The existential questions of American style — what is it? can it be defined? how does it relate to shifting American identity? — have been thrust into the cultural conversation in September with the Metropolitan Museum’s drop Costume Institute show, a revisionist look at the “lexicon” of design and style born in this state.

This week, it’s about to happen again, as the Met unveils Component II of the exhibition: “In The us: An Anthology of Fashion,” a larger, splashier, far more historical (although equally nontraditional) survey launched with the requisite Fulfilled Gala on Monday evening.

But in a type of prelude to the party, the designer Thom Browne available his choose on the topic, in the sort of a drop assortment — revealed months after the close of the official period to coincide with the Met show — that was proficiently an argument for redefining not American but, alternatively, New York fashion.

And accurately how it relates to the promise and allure of the metropolis alone.

It is a location Mr. Browne characterised in a preview as “an island of misfit toys” — that is, a house for the sq. pegs, the weirdos and dreamers, the people that chafe towards the blandness of the group. A location that provides them the independence to find their bliss, to embrace their “true self” and let their freak flags fly. Where by citizenry is a condition of brain somewhat than a happenstance of birth.

Then, to illustrate his level, he invited 500 Steiff teddy bears to a home in the Javits Center, outfitted them in tiny gray shorts fits (his brand name signature and personal uniform), sat them in 500 flawlessly spaced chairs presided about by a living, emoting bear king in matching shorts, large-heeled boots and a towering hat, and held a “Teddy Chat.”

Sometimes a present is just a way to sell dresses, but often it is a entire camp mental discourse.

(For any person wondering, there have been serious friends, as well, such as Danai Gurira, Jon Batiste, David Harbour and Amandla Stenberg, also in shrunken Thom Browne satisfies, lots of of them clutching very little teddy bear luggage.)

It started out with the grey customized suits on which Mr. Browne developed his organization: twisted versions of midcentury cog-in-the-equipment classics in mismatched, patched-together Harris tweeds, inset or thorough with brightly striped rep tie silks. They were being just off plenty of to transform the complete notion of “the suit” into some thing a minor a lot more attention-grabbing.

There had been numerous versions on the concept (at minimum 25 shades of them): automobile coats and gold-buttoned schoolboy jackets and pleated skirts and narrow trousers with significant cuffs at the mid-calf, organized and rearranged into a whole nursery rhyme’s worth of harmonious compositions for both equally gentlemen and gals. (Mr. Browne dispensed with gender separation in his shows several years ago.)

The suits were being also, it turned out, doppelgängers for the “adults” in the place — the outer, socially acceptable, accountable variations of ourselves we don for the entire world — and only a prelude to a parade of interior youngsters: significant-idea, surrealist versions of the same outfits spliced with toy upper body memories. So white shirt sleeves became Slinkys dangling to the floor or huge, stuffed animal lobster claws a cable knit tennis sweater was remodeled into an huge wearable not-rubber ball.

Just one doll-like crinoline skirt was seven toes huge a toy soldier’s top rated was in fact a trompe l’oeil wood box atop an explosive striped silk skirt a cable-knit punch-and-sew-kit robe was woven from big ropes weighing 80 kilos. Lace-up ankle boots had significant heels designed of hand-painted children’s alphabet blocks. Leather-based baggage dangled teddy bear legs or arrived with wheels so they could be towed along behind.

It was all pleasurable and game titles (and a minimal Comme des Garçons) right up until you realized the do the job that experienced absent into each individual garment.

Which, together with the pop urban psychology, was the level. New York style is frequently dismissed as “commercial” and not as “creative” as fashion in Paris and London it’s born out of Seventh Avenue and the garment district rather than couture ateliers and artwork educational facilities. Mr. Browne has taken it on himself to demonstrate otherwise, to demonstrate that you can have a company and imagination, as well.

He sells fits — and, even with the simple fact that fits have gotten a quite bad title lately, his looked notably great. They ended up the kind of not particularly ordinary clothes that made you sit up and suddenly think, Yeah, probably which is accurately the sort of garment that would resolve my “what do I dress in when I go again to operate?” conundrums.

But he also frames all those fits with unapologetically ridiculous (from time to time overly mannered, but constantly fascinating) flights of fancy that give them lifetime and a form of soul. The potential to do that — to have soaring profits and wackiness, far too — is what New York gave him, when he arrived as a misfit toy without the need of any formal trend training via Notre Dame and Allentown, Pa.

His outfits are a reminder of what is feasible. Maybe simply because of that, what his display in the long run recalled was not so a lot a children’s story as a distinctive form of e book fully: N.K. Jemisin’s city-fantasy ode to New York, “The Town We Became.”

A put woven from “reality and legends.”