How I Learned to Stop Being a Loser and Love Versace

When you tell people you’re attending your first-ever Versace show, their eyes light up and they go “Oohhhhhh” in a mischievous way, like you just told someone at the bar it’s your 21st birthday, and this is your first-ever Long Island Iced Tea. They’re basically saying, “you don’t know it, but you’re in for the ride of your life, kid.”

I admit that in my head, Versace was a heritage brand, its glory days somewhat behind it. Like yes, okay, the Liz Hurley dress, Nomi Malone calling it Ver-saice, the time Cindy, Linda, Naomi, and Christy walked the runway together — all great fashion moments! But all moments that happened in the ‘90s, and since then, the fashion world’s since moved on to worship a new breed of more sedate, less flashy designer-auteurs. But if I had my doubts that Versace still mattered, my fellow fashion people shut me down fast. “You don’t understand — Versace is like a religion in Italy,” one editor told me. “What are you wearing?” another asked. “You’re going to feel underdressed.” A friend of mine, a fashion director with an haute-vintage style, who’s about as opposite the Versace girl as you can get, surprised me by bouncing into her seat next to me, all smiles: “I love Versace — that and Prada are my only can’t-miss shows in Milan.” Clearly only a snob or a fool would doubt Versace’s import.

And sure enough, the show, held in a massive concrete stadium packed with an A-list celeb and fashion crowd, did not disappoint. In fact, it kind of kicked my ass with its total sensory assault. A tight cluster of photographers swarmed the front row, popping flashes at Joe Jonas (there to see girlfriend Gigi Hadid walk), Anna Wintour, Heidi Klum, and Naomi Campbell and her date, Givenchy mastermind Riccardo Tisci. A giant smoke machine belched to life while dozens of searchlights swept through the crowd. It was the kind of lighting they use when someone escapes from the prison yard.

Then, the overhead lights dimmed, and a female voiced boomed loudly over the speakers, speaking in the anodyne monotone of a possibly-evil computer in a sci-fi film: “This song is dedicated to women everywhere, regardless of color, religion, sexuality, or what sex you were born with.” Legal disclaimers out of the way, a thumping techno beat dropped, models marched out, and the affirmations continued: “Find your strength in sound. There will be people who tell you to play it safe, who say ‘that’s too risky.’ But you will take that risk. There will be people who say you can’t, but you will. YOU WILL.” The robo-lady didn’t say what we would do, exactly, but after a 10-minute stream of vague encouragement, I got super effing amped to start brushing my hair, wearing sexier clothes, doing squats before bedtime, and maybe go take out a small business loan. It was like if Anthony Robbins started holding seminars in a Eurodisco. The past is a cancelled check, bitches — Your maximum point of power is NOW.

Meanwhile, a steady stream of brand-name models, past and present, were marching before my eyes in military/animal-print evening gowns and the world’s shortest mini skirts: Joan Smalls, Behati Prinsloo, Mariacarla Boscono, Gigi Hadid, Natasha Poly, Hanne Gaby Odiele, Caroline Trentini, Raquel Zimmerman. If, at any point in the last 10 years, you ever tacked a model’s picture to your wall, she was walking Versace tonight. It was also the most racially diverse show I’ve seen this season in Milan — a city usually known for its lily-white runways. Nice to see a label that doesn’t ignore the fact that it has many Black customers — and has received millions of dollars of free advertising from the hip-hop community for 30 years.

For ten glorious, loud, disorienting minutes, the crowd bopped to the music (Naomi Campbell led the way), everyone had their phones out (even the remote New York Times critic Vanessa Friedman snapped damn near half the looks), and no less an artiste than Riccardo Tisci looked at every single piece of clothing that walked by with intense interest. The light finally went on in my head: Even if it’s not my style, you don’t know fashion if you ignore Versace.

In a way, tonight’s show was a throwback to the way shows were done in the ‘90s. There weren’t musical guests, Instagrammable sets, performance art, skateboarding models. There were just sexy clothes, superstar models, loud music, and bright lights. What more do you need? Versace is for people who want their fashion full of glamour, not gimmicks. If you’re too snobby to pay attention, you’re missing the fun. Now excuse me, I’ve got some squats to do.

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