In the Presence of Valentino

Drawing on decades of reporting for Women's Wear Daily, The New York Times and later as editor-in-chief of Tatler, Eric Wilson reflects on Valentino Garavani—the man he met in private apartments and museum halls, and the icon whose influence ensured the entire fashion world stood in his presence

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Whenever I think about the legacy of Valentino Garavani, the Italian designer of drop-dead gorgeous gowns and red-carpet fantasies that appealed to the tastes of ultra-wealthy women from Jackie O to J Lo, I think about his rightful place at the pinnacle of fashion; but I also think about his place in art. I'm not trying to sound pretentious, or suggesting that fashion is art, but rather reacting to the circumstances of how I came to know him over during the last decade of his career.

The first time we met would have been roughly in 1999, when I was a cub reporter for Women's Wear Daily and sent up to his apartment on Fifth Avenue for an interview about what I cannot recall. I do remember how dashing he was in full suit and tie, presumably one of his customary tailor-made suits by Caraceni. He was deeply and perennially tanned to a shade of ochre that writers have compared to chestnuts and oranges, with a patrician posture, meticulously perfumed and coiffed. He was both the embodiment and a suave caricature of the Roman alta moda lifestyle. And I remember clearly how distracted I was by the opulence of his apartment, so overstuffed with masterpieces that I dared not touch anything as we sat on his couch, facing a painting by Fernand Léger. I recognised it a decade later in a