Robin Dutt celebrates the unique style of Isabella Blow.
I cannot claim to have been a dear friend of Isabella Blow. But certainly, I knew her well and met her on numerous occasions and sometimes in the most – at least seemingly – unlikely situations. I believe I first encountered this rare style bird of a curious paradise at a number of vernissages and défilés and became more than nodding acquaintances. In fact, when she was working for British Vogue, she wanted me to write a few pieces on characters who were challenging convention in design terms.
I still recall her letter to me, stating her interest in a designer or two and a strange and wonderful countess who created sea urchin-inspired furniture and who lived in a ramshackle apartment. Her enthusiasm was obvious from her erratic typing and typos on the page suggesting strident speed. I wish I had kept it – sharp and spiky and like her, electric. She was electric. And her ink was always pink.
We had lunch once in a tumbledown Chinese restaurant in Soho with cracked linoleum and lettuce stacked in boxes by the loo. One can imagine the looks we received on entering and we ordered from laminated menus on laminated tablecloths, sitting on woefully inadequate chairs. It was an odd choice for a girl who, when she worked as Anna Wintour’s assistant on American Vogue, used to clean her desk with bottled Perrier water.
Isabella Blow, taken in 1997 by Mario Testino
The last time I saw her was at an exhibition opening at the National Portrait Gallery, looking, as usual, devastatingly original with her poppy lipstick staining her slightly buck teeth. She was gathering information and wanted to include me for a piece she was writing on a week in her life. I recall vividly saying to her how wonderful she looked and added that she would always do so. Her reply did not seem immediately worrying at the time, but in retrospect it was. ‘Oh. I won’t be here very long,’ was her retort – accompanied by a broad, toothy smile, which somehow negated anything sinister. It wasn’t long after that I learnt of her suicide by drinking weedkiller.
Isabella, or Issy as she was known, was a phenomenon, a pioneer of fashion. In the same way, perhaps – or at least similar – a latter-day Marchesa Casati who so thrilled the painters, sculptors and photographers of the early 20th century. Issy confounded stereotypical fashion, eschewing predictive trend for a visual autobiography comprised of outré but never outlandish outfits. And there is a difference. She enjoyed accessories and make-up, particularly her trademark lipstick. Who can forget the glitter paint she sported as an oblong block. And again, her quote, ‘If you don’t wear lipstick, I can’t talk to you.’
Left: Isabella Blow, 2002, by Diego Uchitel Right: Isabella Blow and Philip Treacy, taken in 2003 for Vanity Fair by Donald McPherson
And as for her Philip Treacy hats, more precise statements than mere hats, she defied typification and revelled in divine difference. She asked Treacy to make a hat for her wedding to Detmar Blow. It was the hat that made him.
Hers was a style entirely and intensely personal and that style was never intended to shock. Whenever and wherever she presented herself it was with the brio and gusto of a performer on a generally bland stage. The likes of Lady Gaga have surely learnt much from her strident boldness and desire to convey clothes as art. Oscar Wilde’s salient quip about either being or wearing a work of art has some relevance here.
The sparkling, inspiring exhibition at Somerset House brings together a compelling selection from her scintillating wardrobe – conveying to the visitor the essence of her unique style and, indeed, the variety that style encompassed. Infinite variety, to recall Shakespeare. And, despite that variety, a compelling consistency.
This showcase of her genius is most imaginatively curated, on several levels suggesting discovery amidst the purposeful tomb-gloom. Some mannequins, naturally expressionless and almost robotic, find their homes in individual semicircular cells. Some seem almost abandoned in small spaces. One coat proudly displays traces of a moth larva trail.
Left: More than 100 iconic designs drawn from her personal collection are displayed at the Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore! exhibition at Somerset House Right: Isabella Blow at the American Embassy in Paris, 1998, by Roxanne Lowit
Two pieces by artists Tim Noble and Sue Webster provide food for thought. The first, a shadow play of Issy’s profile made out of selected detritus and posed on a pole in the manner of a beheaded criminal (on loan from the National Portrait Gallery). The second is Excessive Sensual Indulgence, a candy-hued and white starlight fountain of light, which Issy and Detmar bought when it was exhibited at their gallery Modern Art Inc. There is something of the fairground in it. Pop Ziegfeld too.
A curious mixture of vibrancy and a pall of sorrow hangs over the whole, but the latter does not make for depression. From the size of the dresses (tiny) to the disguise of the hat-masks, you feel the presence of a little girl lost who yet commanded dreams. Are these costumes or clothes? Or something quite other than both? The concentration of extraordinary creativity is literally overwhelming and, most of it, British – something Blow was very proud of. She was a star-maker, buying Alexander McQueen’s entire MA show in 1992; paying him £100 per week and collecting a piece a month.
After her death, her friend Daphne Guinness bought Issy’s entire collection to save it from being auctioned and has set up a foundation in her name. It makes for exquisite viewing. Cut, construction, drape, shape and form are everywhere. Apart from McQueen and Treacy; John Galliano, Viktor & Rolf, Jeremy Scott, Junya Watanabe and Manolo Blahnik feature too. Feathers and plumes flutter, sequins and spangles shine, metal bullion draws the light.
The last part of the show is a film tribute to Issy to the soundtrack of a haunting Bryan Ferry ballad.
When she walks in the room
Then you know
Why your date says it’s late
Time to go
And you know you can’t leave
You must stay
’Til her laughter has drifted away.
