It's Fashion Week in New York, with lithe and loveless models parading the 'latest' fashion down polished runways. It's a festival of sharks -- in the audience, on the runway -- each looking for some apex of originality that will spell applause and riches. Each hunts for the show-stopping design of clothing that few, if any, men or women will ever wear. They kiss each other on the the cheek ... but never really kiss. The adventure seems to be, from afar, full of an inhuman sangfroid that would do the English aristocracy proud... an adventure in effeminate arrogance that seeks out the latest and the mostest light with which to blind others' eyes. Does anyone actually love
any of this? Perhaps so, but it feels much more likely that all of the delight, all of the smiles, all of the tears, all of the 'originality' is just one vast, vicious, vibrant accolade for a vapid but expressive 'me.'
Oh well, I probably have it all wrong. But I was taken with the latest fad in the world of runways -- Andrej Pejic, the man who can walk down the burnished runway as either a man or a woman. Fame, fortune, applause ... I hope he makes a packet of money off this world of sharks and sycophants.
I hope someone honestly likes him.
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