By Sara Bright
So, he’s gone. Valentino Garavani. The man who arguably invented the concept of the “lifestyle” designer before Instagram made it a chore, passed away on January 19. It feels… strange. Not surprising, given he was born in 1932, but strange. Like looking at the Rome skyline and noticing the Colosseum has just quietly packed up and moved to the suburbs.
You see, for a long time, I’ve had this theory that Valentino wasn’t actually a person. He was an entity. A tan, impeccably groomed force of nature that existed solely to remind us that glamour used to be hard work. It wasn’t about a stylist calling in a favour; it was about hours of fittings, hand-stitched lace, and a level of opulence that borders on the obscene.
But now that the news is out, we have to look past the “King of Glamour” headlines. Because if you strip away the pugs – Lord, the pugs – and the yachts, what are we actually looking at?
The Boy From Voghera
It’s tempting to think he emerged fully formed from a seashell in the Mediterranean, holding a sketchpad. But he didn’t. He was born in Voghera. Just a normal town near Milan. His dad sold electrical equipment. It’s painfully ordinary, isn’t it? And yet, the myth-making started early.
There’s this story – and with Valentino, you always have to wonder where the memory ends and the PR begins – that he was six years old when the “lightning” struck. He saw a local princess wearing green. That was it. Most six-year-olds are interested in dirt or toys; he was critiquing aristocratic hemlines. His mother apparently joked about raising a son who only accepted the most expensive things. At the time, she probably thought it was a phase.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
He went to the cinema, obsessed over the Hollywood stars, and eventually managed to get himself to Paris. That’s the bit people forget. Before he was The Valentino, he was a student, grinding away at the École des Beaux-Arts, working for Jean Dessès and Guy Laroche. He learned the trade the old way. The hard way. You look at the clothes coming out of the major houses today, all printed hoodies and deconstructed trainers, and you realise that the lineage of rigorous, architectural dressmaking is thinning out. Valentino was one of the last who could actually cut a pattern, not just mood-board a vibe.
Seeing Red
Then there’s the red thing. You can’t talk about him without talking about “Valentino Red.” The story goes that he was at the opera in Barcelona in the late forties and saw a woman in a red velvet dress. He said she seemed “unique, isolated in her grandeur.”
I’ve thought about that quote a lot. “Isolated in her grandeur.” It sounds lonely, doesn’t it? But for him, that isolation was the point. He didn’t design clothes to help women blend in at the supermarket. He designed clothes to make sure every other woman in the room felt slightly inadequate. That particular poppy-red shade became a weapon. It wasn’t subtle. It was aggressive beauty. He claimed red was a cure for sadness. Maybe. Or maybe it was just the best way to say, “I have arrived, and you haven’t,” without opening your mouth.
The Other Half of the Brain
Here is where the story usually gets glossy, but let’s be real for a second. Valentino the artist would have likely crashed and burned by 1965 if it weren’t for Giancarlo Giammetti.
They met in a cafe on the Via Veneto in Rome. It was 1960. Valentino was brilliant but bleeding money; his first atelier was a financial disaster waiting to happen. Giammetti was an architecture student. He dropped out, took over the books, and suddenly, you had a business.
This is the part that fascinates me. Their romantic relationship ended decades ago – Giammetti was quite open about the physical side stopping when they were in their thirties – but the partnership survived. It’s a level of loyalty that makes modern corporate marriages look pathetic. Giammetti was the shield. He dealt with the banks, the licensing, the tantrums, the press. He allowed Valentino to remain in the bubble.
I remember watching that documentary, The Last Emperor, a few years back. There’s a scene where Valentino is fussing over the reflection of light on a dress, completely oblivious to the chaos around him. Giammetti is in the background, looking tired but fiercely protective. That was the dynamic. One man dreaming, the other man paying the electricity bill.
The Jackie Moment
If you want to pinpoint the exact second Valentino went from “promising Italian designer” to “Global Deity,” it was 1964. Jacqueline Kennedy saw an editor wearing one of his organza ensembles. She tracked him down.
When JFK was assassinated, she ordered six black-and-white couture dresses from him for her year of mourning. Think about that. Even in grief, there was a strategy. But the real kicker was 1968. She married Onassis, and instead of some billowing, traditional gown, she wore a beige Valentino dress with a short pleated skirt and a high neck.
It caused a scandal. A short dress? For a former First Lady? It was genius. It signalled that the Camelot era was over and the Jet Set era had begun. And Valentino was the pilot. After that, he could do no wrong. He had the Golden Ticket.
Selling the Dream (And the Kitchen Tiles)
We have to talk about the money. Because Valentino wasn’t just a couturier; he was a capitalist. He and Giammetti were arguably the first to really understand licensing.
In the seventies and eighties, they slapped that “V” logo on everything. Sunglasses, perfume, jeans, tiles. Yes, tiles. It sounds tacky now, but back then? It was revolutionary. They understood that not everyone could afford a £20,000 gown, but a lot of people could afford a pair of sunglasses and pretend.
This cash flow funded a life that was frankly ridiculous. The chalets in Gstaad, the castle near Paris, the apartment in New York. And the yacht, the T.M. Blue One. He lived like the women he dressed. Maybe better.
I’ve always been a bit cynical about this. There’s something slightly grotesque about that level of accumulation. But then you look at him, and you realise: he wasn’t faking it. He wasn’t a minimalist living in a concrete box. He loved the stuff. He loved the gilt frames, the porcelain, the heavy curtains. He was a maximalist in a world that was slowly turning beige.
The Long Goodbye
He retired in 2007. I remember the announcement. He said fashion had become a “commodity.” He wasn’t wrong. The industry was changing. The big conglomerates were eating up the independent houses. In fact, he’d already sold the company by then – first to an Italian conglomerate, then eventually it bounced around until the Qataris picked it up.
It must have been painful. To see your name on the door but have a board of directors telling you what to do. He got out just in time, really. The final show in Paris was… well, it was exactly what you’d expect. Models in identical red dresses. A standing ovation that felt like a funeral for an entire era of fashion.
Since then? He’s been around. The foundation, the museums, the occasional costume design for the ballet. But he was essentially a living monument.
So, What Now?
Now that he’s actually gone, what are we left with?
The brand, obviously. It’s doing fine. It’s owned by Kering now – or a chunk of it is – and the current designers are talented enough. But it’s a business. It’s a machine that churns out handbags and sneakers to meet quarterly targets.
The man himself represented something that I don’t think we’ll see again. He believed, with zero irony, in beauty. Not “edgy” beauty, not “challenging” beauty, but old-school, capital-B Beauty. He wanted women to look gorgeous. That’s it. It’s almost a quaint idea today, isn’t it? We’re so obsessed with fashion as a political statement or fashion as functional gear that we’ve forgotten the sheer, silly joy of a dress that makes you gasp.
I keep thinking about the pugs. He had six of them. They travelled with him on the private jet. They had their own staff. It’s absurd. It’s laughable. But it was his world, and he invited us to watch.
He once said, “I know what women want. They want to be beautiful.” You could argue that’s reductive. You could argue it’s anti-feminist. But looking at the pictures of Diana, of Jackie, of Julia Roberts collecting her Oscar in that vintage black gown… was he wrong?
He lived large, he spent seemingly every penny he earned on creating a paradise for himself, and he refused to apologise for any of it. In an age of performative humility, I kind of respect that.
So, raise a glass. Preferably crystal. And make sure the tablecloth is ironed, for God’s sake. The Emperor has left the building, and I have a feeling the lights are going to be a little dimmer from now on.
