Savage Beauty

I like risk takers and am generally drawn to people who are a bit nuts-o, so I was excited as I headed into the city to see the Alexander McQueen show at the Met. Mr. McQueen was a whack-a-doo couture-clothing designer and the Met has a retrospective of his most outlandish work entitled “Savage Beauty” up through August 7th of this year. I was not an ardent disciple of Mr. McQueen’s and cannot recall his clothes by name, but was just aware enough of his work that I would smile when I caught a photo of his runway show in the paper; of a model wearing resin antlers, or a headpiece swirling with dozens of bright red butterflies completely obscuring her face.

I say “was” because he recently took his own life at the age of 40 and so my girlfriend and I talked about suicide as we waited in line for 35 minutes on the second floor of the Met, ruminating over what drives a person to that daunting brink then tips them over the edge when so many step back. As we chatted we shuffled past pearly white busts of daydreaming Greek gods and the achingly tender embraces of Rodin’s naked lovers. It occurred to me that daydreaming and kissing are two of life’s greatest pleasures and excellent reasons to ride out the most hopeless seeming storm. I wished Mr. McQueen could have held on.

Entering the exhibit was like entering a spooky ride. The sounds of winter wind and labored breathing curled up our legs and hovered above us, reminding me of the old haunted house Halloween album that my dad used to play for trick-or-treaters. It was a fitting introduction to the two pieces of eye-candy that greeted us; one, a long, clingy red dress covered in cascades of rectangular, glass, medical slides painted red; and the other, a floor-length, regal, sleeveless number comprised entirely of layered rows of hanging polished and varnished razor clam shells which, when worn, would give the aural impression of Neptune’s wife sidling up next to you like Mae West. Clearly, we were in for a treat.

Turning a corner, we were introduced to a young Alexander’s graduation collection from fashion school in London. So impressive was his novice work that the collection was purchased on the spot in its entirety by renowned fashionista, Isabella Blow. I could see why: Mr. McQueen had turned the women’s suit jacket on its head. Lapels dipped and meandered along shoulders and chest giving the jackets an understated whimsy, downplayed by the seriousness of the somber black wool. Occasional placards with quotes from McQueen reminded us that he drew great strength from powerful women and was thrilled by the discomfort he imposed on the fashion voyeur every time he put forth a female model as steely and unforgiving as an evil empress.

Knocking and barking, scraping and creaking, the Edgar Allen Poe audio accompanied us into the next room where we were introduced to a more Nine Inch Nails McQueen as renegade recycler, spinning found objects into object d’arts. The skulls of vultures and small alligator heads perched upon molded black leather shoulders as epaulets. Horse hair and shiny black duck feathers made their way onto the silks of gothic gowns. Repeatedly we were reminded that McQueen saw himself as a romantic, but these were no teddy bear infested, heart-shaped confections. McQueen was hell bent on exploring the dark, forbidden corners of romanticism usually conjured by David Lynch or Tim Burton; panicked lovers chased by the gnashing teeth of rabid wolves in murky, moonlit forests—that sort of romance.

The next room was a cavernous visual carnival of his most bizarre and outlandish accessories interspersed with TV monitors showing loops of memorable moments from his infamously dramatic runway shows. Metal spines, alien-type serpents and tails made of brass and steel hugged mannequins next to images of models being soaked by wind and rain or dripping in red bugle beads ringed by actual flames of fire. I cracked up at the earrings made of real pheasant claws holding dripping lengths of pearls between their talons, and the leather high heels molded at the toe to look like bare feet. There were the breast-plates made of molded glass and balsa wood, and the majestic headdresses of drift wood, birds nests and bonsai carved cork. There were the impossible looking, metal-studded and jewel encrusted, high-heeled hoof shoes, worn by Lady Gaga as only she can. And there was the crowd: reverent and agape at the imagination and artistry; energized by the macabre audacity.

I was giddy to learn we still had eight rooms to go. There were a few eight-year-olds in the room and I predicted they’d have a nightmares before morning. There was the conservative looking older man in his seventies who had hired a private guide to explain the show to he, his wife and grandson. They looked very mid-west, with their khaki pants and pastel golf shirts, but I fully respected them for wanting to know about this madman. The grandfather leaned in to hear every word the guide said about passion and misunderstanding, genius ignoring boundaries, and I hoped that my intellectual curiosity would be as open-minded thirty years from now. Curiously, although it seemed in life Mr. McQueen sought to push and provoke, in death everyone was invited in. His clothes did not shirk or slink and neither did his ideas or the women he envisioned wearing them. He was a master craftsman of pomp and creepiness. I’m sorry for the fashion world’s loss and glad we had him for as long as we did.