Earlier this week, I saw the brilliant David Bowie exhibition at the V&A. The show is quite fantastic and has had critics not just swooning, but bursting into rhapsodies and in at least one case tears.

It is in many ways the perfect exhibition. Simply called 'David Bowie is...', it showcases the glittering career of one of the most versatile and thoughtful artists of the last century. The range of collaborations with artists and designers 'in the fields of fashion, sound, graphics, theater, art and film' is astonishing. And the music ain't bad either.

I'll be packing off my students to see it (if they can get tickets, that is), as it is the perfect example for anyone wanting to understand medieval religion. The record-breaking crowds that will flock to see the show will be like pilgrims visiting a shrine of an important saint: here is the outfit Bowie wore when he sang Starman on Top of the Pops; there are the lyrics, written in his own hand, for Rebel Rebel. There is the printed itinerary of the train journey across the eastern US, with stop-offs to the end of the line before the rest of the trip was by car and van. They are like relics belonging to a holy man, objects to be admired. In the middle ages, perhaps it would have been part of a finger bone; or look - part of a cloak that a saint wore on his way to Jerusalem. But in both cases, the message is: come, see and - well, please don't touch.

Contrary to popular belief, being alive and venerated was both regular and very common in early Christianity - something that will be a further relief to Bowie fans already delighted by a 5* new album. In the middle ages (and before), people traveled to see their icons, living saints, to see them in the flesh. Crowds would flock to venerate their heroes, especially those whose  'career choices' signaled an unusual ability to understand the world around them. Men who stood on the top of columns, or buried themselves in holes in the ground for years on end became celebrities, greatly admired for their asceticism and what we might call today the commitment to their art. Then too, much was ideas and about performance.

One example from the 5th century was St. Simeon, a holy man who lived on top of a tall column whose speciality was touching his head with his toes in a yogic type move. He once did so 1,244 times in succession, in front of adoring fans and sour faced authorities, who one suspects would have called Simon and his followers 'freaks' as the Bernard Falk memorably did of Bowie in a TV report in 1969 (it is shown at the V&A; it made me laugh out loud).

St Simeon may not have had a blue and red flash on his face, but like Bowie, he felt that there were other ways to find enlightenment than following the herd. And that appealed to many who felt that the bishops, churches and that sort of thing were, well, just uncool.

Hey dudes, we can be heroes, he might have sung down from his column 1500 years ago, if just for one day.

But what I like about the Bowie show most is how it reads like a hagiography (in the true meaning of the word, that is, rather than how it is usually used). In fact, true hagiographies, or writing about saints, holy men and women and iconic figures, were not uncritical, for their aim was not to gloss and flatter: rather, they had an instructive and educative purpose: the aim was to teach, to inform and to inspire; and what makes the exhibition exhilarating is the fact it does just that.

We learn, for example, how Bowie works: in a small mock up studio, we see notes listing how many string musicians he brought in to record particular tracks and how much they were paid; we see how he uses loops, how he sets up jamming sessions to tease out little pearls which are then fashioned into something more substantial; we learn how he works with lyrics, and how he has played with chopping up sentences randomly to create new meanings; he talks on camera about how and where ideas come from and how he gives them oxygen to breathe. It is a tool kit that explains how to innovate, how to create and how to think. Here is what you need, it says, for revelation to occur.

And as with good saints' lives from late antiquity, it all seems blindingly obvious when it is set out in front of you: how is it even possible no one else twigged the links between music and fashion? Or that the process of re-invention was itself part of the process - that personae could, and had to be, killed off? Or that the artist as subject in their own right was important? Or about how mime, dance, performance, music, film and design and image are one and the same thing?

The show is one of those rare events where you leave with many more questions than you went in with - not necessarily about Bowie himself, although you cannot fail to be anything other than deeply deeply impressed. But you are also prompted to be highly introspective: which are the obvious dots in and around our own lives that we are too rushed, too blinkered or too dim, to see and to join up? Looking at how someone else cracked the code is therefore not just an inspiration but a blueprint.

So the fabulous Tilda Swinton was spot on in her speech that addressed the absent hero, when she said : 'you were...you are...one of us.' That is precisely the point.

Here, likewise, is the blueprint of St. Alipius from North Africa, likely wearing this season's linen from North Africa, one of the Mediterranean's wealthiest regions at that time. Detach yourself from the mundane, was his message, and reach for the heavens. The tell-tale and particularly fine halo reveals how he would have empathized with Bowie's sense of fashion and performance; but he would also have approved of some of his lyrics:

'There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds'

Those were pretty much St. Alipius' thoughts too.

So congratulations to the fabulous V&A, which yet again, is bang on trend. Beg, borrow or steal to get tickets. But above all, make the pilgrimage to Kensington to look, listen and learn.

The Byzantine Empire, as Derek Zoolander might say, is so hot right now.

This has been a good week to be a specialist on the Byzantine Empire. Usually, the name alone is enough to inspire a blank look, prompting a scratch of the head and a raid of the memory banks to remember when it flourished, where it was and what it was; it's the look perfected in fact by winner of Best Male Model award, Hansel.

I never expected that I would have one of the world's leading fashion houses to thank for putting a spring in my step until I saw pictures of Dolce & Gabbana's fall & winter collection for 2013, unveiled at Milan Fashion week a few days ago.

Dominated by Byzantine art, mosaics and images of powerful women 'inspired' by the wonderful cathedral of Santa Maria Nuova at Monreale, the collection went down well with the fashionistas - and also, let me tell you, with the not very large Byzantine academic community across the world that has rolled in ecstasy (a few howls, mind, about the specific choices of image).

It is all wonderfully post-modern. The wealthy women who will wear these clothes (the men's collection has no Byzantine reference - boo!) will parade powerful images of their wealthy predecessors: rulers, donors and saints. Were rich women today really more liberated than in the past? Will choice by about which item(s) to buy be based solely on colour - will it matter if the image is one of someone who was brutally martyred? And was that any different to a worshipper who looked at the images a thousand years ago - did they know who was in the picture either?

What I like best of all though as the images were not taken from imperial Constantinople, but from Norman Sicily. With delicious irony, they were put up by the Dolce & Gabbana of their day. The new Norman rulers who conquered the island wanted a magnificent cathedral. And they wanted bling by the bucket-load. Those mosaics are the fall/winter collection circa 1180. Those are the latest costumes, the finest fabrics and the latest looks in the medieval Mediterranean.

There's even a late 12th century parallel from Zoolander where Derek goes down the mines: hard labour as a source of spiritual redemption.

Once upon a time, religion and faith used to be about having fun, slapping gold on the walls of cathedrals and celebrating the good times. The medieval rich were ferocious philanthropists, endowing churches and paying for monks to do the hard work of praying for their souls, a neat combination.  No surprise then that when that all turned around in the Reformation - and dour sullen solemnity took over - it killed fashion too: Vogue would have been pretty slim in 17th century Europe with one black gloomy costume after another. Not much celebration on the catwalks or back at the crib; and forget about celebrating at church (which, is what 'eucharist' means after all).

Anyway, I can't wait to see the collection in real life, and will post when I do. After all, it's not everyday you find that after centuries in the shadows, not only is Byzantium hot, but that it is hot (well, haute) couture. And better still, it's coming to a boutique near you soon.