Money talks on the bred 13s for sale catwalk

New York Fashion Week

is rich in atmosphere: pin legged junior editors leap from yellow cabs across subway grilles belching steam; the eavesdropping is hilarious (at Tory Burch two minutes ago, I heard "I like a nose job. Same as anybody. Butnose job? Euuwwgh"); the clipboard fascists are spectacularly humourless; and there is always the same, slightly mournful, pink haired transvestite lurking outside the shows.

Lacking, however, is what Jacobs was getting at: barkingly fantastic, "" shows. The European editors won't say this to their hosts' faces (too polite and advertising fixated), but Jacobs is really the only show any of them are properly excited to see: "It's New York's only Prada moment," said one.

Milan apart, this city markets commercial fashion better than any other. This week, Women's Wear Daily estimated that to hit the holy grail of becoming a corporate entity, a designer needs to generate sales of $25 million (almost 16 million) a year. So in this cash is king culture, fashion is divided into haves and have nots: the aspirant unestablished who have to try and present something creative yet mass marketable enough to catch the attention of the buyers and hedge funders, and the big beasts Hilfiger, Burch, Lauren who use the collections as (often excellent) image building exercises for the rest of their empires. That's why, excluding Jacobs, you so rarely see quite the same gloriously loopy theatre here that you get in Milan, Paris, and just occasionally London, too.

"It was hysterical yet historical, and a little bit twisted," said Marc Jacobs. Backed by the financial might of LVMH, Jacobs provides New York Fashion Week with its only full tilt fashion moment. Yet again he's pulled that rabbit from his hat, courtesy of some mega millinery in multi coloured fur, puritan clothes in Technicolour, zingy paisley and an enormous origami creepy castle set by the artist Rachel Feinstein. Analysing whether anyone fancies wearing some diamante buckled, high heeled pilgrim shoes or a tiger print Jamiroquai ish hat is not the point: this was an exercise in considered craziness, Cat in The Hat meets Kurt Cobain (said Jacobs), a spectacle for the sheer what the hell sake of it.

When tweed met fishnet? Sounds like bred 13s a nightmare fashion fusion of Downton Abbey and Belle de Jour. But in the hands of Alexander Wang, it worked, despite the stupid decision to pull the models' polo necks up to under their noses, so that they resembled gags.

Tweed was bonded with vinyl into sinister raincoats, and worn over waxed leather jerkins, skirts and tunics, plus dominatrix boots to create a don't mess with me uniform. The leather trousers with a belt that looped under the wearer's rump were impractical, but attention grabbing. Wang is revered for elevating sportswear into the fashion vernacular, but, happily, he appears to be trying to move on from that tired formula, one puffer gilet apart. The supermodel Gisele came on at the end. They didn't jordan 13 bred gag her.

The gravel that lined Hilfiger's faux terracotta catwalk sparked havoc for the high heeled guest list that included Uma Thurman. Once settled, equilibrium was restored with a collection that combined military, equestrian, English country, biker and rock 'n' roll references in one multiple personality melange. It almost entirely succeeded: motorcycle trousers looked fine against tartan print jackets; cable knit on silk dresses or neoprene coats were clever; the Mary Quant y Sixties laser cut shift dresses, Emma Peel appealing; and a green or burgundy quilted suede biker jacket with a touch of Chanel about it rightly got plenty of air. Hilfiger said: "She's not going to wear a Purdey hunting jacket, or pure motorcycle, or pure equestrian. So to make something that combines all those elements made sense to us."

Tina Turner's Let's Stay Together shuddered from the sound system as Diane von Furstenberg and her dashing French designer Yvan Mispelaere promenaded down the catwalk at the end. They looked very much a (creative) couple.

They rustled up a straight to the point collection of sinuously twisting wrap dresses, complementarily toned separates and jumpsuits, and some devastating LBDs with shiny, sheer, or velvet panels to catch the eye. To kookify things, there were also plenty of arty references, including Pollock spatters on trouser suits, and telephone dial and clock motif handbags bags la Dada.

"The idea is to glorify the woman, and make her sexy and proud of bred 13s 2013 her body," said von Furstenberg backstage.

When it's freezing, how can a woman stay warm without looking like she's been mugged by a duvet? This has been a pressing question in New York this week, but Donna Karan kicked it to the kerb. Her answer: snug down filled jackets rescued from shapelessness by waist hugging belts.

To underline their qualifications as insulation, models hit the catwalk direct from the kerb outside and looked convincingly un traumatised by the sub zero winds that were flying in off the Hudson river.

The un parka'd models were less fortunate. They looked great, but deserved danger money for braving the gales in a collection that started with no nonsense city wear slim fit trouser suits in black and kick skirt dresses then played, as last season, with florals and zingy coloured eveningwear.

Rene Zellweger and a charity gala's worth of big haired, certain vintage uptown socialites thronged to see Carolina Herrera, a three decades strong stalwart of polite society chic.

For next season, she presented a selection of navy blue and black separates high jackets, slim, tailored trousers and chic dresses topped off with hair so comprehensively pushed back it looked as if the models had been caught in a wind tunnel. This day wear was sometimes lovely and never anything but utterly polite yet the eveningwear did occasionally veer perilously close to meringue territory, particularly a finale dress that was a riot of peachy layers and sported a train whose ostentation rivalled the Orient Express in its pomp.

It started with a pretty, gold buttoned white dress with blocks of orange and black at the sleeves, and a white lace sheer top above a pretty butterfly print skirt. Then came a butterfly effect of ever more complicated combinations of print, sludge toned blocky panels, floral embroidery, and irregular hems. There was the odd hit, as with a mossy green drawstring skirt against an elegantly cut botanical print blouse. But the misses such as a dress that was sheer below the thigh, silver beaded just above, with white flowers at the back, black lace on the arms, and green florals on the chest (phew) came equally as frequently.

The room was awash with goodwill: people here really want Gurung to succeed. But what about the clothes? Well, they are dizzyingly complicated. One bomber jacket had a Mary Katrantzou ish digital skull and petal print panel with sleeves of blue tinsel a hard ask to wear. The finale dresses seemed to incorporate every weapon in fashion's eveningwear arsenal: organza, lam, sequins, sheer panels, feathers. These maximalist extravagances are in your face bewitching at first, yet quickly become exhausting. When Gurung reined in that kitchen sink compulsion, his clothes became classier. From a black trouser suit with a jacket featuring last collection Christopher Kane ish diagonal slashes, to an opening section of caped, black outfits, there were some delicately ravishing whispers hidden amongst the tinsel noisiness.

"Stop the smoke!" came the shouted plea from the photographers' pit. But no, the thick fumes kept squirting down from pipes above. Along with the sound of mobile phone feedback that nerve gratingly crackled over the sound system, it was either a piece of bravado from the producers just how much torture will the audience tolerate to worship at the cult of Lim? or it was a drunken dare gone wrong. The clothes were OK, but not really worth the assault. White at the back, black at the front trousers beneath fluff panelled jackets, busily detailed wool bikers, and chunky knits with complicated necks it was wearable day wear fitted out to look quirky. This sells brilliantly for Lim, so why not?