Martin Margiela

In fashion’s pantheon, Martin Margiela is the mysterious god who neither speaks nor shows himself, yet whose invisible presence revolutionized the creed. Born April 9, 1957 in Leuven, Belgium, Margiela grew up in the quiet of a small Flemish town. An introverted teenager skilled with his hands, he entered at 17 the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp. There, alongside five classmates (Ann Demeulemeester, Dries Van Noten, et al.), he formed what would become the legendary group of the Antwerp Six. Their minimalist, experimental style already heralded the great avant-garde maneuvers of the ’80s. Margiela graduated in 1980, ready to conquer the world with radical ideas. But instead of launching his own line immediately, he chose to apprentice in the shadows: from 1984 to 1987 he worked as Jean Paul Gaultier’s assistant in Paris. Beside the extravagant Gaultier, Margiela refined his gaze while keeping his personality secret. Gaultier would later say of him: “He was my shadow, and I only saw in him the excellence of his work, not the full scope of his future talent.”

In 1988, Martin Margiela, impelled by an irrepressible urge to create on his own terms, founded his house: Maison Martin Margiela. From his first show in Paris, he set an iconoclastic tone. The clothes he presented looked like postmodern relics: he repurposed old garments or objects (military bags, leather gloves, wigs) and transformed them into pieces of conceptual couture. In 1989, his Spring-Summer 1990 show caused astonishment and admiration: Margiela notably sent out jackets cut from jute postal sacks, dresses assembled from disparate fragments, essentially upcycling before its time, ennobling the poor to art. That same year he received the ANDAM prize, a prestigious French award, cementing his status as fashion’s new prophet. Margiela, however, remained in the shadows. As the press began raving about this mysterious Belgian, he dodged interviews and refused photographs. On the catwalks, at the end of shows, he did not appear to bow, a rare thing, almost sacrilege, in a milieu used to worshipping star designers. Margiela instead cultivated anonymity as others cultivate fame.

Invisibility became his signature. In his house, everything was white, neutral, even the clothing label carries no name, only four white stitches, a mute code recognizable to initiates. He pushed the idea to masking or veiling his models’ faces during shows, so that attention focused only on the clothes. Those clothes, let us speak of them: with Margiela they were deconstructed, reconstructed, diverted. A lining became a dress; a tailored suit was worn oversized, as if borrowed from someone larger; finishes were intentionally left raw, threads hanging, hems unfinished. It was a liturgy of the imperfect he celebrated, joining in that the wabi-sabi spirit of the Japanese he admired. He wasn’t trying to please, he was trying to reveal: reveal the underside of garment-making, reveal the beauty of objects worn by time, reveal the individuality of whoever would wear the garment, by allowing it multiple past lives.

The ’90s saw Margiela gain an almost mystic reverence in the field. In 1997, his stature was such that Hermès, the epitome of classical luxury, chose him as artistic director of its women’s line. For six years he officiated at Hermès while continuing his personal work in parallel. At Hermès, against all expectations, he did not shock: he purified, he sublimated, he championed silent luxury, highlighting quality of materials and discreet perfection of cuts. This double life, unbridled avant-garde on one hand, minimalist classicism on the other, demonstrated the extent of his genius. Margiela excelled at both as if he had two faces… or rather as if he had none, blending like a chameleon into each house’s spirit.

In 2000, he opened his first boutique, in Tokyo, proof that his once confidential label had gained a devoted global following beyond just insiders. Yet in 2009, to general surprise, Martin Margiela decided to withdraw from the fashion world at the height of his glory, “without dwelling on the reasons.” Like a monk disappearing into the forest after imparting his teaching, he left his house (which would continue without him, later under John Galliano from 2015 onward). Margiela had likely said all he had to say through his creations. He had inspired a whole generation of designers, Raf Simons admits that seeing a Margiela show in 1991 made him go into fashion, and Demna Gvasalia of Balenciaga, a Margiela alumnus, owes much to his conceptual approach. By vanishing, he remained true to himself: he always wanted his work, not his person, to be judged. In a 2021 documentary, “In His Own Words,” he finally explained his philosophy: he wished to be known for what he created, not for who he was. In a fashion world obsessed with cult of personality and designer stardom, Margiela had been the great dissident, advocating the effacement of ego in favor of the collective work (he always put forward his team) and the spectator’s experience.

The fundamental principle of Margiela’s avant-garde is the annihilation of the superfluous to reveal the essence. Margiela transformed the perception of body and individuality by refusing to dictate a finished image: his unfinished, modular clothes invite whoever wears them to complete them with their own identity. He liberated the body by offering often ample, modular garments, wearable in multiple ways. He liberated the mind by proving a fashion house could operate outside the tyranny of logos and narcissistic self-promotion. Margiela made humility a subversive act in a flamboyant milieu. His “liturgy of the invisible” was a salutary shock, whose influence still resonates in today’s fashion that increasingly values the durable, the recycled, the deconstructivist aesthetic.

Reflecting on the path of Martin Margiela, we learn the paradoxical power of self-effacement. He teaches that one can create wonders while staying in the shadows, that the quest for personal recognition can yield to the quest for meaning and beauty. His example invites us to reconsider our own relationship to ego and consumption. Can we, in our lives, favor authenticity over appearance? Can we find the new in the old, instead of always craving the flashy new? Margiela whispers that truth often hides behind what is visible. To apply his lesson could mean: recycle and transform what we have instead of throwing away; value the patina of life on objects and relationships; seek discretion over vain glory. It’s a lesson in humility and infinite creativity: by seeing the invisible, by listening to silence, one can innovate beyond what the trends of the moment clamour.

May each of us seek the secret beauty in what surrounds us and within ourselves, thus, in Margiela’s way, we may find an unsuspected path of creativity and inner freedom.