In 1978, at the tender age of 14, I found myself swept up in the dazzling world of fashion. Having won a special mention in British Vogue’s annual talent contest for young writers, I was granted a dream come true – a ticket to the Bill Gibb fashion show. There, in a hotel ballroom, I witnessed the magic firsthand, mesmerized by the long-legged models strutting in clothes that were pure fantasy, a symphony of foxtails, jersey, and shimmering lace. Growing up in the tumultuous Britain of the 70s, with its three-day workweeks, IRA bombings, and my parents’ divorce, fashion offered an escape, a world of beauty and wonder. It was a world I was about to rediscover, thanks to a remarkable new immersive exhibition at London’s Lightroom.
This fall, “Vogue: Inventing the Runway” will open its doors, transporting visitors through time with captivating film and images. From the elegant creations of Gabrielle Chanel in the 1930s to the daring edginess of John Galliano and Lee McQueen in the 1990s, the exhibition charts the evolution of the runway show, a spectacle that has captivated the world for over a century.
The show’s narrative weaves together the stories of iconic designers and influential attendees, from socialites to the all-important store buyers, influencers, and celebrities. It begins with Lucile, Lady Duff Gordon, a visionary who wowed Belle Époque Britain (and France, and America) with her whimsical creations, showcased only to a select few. Fast forward to today, and superstar designers like Pharrell Williams and Nicolas Ghesquière create global pop culture events, pushing the boundaries of fashion with spectacle, destination, and imagination.
The first fashion presentations were far from the grand spectacles we know today. In the 1850s, Charles Frederick Worth, the father of modern fashion, introduced the revolutionary concept of showcasing designs on living women. Before this, fashionable women relied on miniature dolls to visualize their potential garments. Worth’s private salon presentations drew a discerning clientele of blue-blooded ladies and opulent demimondaines, each Thursday morning.
Gabrielle Chanel arrived on the scene half a century later, transforming the fashion world with her shows. In the early 1920s, courtesans, with their captivating air of sophistication, descended the stairs and strode through Chanel’s lavishly decorated Rue Cambon salons, captivating the audience with their elegance.
The 1940s witnessed the birth of the truly global fashion show phenomenon. Pierre Balmain, a talented young designer from the countryside, broke away from the established house of Lucien Lelong to create his own brand. His first collection, presented in 1945, was a triumphant celebration of femininity after the war years. The iconic Gertrude Stein, front-row with her beloved poodle, Basket, penned a glowing review in Vogue, her first and only foray into fashion criticism.
But Balmain’s debut was overshadowed by the euphoria surrounding Christian Dior, his former codesigner at Lelong. Dior’s creations, as showcased in the 1945 Théâtre de la Mode (a miniature doll-scaled fashion show), were a breath of fresh air, offering a stark contrast to the boxy suits and abbreviated skirts of the war years. His designs, with their tiny waists, soft shoulders, and full skirts, exuded a captivating femininity. In February 1947, the House of Dior was born, its polished headquarters on the Avenue Montaigne a perfect reflection of the elegance of its clothes. The Duchess of Windsor, Lady Diana Cooper, and Nancy Mitford were among the socialites who flocked to Dior’s presentations, eager to witness the magic firsthand.
Dior’s untimely death in 1957 at the young age of 52 thrust his trusted deputy, Yves Saint Laurent, into the spotlight. At just 21, he inherited the mantle of the immense house, his collections imbued with youthfulness and a vibrant spirit. In just two years, he accomplished more than some designers achieved in a lifetime. However, his fall 1960 Beat show, inspired by the Parisian Left Bank’s existentialists, proved to be too much for the traditional world of Dior. The house, which had previously helped Saint Laurent avoid military service, had no qualms about seeing him go. This show served as a harbinger of the fashion show’s evolving role as a platform for provocation, a trend that would soon become increasingly prevalent.
By December 1961, Saint Laurent was leading his own house, backed by the support of his partner, Pierre Bergé, and his muse, Victoire Doutreleau. His first collections, shown in the former home of Jean-Louis Forain, an Impressionist artist known for his risqué works, were the epitome of good taste. However, in 1966, weary of the haute couture’s exclusivity, he launched his ready-to-wear Rive Gauche collections, capturing the spirit of the youthquake with their unfussy styles and vibrant colors.
