Living in Clips

It wasn’t my first time visiting the Alaïa Foundation — but it was my first since the great couturier’s passing. And something about being there without him felt profoundly different. For the first time, they have opened his atelier for the public to see. Everything remains exactly as it was, untouched, out of respect. There’s a stillness in the space now, not of absence, but presence. A kind of hush filled with quiet devotion. Like the space itself is pausing, holding its breath out of respect.

You can still sense him in every detail of the place — in the way his desk remains untouched, in the light and the shadows, in the discipline and care behind every detail. But more than anything, you feel him in the people who are still there. The loyal ones who worked alongside him and continue to carry his legacy forward — with quiet pride, deep love, and unwavering respect for the vision he created.

The Alaïa / Grès: Beyond Fashion exhibition was one I’d been incredibly excited to see. These are two visionary designers whose work and past exhibitions I’ve followed closely since moving to Paris in 2008. This was more than just a dialogue between two great designers. It felt like a true masterclass in restraint, strength, and feminine elegance — a meeting of minds across time. It told a story not just of artistry, but of a shared philosophy: of hands that drape fabric with reverence, of form over trend, of creations that transcend time.

What struck me most was how quietly powerful it all was. The exhibition didn’t shout; it whispered. The gowns felt almost like living sculptures — you didn’t just look at them, you felt them. There was this unspoken connection between the two designers — across time, yes, but also in their shared devotion to craft, to form, to the female silhouette. It felt like I was witnessing a private conversation, and I was lucky enough to be invited in.

And yet, it was the space around the exhibition that that told the deeper story. The invisible story, softly present in every corner – built lovingly into the walls of the home he created. The story of a man who lived not just for fashion, but for his art, his people, and his table. Meeting some of Alaïa’s loyal team — people who worked alongside him for years, in some cases decades — added an intimacy to the experience that no exhibition alone could offer. Their love for him was palpable. It wasn’t just about the clothes or the legacy. It was about the life he built, the connections he nurtured, and the home he made inside that creative sanctuary.

And then, there was the kitchen.

I hadn’t expected the kitchen to move me the way it did. But there it was — a living, breathing heart at the centre of everything. Alaïa’s kitchen wasn’t just a place for meals; it was a gathering space, a place of ritual and comfort. It was where he hosted friends, artists, models, collaborators — sometimes all crammed around the same table — eating, debating, sharing stories, laughing late into the night. His personal chef and friend is still there, still cooking. There’s something so human about that detail. In a world that can so easily idolise the genius, the icon, the couturier — it’s the image of Alaïa in his kitchen, serving food or pouring wine, that stays with me most. It reminded me that creativity doesn’t live in isolation. It lives in friendship. In food. In home.

“I never eat alone. Meals are meant to be shared.”

I have always admired Azzedine Alaïa’s work, his sculptural silhouettes, the reverence he had for the female form, and the quiet force with which he moved through the world. But walking through his space, years after his death, I wasn’t prepared for how deeply the visit would move me. I left feeling inspired but also humbled. And more connected to the idea that beauty isn’t just something we create; it’s something we live.