A day before we speak, Gucci announced the swift departure of its creative director, Sabato De Sarno. He was in the post for just two years. I wonder how much existential dread this must conjure in the designer at the wheel of a massive label. “What’s different is that once the creative director changes, that’s only the beginning, y’know? That’s obviously the news cycle and it’s what everybody knows. But after that point, the amount of change that then triggers in an organisation,” says Lee. His words start to arrive a little faster. “I think we’re in a particular moment where the entire industry feels like it’s trembling, because there is so much change. And yes, people are reporting about creative directors and CEOs moving position, but everybody on every level in every department is kind of going through the same thing.”
The whole “one bad review can make or break you” cliché is standard fashion industry melodrama, but it still can, and does, impact a designer’s standing. Despite thunderous applause for his work at Bottega, the feedback to Lee’s Burberry era has been more mixed. Of the first collection, Cathy Horyn, The Cut’s fashion critic-at-large, observed that there was “too much stuff, too much merchandising and product development—and not enough of pure design.” More recently, the cult menswear podcast Throwing Fits was even harsher (F-bomb laden hardlines have always been its MO, though).
Lee still gets nervous. “Always. Terrified,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “Especially now, fashion is very in the public forum. I think with social media, everyone has a comment. Everyone has things to say. Putting work out is always nerve-wracking. Creative directors I know that are much more experienced than me and doing it for much longer, they still have the same feeling. If it does go away, then you don’t care any more. I don’t know.”
But Lee has seemed to relax into his stride. The brand’s spring-summer 2025 collection was polished, tailored, and wearable, which is a very important quality when you’re a brand as universal and commercial as Burberry. Plus, it added some much-needed refinement to the great indie sleaze revival (the military jackets, the parkas, the deep-end utilitarianism). It wasn’t a straight-up cynical TikTok play, nor did it riff on the ugly irony of so-bad-it’s-good-ness that ultra-viral brands have plugged into. “You can never please everyone, and you actually should never aim to,” says Lee. “Because if you try and please everyone, you please no one.”
In this ever-accelerating world of designer churn at luxury fashion houses, it’s hard not to think about the future. Professionally, Lee has lived a life. “I know, because I’m approaching 40, I’m like ‘Shit,’” he laughs. “How has it all happened, you know? How did I come to this point?” More recently, the press had been rife with speculation about Lee’s future, in particular linking him with the top job at Jil Sander. The brand, formerly led by husband-and-wife design duo Luke and Lucie Meier, announced that its fall-winter 2025 collection at Milan Fashion Week would be their last.
Often, Lee trails off when talking, and lets a moment’s pause fill the room. He does this several times throughout the evening, and it speaks to the mythology that’s slowly fogged up around the designer. One minute, he’s chatty, kind of innocent, meandering quickly through sentences like a new friend you’ve made in the smoking area; the next, he’s mysterious, private, comfortable with the silence and, maybe, a little bit media trained. I ask him about these two sides—especially at a time when creative directors are more in the public eye than ever. “People do it for different reasons, right? I mean, I do it because I really like the creative work. That’s what drives me to doing it. It’s not to be a public face, or be about my profile,” he says.
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