There was simple feminine loveliness here as well — the pleated organza dress with matching cardigan and delicate pearl detailing, the polo dress of navy top and grey silk faille skirt — but, given Browne’s track record, it was tempting to see his latest outing as a comment on genders in transition. Its hybrid heart certainly resonated that way. The designer denied any such intent — as he usually does, when confronted by outré rationales for his work — and insisted that the items he’d drawn on were all classic womenswear pieces.
Curiously enough, for all its implied challenge to sartorial orthodoxy, this collection wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the farthest flights of Browne’s fancy have been, even if he did incarnate his dog Hector as a handbag and a stole. In fact, as technically masterful as it was, it actually felt rather bloodless and staid, which was possibly why Browne opened and closed his show with a scarlet woman, sallying forth in red silk upon which breasts and vulva had been crudely graffiti-ed. Like an ambassadress of the rude life that lay outside his sere, perfectly ordered winter garden.