Phillip Lim's show notes were prefaced by the following: "The Bougie Rocker—'they say he was cocky, he said he was alive.' " But Lim's guys didn't rock so much as they rolled. These are unrepentant dandies, who don't raise an eyebrow at paisley two ways—printed tonally on jackets, picked out in embroidered relief on slouchy suede lounge pants. (And in a few looks, both at once.) There was a conscious YSL echo in the safari—excuse me, "city-fari," according to the description—vests and the belted "Laurent" jacket. If the translucent knits and trailing silk scarves were a little forward-leaning for the average guy, some smart play with texture and construction showed Lim's talent for injecting wit and luxury in a way that anybody can appreciate. A cognac-colored windbreaker only looked as pliant as nylon—actually, it was whisper-thin lambskin.

Lim's men's collections are exquisite—possibly too much so at times. But they're refreshing to see in the world of New York menswear, which has largely hewed of late to the gruff, guy's-guy school of workmanly standards. Compared with the competition, the Lim boys looked like peacocking visitors from Planet Stardust. "Take me to your leader," they might say. And would you look at that? Sitting front-row, it's Kanye West.