Margiela, Be Mine.(Martin Margiela)

Byline: editor: Sally Singer

Sarah Mower lauds fashion's most elusive designer in the midst of his first retrospective.

Few of my friends know this, but I'm conducting a relationship with an invisible man. He's a 57-year-old Belgian recluse who long ago disappeared behind an oblong strip of white tape, a label with nothing on it. His last known appearance was in 1994 in New York at the now-defunct boutique Charivari, where he was seen to be a tall man in a flat cap, quietly driving journalists apoplectic by refusing to grant quotes about his collection.

Since then, not a thing has been seen or heard of Martin Margiela: only robotic written pronouncements issued from a white-painted former industrial-design school occupied by men and women in white couture coats in the Eleventh Arrondissement of Paris. These days, rumors even circulate that this man, whose intelligence I adore and clothes I accumulate, doesn't actually exist. Based on the public face of his work--his exaggerations, twists, puns, and strange appropriations--there are other people who shrug him off as one of the freakiest freak shows in fashion whose clothes could only be worn by avant-garde weirdos. Ha! How wrong can they be?

Because on my side, it's a case of abject Margiela dependency. Without him, my self-image and ability to function in the world would be imperiled. Should some hideous fashion creep burgle my wardrobe tonight and make off with my navy blazer, sharp-shouldered jackets, gorgeous black jersey one-shouldered gown, cap-sleeved day dress, three pairs of man-tailored pants, four shirts, various tube tops, skirts, belts, skinny scarves, Lucite wedges, pumps, bags, innumerable stockpile of T-shirts--oh, and that mad red lame vest and chiffon cape--I'd wake up tomorrow with a shattered identity. It's that bad.

Given that I fancy myself a strenuous non-belonger to any fan clan, designer or otherwise, this is also quite a funny contradiction. I am a woman who'd be mortified to be caught wearing anything that smacks of recognizable designer trophy, ever--and I'm not one who'd risk any garment that might hang me out on the extreme edge of fashion to be sniggered at. What I require is straight, chic clothes of unidentifiable provenance that are turned just one or two notches up the dial toward UNUSUAL, WITTY, or SEXY (though always at a visual frequency conventional people can't pick up). Martin Margiela is the only designer who does that. Get into him, and you end up with a repertoire that lasts for years because, fabulously, no one can ever guess who made any of it, or when. I've lost count of the people at parties who, after staring a bit, have been forced to ask where I got my matte-black one-shouldered jersey dress. I love it when they have to lean in closer and ask again, "Who?," either because they've never heard of Mr. Nobody (great!) or because they're struggling to align the information with their perception of Margiela as the man who shows clothes made out of party balloons (his latest "artisanal" collection) or sofa covers (fall 2006) or wigs out of recycled fur coats (fall 1997). And call me bad, but I can't help enjoying the irritated moue that crosses some women's faces when they hear that this dress is not available any longer: She's wearing an old dress. So how come it looks so damn right now?

Wearing Margiela can bestow a satisfying cleverness upon you like that. Because he's so impersonal, his clothes become personal to you. And because his things are frequently several steps ahead of fashion (or because other designers look to him for a lead), Margiela purchases can end up reflecting glory upon you three, four seasons after you bought them because at some point, the world's caught up, and the stuff looks spot-on. Anyone who bought a jacket from his very first collection in 1988 would be laughing now. It had narrow shoulders with high-set puffed sleeves, in direct opposition to the dominant padded-linebacker silhouette of the power dressing of the time. It proved so long-range influential, you could wear it today, and people would still come up to you and ask where they could buy it.