Fashion has never been about fabric alone. It is a theater of power, vanity, and money—where designers once demanded private jets, million-dollar bonuses, and glowing Vogue hagiographies. But as the carousel spins faster, and one creative director replaces another, the truth becomes clear: the house always wins.
Once upon a not-so-distant time, designers strutted like demigods. In 1989, Gianfranco Ferré arrived at Dior with the demands of a maestro. The Italian architect-turned-couturier insisted on a private jet to commute from Milan to Paris. Dior obliged. After all, Ferré had been hired to infuse the languishing house with Italianate grandeur. If it meant Gulfstream at the ready, so be it.
Fast forward to 1997. Marc Jacobs, fresh at Louis Vuitton, suggested dropping the hallowed monogram. The audacity! LVMH, unsurprisingly, balked. But Jacobs had another plan—he scrawled graffiti across Vuitton trunks with Stephen Sprouse and later enlisted Takashi Murakami to douse the monogram in candy-coloured hues. The result? A billion-dollar reinvention of a stuffy luggage company into a pop-culture juggernaut.
And then, the enfant terrible of them all: Alexander McQueen. At his Givenchy debut, he dismissed founder Hubert de Givenchy as “irrelevant.” It was breathtakingly rude. It was also, in its way, prophetic. The balance of power was shifting. For the first time, it seemed the designer might be bigger than the brand.
Designers were not just stars—they were investments, with contracts that could make Hollywood blush.
The superstar designer era was a gilded age: cash, chaos, and couture in equal measure.
Gucci Fall 1995 Ready-to-Wear Collection, featuring a series of sexy white dresses and unique cut-outs, was an instant fashion hit
Spring/Summer 1997 Givenchy by Alexander McQueen Haute Couture collection
Yet talent was not always the passport. Sometimes, celebrity sufficed.
When Stella McCartney was named creative director at Chloé in 1997, she was barely out of Central Saint Martins. Karl Lagerfeld scoffed: “They should have taken a big name. They did—but in music, not fashion.” The jibe cut deep, but Stella endured. She built a sustainability-driven empire, proving she was more than Paul McCartney’s daughter.
Years later, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen traded Hollywood for haute couture. With The Row, they built a label of whispering luxury—cashmere coats, quiet lines, prices as high as their reputations. Today, The Row generates over $100 million annually. From sitcom fame to fashion respectability: a trajectory only possible in an industry obsessed with image.
As Vogue once purred, “Poodles eat poodles.” Status devours status. In fashion, the hierarchy is not measured by stitches but by headlines.
But stars fall. Galliano’s scandal ended his Dior reign. McQueen collapsed under the weight of expectation. Jacobs departed Vuitton after 16 years. Tom Ford stormed out of Gucci in a clash of egos and balance sheets.
By the 2010s, houses had learned the lesson: no designer is irreplaceable. The carousel spins on. New creative directors arrive with glowing Vogue profiles, “new era” headlines, and public-relations prose as polished as a runway heel. A departure is not a tragedy—it is an opportunity to rebrand.
Alber Elbaz’s sudden ousting from Lanvin in 2015 became a soap opera of betrayal. Hedi Slimane’s Saint Laurent reset (and later, Celine reinvention) drew howls and hosannas in equal measure. Raf Simons lasted barely three years at Dior before fatigue—his or theirs—set in. Phoebe Philo, whose Céline became a cult, was replaced with Slimane’s razored silhouettes. The brand survived.
In truth, the real fashion show is not in the clothes. It is in the press release.
For designers, the carousel spins mercilessly. The cycle is faster than ever—six collections a year, constant Instagram scrutiny, and boardroom demands for growth in the billions. No wonder burnout is as common as brilliance.
Galliano’s implosion was scandalous. McQueen’s tragedy, heartbreaking. Even Simons, celebrated for minimalism, admitted exhaustion at Dior’s punishing pace. The perks—jets, bonuses, perfumes with million-dollar royalties—come with a bill: human limits.
The corporate machine, however, is tireless. It consumes, replaces, and resets. Each new hire is heralded as a saviour. Each departure becomes a footnote. The carousel turns, the logo gleams on.
Designers dream of immortality. Saint Laurent achieved it. Coco Chanel became myth. Lagerfeld came close. Tom Ford left Gucci and, remarkably, built his name into another billion-dollar brand. But most, no matter how fiery, are swallowed by the machine.
As Karl Lagerfeld once sneered, “Now, all you need to be a designer is to be the daughter of a rock star.” Half-joke, half-truth. In an age where PR trumps legacy, and Instagram outruns ateliers, the crown sits uneasily.
Brands endure. Gucci has outlived Ford. Dior outlived Galliano. Chanel outlived Lagerfeld. Even Versace now marches on without Donatella, who bowed out after three decades, replaced by Dario Vitale of Miu Miu fame.
Designers, no matter how brilliant, are players. The logos—the eternal monograms, the diamond-hard brand names—are the real stars.
Because in fashion, art dazzles—but commerce decides.
Fashion loves its divas. It crowns them, indulges them, pays them in millions. But the lesson of the last three decades is clear: logos are forever, designers are not.
Like Suzy Menkes once quipped after a turbulent Paris season: “Fashion is a circus. The only thing that doesn’t change is the tent.”
And under that tent, the carousel spins on.
