In early spring, The New York Times's influential style biannual, T magazine, ran a feature extolling the Belgian designer Martin Margiela. ''Even after 20 years in the business, Martin Margiela is still the most elusive figure in fashion,'' it read, ''which might explain why designers feel so free to thumb through his archives for inspiration''.

In an unprecedented move, this brief and unusually direct text was illustrated by five catwalk outfits courtesy of Marc Jacobs, AF Vandevorst, Junya Watanabe, Hermes and Prada, above which were printed images of the Margiela originals that had clearly, well, let's just say ''inspired'' their work.

Only months previously, in September 2007, a by-now legendary spat occurred between Jacobs and the International Herald Tribune's fashion editor, Suzy Menkes, again concerning the determinedly press-shy designer. Jacobs, the darling of the New York fashion circuit, had kept his star-studded audience waiting two hours before starting his spring/summer show, and Menkes was not amused. When her review appeared, it was far from favourable. Not only had Jacobs been late even to the point of unfashionable, wrote Menkes, but his show was derivative, relying rather too heavily on the archive of Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garons and, even more so, Martin Margiela.

Never one to let things lie, Jacobs responded immediately, telling the industry bible Women's Wear Daily: ''I've never denied how influenced I am by Margiela or by Rei Kawakubo, those are people that inspire my work. I don't hide that ... Everyone is influenced by Comme des Garcons and by Martin Margiela''.

The people at Comme des Garcons sent Jacobs flowers. Margiela, meanwhile, said nothing, did nothing. Because if Kawakubo is famously difficult to pin down, Margiela is fashion's invisible man. It is undoubtedly true that his ideas inform some of the world's most powerful talents, but he feels no need to acknowledge any referencing personally.

Since he started out, in 1988, the designer has never agreed to a single interview or been photographed for any magazine, however respected the title. One could be forgiven for thinking that Margiela is a figment of the industry's imagination, and that's just fine by him. Suffice it to say Margiela makes Greta Garbo look like Victoria Beckham.

In March 1997, in Paris for the ready-to-wear shows, I arrived at my hotel to find a crumpled scrap of paper printed with a map of Paris among the mountain of invitations, and made a fatal fashion faux pas by throwing it straight into the bin.

If Margiela has always been famous for taking normal fashion-show requirements such as a catwalk, for example, or models and doing away with them, then his invitations are no less conventional. Not for this designer anything as bourgeois as a gilt-trimmed embossed card or hierarchical seating plan. When guests arrive at a Margiela show, they are, for the most part, seated on a first-come, first-served basis. Margiela's collections have been shown, variously, on large, round dining tables in a dilapidated warehouse space; in disused subway cars; in the stairwell of a crumbling town house. On this particular occasion, the map in question marked the spot where press were instructed to travel an unremarkable street corner, as it turned out and await the arrival of a Routemaster bus filled with the designer's friends, all wearing his new season's designs accessorised by fetching fur wigs, and with a Belgian brass band in tow.

The video sent out after the event for anyone who hadn't made it only added to the characteristically surreal nature of it all. ''Please turn your TV this way up,'' read the white-on-black print in English, French and Japanese. ''Thank you.'' The entire show had been filmed on its side, complete with gawping passers-by, who might well stare in disbelief at the proceedings, not to mention the clothes. Shoulder pads were pinned to the outside of garments; coats and jackets were cut in half and attached to sludge-coloured, vaguely sci-fi sleeveless shells; floor-length skirts and dresses were made out of nothing more haute than the lightweight, low-budget silk normally only used for the linings of designer tailoring. Then there were the shoes: ''tabi'' boots with split toes reminiscent of nothing more obviously glamorous than a cloven hoof. Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah went the Belgian brass band.

To the uninitiated, at least some of Margiela's designs may seem confrontationally anarchic, but to know them is to love them. Until recently, Margiela showed his designs on ''real'' people, as those who work in fashion like to describe them, as opposed to professional models. The clothes themselves, meanwhile, have a timeless dignity a humanity, even which, in an industry that is often unashamedly fascistic where perceptions of beauty are concerned, is a rarity. Equally unusual is the rich vein of humour that runs through the work. In Margiela's hands, for example, a feather boa becomes an oversized stuffed boa constrictor; a ''fur'' coat is crafted in tomato-red Christmas tinsel; and a sequined dress is printed on to white or black T-shirt material. His creations are never knowingly red-carpet friendly.

While Margiela's aesthetic may not be obviously commercial, his clothes sell extremely well, both in his own boutiques and less rarefied department stores.

Everyone who's anyone in fashion, meanwhile, wears Margiela French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld, Balenciaga's Nicolas Ghesquiere, Alexander McQueen, the list goes on. There are 14 Margiela stores worldwide, with plans to open new outlets in Dubai, Hong Kong, Moscow and Munich over the next six months. In November, Margiela will launch a fine jewellery collection and eyewear his first pair of sunglasses, a black band that wraps around the face is called ''L'Incognito''. Next year sees the first Margiela fragrance, created in collaboration with L'Ore{aac}al.

''We appropriate, we do some vintage, individual vision no longer exists,'' said god of French fashion, Azzedine Alaia. ''The last one is Margiela.''

In London, McQueen is no less impressed. ''Of course I like Martin Margiela, I'm wearing him now ... His clothes are modern classics. There's not a woman I know who doesn't have at least one piece of Martin Margiela in their wardrobe,'' the British designer says.

Independent