Days 1,2,3:

Monse:

Knit jacquards had that après-ski, just-came-in-from-the-cold feeling—like you should be sipping something overpriced in a lodge, sunglasses on, pretending you ski more than you actually do. Oversized fleece coats and embellished velvet separates blurred the line between luxury and the kind of comfort that makes you late to things. And for evening? The designers were clearly fixated on that moment when you’re fresh out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, debating whether you actually need to get dressed at all. A terry bandeau top made the fantasy wearable, but the gowns that followed took the whole idea and ran with it—elevated, dramatic, still carrying that undone, just-threw-this-on energy. The allover translucent sequin dress? Basically wet skin in fabric form. No actual wet blankets in sight. “This season is a softer evolution of the brand’s DNA,” Fernando Garcia mused backstage. And sure, themed collections can be a tightrope walk, but this one? Surprisingly, effortlessly wearable.

Christian Cowan:

Some of the collection was a love letter to his late former colleague Abbie McLaughlin, whose taste leaned full-throttle Isabella Blow—dramatic, fearless, a little mad in the best way. Other parts? Straight out of Cowan’s childhood, shaped by Art Attack, the British TV show that turned everyday junk into art and probably made an entire generation believe they could DIY their way into greatness.

The show kicked off with a dress that looked like it was sculpted from chewing gum—because, in a way, it was. Cowan literally bit into pieces of silicone to get the texture right. Then came corsets and blazers splashed with color-blocked polka dots, a kind of pop-art chaos that somehow worked. And then, the pièce de résistance: high heels, but not on feet—on breasts. Like, instead of a top. The kind of absurdity that feels both rebellious and inevitable in a Cowan collection.

Of course, there was a naked dress (because what’s a runway without one these days?), but unlike Bianca Censori’s headline-grabbing nearly-nothing-at-all Grammys moment, Cowan’s version played a smarter game—covering just enough while still making you do a double take.

The 30-piece collection wrapped with a parade of avant-garde feathered creations, tailor-made for the Real Housewives set. When the finale look—a skin-tight patent leather dress engulfed in pink peacock-like feathers—hit the runway, the Salt Lake City franchise die-hards immediately clocked it as a Bronwyn Newport moment. Over-the-top? Excessive? Sure. But this wasn’t for the minimalists. Cowan knows his audience, and they eat it up.

Khaite:

Holstein is a David Lynch obsessive—not just for the eerie, dream-logic brilliance of his work, but for the fact that he never let anyone tell him what to do. At a preview in her sleek new SoHo showroom (the kind of space that makes you question every cheap decision you’ve ever made), she made it clear: she’s not budging. The critiques—the grandeur of her sets, the operatic intensity of her designs—aren’t stopping her. Case in point: Khaite’s latest show, back at the Park Avenue Armory, where an elevated circular runway loomed in the cavernous space, equal parts flex and declaration. Not that the audience necessarily clocked it, but the golden hue of the runway was a nod to the Yellow Brick Road—a subtle tribute to The Wizard of Oz, Lynch’s favorite film.

And once you knew that? It was easy to see the cinematic through-line. The tough, streetwise leather and leopard-spot pony skin separates had Wild at Heart energy—like something Lula Pace Fortune might have worn in an alternate universe where she lived in downtown Manhattan and ran an art gallery. The sweeping, lightly bustled dresses and raw-edged corsets? More period drama, but still carrying that undone, unscripted feel.

The real challenge for Holstein, though, isn’t staging a spectacle—it’s making sure her ready-to-wear feels as accessible (and lusted after) as her cult-status accessories. It’s a classic double standard: male designers at the helm of the European powerhouses she’s clearly studying aren’t asked to tether their fantasies to reality the way women designers often are. But Holstein’s no purist, and this season, she found ways to inject some New York practicality into the mix. Think: loose-fit dark-rinse jeans grounding the drama—styled with a deconstructed corset and a boxy tee, or a slouchy knit slashed open in back to expose just the right amount of skin. Smart trousers. Lean, fine-gauge sweaters. Leather jackets cut in fresh proportions. The kind of stuff that feels real.

But the best moments? The ones that felt touched by human hands. The mismatched tacks on the back of a distressed leather jacket. The silk of a corset unraveling just so, like it had been worn and reworn and carried stories in its threads. The details that cut through the polish, that made everything feel alive. If Holstein keeps chasing that—keeps injecting heart into the sharp edges—she’ll carve out something the big corporate European players can’t: a brand with a pulse.

Ulla Johnson:

Fall had Johnson pushing her designs further—elevating, experimenting, chasing a new kind of permanence. It started with a collaboration with French artist Julie Hamisky (granddaughter of sculptors François-Xavier and Claude Lalanne), whose work electroplates flowers into sculptures and home pieces. “Preserving ephemera in perpetuity,” as Johnson put it. This time, though, the flowers didn’t just sit on mantels—they became jewelry and accessories, like the oversized poppy belt buckle cinching a shaggy shearling coat, a poetic clash of raw and refined.

