This was a presentation rather than a show, and I loved it for that. Guests walked the concrete entry and ended up inside Armani/Teatro, the space Tadao Ando designed and Giorgio Armani opened on Via Bergognone in 2001. It was also the last collection overseen by Leo Dell'Orco and Silvana Armani, with Dario Vitale taking over next season.

The color story moved from white to black by way of green, gray and greige. It was called "Traces of Time," and what I admire is that the marks of time on the clothes feel like accumulation, not decline. The first two looks stood side by side in crushed white suits, a quiet nod to the two people handing over the keys.

After that came a loose run of pale suiting against oversized trenches, and nearly every look had trousers. So that is where I begin.

The outerwear is where the idea of time becomes visible. A bomber was stitched with irregular horizontal lines like the rings of a tree, with a monochrome Alps-from-Lombardy horizon running beneath them. An acid-washed trench and suit took on a surface like roughly split marble.

The roomy black denim jacket has those salt crystals at the shoulders, collar and cuffs, and I could happily live in it. Felted-wool ikat and fern jacquards recall fossils, and I find that more poetic than any slogan could be.

Belted denim, a cropped leather jacket and a sharp pinstripe blazer give you a way to take the story from the runway into a regular week. All-white looks were only a handful, so these darker, earthier layers carry more of it.

More than a third of the looks carried a bag, and I like how the collection treats them as part of the texture story. A hobo in leather, a fringed shoulder bag and a suede top handle with studs all feel like objects that have been carried for years.

The small things matter here too. Mesh necklaces hold crystal amulets, and sunglasses turn up in about one in ten looks, a light touch rather than a gimmick. I think that restraint is why the bags read as companions to the clothes and not as the headline. Carrying one feels like keeping a small piece of the story close.

The last look is what stays with me: a black waistcoat with raised, bead-topped ridges that run in parallel lines before they morph into a cluster of mineralized lace. It is a strange, beautiful full stop to a chapter, and it says time marches on without any sadness.

I would wear the crushed brown jacket and pant, as dense as a darkened forest floor, or the roomy black denim jacket with salt crystals at the shoulders, collar and cuffs, with easy trousers underneath. Clothes that welcome wear are rare, and these seem to be waiting for it.