Before the show, the Row’s publicist sent out an email asking attendees not to take pictures or videos, and each seat had a simple white notebook and pencil, encouraging you to take notes instead. This ruffled a few feathers — the Row, designed by Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, is enormously popular on TikTok, where it’s the crown jewel of quiet luxury and influencers hysterically reveal their scores from the line’s annual sample sale.

Some sniffed that this “phone ban” was a reaction to its nonnative online presence. But it seemed as though they just wanted everyone to sit back and enjoy the show. The clothes. The precious essence. (On top of that: The Row is not releasing photographs until next week — go off, Olsens! — which is why there are no images of the collection here.)

Who knows if this era was real or imagined by madeleine-fueled passion. But looking back at the magazines, reviews and shows of the time, it seems that a lot of women — and not just big spenders — looked at fashion as something between a cult and a dating service. They were obsessive but also skeptical, in pursuit of an understanding of a designer’s vision. They picked and plucked ideas and a few pieces — a little Comme des Garcons, a piece of Rick Owens, something crazy from Dior or Chanel — and mixed them together with things they already had. It was a way of asserting their knowledge of fashion, sure (not to mention the power of their wallet). But it was also a way for a woman to have precious energy to herself, to think about how she wanted to feel and express herself.

The Row conjured all that — though it was much more intriguing than it was a decade or three ago, because of how much less time today’s women have to dedicate to themselves, to their own interests. The wardrobe the Olsens proposed spoke with whimsy to those demands — it was raw but pulled together, with frayed edges and rough textures, cut into pencil skirts or a column dress with fringes and feathers. Other looks were just plain grand: a wrap coat with an outrageous wrapped velvet turban, or a beaded top and trousers. (Paging Deeda Blair!)

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There was warmth and humor here, too. Their finale, after all these expressive, inventive looks, was a model in a messy bun, a big cashmere sweater and trousers and sneakers, with a Margaux bag, which Business of Fashion recently touted as the new version of Hermès’s Birkin, on her arm. In other words, it was the basic chick who makes TikToks about the Row.

As much as people swoon over the Row, its past few shows have been a bit blah. This one wasn’t just a return to form, but also a confident statement of empathy — inspiring women not just to dress nicely, but to do something a bit extraordinary for themselves.

It can seem that designers and their consumers are speaking different languages. Most designers don’t want consumers to have that relationship to what they do, or maybe they just can’t cultivate it. They share the most direct and obvious messages, discouraging nuance and discernment — the goal is to cultivate a fashion victim. Whatever wacko thing designers put out, they want people to wear it, head to toe. (Just note how many designer goods are photographed in magazines as a “full look,” meaning the clothes appear just as they did on the runway, with nothing mixed in.) This is a tragic wish when so much bad taste abounds, though it’s certainly made a lot of people a lot of money.

But that’s not really how women are living their lives now, as I noted back in New York. More than ever, women (especially Americans) want to live a full life — it’s not about having it all, per se, but leaving time for yourself. There is so much pulling and yanking at a woman today, and so many things being denied to her. To assert your individuality, your taste — to wash your face in the morning and put on a good dress and a kooky pair of shoes — is an opportunity to assert your humanity, your autonomy.

Designers seem stuck at the moment — do I sell bags? Do I make memes? Should I be political? Several, such as Gucci, Toteme and Frankie Shop, have responded to this by offering direct, even plain wardrobe clothes — good coats, nice dresses, pretty skirts, nifty ballet flats. But don’t women deserve more?

The very intimate act of seeing how women are thinking and living, and offering the clothes to do that in a more inviting way, is the grandest idea you can have right now. At a certain point in life, you no longer have the time or energy to be self-conscious. Designers like to think this means you should look powerful and aggressive. But that’s a kind of mask, too. What about clothes that just celebrate the interiority of a woman’s life, of her ability to spend time with and on herself?

The Row wasn’t the only brand to pick up on this vibe. There was Dries Van Noten, praising a woman who “decides herself what she wants to wear, so it’s about style and not so much about fashion,” as he said backstage. A woman who dares to make her own rules with clothes. “For me, (that means) audacity. But, also consider that she takes her time to do things for herself.” It was a big mix — taupes and greens and purples, in soft terry and hairy mohair and faux fur; sweatpants worn with blazers; gowns worn with offhand grace. “She decides,” he said several times. At least fashion designers think we can make a decision for ourselves!

(Quite a contrast to Saint Laurent’s show, an excursion through the possibilities of pantyhose as clothes that revealed nearly every single models’ breasts and also that the possibilities of pantyhose as clothes are quite limited.)

This woman got a more poignant love note at Undercover, where designer Jun Takahashi had film director Wim Wenders read a story about a woman’s day — “as always,” nearly each line began, she quietly wakes, she studies her face, she makes her son breakfast, she listens to Glenn Gould, she reads detective novels. It was so lovely and tender, watching the clothes move from casual morning to afternoon to night — tailoring cut into with flaps on the exterior of the jackets and pants, as if this woman is always feeling that she’s on the go — and then, once Wenders read that she’d turned out the light to sleep, the clothes became more outrageous, as if we were seeing her dream world.

The glorious finale was the debut on Thursday of Chemena Kamali, the new designer at Chloé. In the 1970s, Chloé practically invented the sensibility we’re talking about here — soigne, sexy, carefree, but still adult and sophisticated. Backstage, Kamali, who most recently worked for Saint Laurent, said she wanted to bring back the “emotion and feelings” of Chloé. “I ultimately think that this is what Chloé is about.”

Designers are often too wrapped up in reviving what a brand once stood for, but Kamali is on the money here. There are a lot of women, in their 30s and into their 70s, who want beautiful coats, sexy tops and funky trousers from a sly, funny female designer. Jerry Hall and daughter Georgia May Jagger, and Pat Cleveland and daughter Anna Cleveland, all sat in the front row wearing the new stuff, and looked awesome.

Kamali’s clothes were lively and sensual: silk chiffon ruffled blouses and dresses, a Chloé specialty, over silk shorts; long and short capes over chiffon ruffles. The ruffle has been really desiccated lately, sucked into the dull maw of coquettecore. It deserves better, as Kamali did here: something womanly, ridiculous and fun.

Several dresses had their long hems tucked into a thigh-high musketeer boot — a bizarre but awesome gesture that gathered the sheer silk fabric, giving it a bossy sort of modesty, and something Kamali borrowed from onetime Chloé predecessor Karl Lagerfeld. Another ha-ha moment: a model in oversize sunglasses and an ab-baring ruffle top with black dress pants, a handbag in the crook of her arm and her fist upturned — the signature paparazzi pose of 2007. It was a freaky update on the French dream woman. Emily, you’re not in Paris anymore!