Before runways became viral clips on TikTok, they were something else entirely: mystical, unpredictable and a little bit dangerous.
Especially in the ‘90s and early 2000s, fashion shows weren’t just about showing clothes, they were performances, part fantasy, part rebellion and all emotion.
Alexander McQueen sent models spinning in glass boxes, walking through fire or covered in butterflies. John Galliano turned Dior’s runway into pure theatre, with corsets, crumbling chandeliers, pirate queens and drama so intense it felt like an opera from another universe. Even Martin Margiela, who famously refused to show his face, turned his models into anonymous figures, treating fashion shows like secret performances meant to be felt, not just seen.
Back then, designers weren’t chasing clicks or hashtags. They were chasing reactions. A McQueen show could make you cry, or flinch or sometimes run for the exits.
There were no influencers and no LED screens, just raw creativity. Every look told a story, and the runway wasn’t just a platform; it was a stage.
It’s hard to explain what made these shows feel so powerful, but I think it’s that they made fashion human. The models weren’t just there to sell a look; they became characters in a narrative, moving through themes like death, rebirth, love and chaos.
When Shalom Harlow was spray-painted by robotic arms in 1999, it wasn’t a tech gimmick—it was a metaphor about creation and control. When Galliano staged a collection inspired by shipwreck survivors, it wasn’t glamorizing tragedy—it was storytelling in couture.
These designers blurred the line between artist and designer long before social media made “viral fashion” a thing. They were expressing emotion through fabric, set design and performance.
The runway became a living, breathing piece of art. Of course, fashion today still tries to chase that feeling.
Brands like Maison Margiela, under John Galliano’s creative direction, continue to create shows that feel more like live theatre than a product launch. Thom Browne’s models act out surreal scenes straight from a dream. But even then, something about the rawness of those earlier eras feels unmatched.
That might be what separates high fashion from performance art: the purpose. Fashion, at its core, sells something. Performance art doesn’t; it makes you think, feel or question. But when a runway show becomes powerful enough to make you forget that you’re watching a brand, even for a second, it crosses into art. The leading designers have always been performance artists at heart; they understand that fashion isn’t just about what you wear, but what it does to you.
Maybe that’s why those older shows still resonate today. They weren’t built to trend, they were built to last. And even now, watching grainy clips of McQueen’s “Voss” or Galliano’s “Madame Butterfly,” it’s hard not to feel that mix of awe and unease. They treated clothing as something alive. The best runways, past or present, leave you wondering what you just witnessed.
In my eyes, that’s the sweet spot. The moment where fashion stops being safe and becomes something wild, unsettling and unforgettable. The kind of moment that doesn’t just walk down a runway—it haunts it.
