But there’s an indescribable something that you can only feel by being there, touching and breathing the air. A magical something descends upon you. It doesn’t matter how jaded you are, how difficult it is to get to the venue, or how tired you are of fashion. Seeing a show live is different. It’s magic.
