Giorgio Armani’s death, announced today, feels strangely personal. For me, he was never just a designer. He was a teacher—though he likely never knew it.
When I moved to London in 1997, aged 24, to study audio engineering, I took a weekend job at Armani’s flagship store in Knightsbridge. It was a front-row seat to one of fashion’s great houses at its peak. The store could take in £100,000 on a good day, and it wasn’t just selling clothes—it was selling a philosophy of beauty, craft, and restraint.
Armani’s approach to fashion was, in many ways, my first introduction to minimalism. He taught me about clean lines, utility, and the quiet drama of form stripped of excess. Working in that store, I learned that a folded stack of sweaters should never number more than six, and no more than three identical garments should hang in a row. Too many, and the eye gets cluttered. Too many, and the gesture loses its clarity. These weren’t just rules of retail; they were lessons in composition, in balance, in seeing.
Armani’s Minimalism
Armani’s influence extended beyond fashion, of course. His Armani Casa line, launched in 2000, brought the same pared-back philosophy into interiors. The collections drew inspiration from Balinese woodwork and Chinese glassblowing, combining Eastern craftsmanship with Western restraint. It was among the first homeware ranges to frame interiors not as sets of possessions but as curated spaces for living.
Minimalism, at its core, is not about emptiness but intention. Armani understood this instinctively. A navy T-shirt and wool trousers, cut perfectly, could be more expressive than a wardrobe full of decoration. In interiors, a single piece of oak furniture, left unadorned, can do more for a room than layers of ornamentation. His genius was making restraint not just acceptable, but aspirational.
Enduring Style
Armani will be remembered for many things: as the wealthiest Italian designer, as the man who redefined social norms in dress, as the creator of the deconstructed suit immortalised by Richard Gere in American Gigolo. But for me, his impact was quieter.
I remember the day he came into the Knightsbridge boutique. I was manning the denim section when he shook my hand. It was a small gesture, but it carried the weight of someone who had built an empire on precision and discipline. He showed us that even the smallest details—the fold of a T-shirt, the width of a trouser hem, the lighting in a store—were worth caring about.
There was humanity too. On the day Princess Diana died in August 1997, Armani was the first luxury house in Knightsbridge to close its boutique. The windows filled with flowers and photographs, a gesture of respect that went beyond commerce. It’s easy to forget now, but those small acts defined the culture of the brand as much as the tailoring.
A Personal Legacy
Through Armani, I found not only an education in aesthetics but also a network of friendships that have lasted decades. Many who worked there remain close, bound by the discipline and camaraderie of that era.
So while the tributes will rightfully dwell on Armani’s fortune, his global reach, and his impact on fashion history, I’ll remember him as the man who taught me to see: to value restraint over excess, to appreciate craftsmanship, and to understand that beauty lies not in what you add, but in what you leave out.
RIP Mr Armani.
This article was first published on our Substack, The Measure Eye.