The Machine and the Muse
Alexander McQueen’s Unforgettable Vision for Spring 1999
Welcome to Show Notes, a weekly newsletter where we decode the art of storytelling in fashion’s most iconic runway shows.
For our very first runway report, the designer on display was an easy choice. TIME magazine referred to him as a designer “whose creations transcend fashion into performance art” and “a master of turning the medium of the runway show into presentations of haute theatre.” Vogue describes him as “the greatest showman as well as a visionary designer.” There was no other option but Alexander McQueen for this series’ inaugural article.
A decision that wasn’t so easy–which of his collections to highlight. There was the Voss show, where models emerged from a glass box (like that of a mental hospital holding cell), exploring the tension between beauty and confinement. The Plato’s Atlantis show, which fused futuristic technology with themes of survival, making history as the first-ever livestreamed fashion show. And of course, the Highland Rape collection, which boldly addressed themes of violence and historical oppression, igniting both controversy and conversation. Each of these shows pushed boundaries and solidified McQueen’s place in fashion history, but amid the archives, another collection stood out to us.
The collection we chose has often been referred to as one of the most memorable moments in fashion history. It explores themes of creation, destruction and rebirth, blurring the lines between fashion and performance art. We hope you enjoy this moment of reverie.
Please take your seat. The show is about to begin.
Alexander McQueen, Spring 1999 – No. 13
In a dimly lit warehouse, a woman stood alone–poised in white tulle and cotton. Two robots gained consciousness, moving towards her, and the audience held their breath.
In 1998, the world stood on the brink of the digital age, and Lee Alexander McQueen used his Spring 1999 runway as a reflection of society’s growing entanglement with technology. When the collection took to the runway, McQueen didn’t just present clothes. He created a performance–a clash of humanity and technology–and left us with an unforgettable image of a woman trapped in a moment of transformation.
On September 28, guests entered Gatliff Warehouse–an unused former bus depot–to witness McQueen’s collection titled No.13, referencing the designer’s 13th show. What comprised of a minimalistic set, was juxtaposed with two unidentifiable pieces of machinery in the middle of the warehouse. Appearing somewhat unassuming, the audience would soon learn their shock-inducing purpose.
The front row comprised of the industry’s top editors and buyers, with no celebrity in sight (something almost impossible to imagine in 2025). Even Victoria Beckham, who requested an invite, received a polite decline from the press team, as Dana Thomas recalls in her book Gods and Kings. “At the end of the day, it’s about my clothes and the hard work that everyone backstage puts into it, not about the [celebrities] in the front row lapping it up,” she quotes McQueen.
Who did get a coveted invite? When every seat is a front-row claim to fashion’s most exclusive arena, the answer might surprise you. Show producer Sam Gainsbury tells Vogue “What people don’t realise is that it wasn’t about spending gazillions. We all begged and made deals. Lee had a reputation at that point. We got the stadium seating installed free by saying the guys could bring friends and family. The wooden flooring was the cheapest there was. Everyone wanted to see what he was doing.”
The unvarnished, pale wooden floors stretched out like an empty stage, with circular turntables spread throughout. Suspended just above, a lowered ceiling glowed, whilst in the centre sat the two ominous mechanical arms.
What followed was an expansive procession of 74 looks, rendered in mostly muted tones of beige, grey, and ivory. Models emerged draped in delicate ruffled lace, soft tailoring and sheer off-the-shoulder billowing blouses. Interwoven among these softer silhouettes were McQueen’s signature feats of construction–corseted bodices, sculptural skirts, and voluminous shapes that felt both romantic and architectural. Then came a shift: flashes of sparkle appeared in the form of crystal-drenched sheer dresses and jewelled hoods, worn by models who stood atop the wooden turntables, slowly rotating and catching the light with every turn. The collection carried a lightness, a whisper of romance, that stood in gentle contrast to McQueen’s typically sharp and unyielding aesthetic.
A noteworthy moment came when Paralympic athlete Aimee Mullins appeared in a tiered raffia dress, layered with a leather bodice, and prosthetic legs intricately carved from solid wood. Mullins shared that many didn’t realise they were prosthetics “they were the star of the show–these wooden boots peeking out…but in fact, they were actually legs made for me.” McQueen explained to i-D Magazine that he intentionally avoided using sprinting prosthetics, aiming instead to integrate her seamlessly with other models. “We did try them on but I thought no, that’s not the point of this exercise. The point is that she was to mould in with the rest of the girls.” Mullins echoes this sentiment, she wanted to challenge the existing norms of beauty, “I want to be seen as beautiful because of my disability, not in spite of it.” In this case, as in many others, McQueen was a pioneer, using fashion as both performance and protest.
Then came the infamous finale. Model Shalom Harlow stood alone on the central rotating turntable as the two robotic arms began to wake from their slumber. At first, the interaction seemed gentle–almost innocent–but the tension quickly escalated. As the robots identified the outsider, the collision between woman and machine unfolded. As Camille Saint-Saens’ The Swan reached its crescendo, the robots lunged, spraying her with black and neon yellow paint across the pristine white dress. McQueen’s swan flailed, arms arched overhead in graceful defiance, as the ink transformed her into a living canvas. Finally, covered in colour, she staggered forward, with complete abandon and surrender, towards the audience.
This was a moment of disruption, invasion, and above all, beauty–unlike anything the fashion world had seen before. As Harlow’s dress was painted, she became both the subject and the object–an allegory for how modern life can blur the lines between personal agency and technological influence. The performance suggested how technology could shape, alter, and even invade the human form, prompting the audience to confront their own relationship with technology. It was nature versus the machine, raw industrial power meets delicate human vulnerability.
Alexander McQueen brought his audience to tears, something that was not uncommon during his shows. However, in a rare occurrence, McQueen agreed with the audience’s sentiment, often stating that No. 13 was “the only one that made me cry.” It was fashion at its most powerful–when a runway moment leaves a mark far beyond the walls it was shown in.