Run it again!” No one, except for the models, was wearing a mask.ĭozens of photographers clamor to shoot the models holding the art, even though no one else in the room is paying much attention to it. There’s an image of inmates swanning around in Hermes and Bottega Veneta on the stairs of a penitentiary, with the caption “Corrections Collection” a paper doll showing a female figure’s transformation from donning Sally Hershberger highlights and a Dries van Noten jacket to a prison-instituted sweatsuit and Amazon panties and an image of a woman in thick, black-rimmed glasses confronting a harried desk clerk, with the bubble, “This is a club card. Immediately, Kanye West’s “Flashing Lights” blares over the loudspeaker as a bevy of swan-necked models in black BDSM masks parade down a narrow corridor carrying various crudely drawn sketches. “You’ve heard so many voices already, but this is just the beginning of me telling my story, my narrative, from my perspective,” she concludes, with whoops of approval from the crowd.
The voice on the loudspeaker is from an Anna Delvey impersonator, but a few minutes later, the real Anna speaks in a prerecorded message. Am I gorgeous or what? And don’t you worry. “Welcome to my partyyyyyy,” a vaguely Eastern European-accented voice drones, as a crowd of reporters, influencers, and hangers-on whip out their phones to capture the magic.
