Rick Owens earns the buzz as far as ambiguity is concerned. His dichotomy is mesmerizing: the manner through which he identifies something out of the slightest atom, turning it into an explosive weapon (the heels, for instance) is noteworthy. But if he’s mesmerizing, I kid you not, his aesthetics could also be substantially baffling. Absurdly, his “ambling creatures” have a huge feat when dressed in his clothing, as they’re not the simplest when questioning wearability. Volumes were “light”, a term which suggests an oxymoron placed alongside Owens’ often-ample signature. He showed us shoulders: as seasons glide, models aren’t getting any bigger at Rick Owens, but at least they’re taking up more space. Correct, in the shoulders. It was about aiming at dagger sophistication, with a deliberate urge to galvanize and invigorate. Indeed. The structuring, so exaggerates yet so fluttering, set a paradox in modern tailoring. Channeling a spirit of extravaganza, the oddly beautiful canons of beauty were taken on supremely. A recalibration in gender-clarification, venturing onto a provocative definition of fashion and beauty. With the exception of some perplexingly-heeled platforms and skin-tight attires, hybrids were, on a low-key scale of ease and textural reassurance, pretty wearable. The sharpness boldened and heightened the heat; on another hand, volumes were razor-sharp edged, and tones were wacky as hell. In contrast to the previous season, Owens spurred-up the voluminous cuts, positively endangering silhouettes and classifying advanced calibrations of suiting. It led us to a hazard-aligned afterthought, envisioning a rejuvenating avenue of gallantry in craftsmanship that exploited new heights. As fashion is all-in for the idea of groundbreaking, his vison was extreme.

And certainly, there’s so much bravery in his making. But I couldn’t love it more.