Saint Laurent’s bold vision was echoed by Courrèges and Paco Rabanne, both of whom were breaking new ground in fashion. Courrèges, a former tailor at Balenciaga, presented collections featuring girl-women like Françoise Hardy, their bosoms crushed, skirts short, and wigs in childish bunches. Their shows, set to a jazzy soundtrack, reflected the era’s youthful energy and playful spirit. Everything was sharply tailored, devoid of curves, mirroring the avant-garde aesthetics of films like “Qui Êtes-Vous, Polly Maggoo?” and “Blow-Up.”
Saint Laurent’s new clientele was a far cry from the women he had dressed at Dior. Catherine Deneuve, Betty Catroux, Paloma Picasso, Marisa Berenson, Nan Kempner, and Loulou de la Falaise brought a new sense of style and sophistication to the couture. Their presence transformed the fashion landscape, ushering in a new era of chic. Decades later, while waiting for a Gaultier couture show to begin, Deneuve, a picture of elegance, let out a bone-chilling shriek, a moment of unexpected, theatrical energy that perfectly encapsulated her captivating personality.
In 1970s New York, Halston was the embodiment of the era’s style and the runway’s allure. His Olympic Tower showroom in midtown Manhattan was a magnet for the city’s elite, attracting Bianca Jagger, Andy Warhol, and Jacqueline Kennedy, among many others. His Halstonettes, including Pat Cleveland, Karen Bjornson, and Anjelica Huston, were the epitome of glamour, mirroring the immaculate style of the crowd that filled his shows.
When I first arrived in New York for the fashion shows in 1986, the stars were Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, and Perry Ellis. Halston, once a fashion icon, was facing a tumultuous period, and within two years, his health would begin to deteriorate due to AIDS-related complications. Perry Ellis’s fall 1986 show was a celebration of verve and fun, but when he appeared at the end to take his bow, frail and emaciated, he had to be carried out by two assistants. He died three weeks later.
Meanwhile, designers like Oscar de la Renta, Bill Blass, and Carolyne Roehm presented their collections to their Upper East Side ladies – Brooke Astor, Nancy Kissinger, Barbara Walters – all arriving in the season’s key pieces, demonstrating their impeccable style and influence.
In 1980s London, fashion was a melting pot of talent and vibrant energy. I found myself clad in John Galliano’s avant-garde designs for a fashion show – a men’s skirt, a cropped jacket, and an oversized shirt crafted from patchwork cotton, a striking testament to his unconventional style. David Holah and Stevie Stewart were creating innovative designs with BodyMap, their creations featuring leggings, patterns by Hilde Smith, Lycra tops, and oversized shapes that embraced all sizes.
Choreographer Michael Clark led their large crew in shows that were filled with friends and family of all ages, a testament to their inclusive approach to fashion. Leigh Bowery arrived from Sunshine, Australia, and quickly took the London scene by storm, conquering the Cha Cha Club and the Camden Palace. In 1985, he opened Taboo, a space where anything went, where the audience was as uninhibited as the performances. Bowery’s fashion was a bold statement, his shows a riot of creativity and unbridled expression. He embraced gender fluidity, and his world, both on and off the runway, was wild, scandalous, and fabulous, reflecting the vibrant and unconventional spirit of his art and fashion.
John Galliano was about to graduate from Saint Martins as a fashion illustrator when his tutor, Sheridan Barnett, was captivated by his collection of degree drawings. Barnett convinced Galliano to present his designs in a show, and the result was Les Incroyables. Despite its brevity, lasting only three or four minutes, this show left an indelible mark on my memory, with its cast of friends and striking figures, their energy erupting like French revolutionaries. Galliano’s collection sold out at Browns, with Barbra Streisand and Diana Ross among the first customers to embrace his unique vision.
While Britain thrived on ideas, innovation, and creativity, it struggled commercially. Galliano eventually made his way to Paris, where he arrived during a golden era for fashion. Paris in the 1980s meant Karl Lagerfeld – witty, sophisticated, and incredibly dedicated. “I am working class,” he declared, and it was true. He worked tirelessly, from the early 1980s at Chloé, where he had been designing since the 1960s, and then at Chanel, which he took over in 1983. At the time, Chanel was a shadow of its former self, its models uninspired, and its clientele wealthy women who were not interested in the latest trends. Lagerfeld transformed Chanel, both in the atelier and on the runway.
