In an already complicated, weather-changing existence, Demna Gvasalia continues to make clothes that boggle the mind. They are not easy to grasp or immediately likable, and therein lies his strength. And appeal

It isn’t clear what the flooded runway means. Or the submerged front row. Is it a suggestion that fashion is now too inundated with the murky-good, or is it just Demna Gvasalia’s commentary on global warming and that cities, such as much-noticed Venice and overlooked Jakarta, are sinking? Perhaps he has more time to think of such things, now that he’s not designing Vetements. If so, he is showing, not telling, which seems wonted at other houses. Maybe, it’s best not to read too much into it and concentrate, instead, on the clothes. The staging at Balenciaga is always a conversation starter, but the clothes, more than that, encourage thinking, inspiring wonder and WTFs in equal measure. Last season’s parliamentary delegates seem to have given way to mourners and celebrants of the end of the world.

The show opened with dark, dark clothes that are a tad on the eerie side (some of the models wear red contact lenses, like Vin Diesel in Bloodshot!), so much so that some even called it “apocalyptic”, all fourteen (a number here in Asia considered inauspicious) are black until a brief shot of colour and then it’s mournful again and then hopeful, and the alternating rhythm continues. The solid blackness forces one to look at the clothes: the shapes, the silhouettes, or the fall (and the raised). Mr Gvasalia is a master of the silhouette. He goes from what in China was once proletarian to what in France is now the nostalgic-bourgeoisie. Between them, global left/right whatever. It can be hard, it can be soft, it can be punk, it can be pretty, there’s a dark edge to them all. This might have been Yohji Yamamoto if the designer stops coasting along.

Mr Gvasalia’s designs not only make you consider the metaphors, they also urge you to look at them a little closer, like you would with art not rendered in the usual strokes, with the usual pigments. And like any work of emotional power, there are details that perhaps only you see and are delighted by. He’s also a tamperer, which means that what we expect to be at their usual places or placements are not: shoulders swoop, sleeves droop, neckline gape, plackets askew, cuffs hang. All within the silhouettes that are seriously clerical (monastic sounds too drab and abstemious), obliterating the wearers’ natural outlines and curves, like the robes of those who dedicate their lives to religion prefer to wear. Yet, one can discern a swash of couture: the collar that is also a hood and part of a cape, the generous gathers that forge the tented volumes, the oversized bows in the rear that do not tell if they hold the outfit or are there for effect.

But just as you thought this is going to be homage to the cassock and the like—contorted, they may be, Mr Gvasalia takes his usual off, off-centre route. The earlier shrouding in blockish shapes slowly gives way to the near-fantastical, an exaggeration that not only accentuates the body, but also, in the case of shoulders, forms acuminate shrugs. How they can stay up there, even on cable-knit sweaters, is a feat of cunning construction (not to mention the need for padding that won’t be found in your usual haberdashery). Pagoda shoulders have become veritable bargeboards akin to lamyongs at the end of Thai gables (especially true of the dresses). And just as there are those who want their bodies cloaked or who enjoy feeling undistinguished (when, in fact, they do), there are those who have no objection to the body-accentuating and the slinky—body stockings of perverse modesty.

It is, in fact, in the tailoring that we find Mr Gvasalia express himself to a high degree. Is this a prelude to the proposed haute couture he will present in July? It is already known that he has a way with tailoring, especially in bending it—quite literally—to his will, often testing the limits of the lapels, its nape, and the shoulders this time: how far they could go. Or to what previously unexplored proportion, or to what extent of stress he can inflict on, say, the fulcrum of a jacket, traditionally positioned at the top button, below where the ends of the lapels meet. His pant or skirt suit, with the upturn of the lapel—even peaked—that can turn the jacket into a Nehru, with their pocket flaps affixed like Band Aid, with their rounded shoulders and judiciously padded hips make Maria Grazia Chiuri’s Bar suits decidedly child’s play.

For the guys, it’s a collection that will make Billie Eilish one happy customer. If you like looking hunched over, there are overcoats that afford such an effect with no effort. If you like mimicking the spines of the porcupine/hedgehog, there is a jacket with similar to protect you against predators. If you like satin shorts over track pants a la Superman’s undies over tights, there are those that will amuse your mates to no end. If you still like the logotype of Balenciaga, there is an abbreviated version minus all the vowels to make you still a collector. And if you like looking no more than your favourite football star, there are enough jerseys and shorts to make you appear like you perpetually camp out at Wembley, always close to footballers, only now, you carry clutches that look like jewellery boxes for your mother’s heirloom pieces or bento boxes for nori-whiskered Hello Kitty onigiri rice balls.

Photos: Alessandro Lucioni/gorunway.com