No doubt there was some moment in my many decades of knowing Giorgio Armani when I finally felt comfortable enough to call him “Giorgio” instead of “Mr. Armani,” but it took time. Giorgio inspired immense admiration for his achievements, and also for his unwavering way of seeing the world and how we might look and live in it. Since everything he did was powered by a ferocious and indefatigable work ethic, addressing him—even with the formal “Mr.”—brought with it a kind of trepidation. He could be steely, and tough, and uncompromisingly direct when he wanted to be (I certainly saw that side of him on more than one occasion). But this was his persona—his buffer—and it served him well.

If Giorgio’s clothes were always clear in their intent—like Coco Chanel, he was only ever interested in treating women with utmost respect, and instinctively understood that they were living radically changed and liberated lives—he himself could be rather more reserved. This somewhat shy man would keep you at arm’s distance until you had proved worthy of his trust and friendship. So many of us longed to arrive at that place. Over time, he and I came to a warm understanding of each other. You had to wait for the twinkle in his eyes to know you were finally accepted.

Giorgio Armani’s death, yesterday at 91, was never going to be anything other than poignant, not least because he was about to celebrate his fiftieth year leading his global empire, a remarkable milestone shared by only a tiny handful of other designers: Ralph Lauren, Cristóbal Balenciaga, and Rei Kawakubo among them. Over that time his work neatly evaded the whims and caprices of fashion, achieving a kind of timelessness and clarity of purpose. Those who were lucky enough to wear his designs on red carpets always looked elegant and modern and formidable—because he understood power and attitude as well as anyone. He made actors look like movie stars, and also somehow more like themselves. But dazzling as they were, those movie stars were only a part of his world: He was constantly turning up wherever you looked, striking out into different disciplines—music, sport, architecture and art—understanding fashion cannot, should not, be siloed.

Last month, I’d heard that Giorgio was not in the greatest of health, and because I was in Milan, I asked if I could see him. Famously, and I always thought endearingly, he lived “above the shop” (meaning in his vast and elegant Milanese apartment situated directly above Armani’s main design studio). We planned to meet there, yet as I was heading over, I got the call that it wouldn’t be possible. Instead, I get to say here what I would have told him that afternoon: that fashion was forever changed by him for the better, and that so many of us owe him so much.