Bowie the Chameleon: A Career In Reinvention
- Ann Palokaran
- Apr 1
- 6 min read
Updated: Apr 13
Few artists in history have worn as many faces as David Bowie. He was more than a musician, he was a master of reinvention who used fashion as a language just as much as music. From the flamboyant alien Ziggy Stardust to the sharp-suited pop star of the ‘80s, every phase of Bowie’s career had its own look, its own philosophy, its own world. His personal life, relationships, and artistic influences didn’t just shape his sound; they dictated what he wore, how he moved, and how the world saw him.
1960’s
Before he became David Bowie, he was David Robert Jones, a teenage kid from Brixton with a dream. During his early years, he was Inspired by the mod movement, he wore sharp, tailored suits and Chelsea boots, taking cues from the Kinks and The Beatles. There was a sense of clean-cut cool individuality but it wasn’t quite Bowie yet.
That changed when he discovered mime and avant-garde theatre. He studied under Lindsey Kemp, who introduced him to the idea of the movement as an extension of a persona. Suddenly, clothing wasn’t just about looking good; it was about storytelling. His experimentation with fashion became more theatrical, borrowing from surrealism and performance art. At the same time, Bowie was navigating questions about identity and gender expression, themes that would later define his most iconic looks. His early struggles with recognition and his frustration with the constraints of the music industry pushed him toward the bold and unconventional. Even then, he was looking for an escape from the ordinary.
Space Oddity
In 1969, Bowie’s Space Oddity marked the start of his cosmic transformation. Inspired by the moon landing and 2001: A Space Odyssey, he introduced Major Tom, an astronaut lost in space, symbolizing isolation and detachment.
The song was more than just about space; it reflected Bowie’s own alienation and uncertainty. He later said, "It’s really about an isolated man, an abandoned man, and how he sees things through a different perspective."
Visually, Bowie began embracing a space-age aesthetic, wearing floaty tunics and metallic looks. His time studying mime with Lindsay Kemp influenced his theatrical movement, laying the foundation for the bold personas to come.
The BBC played Space Oddity during Apollo 11’s moon landing, linking Bowie’s melancholic space tale to real world exploration. Major Tom would reappear throughout Bowie’s career, becoming a symbol of reinvention, alienation, and the unknown.
And then, there was Ziggy.
The early ‘70s saw Bowie go from an interesting up-and-comer to an intergalactic icon. Ziggy Stardust wasn’t just a persona, it was an act of rebellion. Inspired by the glam rock movement, Japanese kabuki theater, and his own alienation from the world, Bowie turned himself into a sequined, flame-haired extraterrestrial. His outfits were designed by Kansai Yamamoto, featuring metallic bodysuits, dramatic shoulder pads, and platform boots that made him look like he had just crash-landed from Mars.
But Ziggy was more than just a dazzling spectacle. At this point, Bowie’s marriage to Angie Bowie, a fiercely independent style icon, fueled his fearless approach to fashion. Together, they pushed boundaries, embracing androgyny at a time when few dared to. Bowie’s fluidity, his willingness to play with gender, exaggerate movement, and make the stage feel like a parallel universe. But the persona began to consume him. The whirlwind of fame, the pressure to constantly perform, and his growing reliance on drugs made Ziggy’s tragic downfall inevitable.
By 1973, Bowie was exhausted, and just as quickly as he had introduced Ziggy to the world, he killed him off.
Bowie smashed further boundaries when he wore the dress designed by Michael Fish for the cover of The Man Who Sold The World. When Michael Watts asked him for The Melody Maker “Why aren’t you wearing your girl’s dress today?” Bowie replied with; “Oh dear. You must misunderstand that it's not a woman’s. It’s a man’s dress” which was pretty out there for 1972.
After Ziggy, Bowie cycled through personas like Aladdin Sane and Halloween Jack before settling into something more sinister: the Thin White Duke. This character was a stark departure from the glitter and chaos of glam rock. Dressed in crisp, tailored suits, slicked-back hair, and a cold, detached gaze, the Duke was elegant but eerily soulless. In reality, Bowie’s life had taken a dark turn. His cocaine addiction was at its peak, paranoia and delusions plagued him, and the Duke reflected that emptiness.
Realizing he needed to escape, Bowie left Los Angeles and moved to Berlin, where he hoped to break free from his destructive habits. His style shifted once again, stripping away all excess. Gone were the costumes and characters, his Berlin years saw him in minimalist shirts, leather jackets, and high-waisted trousers, mirroring the city’s stark, industrial aesthetic. Bowie was rebuilding himself from the ground up, and his music followed suit. The Berlin Trilogy (Low, Heroes, Lodger) was a bold sonic departure, full of ambient textures and experimentation, reflecting his need for reinvention not just as an artist, but as a person.
1980’s The Gentlemen
With Let’s Dance (1983), Bowie transformed yet again this time into a global pop star. The music was polished, radio-friendly, and massively successful, and his style followed suit. Gone were the avant-garde theatrics; in their place was effortless sophistication. He became a master of sleek, oversized suits in pastel colours, often paired with neatly coiffed hair. If Ziggy Stardust was an alien rebel, this version of Bowie was pure, refined stardom.
During this time, Bowie’s personal life also began to stabilize. He had moved away from the chaos of the ‘70s and was stepping into a new level of confidence. His relationship with supermodel Iman, whom he married in 1992, further influenced this polished, fashion-forward image. Bowie and Iman became the definition of high fashion glamour, frequenting fashion events, appearing in high-end editorials, and embodying an effortless kind of cool. But for all his mainstream success, Bowie felt restless. By the late ‘80s, he had grown tired of his pop persona and was ready to disrupt expectations once again.
1990’s Experimentation
The 1990s and 2000s saw Bowie diving headfirst into experimentation. He dabbled in electronic music, industrial rock, and even drum and bass, constantly challenging both himself and his audience. His fashion reflected this phase, he moved away from the structured elegance of the ‘80s and leaned into avant-garde streetwear, leather jackets, and relaxed tailoring.
2000s
By the 2010s, Bowie’s transformations had become more introspective. His final years were marked by a quiet kind of power, his public appearances were rare, his music deeply personal, and his fashion refined. With The Next Day (2013) and Blackstar (2016), he re-emerged with a strikingly poetic image. In one of his last public appearance, he was in a perfectly tailored Thom Browne suit, smiling despite knowing what the world didn't know: that his time was almost up.
There are reports that, in his last months, Bowie took a quiet, nostalgic walk around Brixton, his birthplace. It was a full-circle moment, returning to where his journey began. His longtime friend and collaborator Tony Visconti described Blackstar as Bowie's "parting gift," a carefully crafted farewell in true artistic fashion. Though Bowie never spoke publicly about his illness, he left clues in his final works. In Lazarus, he sings: "Look up here, I’m in heaven. I’ve got scars that can’t be seen."
Bowie was never one thing for too long. He changed with the times, and often, he changed the times themselves. His fashion wasn’t just about looking good. It was about transformation, storytelling, and breaking every rule imaginable. His personal life, his music, and his style were all intricately connected, each reinvention revealing a new layer of the man behind the myth.
Even after his passing, Bowie’s legacy remains stitched into the fabric of music and fashion. Every artist who blurs gender lines, every performer who reinvents themselves, every musician who turns their image into an art form whether they know it or not owes something to Bowie.
And perhaps that’s his greatest trick of all: even in death, Bowie is still changing, still influencing, still ahead of us. Always a step beyond, waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
