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 icon and the man
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 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.

Above Italian fashion designer Valentino Garavani at his home in Rome in 1974. (Photo: Mondadori via Getty Images)
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. I recognised it a decade later in a Vanity Fair feature, along with a tiger sculpture that turned out to be from the Ming dynasty.
Visiting Valentino often felt like visiting a museum. His name alone was a universal symbol for a standard of jet-set extravagance that was tempered by gracious manners and exquisite taste, a description that also characterised his unfailingly elegant designs. But I often felt I was looking at a subject under glass, even in situations where he could have let his guard down. He once invited me to a taping of Martha Stewart’s talk show where he demonstrated, while wearing a taupe-coloured suit, his unique version of a recipe for pesto, which he claimed to have invented while his yacht was docked in Portofino, telling his cook to add tomatoes.
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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. I recognised it a decade later in a Vanity Fair feature, along with a tiger sculpture that turned out to be from the Ming dynasty.
Visiting Valentino often felt like visiting a museum. His name alone was a universal symbol for a standard of jet-set extravagance that was tempered by gracious manners and exquisite taste, a description that also characterised his unfailingly elegant designs. But I often felt I was looking at a subject under glass, even in situations where he could have let his guard down. He once invited me to a taping of Martha Stewart’s talk show where he demonstrated, while wearing a taupe-coloured suit, his unique version of a recipe for pesto, which he claimed to have invented while his yacht was docked in Portofino, telling his cook to add tomatoes.
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Above Designer Valentino Garavani in 1967. (Photo: Nick Machalaba/WWD/Penske Media via Getty Images)
On another occasion, we were in the midtown apartment of his business partner Giancarlo Giammetti, this time in front of a very large Basquiat, I believe, talking with Sarah Jessica Parker about dresses he had created for the New York City Ballet, when he started complaining about women who cannot follow his lead on the dance floor. [Both Parker and Valentino studied ballet in their youth.] In 2011, when he unveiled his Valentino Garavani Virtual Museum, he did so in a darkened theatre at the Museum of Modern Art with a formal press conference attended by Anne Hathaway and Hugh Jackman, all dressed for a movie premiere.
I’ve thought about those moments since Valentino’s death on January 19 at the age of 93. He rarely removed his glamorous mask, though he did to some degree shortly after his retirement, when his professional finale was captured with an end-of-an-era appreciation in Matt Tyrnauer’s hit 2008 documentary, Valentino: The Last Emperor. That film revealed the intricacies of an eccentric designer at his twilight, one who valued the company of his five pugs above the trappings of fashion, and whose judgment included such gems as this: “An evening dress that reveals a woman’s ankles while she’s walking is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.” He hated the movie until he saw the audience’s reaction; then he loved it.
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Above Valentino Garavani with ‘Sex and the City’ and ‘And Just Like That’ actor Sarah Jessica Parker at the New York City Ballet's 2012 gala. (Photo by Fairchild Archive/Penske Media via Getty Images)
With typical understatement, Valentino once said, “There are only three things I can do: make a dress, decorate a house and entertain people.” In each of those efforts he was undeniably prolific. Since the beginning of his fashion house in Rome in 1960, Valentino created as many as 500 designs every year between his couture, ready-to-wear, menswear, licensed products and secondary collections. His style remained remarkably unchanged over the decades: killer dresses, tailored suits and coats, and entrance-making looks that often were shown in his signature shade of Valentino red, which represented his vision of an ideal femininity.
That Valentino was never moved by trends, nor a designer known to set them, may have at times sent fashion critics into a state of restlessness, but his consistency was ultimately a virtue most prized by his famous clientele. Valentino said his purpose in life was to make women feel beautiful, and in that regard, he truly could be considered one of the world’s greatest artists.
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