After three years of absence, and a final article that had the effect of a monsoon in a spit on his career, the designer decided it was time to return to the catwalks. London, soaked to the bone, provided the perfect backdrop for this climatic miracle: Macdonald, the messiah of polyester, came to bring the sun, but what we saw was an eclipse.

The show took place at the foot of the Shard, Renzo Piano’s skyscraper, a gigantic architectural dildo pointed toward the clouds like an indecent prayer. It was hard not to suspect that this vertical vision had inspired the collection, which seemed designed to be seen from afar, very far, ideally by someone astigmatic, like the Pyramid of Queen Magot in Paris.

The models, draped in sequins like anthropomorphized disco balls, paraded in front of the London skyline for a flyover above a nest of consenting hens. It looked like a Swarovski-sponsored bachelorette party.

Last summer, Macdonald had discovered the Shard at dusk after a gin cocktail generously topped with Elton-style vermouth. Moved by the iridescent reflections, he obtained permission to stage his show there. He attempted to recreate those colors in a glittering collection, proving once again that imagination can be a very beautiful filter for fogged-up glasses after sleepless nights.

In a stroke of strategic genius, he decided to devote himself exclusively to summer, but in Great Britain, that is almost a political gesture, like selling skis in the Sahara or launching an umbrella collection in Orange County. The timing was perfect: it was raining non-stop, the sky was grey like a parliamentary career, and Macdonald was offering ultra-glamorous swimsuits for politicians who had dealt with the current fashion accessory: Epstein. You never know, after all, if the Thames decides to remake Venice, perhaps the tears of abused women might be heard.

In his universe of gilded roses, the dresses are slit like those of our most Parisian Lebanese designer Elie Saab, but with the subtlety of an enthusiastic copy-paste. Charleston fringe dresses for “a dance with the she-wolves,” which looked more like rhinestone poodles than Kevin Costner’s film.

It was cheerful, no. Luminous, certainly. London women could find a glow they hadn’t seen in weeks. But when it comes to novelty, Macdonald remains true to himself: a constant homage to what others had already done better. But then again, he doesn’t have the “Wales.”

FM