It is the perfect conclusion.
Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore!, runs until 2 March 2014 at Somerset House, Strand, London WC2: 020-7845 4600, www.somersethouse.org.uk
I still recall her letter to me, stating her interest in a designer or two and a strange and wonderful countess who created sea urchin-inspired furniture and who lived in a ramshackle apartment. Her enthusiasm was obvious from her erratic typing and typos on the page suggesting strident speed. I wish I had kept it – sharp and spiky and like her, electric. She was electric. And her ink was always pink.
We had lunch once in a tumbledown Chinese restaurant in Soho with cracked linoleum and lettuce stacked in boxes by the loo. One can imagine the looks we received on entering and we ordered from laminated menus on laminated tablecloths, sitting on woefully inadequate chairs. It was an odd choice for a girl who, when she worked as Anna Wintour’s assistant on American Vogue, used to clean her desk with bottled Perrier water.
Isabella Blow, taken in 1997 by Mario TestinoThe last time I saw her was at an exhibition opening at the National Portrait Gallery, looking, as usual, devastatingly original with her poppy lipstick staining her slightly buck teeth. She was gathering information and wanted to include me for a piece she was writing on a week in her life. I recall vividly saying to her how wonderful she looked and added that she would always do so. Her reply did not seem immediately worrying at the time, but in retrospect it was. ‘Oh. I won’t be here very long,’ was her retort – accompanied by a broad, toothy smile, which somehow negated anything sinister. It wasn’t long after that I learnt of her suicide by drinking weedkiller.
Isabella, or Issy as she was known, was a phenomenon, a pioneer of fashion. In the same way, perhaps – or at least similar – a latter-day Marchesa Casati who so thrilled the painters, sculptors and photographers of the early 20th century. Issy confounded stereotypical fashion, eschewing predictive trend for a visual autobiography comprised of outré but never outlandish outfits. And there is a difference. She enjoyed accessories and make-up, particularly her trademark lipstick. Who can forget the glitter paint she sported as an oblong block. And again, her quote, ‘If you don’t wear lipstick, I can’t talk to you.’
Left: Isabella Blow, 2002, by Diego Uchitel Right: Isabella Blow and Philip Treacy, taken in 2003 for Vanity Fair by Donald McPhersonAnd as for her Philip Treacy hats, more precise statements than mere hats, she defied typification and revelled in divine difference. She asked Treacy to make a hat for her wedding to Detmar Blow. It was the hat that made him.
Hers was a style entirely and intensely personal and that style was never intended to shock. Whenever and wherever she presented herself it was with the brio and gusto of a performer on a generally bland stage. The likes of Lady Gaga have surely learnt much from her strident boldness and desire to convey clothes as art. Oscar Wilde’s salient quip about either being or wearing a work of art has some relevance here.
The sparkling, inspiring exhibition at Somerset House brings together a compelling selection from her scintillating wardrobe – conveying to the visitor the essence of her unique style and, indeed, the variety that style encompassed. Infinite variety, to recall Shakespeare. And, despite that variety, a compelling consistency.
This showcase of her genius is most imaginatively curated, on several levels suggesting discovery amidst the purposeful tomb-gloom. Some mannequins, naturally expressionless and almost robotic, find their homes in individual semicircular cells. Some seem almost abandoned in small spaces. One coat proudly displays traces of a moth larva trail.
Left: More than 100 iconic designs drawn from her personal collection are displayed at the Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore! exhibition at Somerset House Right: Isabella Blow at the American Embassy in Paris, 1998, by Roxanne LowitTwo pieces by artists Tim Noble and Sue Webster provide food for thought. The first, a shadow play of Issy’s profile made out of selected detritus and posed on a pole in the manner of a beheaded criminal (on loan from the National Portrait Gallery). The second is Excessive Sensual Indulgence, a candy-hued and white starlight fountain of light, which Issy and Detmar bought when it was exhibited at their gallery Modern Art Inc. There is something of the fairground in it. Pop Ziegfeld too.
A curious mixture of vibrancy and a pall of sorrow hangs over the whole, but the latter does not make for depression. From the size of the dresses (tiny) to the disguise of the hat-masks, you feel the presence of a little girl lost who yet commanded dreams. Are these costumes or clothes? Or something quite other than both? The concentration of extraordinary creativity is literally overwhelming and, most of it, British – something Blow was very proud of. She was a star-maker, buying Alexander McQueen’s entire MA show in 1992; paying him £100 per week and collecting a piece a month.
After her death, her friend Daphne Guinness bought Issy’s entire collection to save it from being auctioned and has set up a foundation in her name. It makes for exquisite viewing. Cut, construction, drape, shape and form are everywhere. Apart from McQueen and Treacy; John Galliano, Viktor & Rolf, Jeremy Scott, Junya Watanabe and Manolo Blahnik feature too. Feathers and plumes flutter, sequins and spangles shine, metal bullion draws the light.
The last part of the show is a film tribute to Issy to the soundtrack of a haunting Bryan Ferry ballad.
When she walks in the room
Then you know
Why your date says it’s late
Time to go
And you know you can’t leave
You must stay
’Til her laughter has drifted away.
It is the perfect conclusion.
Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore!, runs until 2 March 2014 at Somerset House, Strand, London WC2: 020-7845 4600, www.somersethouse.org.uk