Valentino Garavani, the man who single-handedly convinced the world’s most useless aristocrats that they were works of art simply because they could afford his zippers, has finally exited the stage at the age of 93. It is a testament to the sheer, grinding endurance of human vanity that a person can spend nine decades obsessing over the exact placement of a ruffle and be hailed as a 'master.' If he were a plumber who spent fifty years fixing leaks, he would get a gold watch and a bad back; because he did it with silk and sequins, he receives a global video obituary and the kind of sycophantic praise usually reserved for people who actually solve problems. But that is the nature of our species—we value the packaging far more than the contents, especially when the contents are as empty as a billionaire's ethics.

Founded in 1959, the House of Valentino arrived just in time to give the post-war elite something to care about other than the creeping dread of the Cold War. While the rest of the planet was navigating the brink of nuclear extinction and trying to figure out how to feed a growing global population, Valentino was hard at work deciding which shade of crimson would best accentuate the pale, unearned privilege of a debutante's neck. He didn't just sell clothes; he sold a delusion—the idea that if your exterior is expensive enough, the interior might actually exist. It was a half-century of intellectual bankruptcy disguised as 'haute couture,' a term that translates literally to 'high sewing' but culturally to 'extorting the unimaginative.' He scaled the heights of the industry not by challenging the status quo, but by draping it in better fabric.

Then there is the 'Valentino Red.' In a universe of billions of stars and infinite complexity, this man managed to hijack a primary color and slap a copyright on it. It is a spectacular bit of branding bravado. To take a wavelength of light and convince a generation of high-society parasites that it represents the pinnacle of 'glamour' is the kind of grift that would make a Ponzi scheme look like a neighborhood lemonade stand. This 'Valentino Red' was not just a color; it was a distress signal for the bored. It screamed, 'I have more money than sense,' in a frequency only the truly vapid could hear. And they loved it. They flocked to it like moths to a very expensive, very red flame, desperate to be associated with a hue that promised them a relevance they couldn't achieve through their own merits.

He built a business empire by realizing that the rich are, fundamentally, terrified of being ordinary. By creating a uniform for the 'glamorous,' he provided a safety net for those whose only talent was being photographed while existing. He dressed the icons of the 20th century, the kind of people whose primary contribution to history was looking good in black-and-white photography. He was the tailor to the void. His work did not reflect the soul; it replaced it. It was a fifty-year project in surface-level maintenance, ensuring that the crumbling edifices of the world’s elite were at least draped in the finest Italian materials. For almost half a century, he functioned as the aesthetic janitor for the famous, sweeping their lack of character under a mountain of tulle and organza.

His retirement in 2007 was perhaps his most 'masterful' stroke. He walked away from the fashion world just as the global economy was preparing to take a header off a skyscraper. He left the industry to drown in its own excesses while he retreated to a life of quiet luxury, presumably surrounded by things that were not made of polyester. It was a clean getaway. He spent his final years watching from the sidelines as the 'glamour' he helped manufacture devolved into the grotesque, algorithm-driven nightmare of the modern influencer era. One can only imagine the bored contempt he felt watching people in tracksuits try to replicate his aesthetic with a smartphone filter and a desperate need for 'likes.' He saw the transition from the curated elite to the democratized trash heap, and he was wise enough to leave before the stench became unbearable.

Now that he is gone at 93, the fashion world is in a state of performative mourning. They will talk about his 'legacy' and his 'vision,' avoiding the uncomfortable truth that his entire career was built on the fundamental inequality of the human condition. Valentino did not create beauty; he created a price tag for it. He lived long enough to see his brand become a logo on a mass-produced handbag, the ultimate fate of any artist who chooses to serve the market instead of the mind. He dies as he lived: surrounded by people who know the price of everything and the value of nothing. A fitting end for the emperor of the superficial, leaving behind a world that is still, tragically, obsessed with the way pieces of dead fabric hang off our failing carbon-based frames.