12The Visage Gallery had been transformed into a mesmerizing black pool. The show floor was covered in twenty thousand liters of purified engine oil. It was a black mirror, reflecting the golden lamps and charcoal-colored silk on the walls. Flames seemed to ripple through the blackness, with scarlet red diffusing after.
Visage was the night sky; it was the universe in chaos.
A narrow walkway led to a circular stage, rotating like a sadistic carousel above the oil.
It was Perdonna’s pedestal. She stood center, wearing a black shroud that covered her scarred eyes and long curls. A goddess, more beautiful than the models themselves.
Tragic tones echoed from Mozart’s “Lacrimosa”—a chorus of impending doom, a requiem of a dream.
The lights rose to reveal models posturing like Greek statues
