When he remodeled the garden of his home in Milan, Giorgio Armani added a pavilion, a wall of bamboo and an imposing pair of Japanese maples, transforming an awkwardly inclined courtyard into the kind of spare, contemplative space you might find at the heart of a ryokan (a traditional Japanese inn) in Kyoto. The ideal spot, in other words, for a fashion samurai, a lion in the winter of his years, to sit back and quietly reflect on his achievements. 

But Giorgio Armani isn’t that person. “I need to forget that I’m 88, otherwise it’s over,” he declares. “I need to try as if I started today, and this is a problem because when I wake up in the morning, I’m 88, which is very hard.” Even after all this time, with the global empire, the billions of dollars, the awards, he exists in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction.