In fashion we love to talk about the “girl of the moment,” the made-up muse, who by consensus, sums up the ethos of the season. One spring she might be a silk road boheme who collects Uzbek embroideries and rides by yak caravan across the Hindu Kush for the right Tajik hat. One autumn she might be a Berlin rock singer who sleeps till two, wears studs to breakfast (if you call black coffee and a Rausch praline breakfast), and always has the perfect lank-punk bouffant even though she never brushes her hair. This fall, amazingly, there is no imaginary cool girl.

There are dozens or more. She’s the knockout art director of an interior design magazine in Northside Cincinnati, who wears artisinal mosaic dresses and polka-dot gloves and beads like gobstoppers. She’s an anthropology Ph.D. candidate who decorates her Laurel Canyon bedroom with blowups of Courreges sketches and loves Mod, oversize buttons, patent leather, and buckled self-belts. She’s a suddenly romantic supermodel, standing in Cotswold garden in an Yves Saint Laurent palazzo jumpsuit and a portrait hat as broad as a parasol. We don’t have a muse of the minute - we have a bustling, brilliant crowd.