In a fashion industry that demands viral originality with tighter deadlines than ever, designer Virgil Abloh was able to create a cultural blueprint on how to be a polymath that stretched far beyond the runway. Whether it was ubiquitous caution tape Off-White belts, boots made for walking, or humorous takes on the little black dress, Abloh was able to infuse streetwear bravado into luxury designs that had subversive wit and intellectual rigor, turning everyday items into cultural statements that blurred the line between art, fashion, and commentary. In her latest book “MAKE IT OURS,” Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Robin Givhan unpacks the dynamic legacy of the late Abloh, charting his rise from founding Pyrex Vision to becoming an LVMH Prize finalist and redefining the fashion establishment through Off-White and his appointment at Louis Vuitton. Through critical yet compassionate insight, Givhan explores the Chicago native’s unlikely trajectory as a multidisciplinary disruptor and marketing wonder, from his generation-defining “The Ten” collaboration with Nike to genre-blurring partnerships with Evian, IKEA, the New York City Ballet, and Maybach. At the heart of her analysis lies the tension in Abloh’s controversial approach to design: his “3% rule,” sparked questions of authorship and authenticity while simultaneously challenging the very definitions of luxury. “He wasn’t asking himself, ‘Why me?’” Givhan writes of Abloh. “He was asking them: ‘Why not me?’” In reframing influence, access, and ownership, Abloh didn’t just reshape fashion’s future, he redefined who gets to claim it. Models.com spoke to Givhan from her headquarters at The Washington Post about the process of writing “MAKE IT OURS,” Abloh’s evolving design philosophy, and how his visionary approach continues to disrupt fashion’s most entrenched systems.
You’ve already taken on the Battle of Versailles and Michelle Obama’s first year as First Lady as extensive subjects. What drew you to Virgil Abloh and this level of cultural excavation? Why the immediacy in taking him on as a subject?
Well, I think part of it was just seeing the reaction people had when he passed away. People seemed overwhelmed, and the loss felt very personal in a way I hadn’t really seen with other designers. That felt different. When I had covered his work, my feelings were complicated. I could recognize the enthusiasm, the interest, and the delight people had in his work. But when I looked at it strictly from a critic’s perspective, I wasn’t necessarily a fan of a lot of the collections.
You speak to that dichotomy in “MAKE IT OURS”: the power of his following and how infectious his energy was, but also being critical of what you saw. You mention that his design practice didn’t always move the needle, but his positioning created important conversations.
I don’t think every collection has to be transformative. It’s rare to witness a moment where fashion visibly shifts. But I’m always looking for designers developing their vocabulary—a signature way of thinking—and each season, asking: what’s the new message within that vocabulary? With Virgil, there was tension in his 3% philosophy, the enormous volume of work he put out, and the inconsistent quality. Sometimes the inspiration felt muddled. I’m always struck when menswear designers move into women’s. Often they’ll say women have been wearing their menswear and are asking for more, but instead of continuing that energy, they start designing slinky gowns. With Virgil, his menswear had a real sense of ease and cool. Then suddenly the women’s collection was referencing Princess Diana with big tulle skirts and I didn’t understand that.
The reference made sense in his exalting of pop culture, but not necessarily in design logic. Yet, that contradiction was part of Virgil. He took on things people didn’t expect. You talk about his vocabulary, and that first collection’s show notes of “Virgil-isms” stood out as a definitive glossary. He was redefining language in fashion, often pulling audiences into how he thought. How did that manifesto reflect how he intellectualized his practice and the audaciousness in his design?
He was very verbal in how he engaged with creativity. He got teased for talking so much instead of letting the work speak but it felt like he was in conversation with the work. It didn’t just exist, it stood as part of a larger dialogue he was constantly having. Sometimes it seemed like he was figuring it out in real time. One person I interviewed described how he’d create something, then backtrack and try to explain what it meant. He could contradict himself in one talk, but that showed his vulnerability—his openness to learning, to saying “Tell me what I don’t know.” That transparency, his desire to show how things work, came from an intellectual sensibility, but also from his skill as a salesman. He knew how to tell a story.
