Loving the fashionista that refused to love life anymore.
Ever since famed British designer Alexxander McQueen committed suicide last week, coincidentally the day NY fashion week started and a month just before we was take over the Parisian runways the flowers gathering at his NY store at 417 west 14th st have been accumulating.
No one can really be sure why he took his life, whether it was because of his mother’s death on February the 2nd after a long fight with illness, or whether the woman who helped him get him to where he is today committed herself suicide in May 2007.
Of course this sense of macabre was always present in Mr McQueen’s clothes, the edgy, the goth, the diabolical. It’s what we loved about him, even if that’s what he ultimately hated about himself.
In the end, it’s all perverse and as NY Fashion week continues trudging along, with the requisite celebrity parading and skinny models with dour pouts we can walk along on West 14th st and momentarily reflect on a gentleman who was positively able to influence fashion even if in the end it perhaps wasn’t the most positive influence in his own life.