It’s dark, and the rhythm of their movement is so quick that it’s almost impossible to focus. While the eye slowly acclimatises to the darkness, silent models march through a bright beam of light. They disappear as quickly as they appear, only to return further down the room. Their faces are all but covered by the bulky wigs on their heads: black hair that seems to have been rolled in tar or cast from rubber thick enough to support the weight of American artist Willie Cole’s protruding stiletto headpieces. But perhaps is it their meaning that is heavier than their physical mass.
They keep coming at a rhythmic pace, in unison with Tim Love Lee’s E7007, an original soundtrack. From time to time, the next one moves to a new light beam. There’s something familiar in the clothes: crisp white tailoring, Hawaiian prints, plaid tweeds, hound’s tooth. It’s a language that we’ve heard before, but we enjoy savouring its sounds, its shapes, anew.