Although I had admired his work for years, I first met Azzedine Alaïa in July 2015, in Rome, where his work was exhibited at the city’s Galleria Borghese, alongside works by Caravaggio and Bernini. It was remarkably curated, situating Alaïa velvet dresses in deep ecclesiastical shades of imperial purple and cardinal red alongside Caravaggio works featuring the same, or placing his crocodile jackets in natural shades of taupe or grey alongside almost-matching variegated marble busts, so you couldn’t tell where the fashion ended and the art began. Alaïa’s works seamlessly integrated into that collection of Renaissance masterpieces - although Azzedine said he felt it was ‘dangerous’ to put work like this. He was probably the only person who thought like that. Amongst fashion designers, Alaïa was the only one who could live up to that kind of company. Now, there is no-one.
Azzedine Alaïa was late for that first interview. He was seated off to the left of the Borghese, in a room filled with the aforementioned Caravaggios. He didn’t want to be interviewed - during the press preview, he had hidden (behind people, and also a small table). He especially didn’t want to be interviewed in English - Azzedine didn’t speak it, although he could sing Big Spender, and did so for me once, later, late at night in his kitchen. That’s when we had become friends, and not just interviewer and interviewee. Azzedine told the story of that first meeting to a few people, when I was there - ‘there was some kind of humour there,’ he said. ‘I saw that in you, and I liked it. And so I did your interview, and then I cancelled all the others!’
About halfway through the interview, after teasing me and after I apologised for asking him questions everyone had asked a million times before, Azzedine stopped me. ‘Azzedine says your questions are good,’ said Caroline Fabre-Bazin, his right-hand woman. ‘You should stop worrying so much.’ In the dynamic of an interview’s power-play, that’s something I’ve seldom heard. But everything about Azzedine was unexpected, and one of a kind.
After that, I saw Azzedine a lot - not enough, I now realise. He was friendly, interested, endlessly curious, wonderful to talk to, passionate. Inspiring. At one point he invited me to stay in the small, three apartment hotel adjacent to his atelier in Paris, where he only allows his guests to stay. At first, I didn’t take him up on his offer - it felt rude to email to ask if I could stay. Azzedine told me it was rude I didn’t ask. As an Englishman, that mortified me. So from then on, I stayed chez Azzedine whenever I was in Paris. It was a second home, where I was always welcomed warmly. It was something unique in Paris, in fashion, in my career, in my life. Everything about Azzedine was unique.
Occasionally, you’d be sat having lunch with Azzedine, and you’d realise you were talking to the greatest fashion designer in the world. Then you’d blink - at least I would - and draw breath. Check yourself. Commit the moment to memory. Because it was something to remember.
When Nick Knight approached me to collect some memories about Azzedine here, I immediately said yes. Because Azzedine is someone who should be remembered - both the man, and his work. He was extraordinary, he was a genius - and I don’t use that word lightly. But I was also lucky enough to call him my friend, and I loved him. I still do. And I miss him everyday.
This is about my love for Alaïa. The man, and his work. In that order.
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