Was already long awake from jet lag when I got an email from my pal Robert Barr in New York that I would've rather slept through this a.m.

This morning Alexander McQueen was found dead from an apparent suicide in his London flat.
He was only 40.

This tragedy comes on the heels of his mum's death earlier this month, and three of years after the suicide of his champion and friend, Isabella Blow.

Only mixed with the man a handful of times, the first time being at the Chateau Marmont, just a couple hours before Helmut Newton crashed and checked out for good.
Most recently, it was two years ago at the opening party for the beautifully designed Alexander McQueen flagship in L.A., where a clump of us, including the Bishop (pictured above with L), hung back, jumping up and down like teenagers at a club, as Beth Ditto, shrinkwrapped in red latex, and her band rocked the party that night.

Don't even understand why he needed to do this. Don't want to. But will always remember him as this lovely, sharp-edged, goofy, subversive, not-made-for this world genius.
R.I.P.

Updates: The Washington Post's Robin Givhan says it perfectly.
As does The NYT's Cathy Horyn on her blog, and
Dana Thomas on his legacy in Newsweek.