We open the doors to our imaginary wardrobe. No sensible little Gucci dresses hanging in here, thank you very much. Only clothes nobody has invented yet. Today, we go looking for your visual signature.

A black line can whisper, shout or seduce. A dot can behave impeccably, or go completely off the rails. Today, we explore where your style starts to sing.

In the 1950s, women wore hats that allowed them to secretly spy on the world. Elsa Schiaparelli was a fashion queen par excellence and, thankfully, never afraid of a little mischief.

Tartan once told everyone which clan you belonged to, and was eventually banned in an attempt to keep rebellious Highlanders under control. A few centuries later, that very same check is casually strutting down the catwalk.

Five metres of cloth. A tiny knife tucked into your sock. A bag, because pockets hadn’t been invented yet. Then Vivienne Westwood comes along and makes it punk. We follow tartan from the Scottish Highlands to Gucci, Dior and Versace, and watch an ancient tradition climb onto the catwalk.

What happens when you let a Roman aristocrat with zero fashion training loose in Paris and introduce her to Salvador Dalí? Beige skirt suits, it turns out, are not involved. Not even slightly.

Generations of women built a visual language from cork, paint and nails: dots whose colors told the world whether there was something to celebrate, or mourn. Welcome to the wonderfully expressive world of these fiercely original women.

He became one of the most famous artists of the twentieth century. But before all the fame, famous friends and millions, he drew shoes for fashion magazines and advertisements. In gold leaf. Lots and lots of gold leaf.

Two Dutch designers once launched a perfume that smelled of absolutely nothing. They cut holes into couture, made dresses from discarded fabrics and sent metres of tulle down the catwalk covered in words that would make your grandmother blush. Fashion with very little interest in behaving itself.

At eighteen, a young Russian aristocrat left for Paris. He dressed Mata Hari, conquered Harper’s Bazaar, and built entire paper worlds of feathers, pleats, jewels and Art Deco glamour. All with a pencil, scissors and a frankly unreasonable amount of talent.

A sold-out exhibition. Royal clients. Sheikhs. Film stars. Aristocrats. And display cases dripping with jewels. Naturally, I had to wriggle my way inside and bring back a generous helping of sparkle, glow and glorious excess for you.

A famous English pottery house had been making powder-blue vases, tableware and elaborate reliefs since the eighteenth century. Until someone had a brilliant idea. And suddenly, a centuries-old ceramic technique strutted straight onto the catwalk, and eventually into the pages of Vogue.

He drew for Vogue Japan, Prada and major Dutch fashion houses, but his secret weapon was surprisingly simple: the art of leaving things out. One less line. Another shape gone. Here, we discover just how much you can say with very, very little.

She had little patience for proper dresses, traditions or ladies telling her what was and wasn’t done. So she made skirts shorter, tights brighter and fashion considerably less polite. The daisy became her trademark and the miniskirt the symbol of an entire generation. Today, we’re heading to swinging sixties London.

It was an age of silk, champagne, inventions and an unshakable faith in the future. But underneath all that glamour, the ice was cracking. We step aboard the most famous ship in history and discover how clothes told stories of wealth, desire, freedom and a brand-new life on the other side.

At the end of the nineteenth century, a London street sweeper finds something that will change his life forever. He sews 60,000 buttons onto an old, worn-out suit and creates something nobody has ever seen before. More than a century later, his legacy suddenly turns up at one of the biggest fashion houses in the world.