The Aesthetic of Transparency
Many garments played with nudity, or more precisely with the illusion of the body as something fading through layers of fabric. There were sheer catsuits (a direct reference to Martens’ Diesel runway codes established at Diesel) now overlaid with embroidered floral motifs that extended from the shirt to the mask in a continuous, sinuous line. There were tight-fitting bodysuits combining floral-on-floral with harsh corsetry, a gesture that, again, pointed to the tension Martens has always explored between constraint and expansion.
Even when the silhouette seemed simplified as in a black dress partially trapped inside an invisible corset, the tension remained. And everywhere the body was allowed to both hide and speak, filtered through gauze, tulle, cracked textures, sometimes looking like it had been painted on the skin, or disintegrated from within.

A Soundtrack of Vulnerability and Rage
Then came the music. As the drums began to stutter and the guitar trembled, a sudden rupture occurred. Disarm by The Smashing Pumpkins flooded the room. “The killer in me is the killer in you.” The line sliced through the atmosphere like a confession, whispered and screamed. The choice was autobiographical and cinematic. Glenn Martens, in his very first couture presentation, had chosen to expose fragility. He used the song as both a mirror of self and a reflection of collective trauma. A boy forced to grow up too quickly, to become a man before his time. But also a society that, in times of political instability, carries the burden of needing to disarm, both literally and emotionally. The collection balanced both readings with poise.
Just as the music faded and the final silhouettes passed through the domestic ruins of the space, it began again unexpectedly. “Cut that little child.” A final surge, a circular rhythm that mirrored the structure of this ghostly parade.

Heritage Reimagined with Precision
What made Martens’ debut so powerful was its restraint. Despite the spectacle, there was no sense of excess for its own sake. Instead, he positioned himself as a careful listener to the codes of the house. His use of silver tape on the masks was a nod to Margiela’s earliest Artisanal show and his reinterpretation of repurposed materials functioned as a silent conversation with both the founder and with Galliano. He did not erase what came before. He honoured it, rethreading the dialogue through his own aesthetic.
Even the concept of poorness (that fundamental idea in Margiela’s early years) was not treated as nostalgia but as methodology truly embedded in his vocabulary. It was there in the ruined knits, the dusty textures, the garments that seemed already used, worn, mourned. But Martens made them precise, elevated. A rusted sweater could be paired with gemstones. A tin box could become a mask. The grotesque became sublime, not through contradiction but through a kind of Belgian equilibrium: a cool, intellectual control over romantic drama.

The Absence at the End
There was no designer’s bow. The lights dimmed. The air remained charged. That decision, not to reappear, not to claim the moment, resonated with Margiela’s original refusal of authorship, and Galliano’s more recent theatrical disappearances. But here, it was also a mark of clarity. Glenn Martens had spoken through the work. Not with grand gestures, but through a haunting, honest articulation of his vision. Through his knowledge of the house, his deep personal codes, and his refusal to abandon experimentation even within couture, Martens has proved not only that he belongs, but that he knows exactly how to take this language forward.