OVER A CENTURY OF GUCCI

From its beginnings in Florence as a small luggage atelier to Hollywood Boulevard takeovers a century later, the history of Gucci is one of constant reinvention. Each era brings a different face. Bamboo handles born out of scarcity. Jackie Kennedy single-handedly transforming a simple hobo bag into an It item. Tom Ford’s velvet-clad supernova in the ’90s. Alessandro Michele’s maximalist fairytale. And now a new chapter with Demna Gvasalia at the helm.

But before we talk about what’s next, let’s rewind…

Picture it: London, 1910s. The Savoy Hotel is buzzing with aristocrats, diplomats and the kind of jet setters that never lift their own luggage. Somewhere in the middle is Guccio Gucci. Officially, he’s a bellhop. Unofficially? A sponge. He’s tracking every detail: which leathers still look good after a few trips across the Atlantic; how hardware works as a quiet status symbol; and why the best trunks glide instead of drag.

It’s less a bellhop job, more a crash course in taste. And Guccio was a diligent student. He brought those lessons home to Florence, and in 1921 opened a small luggage atelier. The workshop marries Tuscan craft with that English polish he’d memorised by the lift. And suddenly there was Gucci: less about making bags, more about bottling the glamour of movement itself. Arrivals, departures, the thrill of being en route: that was the brand’s first language.

Post-war Florence is short on glamour and even shorter on leather. Most brands stall, but Gucci’s artisans start experimenting. Their unlikely muse? Bamboo. Heated and bent into smooth curves, it becomes the handle for the Bamboo 1947 bag, instantly recognisable and still on wish lists decades later.

By the ’50s, the house leaned further into its equestrian roots. Enter the green-red-green Web stripe, lifted straight from a saddle girth (later to find itself on everything from bags and coats to trainers). Practical in origin but once woven into handbags it reads as pure style; another brand code born from function.

Then comes the Gucci Horsebit loafer of 1953: pared-back, balanced and punctuated with a tiny metal bit across the vamp. It was equal parts Florence and Fifth Avenue, and quickly became the shoe of choice for editors, executives and off-duty icons (it still is). If “quiet luxury” had an early blueprint, this was it. And like all great pieces, it hasn’t stayed static. In the ’70s, Gucci gave it a lift—literally—with platform soles that strutted straight into the disco era. Fast-forward a few decades and you’ll spot everyone from Alexa Chung to Harry Styles putting their own spin on it, whether styled with preppy tailoring or silk suits.

And then there’s Aldo Gucci. Guccio’s son takes the family business stateside, opening the first American store on Fifth Avenue in 1953 just months after his father passes. It’s a strong move, and New York takes to it immediately. In one step, Gucci shifts from chasing jet setters to meeting them where they are. Manhattan gets a taste of Tuscan polish - and Gucci’s global chapter kicks off.

The newly turned lifestyle brand also started experimenting with print. In 1966, Rodolfo Gucci, one of Guccio’s sons and a former film actor, commissioned illustrator Vittorio Accornero to design a scarf for Grace Kelly. The result was the Gucci Flora: 37 shades of blooms and butterflies, rendered with fairy-tale detail. Grace was smitten. The scarf became a signature part of her style, becoming synonymous with royalty, glamour, elegance. Flora wasn’t designed to be a long-term brand code, but the print had a way of sticking. Decade after decade it resurfaces, reimagined on perfume bottles, in campaigns, and splashed across dresses.And while accessories remained the entry point, Gucci started to make its way into wardrobes. Ready-to-wear arrived in the mid-’60s: sharp tailoring, silk shirts, equestrian prints and suiting that looked as good stepping off a plane as it did at a cocktail bar. By 1972, the house had opened a clothing-only boutique on Fifth Avenue; the first of its kind for a luxury brand.

That same year, Gucci added Swiss watches to the line-up - an early move into a category most heritage houses wouldn’t touch for decades. The effect is immediate. The jet set embraces the full look: boarding flights in Gucci suits, knotting Flora scarves mid-journey, checking Gucci watches for martini o’clock at the St. Regis and wheeling Gucci luggage bags through arrivals.

The Tom Ford years end in 2004, leaving Gucci at a turning point. Enter Frida Giannini, who steers the house through the 2000s with a cooler hand. Her Gucci is pared back: out go the velvet plunge suits, in comes sharp tailoring, graphic prints, archival revivals and bamboo reborn in sleek new forms. The house remains a powerhouse, but the cultural tempo shifts; it’s no longer defining the decade outright, instead holding its own while new names gather pace.

