To witness yet another season of so-called “innovation” or the redemption arc of Raf Simons, desperately chasing the last scraps of his once-praised creative genius! What fresh hell of utopias is this—he and Miuccia give us a field of shaggy carpets shaped like flowers. Seriously? The natural light and birdsong were meant to evoke a sense of calm, but all they did was highlight the total lack of imagination.

Rineke Dijkstra’s portrait of a boy in an ill-fitting swimsuit, presented as a symbol of “vulnerability”? Well, no—for Raf, it was just a boy in a badly tailored bathing suit. And that striking 1993 image of a teenager on the beach in Odessa, Ukraine—is that supposed to be political commentary?

Simons, sipping his miniature Coca-Cola like a parody of Karl, chiming in with platitudes about “calm, positivity, and balance” and the noble “freedom to express yourself however you want.” The only thing truly expressed here was a profound apathy toward real innovation, according to Dior’s former designer.

A starched white camp shirt half-tucked into a bloomer yes, a sort of ironic harem pant—made the models look like oversized toddlers in a school play.

Then came the “mixing of many Prada garments,” which meant digging into the archives and assembling outfits with the same chaos as a teenager getting dressed at Jennyfer. Feather-light raincoats, cropped trousers, retro tracksuits—the groundbreaking vision of a nearly 60-year-old bourgeois man trying to look 30.

Boat-neck sweaters and military shirts stretched to tunic length! But the pièce de résistance, the absolute pinnacle of this alleged “creativity,” had to be the straw hats shaped like flowerpots and the dressy black socks worn with everything from driving loafers to two-tone boat shoes.

Office wear? Beachwear? Gym gear? Mountain hike? Who cares! The only award they were winning was “most confused and unnecessary collection of the season.”

Intellectual chic? Not even close—just poorly cut clothes and a desperate attempt to pass off clumsy silhouettes as avant-garde. The “color combinations” of khaki and lavender, red and sky blue felt like the outcome of a child let loose in a paint store.

To say the show was “thought-provoking” would be generous; it made you wonder whether Raf Simons still has any actual ideas left in his head. “A Repose at Once,” said the press release title—but the only repose was when the lights finally went out and the charade was over.

At last, the end of this tedious, self-indulgent exercise in nothingness, all wrapped up in the pretentious bows of artistic expression. In the end, Raf isn’t like a fine Bordeaux—he doesn’t improve with age; he just gets worse.

FM