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This is what little is known about Martin Margiela. He was born in Limbourg, Belgium, in 1959 and, aged 18, moved to Antwerp to study fashion at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, graduating in 1979. Between 1984 and 1987 he worked as a design assistant for Jean Paul Gaultier, then at the height of his fame. It is said, in fashion circles, that Margiela's refusal to engage with the press is due at least in part to his experience of the havoc the wrong kind of publicity – or even just overexposure – can wreak on a designer, and specifically the experience of Gaultier, who was later to tell journalists that he was overlooked for the job at Christian Dior following Gianfranco Ferré's retirement because of his less- than-haute role as the kilt-and-Breton-T-shirt-wearing presenter of Eurotrash.

More generally, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that any hype surrounding a designer celebrity is likely to be short-lived. Best then to resist the glare of the spotlight and concentrate, instead, on the product itself. When, in 1988, Margiela opened his own house, in partnership with Jenny Meirens, the owner of a boutique in Brussels selling designer clothing, who described the unknown Belgian as "the most talented young designer" she had ever seen, he resolved to do just that. It is a measure of both his commitment and integrity that he has stuck to his guns.

Margiela burst on to the Paris fashion scene during the spring/summer 1989 season, and took the establishment by storm. This was not surprising given that his debut came at the end of a decade that exemplified all that was status-driven, and in which designer fashion realised the full potential of its power. This designer turned his hand instead to transforming a leather butcher's apron into a sinuous evening dress. He ripped apart a vintage tulle ballgown and turned it into a sequence of beautifully cut jackets.

Struggling to understand this fledgling talent, the press labelled his work "deconstruction" – seams were reversed, darts were exposed, loose threads were allowed to hang down like cobwebs, and tights, if there were any, were likely to be worn laddered and over shoes. Then there was the Margiela label, a kick in the teeth to power dressing if ever there was one. It was – and for the main line, still is – a blank, white rectangle, tacked roughly into the clothes. Leave it in place and, to those not in the know, the four large, white stitches disrupting the garment's surface look like a manufacturer's error. Remove it and no one will know that it is a designer purchase in the first place. And what, exactly, would be the point of that?

Margiela's use of an unmarked white label also signifies that he has never claimed to be the sole author of his work. Should anyone want to penetrate the murky workings of his mind, they are instructed to send questions to the house, to be answered by his team collectively. "The garment itself and the collection of garments around it may only be the result of the work of many heads, hearts and hands," reads one such statement. "It may be considered that a designer expresses a viewpoint and approach through his or her own work and the work of all the other members of the team that surrounds them. It is also true that the many others working on the garments and for a house – assistants, pattern-cutters, tailors, commercial staff – also express their expertise and sensitivity through the work of a designer."

The fact that anyone employed by Maison Martin Margiela wears a white coat – either the long version usually used by models between fittings, or the shorter design famously sported by the petites mains who staff the Paris haute-couture ateliers – also immediately identifies them as part of the team.

A more pragmatic approach lies behind the use of white in Margiela's working environment: "When Jenny [Meirens] and Martin started out, they collected furniture from all over the place, from the street, from flea markets, from stores all over the world," says a spokesperson for the house. "They had no money and it was all in different styles, so to make it seem coherent it was all painted white."

Such budgetary constraints no longer explain the dominance of white in Margiela stores and his Paris HQ today, however, which is more philosophical than practical in intent. White – or "whites", in Margielaspeak – allows the designer to express his enduring interest in the effect that the passing of time has on our lives. Walls may be freshly painted, or yellow with age: in any Margiela store, the customer will find both. In the London store, incidentally, they will also come across a basketball net bolted to one wall for no apparent reason, and the changing-room doors, imported from Paris, reading "ortie" – the "s" was already missing when they were found, by all accounts. Sketchbooks, armchairs, chandeliers, box files, all are covered in white calico. Make a purchase in a Margiela store and your clothing will be folded neatly into a white calico sack, which may not have quite the kudos of a glossy, tissue-paper filled logo-stamped carrier, but has found its use among insiders as the most fashionable laundry bag in the world.

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Although it might easily be argued that Martin Margiela is the godfather of the European avant-garde, to pigeonhole him as anti-establishment would be to misunderstand his profound respect for the craftsmanship and rigour that underpin the design tradition. In 1998, his employment as creative director of womenswear at Hermès confirmed this fact. On the face of it, this was a bizarre and indeed risky collaboration on the part of the France's oldest and grandest status label. "We consider that, in the case of Hermès, products of quality become status symbols," the powers that be at Margiela explained at the time. "Our decision to collaborate with Hermès came about more through our love of traditional craftsmanship and expert technical ability, a point of fascination for us since the beginning of our company."

Over the five years that followed, Margiela created quite the most lovely understated collections for Hermès – from loose-fitting masculine tailoring to black crêpe evening dresses that were the height of discreet elegance – all unveiled twice-yearly in the distinctly conservative and ultra-luxurious confines of that label's rue St-Honoré store.

In 2002, and perhaps more surprising still, Martin Margiela sold a majority stake in his company to Renzo Rosso, owner of the more accessible denim company Diesel. Women's Wear Daily described this, somewhat uncharitably, as like a marriage between Greta Garbo and Harpo Marx. Although Margiela was a designer who had always valued his independence, following the mid-1990s and the buying spree led primarily by LVMH (Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy) and the Gucci Group, the economic climate was such that, for a designer to survive, he had to have the might of a corporation behind him. Maverick or otherwise, Margiela's business had outgrown itself, and to develop needed to move with the times.

Over the past two decades, Martin Margiela has been responsible for many of the most touchingly beautiful and quietly intelligent fashion statements of all time. If one season, he has taken fabrics normally associated with soft furnishings – flock wallpaper, wooden-beaded car- seat covers, quilted Chesterfield sofas – and transformed them into clothing; the next, he might create a predominantly white collection worn with ice jewellery dyed magenta, ultraviolet and lapis lazuli, designed to melt away on to the clothes, leaving permanent trails of bright colour behind it. Margiela's tailoring is both highly inventive and subtly empowering. His black dresses have the resonance and emotional content of vintage finds.

True to form, though, and despite any accolades, the designer remains as removed from the hysteria and histrionics that surround the fashion industry as ever. And that is just as it should be. While his silence is maintained, his work continues to speak volumes, after all.

1. Plain sight: Martin Margiela's London store is in an unremarkable building in Bruton Place and, like all his stores, is painted white, with the staff all wearing long white coats.

2. Although it might easily be argued that Martin Margiela is the godfather of the European avantgarde, to pigeonhole him as antiestablishment would be to misunderstand his profound respect for the craftsmanship and rigour that underpin the design tradition.

3. Margiela's use of an unmarked white label signifies that he's never claimed to be the sole author of his work



source | independent.co.uk