RICK OWENS

Photo:Hypebeast

    But before you clutch your Tech Glade modular lounge in awe, let’s rewind the reel. Did you know that the Prince of Brutalism once got his start... making knock-offs? Shocking, I know. Long before the fog machines and Palais de Tokyo devotionals, Rick Owens was just another L.A. hustler turning Chanel-lite jackets and Helmut Lang imitations into boutique bait. From plagiarist to prophet? Talk about a character arc.

    Yet fashion doesn’t forget, babes. And while some worship at his altar now, the industry still whispers about those early, “creatively borrowed” silhouettes. But here’s the twist: Owens didn’t just escape that narrative—he burned it down and rebuilt it with leather, steel, and a side of philosophical pain. Once in Paris (and with Michèle Lamy whispering poetry in his ear), Rick shifted from mimic to master, building a language of fearsome elegance: think horned shoulders, sculptural capes, and fabrics that feel like future relics.

     Speaking of relics, let’s talk “Temple” and “Porterville.” The former? A sacred fever dream where fits look less like clothes and more like wearable votive offerings. The latter? A trip back to Owens’s Californian roots—trauma wrapped in cashmere, queerness draped in mohair. These aren’t collections; they’re psychological excavations. Denim is waxed to a metallic crust, boots inflate like alien artifacts, and textures collide like memories in a nightmare. The silhouettes don’t follow the body—they fight it. And that, my loves, is the Rick effect.

     Then there’s Sisyphus—a collection that quite literally wore the myth of struggle on its sleeves. Frayed hems, bondage straps, cracked denim—every piece a rebellion against clean comfort. Owens doesn’t soothe; he confronts. And somehow, in the middle of all this post-industrial grit, he offers liberation. It's chaos, it's calculated, and yes—it’s couture.

    And let’s not forget his tour de force off the runway: the “Tech Glade.” Designed for Travis Scott’s Utopia tour, it’s equal parts sanctum and spaceship, outfitted in wool army blankets and built like a Brutalist love letter. Some called it “scary AF,” others a mobile chapel of creativity. Either way, it’s proof that Rick doesn’t just design clothes—he designs  

    Of course, none of this mythology would be complete without the high priestess herself: Michèle Lamy. More than a muse—she’s the thunder in Rick’s storm, the reason his work feels so eerily alive. With her gold teeth, occult rings, and power-cloaked presence, she’s not behind the scenes—she is the scene. Lamy turned Rick’s runway into ritual and his life into legend.

   So, next time someone tells you Rick Owens is “just avant-garde,” smile sweetly and sip your matcha. Because what they don’t know is that under all that leather and shadow lives a legacy built on contradiction: imitation turned originality, pain turned design, rebellion turned religion.

Photo:Getty Images Vogue 2014

The article: