It's the latter part, the beauty, that defines HBA's aesthetic. Oliver doesn't just buck traditional womenswear runway codes — he aggressively throws a bright, bold finger up and puts it on a projector screen for the rest of the world to see. His collection is void of any gender to the point that it doesn't matter what sex is walking toward the flashing lights. This season, Oliver took that notion and duckwalked all over it — literally.
At the end of his show, a group of topless male dancers in wigs paraded out, posed, and began voguing. It was a trip to say the least. The ambiguousness of ball culture exploded on the runway with each head whip, death drop, and pose. Like Rick Owens' stomp-the-yard scene in Paris, Oliver's finale was a powerful disruption to the mundane final walks of Fashion Week. It was a show, and Oliver was carrying the whole way through, down to the last defiant glare of the models. The collection came alive, and with it, so did NYFW. (The Cut)
Opening Photo: via @openingceremony.