His website FREE GAME really pushed to democratize information. Fashion typically guards its process, but Virgil spoke to an audience growing in influence and determined to pull the curtain back. In your research, what was your sense of his motivation behind that democratization?
He often talked about feeling like an outsider in fashion. He wanted to design for both the purist and the tourist. I think that’s a beautiful way to frame democratized design: for people inside the system and those discovering it for the first time. He wanted to be taken seriously by traditional editors. He wanted the feature in Vogue, the shows in Paris, and he understood that’s what made a brand feel “luxury.” At the same time, he responded to DMs. He posted sneaker prototypes on Instagram. He explained how to build a show or silkscreen a T-shirt. He could speak to both the expert and the amateur because he had been both. I love what Fraser Cooke said about that famous Paris photo of Virgil, Kanye, and the crew carrying briefcases. Like—what’s even in those briefcases? Lunch? But that’s what made them iconic. They leaned into it.
Off-White’s ascension capitalized on the [Farfetch owned] New Guards Group and subsequent LVMH acquisition. NGG formed a collective of rising, edgy brands felt unique, with names like Ambush, Heron Preston, and Palm Angels all under the umbrella. Recently, several of those brands have bought back control. Do you think his absence contributed to the unraveling of that conglomerate, LVMH selling the brand, or signify a shift?
It’s a good question. I don’t know if I’d say the unraveling is strictly because Virgil isn’t here, though LVMH’s decision to sell Off-White likely was influenced by that. Investors and partnerships in fashion are always complicated. Even the best ones feel fragile. It takes a long time for a brand to become rooted enough to thrive without its founder. Off-White was still young and deeply tied to Virgil, even if he often used “our” and “we.” It was still his company. I think we need more time to see how that all unfolds. In just the year between finishing the book and now, so much has shifted; Matthew Williams, Kim Jones, Jerry Lorenzo continuing to grow. Ib [Kamara] at Off-White is doing something really interesting and it feels more like a fashion brand now. That’s great in many ways, but I’m still not sure if the sale was the best move for the brand.
Do you feel like the way Virgil used social media changed how fashion had to address audiences and conversation? He made it feel participatory.
Absolutely. He really stepped into social media through blogs. He was technically Gen X, but referred to himself as a Millennial. So he had that unique position of having experienced a time when discovery still existed. You could travel and find something new. Everything wasn’t online yet. Blogs allowed you to connect with people you’d never meet otherwise, who shared your interests. It was this liminal space—discovery still had value, but access was expanding and Virgil was there for that. Later, when platforms like Instagram took over, he didn’t just use it to announce himself, he used it to communicate. He treated it as a dialogue, not just a performance. He’d reply to fans. He’d post behind-the-scenes processes. That kind of directness from someone showing in Paris? It’s rare, but it made people feel seen. He treated WhatsApp like his boardroom. He really believed in breaking down barriers and understood how powerful it could be when someone who’s “made it” responds to you. He didn’t perform coolness, he engaged with people.
“Virgil often said, ‘Take your side projects seriously. That’s your practice.'”
‘Ye, of course, looms over the conversation and Virgil’s trajectory. There was so much creative tension and mutual influence there. What was your biggest takeaway from their dynamic? Because as you say, none of this really happens without Kanye, and yet Virgil forged his own path.
It’s true. Kanye was part barnacle, part bulldog. He latched onto people who could help answer questions that perplexed him, and he was relentless. That early period, College Dropout, Late Registration, you saw a creative cyclone. He had the money, the access, and surrounded himself with people hungry for the same things. They were interested in music, architecture, fashion, identity—everything. And they fed off one another’s ambition. Matthew Williams described it like skateboarding: your friend lands a nine-stair handrail trick, and suddenly you believe you can too. That’s what that group did. They made each other believe. Kanye took his dreams seriously and that seriousness influenced Virgil. He learned from Kanye’s intensity and built his own philosophy: one that made room for play, design, and vulnerability. Virgil often said, “Take your side projects seriously. That’s your practice.”
