fashion won't forget; Andre Leon Talley remembers Gianfranco Ferre's marvelous more-is-more life and vision.

Byline: Andre Leon Talley

To me, Gianfranco Ferre, the towering and imposing figure in the world of fashion who died in June at 62 from a brain hemorrhage, was never totally understood. He was not a designer for women who wanted to dress with pure understatement. But even in his universe of exotic textures and complete excesses of volume, there was a sense of post-World War II European elegance, as in the Roman or Milanese woman who coordinated everything she wore. When Ferre did think casual and relaxed, his white-shirt-and-black-skirt combination had to have electricity: an expansive obi tied in silk rope, perhaps, or a giant scarlet duchesse-satin scarf that trailed behind like a red caboose.

His sense of aesthetics was steeped in the grand-operatic style of Italian couture. Few would know that he was one of the first Milan designers in the eighties who approached an RTW collection as if he were orchestrating a scene for a La Scala production. From his music to hairdos to white shirts, his sense of pageantry was at times overwhelming, and to critics, overwrought. (White shirts were his signature, from a simple top to one that would unfurl at the hem to a ball gown, taking inspiration from the great schools of high fashion: Balenciaga, Fath, and Dior in fifties Paris.)

The whole life of Ferre-a man of impeccable manners who wore bespoke suits, ties, and shoes so polished you could almost see your reflection in them-was about design. Born in Legnano, Italy, where he continued to live until his death, Ferre earned a degree in architecture from Milan's Politecnico University in 1969. He started working in fashion in the seventies, thanks to his friend Walter Albini, another premier Italian designer, who hired him to design costume jewelry and accessories. In 1978, Ferre started his own label with his friend Franco Mattioli, who remained his business partner until 1998.

When he landed the prestigious job as artistic director of Christian Dior in 1989, he caused an uproar among the high-fashion snobs, who were outraged that an Italian was to helm such a storied and gloried label. It was during the years following his appointment that Ferre and I became dear friends.

A visit to the Dior atelier and studios on Avenue Montaigne was always exciting. Ferre's team, which often traveled with him from Milan on a private plane, worked in near silence with this giant of a man, economical with words but extravagant in detail. I will never forget how excited he was to find that if he wanted a silk parasol to accessorize one of his very beautifully tailored couture suits, there was a special department at Dior that could produce it in the same fabric. During his seven years there, he reinvented elegance with his scissor-cut peplum suits with slightly padded basque jackets (for that distinct Parisian silhouette), especially his summer versions in silk shantung.

I spent many a night with him in Milan, too, previewing his collections-a rare thing because he was not prone to let people into his inner sanctum of design or his private life. We shared risotto meals in the best restaurants, along with his ...