The Beauty in the Darkness: Remembering Alexander McQueen

Many years ago, I made a trip to New York City with one goal in mind: to see the Alexander McQueen exhibition at The Met. It was a year after his death, and the exhibit—Savage Beauty—was a tribute to his genius. Walking through those dimly lit halls, surrounded by his work, I felt like I was stepping into another world. One where beauty, pain, fantasy, and darkness coexisted in a way that felt hauntingly real.

The line to the exhibit ran all the way through The Met

Alexander McQueen has always been my favorite designer. His work wasn’t just fashion—it was raw, emotional storytelling. He didn’t shy away from uncomfortable themes. In fact, he embraced them, twisted them into fabric, form, and silhouette, and dared you to look deeper. His designs made you feel something. They made you think. And more than anything, they told the truth—his truth.

One piece that stopped me in my tracks was the iconic "Plato’s Atlantis" collection. It was futuristic, alien, and eerily prophetic. The craftsmanship was unmatched, but what struck me most was how even something so avant-garde could feel so human. It was as if he had channeled the chaos of the world—and his own soul—into wearable art.

Room after room, I was confronted by beauty laced with grief, by elegance entangled with violence, by vulnerability disguised in armor. Pieces from "Highland Rape" and "VOSS" made my chest ache. They weren’t just garments. They were confessions. Statements. Cries. You could feel his pain and brilliance stitched into every seam.

By the time I reached the final gallery, I was in tears. I don’t cry easily, but there was something overwhelming about standing in the presence of so much emotion, so much truth. I was moved by the way his spirit lingered in those pieces—each one holding a part of his story, his struggle, his genius. It was a reminder that fashion, at its best, is not about trends. It’s about truth.

“There is no better designer than nature.” – Alexander McQueen

What I loved most about McQueen was how unafraid he was to be misunderstood. His runway shows were theatrical, often controversial, but always unapologetically authentic. He poured his soul into his work. That kind of vulnerability in art is rare. It’s brave.

That visit to The Met still sits with me. It reminded me that the best art—the most powerful kind—is the kind that comes from a place of truth, no matter how messy or uncomfortable it might be. McQueen didn’t just design clothes. He told stories. And I’m forever grateful I got to experience a part of his.