The sun, blazing down on the black benches, felt like a sentence being carried out, as guests took their seats with visible apprehension. They lingered in the shade of the trees surrounding the runway, stretching out their hands like beggars toward bottles of cool water that had already turned lukewarm. Owens chose this open-air furnace, this motionless basin where the heat shimmered above the water, to unveil his new partnership with Adidas: sport as a dry liturgy, three-stripe tracksuits slung low on Tyrone Dylan’s taut hips, “Climacool” windbreakers swollen like chrysalises, and a promise of freshness offered to a runner before the race. Absurd in this setting, perhaps sublime tomorrow.

Then came the models, frighteningly thin, draped in black polyester capes that trapped the heat like acts of penance, or encased in rigid rubber cage-trousers that echoed with every step. They descended the stairs, crossed the suspended metal walkway above the water. They did not fall, or only just, despite towering boots, thick soles, and the merciless heat. The audience held its breath. Owens has always sent ghosts down the runway in a world after the end. That day, the apocalypse was no longer a vision. It had become the set itself

And yet the collection delivered on its promise, and then some. T-shirts clung to the body like a second skin, while coats carried their high, sculpted shoulders with the quiet authority of the captains of the Tsar Putin. The Dracula-collar jackets returned, and the safari jackets were cinched at the waist with industrial precision.

At the heart of it all, an angular running shoe, the first ever designed by Owens for Adidas and due to be released next year, crossed the runway with an ease that bordered on grace. The result is remarkably successful. In that kind of heat, it felt almost miraculous.

FM