Practice was a throughline for him and it became a form of self-education. If he didn’t have access to formal training, he made sure to stay aware of everything, then tossed the rules out. That came through most clearly in his 3% philosophy: change something just enough to create something innovative. It wasn’t about reinventing the wheel, but reframing it. That mindset extended into cars, lifestyle objects, even Drake’s plane. Do you think that 3% principle revealed his disruptive style and maybe even his humor? Like with the zip ties on the sneakers: “You’ve always accused me of stealing? Now I’ll make the shoe look stolen.”
Absolutely. He really excelled at using irony, it was a huge part of his design vocabulary. The quotation marks, the “AIR” on the Jordans, the zip ties—those elements had a humor that people loved. However, the 3% philosophy was controversial. Most designers reference the past, but they usually try to transform it, or make the homage clear. With Virgil, it wasn’t always clear. He existed in that gray area. He wasn’t necessarily paying tribute, but he also wasn’t making something entirely new, and that got under people’s skin. There were lawsuits and cease and desist letters. It created tension. Some of that comes from a DJ sensibility. DJs remix existing music; they’re not writing lyrics, but they’re creating something new through curation and sequencing. That works in music, which has protections. In fashion, it’s messier. You can’t copyright a sleeve. You can’t copyright a silhouette. So a T-shirt logo has more legal protection than Diane von Furstenberg’s wrap dress. That makes the line between inspiration and theft really fraught.
It also felt like he believed in shortcuts, not as laziness, but as alternate paths. He’d talk about cheat codes and while that’s great for access, do you think there’s also a question of: did you do the work? Did you gain the experience? Were you ready once you got there?
Exactly. He talked a lot about shortcuts and finding your own way. In some ways, that’s empowering. He was saying: you don’t have to tick all the boxes that others say you do. Your lived experience might offer different value. The flipside is, if you’ve taken shortcuts, have you built the foundation you need? Do you know how to sustain success? Do you feel legitimate once you arrive? Those are open questions, not ones with easy answers, but ones his career definitely raised.
Designers like Walter Van Beirendonck and Raf Simons were big influences for him, but they didn’t always appreciate how he referenced their work. How did those relationships, often strained, factor into how fashion defined originality during his rise?
Raf Simons was a huge influence and Virgil idolized him. And Raf had very harsh words. Same with Walter Van Beirendonck. These were people he admired, but the admiration wasn’t always mutual. That gets into the complicated space of influence. What do you owe to your inspirations? Do you need to name them? Acknowledge them explicitly? And if you don’t, is it theft or evolution? That’s a question fashion still wrestles with.
You write about how, in 2017, Nike was in a challenging moment and then came “The Ten” collaboration with Virgil. Maybe they didn’t want to give Virgil that much power at first, but the demand was undeniable. What did that project say about how he merged storytelling with design? Because as you mention in the book, he didn’t change much about the shoes, but he still changed everything.
That Nike collaboration was right in his wheelhouse of talent and skills. It was about remixing and understanding the customer. Nike said he was unique because he wasn’t just focused on the product—he cared about how to get it into people’s hands. He thought through the creation, the marketing, the community, the sales pitch, all of it. He knew how to get under a community’s skin and speak directly to them in a way that felt authentic. That project was jet fuel. Nike is bigger than Louis Vuitton. I don’t think he would’ve gotten the Vuitton role without that success. He wasn’t just a sneakerhead, he was a brand builder. He understood the full picture. For him, luxury wasn’t about legacy or European heritage, it was about personal value. If a kid thinks of Nikes as a status symbol, then that’s luxury. If a shoe feels like success or belonging, that’s luxury. He talked about wanting to make sneakers that would one day sit in a museum, and that wasn’t just about ego—it was about reframing what we think is worthy of preservation. It was part of his redefinition of taste and value.