Michele also knows the power of rewriting history. One of his most headline-making moves comes in Harlem with Dapper Dan. In the ’80s, Dan made a name for himself by reworking luxury logos into bold, custom looks for rappers, athletes and uptown icons—think LL Cool J, Salt-N-Pepa, Mike Tyson. He was dubbed the “bootleg king,” and Gucci even sued him at the time. Instead of ignoring (or litigating) his legacy, Michele turns the story around. In 2017, Gucci helped reopen his atelier; in 2018, they launched a joint capsule. What once symbolised cultural theft became collaboration, a rare moment of fashion reparations. It makes global headlines.

From there, Gucci leans into spectacle. The Hacker Project in 2021, where Gucci x Balenciaga, logos swapped and collaged, feels like fashion’s version of fan fiction, breaking the internet on cue. The Gucci Diana revives Princess Di’s bamboo-handled tote, but this time with neon belt-shapers hugging the handles: nostalgia rewritten with a wink. Other drops, like Gucci Ghost in 2016, fold street art and meme culture into the luxury space. By the late 2010s, the fashion house is fluent in irony, steeped in internet culture, and remixing its own past for a generation raised on Tumblr and TikTok.

If their Hollywood credentials were ever in question, Love Parade (Nov. 2021) answered them in neon lights. Alessandro Michele shut down Hollywood Boulevard, turned the Walk of Fame into a runway, and sent Jared Leto, Macaulay Culkin, Phoebe Bridgers, and St. Vincent past the Chinese Theatre like characters in his own movie. On that night, Gucci staged a love letter to cinema, star power and spectacle dialled to the max. Off the runway, Gucci’s ties to the industry run deeper. Since 2011, the house has sponsored LACMA’s Art+Film Gala, turning it into one of Los Angeles’ most glamorous nights. Directors, actors, artists, and Gucci dresses fill the museum each year, blurring the lines between red carpet and exhibition opening. More than a sponsorship; it cements the brand as a convener of culture, the brand that bridges film, art and fashion in one room.

Not long after came the big-screen moment: House of Gucci. Directed by Ridley Scott and starring Lady Gaga as Patrizia Reggiani and Adam Driver as Maurizio Gucci, the 2021 film turned the brand’s turbulent family history into a glossy Hollywood drama. While critics were split on the accents (Gaga’s “Father, Son, House of Gucci” became an instant meme), the film put Gucci’s story front and centre in pop culture, introducing a whole new audience to its mythos. For a house already entangled with Hollywood, it felt like life imitating art. Gucci as both subject and sponsor of cinema.

But in 2022, the script flipped again. Alessandro Michele, architect of Gucci’s maximalist fairytale, departed after seven years. His successor, Sabato De Sarno, opened with a counterpoint: sharp tailoring, restrained silhouettes, branding dialed down. His debut "Ancora" show in Milan in 2023 stripped Gucci back to clean lines and block colour, a deliberate pause after the riot of Michele’s world-building.

 De Sarno’s vision was quieter, but it wasn’t background noise. He pushed reality; everyday glamour, clothes designed to be lived in rather than just posted. The campaign fronted by Daria Werbowy, coaxed out of retirement, set the tone: pared-back, sensual, with an emphasis on Gucci’s heritage of tailoring and leather. Ancora (“again” in Italian) wasn’t just a collection title, it was a statement of intent: a reset, a reminder, a call to look again at what makes Gucci, Gucci.

 Culturally, it felt like Gucci catching its breath. After years of maximalism dominating the feeds, De Sarno’s edit was in tune with the wider mood: quiet luxury, clean lines, clothes that whisper. Taylor Swift wore Gucci sequins at the Grammys, Dakota Johnson continued her long-standing love affair with the brand, and Kendall Jenner brought Ancora looks into the celebrity spotlight.

Across nearly 40 looks, Demna leaned into house archetypes while twisting them through his own lens of satire and excess. A bikini bottom dubbed “The Bastardo” sat alongside sharp leather skirt suits, floor-length eveningwear, and unapologetically tacky-fab glamour. His stated aim? To restore Gucci to a place that feels “sexy, extravagant, daring.”

The collection balanced homage with subversion. Where many expected a Tom Ford revival, Demna delivered something looser, funnier, more character-driven – a reminder of his Vetements roots, but filtered through Gucci’s codes. He traded in his trademark shadowy dystopia for a theatrical, camp-laden spectacle that embraced joy as much as provocation.

It was a bold reset, one that made clear Gucci’s new era will not play it safe.