There is no real history in the United States of fashion brands outliving their founders. That kind of preservation is not part of the myth of the country the way it is in Europe. The story here is more about invention than reinvention: the idea that if you can dream it, you can do it. And who knows what people will be wearing then. Who wants what we once had? Bring on the next!
Recently there have been some attempts to break the … well, pattern. Carolina Herrera, Oscar de la Renta and Calvin Klein are currently in the hands of new designers. But the jury is still out on whether those labels can maintain their influence. Or whether, like once-vaunted names like Bill Blass and Geoffrey Beene, now watered down into licenses, they are destined to drift off into the shadows of the past.
So when Proenza Schouler, the label started by Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez in the wake of 9/11, right after they had graduated from Parsons School of Design, announced in early 2025 that the founders were stepping down, everyone assumed that would be it.
Though Proenza Schouler had quickly become a New York Fashion Week darling, beloved of the Chelsea art set, it had never quite managed to define American style more broadly. And it was just over two decades old — not really old enough to be possessed of that thing so beloved of the fashion world: “brand DNA.” Now that Mr. McCollough and Mr. Hernandez had used it as a springboard to the big leagues, moving on to design Loewe in Paris, it seemed only natural that the label they named after their mothers would close.
As if.
In June, Proenza Schouler appointed Rachel Scott, a much feted young New York designer, as the new creative director, and on Wednesday she held her first show. Not only did she have to make the house her own, she had to prove that a new designer could take charge of a not-so-old collection and make it relevant again. Make it, possibly, more relevant than ever.
Did she?
Not entirely. She proved she was a good choice for the house — that she understood the (abbreviated) history of Proenza and could connect to it via a shared love of textiles and creative power clothing — but she didn’t break the mold. It was more like a throat clearing than a clear proposition for how a woman might look in the second half of the first half of the 21st century. The developments were in the details. Maybe too subtly in the details.
Look carefully at a seemingly simple sleeveless A-line knit dress, for example, and you would see the seams spiraling around the body rather than simply lying flat on each side. Get up close with the proper gray skirt suits, and you realize that they are made in yarn, as soft as pajamas, even though they look entirely buttoned up and that hidden inside is a pop of carnation. Surprise.
A peplum jacket and matching trousers came in washed, waxed denim; bell bottoms had buttons along the side from ankle to hip that could be unbuttoned at will; and a gingham dress seemed to slide off one shoulder, the better to embrace the upper arm. Many pieces listed slightly to the side.
It was the shoes, however, that offered a genuinely tantalizing glimpse of what a new Proenza could be. Neat little sling-back heels with a bouncy, curling leather fringe down the sides. They were both proper — and kind of wild. They were unpredictable. They were the kind of shoes that telegraphed a willingness to follow the rules and a promise to break them.
Here’s hoping Ms. Scott does.
Vanessa Friedman has been the fashion director and chief fashion critic for The Times since 2014.
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