I imagine, researching this, the timeline was tight. From his death in 2021 to the book’s completion last year—what did the process of gathering sources, speaking to people in his circle, and piecing together his legacy look like?
I probably did my first interview in 2022 while I was still full-time at The Washington Post. Then I took a book leave in 2023—about 10 months. First, I pulled every clip I could find. I knew I wouldn’t be able to interview Virgil, so I needed to know what he had already said: every talk, every panel, every interview. The hardest part was narrowing the scope. He touched so many worlds: music, fashion, design, architecture. But my expertise is in fashion. That was the lens through which I’d covered him and how I chose to frame the book. There’s a whole book to be written about Virgil the DJ, or Virgil the father and husband, but I was interested in how someone like him—an outsider in many ways—found extraordinary success in an industry that doesn’t often make room for people like that. I wanted to explore why fashion was ready to welcome him.
I think about how his career intersected with movements—especially around identity and politics. You wrote that he approached life as a centrist. He was often silent during politically charged moments, even though his presence in the industry was inherently political. What do you make of that positioning, especially as the conversation around race shifted so drastically during his final years?
Part of that is his temperament, but it also comes from being the son of immigrants. His father told me their approach to racism was: get your education, stay focused, and protect yourself with knowledge. Education was seen as armor. So when Virgil said, “I’m not a rebel, I’m not a flamethrower,” I believe him. He knew what his parents sacrificed to get him here. He studied engineering because that’s what they wanted, even though it wasn’t his passion. He talked about being in rooms where microaggressions, or even macroaggressions, happened, and choosing not to react. He didn’t want to be seen as the angry Black man. It was strategy. That worked for a long time, but after 2020, the culture shifted. People lost patience for nuance. They wanted directness. Social media turned on him—and it really caught him off guard, but I also think it opened something up in him. He spoke about being a dark-skinned Black man, about fear, about vulnerability. That wasn’t typical for him to share publicly. I wonder how he would have continued evolving. I don’t think he would’ve stayed a centrist, but he was an optimist. He believed in infiltrating the system—not burning it down. At one point he even said, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could make corporate culture cool?” I don’t think he meant making everyone wear sneakers. He meant: make it a place where people from different backgrounds can thrive, where different skill sets are respected.
When it came time for Vuitton to choose his successor, some of the names floated were people he’d mentored or supported. In the end, it went to Pharrell. Do you think who came after Virgil says something about his legacy or what fashion took from his time at LV?
I don’t know who [Virgil] personally wanted in that role. I admire Pharrell—he’s talented, but I don’t think that was the lesson Virgil’s time at Vuitton should’ve left behind. I would’ve hoped the takeaway was: widen your lens. Look for people with unexpected paths, not just those already sitting front row. Pharrell, in many ways, came in through the front door. That’s not expanding the aperture—that’s picking the bright, shiny object.
After everything you researched, uncovered, and reflected on—what do you want readers to take away from this book? What was your biggest personal takeaway?
There’s a moment I love. After he got the Vuitton job, people were shocked. He had fans, sure, but many didn’t see him as a “real” designer. And he was like, “Why are you surprised? I’ve been designing. I have a brand.” That stuck with me. He wasn’t asking himself, “Why me?” He was asking them, “Why not me?” He wasn’t doubting himself. He was challenging the industry. At one point, he asked someone, “Who do I need to talk to at Givenchy?” They were stunned. They thought, “You’re not qualified,” but Virgil saw no reason why he shouldn’t go for it. That’s what I want people to take away: to not ask yourself, “Why not me?,” if you want something or if you’re dreaming about something. Make it a challenge to the gatekeepers. Force them to answer, because often, the truth is—they don’t have a good reason.
“MAKE IT OURS” Crashing the Gates of Culture with Virgil Abloh is available for purchase here and in all major bookstores.
