Giorgio Armani has been canonized as some sort of divine prophet of style, but let’s be honest: his “genius” was mostly a PR invention boosted by good timing.
Armani didn’t reinvent fashion; he just ironed the structure out of it. Loose jackets, neutral tones, minimal fuss: basically the wardrobe equivalent of elevator music. Comfortable? Sure. Revolutionary? Not really.
The 1980s power suit cult is what made him, not any groundbreaking artistry. Armani gave Wall Street and Hollywood a uniform that said “I’m rich but don’t ask me to actually have personality.” The whole “less is more” aesthetic worked because the era was overdosing on shoulder pads and neon, so his beige blur felt like a relief. But if you strip away the context, you’re left with… beige. A lot of beige.
Meanwhile, true innovators - think Rei Kawakubo, Vivienne Westwood, or Gianni Versace - were tearing fashion apart, questioning identity, sexuality, politics. Armani was just making clothes for mediocre bankers (the good ones went and still go to Savile Row) and actors who wanted to look expensive without risk.
Try to name a single Armani piece that actually stands out. Nothing. His jackets? Sure, they were looser than the 1970s cut, but they were basically just office camouflage with better fabric. A few silky gowns, some soft tailoring, endless neutrals… it all blurs into one beige puddle. Armani has no “signature” piece anyone remembers. Compare that with Gianni Versace: immediately you think of the Medusa head, the baroque prints, safety pins, leather, color explosions. Love it or hate it, Versace had an unmistakable signature, while Armani’s legacy is basically the absence of one.
And then look at his interior design. The Armani Casa line and his own houses are just as flat as his clothing: minimal, lifeless, soulless hotel-lobby chic. His rooms look like waiting areas where personality goes to die, whereas Versace’s mansion in Miami is still one of the most iconic homes in fashion history.
Armani gave the world comfort dressed up as luxury. Versace gave it unforgettable images. One will be remembered in photos, the other only in corporate obituaries.
In the end, he stands as another sad example of gay mediocrity elevated to myth: bland output wrapped in a personal brand, inflated by critics desperate to worship someone safe enough for the mainstream.
Armani wasn’t a genius of style. He was a genius of selling the illusion that conformity is sophistication.
Armani didn’t reinvent fashion; he just ironed the structure out of it. Loose jackets, neutral tones, minimal fuss: basically the wardrobe equivalent of elevator music. Comfortable? Sure. Revolutionary? Not really.
The 1980s power suit cult is what made him, not any groundbreaking artistry. Armani gave Wall Street and Hollywood a uniform that said “I’m rich but don’t ask me to actually have personality.” The whole “less is more” aesthetic worked because the era was overdosing on shoulder pads and neon, so his beige blur felt like a relief. But if you strip away the context, you’re left with… beige. A lot of beige.
Meanwhile, true innovators - think Rei Kawakubo, Vivienne Westwood, or Gianni Versace - were tearing fashion apart, questioning identity, sexuality, politics. Armani was just making clothes for mediocre bankers (the good ones went and still go to Savile Row) and actors who wanted to look expensive without risk.
Try to name a single Armani piece that actually stands out. Nothing. His jackets? Sure, they were looser than the 1970s cut, but they were basically just office camouflage with better fabric. A few silky gowns, some soft tailoring, endless neutrals… it all blurs into one beige puddle. Armani has no “signature” piece anyone remembers. Compare that with Gianni Versace: immediately you think of the Medusa head, the baroque prints, safety pins, leather, color explosions. Love it or hate it, Versace had an unmistakable signature, while Armani’s legacy is basically the absence of one.
And then look at his interior design. The Armani Casa line and his own houses are just as flat as his clothing: minimal, lifeless, soulless hotel-lobby chic. His rooms look like waiting areas where personality goes to die, whereas Versace’s mansion in Miami is still one of the most iconic homes in fashion history.
Armani gave the world comfort dressed up as luxury. Versace gave it unforgettable images. One will be remembered in photos, the other only in corporate obituaries.
In the end, he stands as another sad example of gay mediocrity elevated to myth: bland output wrapped in a personal brand, inflated by critics desperate to worship someone safe enough for the mainstream.
Armani wasn’t a genius of style. He was a genius of selling the illusion that conformity is sophistication.
