In the Presence of Valentino

Drawing on decades of reporting for Women's Wear Daily, The New York Times and later as editor-inchief 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 over-stuffed with masterpieces that I dared not touch anything as we sat on his couch, facing a painting by Fernand Léger.