My Time at Margiela…
For those who don’t know, I spent five years at Maison Margiela—a place less like a workplace and more like a cathedral of ideas, where philosophy seemed stitched into every seam, and garments felt more like riddles than mere clothing. But let’s rewind to the beginning, long before I donned my blouse blanche.
At 16, I was a devout follower of Margiela. Not just a fan, but the kind of obsessive acolyte who treated the Rizzoli Margiela book like a holy text. I devoured every word about the brand’s history, its codes, its ethos. Margiela wasn’t just a designer; he was a prophet who whispered questions about beauty, time, and authenticity into the fabric of his work. I was enamored and baffled in equal measure, as any teenager trying to grasp fashion at its most conceptual would be.
By 23, I found myself at Margiela—not in design (though I’d dreamed of it) but in sales. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was transformative. I had a front-row seat to a masterclass in evolution, as John Galliano, then four years into his tenure, wrestled with the monumental task of making Maison Margiela his own.
Galliano’s Margiela: A Study in Depth
From my first day, one thing was clear: Galliano understood. Not just the surface codes—the trompe l’oeil, the paint splatters, the deconstruction—but the philosophy that made those codes meaningful. Yet, irony reigned supreme. Season after season, self-proclaimed Margiela purists strolled into the boutique, scoffed at Galliano’s collections, and declared, “This isn’t Margiela.” I wanted to grab them by their monochrome lapels and ask, “Do you even know what Margiela is?”
Galliano’s Margiela wasn’t a betrayal; it was a revival. He avoided the fatal trap of post-founder brands, where designers endlessly recycle the past, rehashing “greatest hits” until the brand becomes a parody of itself (see: Helmut Lang). Instead, he leaned into Margiela’s true essence. Margiela dared to strip away the surface, revealing not beauty pristine and unspoiled, but beauty becoming—beauty imperfect, wounded, alive. Galliano honored this by evolving it.
He transformed the house’s codes into something theatrical, almost operatic, without losing their essence. Margiela’s deconstruction remained at the heart of the collections, but Galliano amplified its voice, bringing grandeur and drama into the house’s typically subdued language. He didn’t just create garments; he created spectacles, narratives that enveloped you entirely.
Of course, not everything Galliano did resonated with me. Did I think some pieces leaned too far into costume? Absolutely. Did the sizing sometimes feel downright ridiculous? All the time. There were plenty of moments when I didn’t agree with his choices, but that didn’t detract from the brilliance of his vision. Disagreement is part of the dialogue, and with Galliano, the conversation was always compelling.
The Rare Passing of the Baton
John Galliano had a rare opportunity—one that few designers ever get. He sat down with Martin Margiela himself, and the proverbial baton was passed. Famously, Margiela told Galliano: “Make this place your own.” In that moment, the foundation was laid—not for replication, but for reinvention. I imagine both men knew what many in the industry fail to grasp: you cannot replicate the singular brilliance of a Martin Margiela. To attempt it would be a fool’s errand. Margiela’s genius was singular, and any effort to mimic it would dilute the brand into irrelevance.
Instead, Galliano’s task was to honor the codes while transforming them—to embody the ethos of Margiela without being shackled by its past. It was both a blessing and a burden, but one Galliano embraced with unrelenting determination.
The Story Cut Into Cloth
What set Galliano apart was his narrative approach. His collections weren’t garments; they were riddles stitched into fabric, each piece a chapter in a larger story. He mastered a technique he called décortiqué—cutting away parts of a garment not to distress it arbitrarily but to reveal hidden layers beneath. It was more than craftsmanship; it was excavation.
Selling these pieces felt like handing over treasure maps. Every fold, every fray, every material clash demanded attention, like clues leading to a greater understanding. Galliano made you work for it, and in doing so, he made you feel it. His Margiela wasn’t a brand; it was a world, intricate and immersive, where discovery was the point.
A Conflicted Admirer
Here’s the twist: Galliano’s Margiela wasn’t my style. In five years, I bought almost nothing. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t admire it. Just because I didn’t want to live in his world didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate its architecture. His work was intentional, poetic, and brimming with love. It wasn’t my style, but it was undeniably genius. What I saw, season after season, was intention—every fold and seam a deliberate choice. Even as an outsider to his aesthetic, I learned so much. His work wasn’t for everyone, but for those it resonated with, it was nothing short of transformative.
The Dance of Opposites
Galliano’s Margiela was, at its core, a balancing act. On one side, you had Galliano himself: an English Romantic, a maximalist storyteller, a designer who reveled in drama. On the other side, you had Martin Margiela: a Belgian conceptualist, enigmatic and austere, driven by deconstruction and subversion. On paper, they couldn’t be more different.
These were not mere aesthetics; they were worldviews in conflict, each asserting its dominance, each yielding ground in turn. The paint and the polish, the deconstruction and the drama—these were not contradictions to be resolved but forces to be harmonized, to be danced.
Every collection felt like a negotiation, a choreography of contradiction. Galliano wasn’t interested in mimicking Margiela or indulging his own instincts. Instead, he sought the liminal space where their two worlds could coexist. This pursuit wasn’t just ambitious; it was near impossible. But it was precisely this tension that gave the work its meaning.
A Magnum Opus
Galliano’s final collection, Nighthawk, wasn’t just a season; it was a culmination. The garments were neither Margiela’s nor Galliano’s but something transcendent—a manifestation of the house’s eternal essence. It was a collection that did not merely balance opposing forces but unified them, striking the bullseye of harmony, the elusive thread of perfection.
For me, this collection was both an ending and a beginning. As I prepared to leave Margiela, I felt I was witnessing the culmination of Galliano’s journey—a moment of glory where his vision and Margiela’s philosophy became one. It was as if, in his final act, he had pierced through the veil of contradiction and glimpsed the eternal truth beneath.
It was also my final season at Margiela, a moment that felt almost poetic. As Galliano reached the zenith of his journey, I found my own offramp—the ink drying just as the plot found its perfect ending.
The Future of Margiela
Now, with Galliano’s departure, the question looms: what happens next? Whoever steps into his role will face the same Herculean task—honoring Margiela’s legacy without being trapped by it, forging something new without losing the house’s soul. Margiela isn’t a brand; it’s a pursuit. It demands that its stewards not just replicate its codes but understand their essence deeply enough to push them forward.
Galliano understood this better than anyone. He didn’t just inherit Margiela; he evolved it. His tenure was a testament to the power of striving—not for perfection, but for balance. It was in the pursuit of that balance, season after season, that the magic of his Margiela lived.
And for me, as I stood at the edge of my own departure, I felt grateful to have witnessed it: a fleeting moment where contradiction gave way to harmony, where the impossible became real. It was a reminder that in fashion, as in life, the dance of opposites is eternal—and it’s in that dance that meaning is made.
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