There is something slightly strange about seeing Kate Barton in pastel.

I’m so used to the idea of Barton being associated with metal, structure, black, ivory, chrome, things that look as though they might hold a building together, that the first image of a lilac gown with a giant red flower sitting at the waist made me stop for a second.

Is this Kate Barton?

And then I noticed the ring.

Of course.

There it was, holding the fabric together at the waist, doing the very Kate Barton thing of making something beautiful because it has a reason to be there.

And suddenly the whole collection started making more sense.

Because this is not really Kate Barton abandoning structure.

It’s Kate Barton going on holiday.

And apparently she packed flowers.

A LOT of flowers.

There are roses at the waist, roses at the shoulder, little corsages appearing where you least expect them, and then there are tulips printed onto tanks, a little dog riding around in a handbag, candy-coloured shoes, headscarves and enough pink, lilac, lemon and powder blue to make the whole thing feel like a particularly glamorous box of childhood sweets.

It’s cute.

Which is not a word I expected to be using about Kate Barton.

But here we are.

The interesting thing is that underneath all that sweetness, the clothes are still doing the same thing they have always been interested in doing — twisting, gathering, suspending, pulling fabric into place and making the construction visible.

The metal ring is probably the best example.

It appears at the neck of a satin top, then moves down to the waist of a yellow dress, then appears again on a powder-blue skirt and an ivory gown. Different clothes, different fabrics, different problems to solve, same little piece of hardware.

That’s when the collection suddenly feels very clever.

The ring isn’t there because somebody thought, oh, that would look nice.

It actually has a job.

And I like clothes that have jobs.

Maybe because most of my wardrobe doesn’t.

There is something particularly beautiful about the way it works with the softer fabrics too. Satin, jersey, knit — materials that could easily become completely fluid — are given a little bit of discipline by this one hard, circular object.

Softness meets hardware.

Romance meets engineering.

Kate Barton meets a flower shop.

The striped sequin knit is another one of those ideas that keeps coming back, appearing as a long column dress, a little mini and a pencil skirt. Pink, powder blue, lilac, cream, sequins.

It should probably be too sweet.

Somehow it isn’t.

Maybe because the sequins give the stripes a slightly armoured quality, which stops the whole thing from drifting into bridesmaid territory.

And then there are the clothes that are simply beautiful.

The pale-blue draped pieces. The soft yellow dress with those strange, almost wing-like sleeves. The pink satin gown with flowers held against the body as though someone has just handed the woman a bouquet and she hasn’t quite decided where to put it.

These are not particularly complicated ideas.

They don’t need to be.

And that’s where I found myself slightly torn.

Because part of me wants Kate Barton to keep asking difficult questions about construction and tension and the relationship between the body and the garment.

And another part of me is looking at that pink dress and thinking…

It’s pretty.

That’s it.

It’s pretty.

Do we have to feel guilty about that?

The collection seems to be asking the same question.

For every engineered piece, there is something more decorative sitting nearby. For every metal ring, there is a silk flower. For every architectural drape, there is a little graphic T-shirt or a playful accessory.

It’s almost as though the collection is trying to convince us that seriousness and joy don’t have to be enemies.

Which, frankly, is something fashion could probably remember more often.

The accessories might actually be where the two sides meet most successfully.

The transparent bag filled with flowers is ridiculous in exactly the right way. The molten-looking metallic minaudière feels like a tiny piece of sculpture. Even the smaller bags pick up on the hardware and polished surfaces without becoming overly precious.

The clothes are getting softer.

The accessories refuse to.

And then there are the shoes — yellow, red, silver, chartreuse, caramel — little flashes of colour underneath all that draping.

Nothing here seems particularly interested in being severe.

Even the models look different.

There is one image of two women in pale blue and blush sequins, standing together and laughing, arms raised.

Actually laughing.

On a fashion presentation.

OH MY GOD.

It sounds like nothing, but it changes everything.

Because suddenly this isn’t just a collection about changing a colour palette.

It’s about changing the mood.

The original Kate Barton woman can feel controlled, almost untouchable. This one looks like she might actually be having a good time.

And maybe that’s the biggest departure of all.

The problem, though — and there is always a problem, because apparently I am incapable of looking at clothes without finding one — is that not everything speaks the same language.

The metal ring makes sense.

The engineered sequin knit makes sense.

The sculptural bags make sense.

The corsages are lovely, but they are just… lovely.

The little dog on the T-shirt is fun, but it doesn’t have much to say about the construction that makes the stronger pieces interesting. The tulips are charming. The headscarves are charming.

There is a LOT of charm here.

And charm is a dangerous thing when your entire identity has been built around making people look twice.

Some of these pieces make you look twice.

Some make you smile and move on.

I’m not sure that’s necessarily a failure.

Maybe a collection doesn’t have to behave like one perfectly coherent thesis.

Maybe sometimes it can just be a woman who spent the morning building something out of metal and fabric and then decided she wanted to put a flower on it.

I understand that impulse.

Actually, I really understand it.

What makes the collection worth paying attention to is that the more playful pieces don’t completely erase the old Kate Barton.

She’s still there.

You can find her in the ring around the neck.

In the way fabric is pulled into a waist.

In the strange tension of a draped skirt.

In the sculptural bags.

She’s just wearing pink now.

And perhaps that’s the most interesting thing about this collection.

Not that Kate Barton has become softer.

But that she is discovering that softness doesn’t necessarily mean giving up the structure.

A metal ring can hold a satin dress.

A sequin can be architectural.

A flower can be unnecessary and still be beautiful.

And maybe — just maybe — a designer known for making clothes that look like they could survive an earthquake is allowed to have a little fun.

I’m glad she did.