The earth is scorching, the geopolitical order is crumbling into dust, and the collective IQ of the human race is plummeting faster than a stone dropped down a well. Naturally, the only thing the vapid, soulless husks of the global elite were worried about this week was the fate of a specific shade of grayish-beige fabric in Milan. The burning question that has kept the hollow chests of fashion editors heaving with anxiety since September was finally answered on a dreary Monday afternoon: What does Giorgio Armani look like without the man himself? The answer, predictably, is exactly the same as before, but with a desperate, clawing attempt to convince us that 'change' is happening.

Let us set the scene for this grandiose display of irrelevance. Giorgio Armani, the man who convinced the world that looking like a desaturated concrete wall was the height of luxury, is gone. In his place stands Leo Dell’Orco, a man described as the 'right-hand man' for four decades. Four decades. Only in the incestuous, stagnant pool of high fashion would the ascension of a forty-year veteran be hailed as a 'fresh new direction.' The press, in their infinite capacity for sycophancy, are breathlessly reporting that Dell’Orco has 'ditched the greige.' This is the headline news of our civilization. We have abandoned the grey-beige hybrid for... what? Probably a slightly darker navy. The revolution is here, and it is wearing pleats.

The absurdity of this transition is palpable to anyone whose brain hasn't been smoothed over by prosecco and runway lighting. We are told that this collection is the first in history where the late designer had 'no involvement.' This is a lie, of course. Not a literal one, perhaps, but a spiritual one. Dell’Orco spent forty years in the shadow of the master. He breathes the same stale air of the atelier. He has absorbed the Armani ethos by osmosis for nearly half a century. To suggest that he is now unveiling a 'post-Giorgio' vision is like suggesting that a mirror reflects a different image just because the person standing in front of it coughed. The machine of luxury fashion does not allow for deviation; it allows only for the illusion of novelty to keep the credit cards swiping.

Let’s dissect the 'burning question' that supposedly plagued the industry. The fear was that without the eponymous founder, the brand would lose its way. What way is that, exactly? The way of selling overpriced suits to hedge fund managers who want to look like they have a soul? The way of dressing Hollywood actors in tuxedos that cost more than the average American’s annual rent? The brand’s 'history' that Dell’Orco is reportedly embracing is simply a history of successful commerce disguised as art. By ditching the 'greige,' Dell’Orco isn't innovating; he's panic-pivoting. It is the classic maneuver of the successor: change the drapes so nobody notices the house is subsiding.

The menswear show in Milan was treated with the solemnity of a state funeral, which in a way, it was. It was a funeral for the idea that fashion moves forward. It doesn't. It circles the drain. The audience, a collection of influencers, buyers, and journalists who have long since traded their integrity for front-row seats, watched with bated breath to see if the trousers would have a slightly different break at the ankle. This is what passes for culture in the twenty-first century. While the world outside the palazzo burns, the courtiers inside applaud a velvet jacket.

Leo Dell’Orco, the faithful servant turned master, is now charged with overseeing menswear for the 'foreseeable future.' A terrifying phrase. It implies a continuation of the same monotony that has defined the brand for years, but without the convenient shield of the founder’s legend to deflect criticism. When Giorgio sent a boring suit down the runway, it was 'classic minimalism.' If Dell’Orco does it, it’s 'derivative.' Hence, the desperate need to abandon the signature color palette. They have to break the furniture to prove they own the house.

Ultimately, this 'glimpse' into the future is nothing more than a reflection of our own societal stagnation. We replace the old idols with their identical shadows and call it progress. We obsess over the aesthetics of the ultra-wealthy while the social fabric unravels. Armani without Armani is just a corporation doing what corporations do: surviving, extracting, and pretending that a change in management is a change in philosophy. The greige is dead. Long live whatever indistinct, safe, marketable color comes next. The clothes don't matter. The man doesn't matter. Only the transaction remains, eternal and unchanging, much like the bored expressions on the models' faces.