“Process. Process. Process,” a female voice-over repeated on the Christopher Kane runway. It had an automated, machine-age ring to it—and indeed, there was a description of Kane’s interest in factory workers and lab technicians in the press release. Really, though, what Kane was hinting at was the primacy of his own creative process, an inexplicable firing of the synapses which can decide he likes traditional pink damask one minute; oatmeal sweaters and plasticky holographic fabric the next; and pointy, strappy heels decorated with strips of spongy gray foam after that.