Inès de la Fressange, with her slender figure, became Lagerfeld’s muse, eclipsing all other models. By the late 1980s, however, she was replaced by Victoire de Castellane, a vibrant and playful model known for her black bustles and corsets. Lagerfeld used all the top models on his runway, even commissioning special low-heel shoes for Claudia Schiffer, who found the towering heights of the usual runway footwear difficult to handle. I attended my first Chanel couture show in 1984, and although the public-facing spectacle was held at the Paris Opera, my ticket was for a later showing at Rue Cambon.
The clothes, while somewhat hard-edged, were unlike anything else I had seen. Over time, I was completely captivated by Lagerfeld’s haute couture and prêt-à-porter collections for Chanel, his endless stream of ideas and his knack for keeping audiences guessing. He reimagined the fashion show experience with phenomenal productions, such as the incredible “supermarket” show (fall 2014), featuring hundreds of products, each with its own specially designed label, and the models showcasing the latest Chanel designs.
Gianni Versace followed a similar path, transforming his shows in the late 1980s. He replaced runway mannequins with supermodels who ignited the pages of fashion magazines. Versace’s shows became less about the clothes and more about the iconic models who wore them – Christy, Naomi, Linda, and Cindy. The music on the runway, such as the memorable moment when the supermodels sang George Michael’s “Freedom! ’90” in the fall 1991 Versace show, transformed the fashion show from a mere industry event into a cultural phenomenon.
Christian Lacroix’s magical couture shows were a little over three-quarters of an hour long, a stark contrast to Saint Laurent’s two-hour presentations. My colleagues and I would erupt in ecstatic applause as each dress made its debut, throwing deep crimson carnations, thoughtfully provided by the house, when Lacroix emerged in triumph. Ironically, given their vastly different styles, it was Lacroix who introduced me to Helmut Lang. I went to see Lang’s work, somewhat bemused, and eventually chose a linen tracht jacket adorned with mismatched buttons for a shoot.
By the 1990s, Lang was the designer to watch. His models walked the runway like automatons, moving with a robotic precision that was a stark departure from the usual fashion show presentations. Calvin Klein and his wife, the lovely Kelly, were captivated by Lang’s approach, and the following season, Klein presented his clothes in the same manner. The supermodels who had once ignited Klein’s runway were replaced by a new breed of cool girls, with their hair scraped back and their makeup minimal. Kate Moss, of course, was one of them.
When I missed Martin Margiela’s first show, I rushed to his far-flung showroom, where a team of people in white coats guided me through the astonishing pieces, an experience akin to discovering a rare work of art. I attended his next show, but his clothes, although undeniably intriguing, were baffling. Give me a Lacroix broadbrim hat any day. However, I had to acknowledge the undeniable allure of his designs, even as his models appeared nonchalant, their appearances less meticulously constructed than those of other designers. Soon, I couldn’t help but notice the telltale four stitches that appeared on the back of his creations on the fashionistas who attended his shows, a signature element of Margiela’s designs.
The 1990s also saw the emergence of Lee “Alexander” McQueen, a young designer who burst onto the scene with a forcefulness that was both thrilling and unsettling. His shows were incendiary, leaving audiences both enthralled and unnerved. His unconventional designs and theatrical presentations were unlike anything I had experienced in 20 years of attending fashion shows. He presented his fall 1996 collection in New York, having already premiered it at Christ Church Spitalfields to a mix of outrage and acclaim.
The show was chaotic, with hundreds of people turned away from the disused synagogue venue. Inside, the clothes were a bold statement of rebellion, featuring bumsters, hacked-away bodices, and lace wimples. McQueen continued to create mind-altering shows, including the iconic moment when Shalom Harlow was painted by robots, her dress unfurling around her (Spring 1999); the insane asylum show (Spring 2001); and It’s Only a Game, featuring models as chess pieces (Spring 2005).
The immensely talented and often provocative Galliano had delivered several remarkable collections in Paris. However, with no money to produce a show, he was facing the possibility of missing his fall 1994 presentation. Three weeks before the show, André Leon Talley told him that if he didn’t show, the world would lose interest, and he might as well give up.
