The people in the exhibition halls gaze upwards, rapt. For three hours I have been walking these halls in wonder. There are purpose-built interiors and cabinets holding statuesque mannequins, their faces masked and menacing.
The voice of deceased fashion designer Alexander McQueen is entwined with a pulsing beat, the wash of waves, a child’s voice singing an eerie lullaby, the tapping of the typewriter. The sound is a bitter elegy for the critics who fail...
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