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Fat Karl
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It was hard to know what to take away from Alexander McQueen's show on Tuesday night. Last season, when Mr. McQueen showed in New York, it he had to contend with a hurricane.
This season, a handful of unintimidating teenage protesters from a group called London Animal Action stood outside with small signs that read ''Fur Hurts.'' Dozens of bobbies surrounded them. Getting into the show, held in the most trite of venues, a damp warehouse, required that guests hand their bags over to security guards to be searched. There were rumors that there had been a bomb scare the night before the show. There were other rumors that Mr. McQueen was planning to blow up a house during his show. Nothing was blown up, though a hoop-skirted, distressed denim dress that came down the runway was splattered, pointlessly, with what appeared to be explosive debris that was probably liquified clay.
Sitting through the McQueen show felt like eavesdropping on a young man's therapy session, as he tried to work out very complicated feelings about his mother. Mr. McQueen never makes it all that easy for his models to travel the runway, but this time his treatment of them bordered on cruelty. They had to walk over piled-up slate in staggeringly high wedge-heeled boots. Mr. McQueen's clothes are not known for their featherweight, and the models looked as though they were about to fall over. One model was also forced to wear a metal mouthpiece with jutting spears that stretched her lips from the top of her nose to the bottom of her chin. Some in the audience turned their heads, unable to look.
All the discomfort Mr. McQueen was so desperately trying to create almost eclipsed the exceptional in his show. And there was much that was exceptional -- a dress made of molded cane on top and sculptured roses on the bottom -- achieved the status of art. There were exquisite wearable pieces, too, including a brown opera coat with a cinched waist and exaggerated lapels.