The Passing

I have never met him. I knew him only through clothing and through quotes and interviews and what people had to say about him. All of that, made him seem great. I'm sure he was.

Alexander McQueen was without doubt one of my favorite artist in the world. There was something dark and beautiful about him and his work. I was always fully enthralled by his designs and his shows - he worked with psychology and social issues, messed with his audience. He was experiential and experimental - he wanted everyone to be part of his fantasy, and watch him unravel fearlessly and fearfully, both at the same time. He was so open to letting everyone see inside his mind and understand the fantastical way he absorbed the world.

Whatever the cause was - it was speculated that it was suicide, though no final word has been given - he carried with him a reputation of non-commitment, of freedom and of lightness that came across so heavily. He'll always be L'enfant terrible.

The strangest thing personally is how I personally become enamored with artist; Plath, McQueen, Collins and a million others. Not romantically, but in beauty. If they make beautiful things, for a second I'm in love with their mind and the way they're in love with the world. I'm in love with their sadness and whatever else motivates them to attempt expression. Like Camus said: "It's not your paintings I like, it's your painting."

I'm not sad he died so much as I'm in some disbelief that his art reached an end. I almost want to envision the last seconds he had to himself and hear his thoughts. I always do when I think of people dying - infamous last thoughts.

Just as he lived in beauty, I hope he rests in it.