Paris, 2001. The Givenchy show was set to begin, a spectacle attended by fashion’s most influential figures—editors, buyers, and designers, all eager to witness Alexander McQueen’s latest vision. Givenchy, once a bastion of Parisian refinement under its founder Hubert de Givenchy, had undergone a radical transformation since McQueen’s appointment in 1996. The designer, known for his unflinching approach to beauty and theatrics, had pushed the house in an entirely new direction.
But as the guests settled into their seats, one notable figure was absent: Colin McDowell, the veteran fashion critic known for his sharp analyses and unwavering honesty. His exclusion was no accident. McDowell had been banned from attending, a direct consequence of his critiques of McQueen’s work—critiques that the designer had neither forgotten nor forgiven.
McDowell had written about McQueen with the same candor he applied to any designer, praising his talent but not shying away from his concerns. His review of McQueen’s Spring/Summer 1996 collection, titled “The Hunger,” acknowledged the designer’s wit and understanding of the rebellious new femininity emerging in fashion. However, he also described the collection as an “ill-thought-out mess,” suggesting that McQueen needed more time to refine his vision. Later, his assessments of McQueen’s work at Givenchy followed a similar tone—appreciative of his craftsmanship but skeptical of how well his dark, theatrical aesthetic fit within the house’s refined legacy.
For McQueen, these critiques were more than just words on a page. He saw them as an attack on his work, his vision, and perhaps even himself. In 1999, he made his stance clear in a letter sent directly to McDowell:
“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion of a designer’s work, but it has been evident for several seasons that you maintain a consistent negative bias about my collections for my own label as well as those I create for Givenchy... I am obliged to inform you that you will no longer be invited to attend my fashion shows and those I stage for Givenchy.”
It was an unprecedented move, but not an entirely surprising one. McQueen was deeply protective of his work, and his tenure at Givenchy had been fraught with tension from the start. The house, once synonymous with the effortless sophistication of Audrey Hepburn, was now a platform for collections that explored themes of power, decay, and transformation. His references—drawn from history, mythology, and personal experience—created runway presentations that felt more like performance art than traditional showcases of clothing. The contrast was stark, and not everyone approved.
Still, despite the turbulence of his tenure, McQueen’s work at Givenchy left a lasting imprint. The couture techniques he honed at the house became integral to his later collections under his own name, where he would fully realize his vision without constraint. His legacy today is undeniable—designers across the globe continue to reference his work, and his influence can be seen everywhere from contemporary runways to film costume design.
As for McDowell, the ban was a moment in a long career of documenting fashion’s transformations. It was a reminder of the delicate, often volatile relationship between those who create and those who critique. But the show went on, as they always do, and McQueen’s time at Givenchy, whether met with praise or skepticism, proved to be another chapter in a career that would shape fashion for decades to come.
