At Balenciaga, Something Old and Something New

On Wednesday, as the light faded over the Seine and the Eiffel Tower began its evening twinkle and those in the audience who had other, more personal places to be for Rosh Hashana began to shift in their seats, the creative director Alexander Wang sent out his fourth show for the brand.

And while it was an accident of timing, and admittedly the promise of fresh slates may be in the air, shimmering like a lens that casts a different light on all you see (or maybe that’s just me), it is also true that at that moment Mr. Wang finally truly took charge. The idea of a new start was given specific form.

The clothes were part of it, but in some ways, they were the least surprising part: narrow stretch pencil skirts with diamonds on each hip (apparently meant to evoke the "tiled cabochon floor at the historic Cristóbal Balenciaga salon," though frankly the connection doesn’t much matter), and even narrower halter tops of tightly ruched tulle.

There were floor-sweeping dusters and trenches, and wide-mesh skinny T-shirt dresses made from strings of sequins that became crystal-covered net shrugs worn with corset tops over tuxedo biker shorts (don’t ask) or high-waisted narrow trousers, which became the top of a dress ruched up the sides and paneled in front and back. And it was all sleek and active, in a Richard Meier-meets-Matrix-for-a-spin-class kind of way.

But combined with a new show time (cocktails, not coffee) and a new, much larger venue — the courtyard between the Musée d’Art Moderne and the Palais de Tokyo — plus a floor made of glass octagons filled with shifting smoke, the whole thing conveyed an extreme self-confidence that was infectious. And, those pointlessly drawn references aside, no longer intimidated by its heritage.

Like the collection or not — and while the dusters and those ruched dresses were very good, mesh (even of the micro-beaded kind) and tuxedo biker shorts will be a leap for anyone outside of twentysomething It people — the vision belonged to Mr. Wang. Balenciaga has become what he makes of it.

That may sound like no big deal; in fact, it may sound like his job (which it is). But as became increasingly clear during the early shows in Paris, when it comes to fashion, having the courage of your convictions is harder than it might first appear. Not just for those who wear it, but for those who design it.

This is not surprising at a brand like Ann Demeulemeester, whose namesake founder left last November, and which is now designed by Sebastien Meunier, her longtime colleague. In such a situation, the first commandment is often consistency, and so it seemed, judging by the flowing layers of white shirting and black waistcoats, the cropped denim and silk jackets. Still, while there were a few too many strings attached to the garments, literally and figuratively, the mix of prints and occasional pastel suggested the possibility of a less fettered future.

But you would expect Roland Mouret, author of his own destiny, to have attained a clarity that was regrettably absent from his runway. Mr. Mouret is a dab hand at the strictly sensual sheath or cocktail dress, and able to infuse a bright green A-line skirt and white jacket with a surprising chic, yet it seems he can’t help mistrusting his own skill.

So he sticks on a flap here, a fold there, until the result resembles nothing so much as the outfit of an overwrought art gallerist, the collage from the wall having migrated to the body. He should have more faith in the power of his simplest lines.

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