Fueled by Talley’s words, Galliano created a collection, secured funding, and assembled an extraordinary cast of models – Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell, Christy Turlington, Helena Christensen, and Linda Evangelista all volunteered their time to support him. He found a breathtaking venue, São Schlumberger’s 17th-century house, and the rest, as they say, is history. Givenchy and then Dior followed. I was captivated by each collection, from the magical opening of his first Givenchy couture show, featuring women in grand Worth-inspired ball gowns perched on a pile of fairytale mattresses, set to an incendiary soundtrack by DJ Jeremy Healy, to his tenure at Dior, each show more extravagant than the last. His John Galliano shows, presented under his own name, were equally remarkable, from women in 1950s suits amid vintage cars (Spring 1995) to models traversing the snowy rooftops of Paris (Fall 1995).
Other designers, like the British Cypriot Hussein Chalayan, brought a compelling sense of intellectual wonder to the fashion world. I sent Anna Wintour to see the wunderkind shortly after his graduation from Central Saint Martins. I should have been more cautious, though, particularly regarding the perilous outdoor metal grid steps leading up to his studio, a treacherous path for Manolo heels. Chalayan’s Glaswegian public relations person, speaking nineteen to the dozen in a thick accent, explained how Chalayan had buried the clothes from his graduate collection. Anna, bewildered, was nonetheless intrigued. By 2000, Wintour was a devoted fan of Chalayan’s work.
His fall 2000 show ended with Natalia Semanova stepping onto a 1950s coffee table and pulling it up around her, transforming it into a stiff skirt. This innovative and unexpected moment perfectly captured Chalayan’s unique vision and his ability to push the boundaries of fashion.
Just a few years earlier, Prada and Gucci emerged as the dueling rivals of Milan Fashion Week. For fall 1995, Tom Ford presented his electrifying 1970s-inspired collection for Gucci in a show that evoked the thrilling energy of Studio 54. Ford’s name became synonymous with Gucci, his shows featuring gorgeous men and women spotlit against a black runway.
For the same season, Miuccia Prada showcased sleek 1960s-inspired clothes, clean, tailored, and presented with uniformity against a white runway. Milan was the epicenter of fashion, where runway shows had evolved beyond mere presentations into powerful marketing and branding tools. Gucci shows in particular attracted throngs of dedicated fans, creating a cult-like atmosphere. Gaining entry to a Gucci show during this period was a coveted accomplishment.
In America, the front rows of fashion shows began to fill with actresses and socialites, a departure from the traditional audience of buyers and fashion editors. These stars were often paid to attend, adding a new dimension of celebrity to the fashion world. They might be wearing full evening dress at the designers’ morning shows, their shoes freshly off the runway – think Tinsley Mortimer in the early 2000s.
By the autumn of 2008, fashion bloggers were no longer mere attendees at fashion shows; they were front-row guests at Dolce & Gabbana, a testament to the increasing influence of digital media in the fashion landscape. Initially surprised by this shift, I soon recognized the significant role they played in reaching millions of fashion-obsessed individuals.
When Valentino and designer Pierpaolo Piccioli brought the fashion press to Tokyo in October 2018 to showcase their latest resort collection, the bloggers were assigned their own Valentino minders, distinct from the conventional journalists, creating a visually driven experience that digital journalists reproduced in real time.
Street style photographers like Scott Schuman and Phil Oh were capturing influencers en route to the shows, and in some cases, the crowd began to seem even more important than the clothes on the runway.
In our current era, one attends a fashion show – be it Marc Jacobs (his Louis Vuitton fall 2012 show, featuring a train carrying models into view), Rick Owens (Spring 2014, with a cast of formidable grit-faced dancers), Loewe (Jonathan Anderson’s antic menswear of fall 2024), the final year presentations at Central Saint Martins, or countless others – and the first look to appear on the runway is captivating, innovative, and revelatory.
One knows that thousands of people are watching the show simultaneously from their homes or offices, but there is still something indescribable, something tangible and unforgettable about being there in that moment, experiencing the rush of something magical. Who cares about the exhaustion of getting there, the pain of travel, or the fatigue of the fashion world? One has seen the show.
Vogue: Inventing the Runway
, from October 25, 2024 to March 30, 2025, at the Lightroom in London.Photographer: Mikael Jansson
Stylist: IB Kamara
Hair: Eugene Souleiman
Makeup: Karin Westerlund
Manicurist: Ama Quashie
Set design: Samuel Overs
Tailor: Michelle Warner
Production: Erin Fee Productions
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