Then came a shift: a long-sleeved black dress, draped in swags of crystals and stones. A departure for Johnson, whose embellishments have always leaned earthy, organic, a little undone. This was glamour, full stop—polished, intentional, and, judging by the front row stacked with retailers, bound to be a hit.

But it wasn’t all high shine. Johnson went deeper into handcraft, working with Dutch textile artist Claudy Jongstra, who raises her own sheep and dyes her yarns with natural pigments. The result? The felted coats in Looks 10 and 17, warm with history, texture, and time. Elsewhere, coats were spray-painted in Italy, each one vivid and unique, no two exactly alike. A balancing act between the methodical and the unpredictable—heritage techniques on one side, modern interventions on the other. One thing was clear: Johnson did her mother proud.

Collina Strada:

The first model walked out like some kind of Little Red Riding Hood, if Red had ditched the fairytale for something rawer, sharper—her hood a corduroy balloon jacket dress instead of a cape, the floral print twisting pink and green flowers into something almost camo, like nature gearing up for battle. Other models followed, heads obscured under oversized hoods or Collina Strada’s signature bee-eye sunglasses, mask-like and alien, their exaggerated, hyper-feminine strut turning into something between a curtsy and a dare. A warning. A game. (Speaking of threats—one floral print blurred into something eerily cheetah-like, soft but predatory.)

“This season started with thinking about matriarchy,” Taymour said in her Nolita studio days before the show. “What that would look like for women.” But then—she paused—“it became about hiding. Masking the tears. Disappearing in plain sight.” Taymour, for what it’s worth, feels things. If her words carried weight, the collection itself felt almost defiant in its indulgence—luxurious, rich, playful, as if to say: take what they don’t want you to have. The coziness of chunky, deadstock-knit sweaters spun on cutting-edge Italian machines. Upcycled wool coats, one in a honey-caramel shade, its hand-cut ribbons fraying at the seams to create a kind of raw, furry softness. Paired with a barely-there floral silk dress and those slinky mesh boots from last season—this time hand-beaded, delicate and glimmering. The kind of outfit that’s equal parts armor and poetry.

Near the end, a procession of gowns crafted from vintage wedding and first-communion dresses—a ghostly, singular lineup of one-of-a-kinds. But don’t mistake Taymour’s vision for some trad-wife cosplay. This is the same woman who, back in Fall 2018, sent Sasha Frolova down the runway reciting vows to herself—a promise to love herself “for all eternity.” The audience had cheered then, and tonight, when two models walked hand in hand and kissed at the runway’s end, they cheered again. The gowns themselves—dramatic, romantic, cinematic—felt destined for altars, red carpets, or (honestly) a period film where Taymour designs the costumes.

“This season was hard to move into,” she admitted. “So I just tried to embrace our greatest hits while bringing in newness.” Then, after a pause: “I just want everyone to feel protected. My queer models. Every human. Everyone. Because who knows what’s going to happen.” But the thing is—she’s always been doing that.

Brandon Maxwell:

With Calvin Klein back on the New York schedule for the first time in over six years—Veronica Leoni making her long-awaited debut tomorrow—sportswear is bound to be the conversation of the week. Maybe it was the Prince cover humming through the speakers, but Maxwell’s show felt laced with an ’80s undertone: oversized men’s dress shirts, glossy black leather midi skirts swinging with each step. Power shoulders structured the tailored coats, while wrapped and draped necklines gave everything a sharp, put-together polish—an echo of a time before casual Fridays, athleisure, and the general decline of American dressing (Fashion Week attendees excluded, obviously).

A lot of this lineup could walk straight off the runway and onto the street—no translation needed. A double-front leather moto jacket layered over a striped shirt and faded jeans (though maybe not with kitten heels in today’s slush), or a plaid blazer thrown over a ribbed turtleneck and belted leather track pants. The knitwear—a crucial component in the “sweater you grab first thing in the morning” equation—came courtesy of Ryan Roche. Maxwell’s collaboration with the knitwear specialist brought a mix of textures, from a chunky marled polo-neck pullover to slinky tube dresses in black animal spot intarsias. And the “really good pants”? Almost always paired with a utility belt, flap pockets sitting at the hips, a nod to function and fashion.

And the high-glam dresses that once defined Maxwell’s early days? Barely there. Instead, he proposed something quieter, easier: a sleeveless dress in black crinkled silk, its neckline softly gathered, the volume graceful. Over it, a matching coat, its hood cinched with sporty drawstrings—an effortless way to dress up without leaning into the excess of it all. A shift, sure, but one that makes sense for where we are now.