Seasoned fashionistas can spot a Rick Owens piece a mile away, from the edgy bias-cut sheaths with asymmetrical hems and slouchy knits to the deconstructed leather jackets with stretchy panels. Yet even after 14 years, the American designer has trouble describing it himself.
'OK, I must admit I usually have sound bites, but I can't remember them,' he says with a laugh. He leans over to check a recent press release.
'We have no press officer and once I write things down they're so good I can't top them,' he says. 'So what have we got? Glamour meets grunge? They always pick up on broken idealism, is that there? I should come up with a new one every year.'
Owens is sitting in his atelier-cum-buyers' showroom near the Palais Bourbon on the Left Bank in Paris, where he lives with his French wife, restaurateur Michelle Lamy (who also backs British label Gareth Pugh).
Swathed in a loose, floor-sweeping black sheath with long, dark hair parted neatly and cascading down his back, Owens perfectly embodies the dark, gothic aesthetic he has tried to express in words. He professes that he only wears his own clothes and chooses one outfit per season, gets five versions made and rotates them. He calls the idea 'cool and so extravagant but restrained', a description that could probably sum up his clothes.
The look and attitude seem an odd fit with the 46-year-old's all-American background. Having moved his operations to the City of Lights five years ago, all that seems left of his American roots is his perfect, toothy smile, effusive politeness and drawl.