London

I first met Louise many moons ago on her lunch break from her job as fashion course director at Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design in Café Amato in Soho when I was new to London’s fashion scene. She arrived swearing furiously and without further introduction launched into a tirade on the state of London Fashion Week. ‘It’s beyond human comprehension…,’ she groaned. ‘Student loans are killing education!’ Next she cracked a joke, laughed loudly and ordered doughnuts. Complete nutter, I thought. Fantastic!
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Hilarious and helpful one minute, utterly scathing the next, Wilson’s company at that first meeting was hugely entertaining. Gripped by her every word, I’d have happily hung out all day but she had to get back to the students – which for her, is what it’s really about. I asked how they were. ‘Same shit, different year,’ she replied, deadpan and rolling her eyes. I think the truth is she’d do pretty much anything for them.

The dedication and passion Wilson has for her students is legendary. An uncompromising perfectionist, she is renowned for pushing them way beyond their comfort zone to help them achieve their true potential; the seemingly impossible. Wilson sets standards: she doesn’t let her students slouch or mumble. If they are wearing something hideous she won’t think twice about getting them in front of the mirror and asking them to ‘bloody well explain the outfit or take it off’.

Many of the fantastic designers I’ve worked with at Fashion East have come through her MA (in one piece) and have their personal ‘Louise’ stories to tell. And what epic stories. The achievements of her students and Saint Martins’ international reputation speaks for itself, but she’s not willing to accept credit for the college’s high profile either, saying she’s been spoilt by Saint Martins, where she is given creative autonomy.

She shares her Stoke Newington home – a stylish, monochromatic house – with her Ghanaian partner and only son TJ. On the walls are Biba, Jamie Reid and Keith Haring originals, while the shelves are crammed with fashion and photography books. It was there that she recently showed me her neatly filed handbag collection. Among the Hermès Birkins are gifts from former pupils – a Chloé bag from its previous creative director, Phoebe Philo, who Wilson thought always dressed fabulously. Another is a ‘nice and trashy number’ she always uses for flights, from Jens Laugesen. ‘He was supposed to deliver me one in white for the summer and he hasn’t. The fucker! I’m going to call him right now.’

Wilson may dress in a Chairman Mao-style uniform of basic skirt and top in endless versions, but she always looks elegant, effortless and rocks a killer accessory. Last time I saw her she’d just bought a Martin Margiela bracelet and was trying to talk herself out of buying another. ‘I did not need it! I’ve got more crap than I could possibly fit on my arms!’

Intelligent, witty, and grumpy in the most charismatic way, she reminds me of my bloody minded rebellious grandpa (who I worshipped). I think she’s a hero, a walking revolution, and the most inspiring, lovely person to know.