Rudi Gernreich dressed completely in white tiptoes upside down in a tenuous circular fashion. One after another, former pupils in pristinely bleached retrofitted outfits follow his footsteps onto the empty horizon, each individually vocalizing the same tune that grows louder synchronously. Indeed (and contrary to scientific evidence), their collective voices do project well in far space, a plaintive gravity into the otherwise austere weightlessness of nothing. And just as suddenly, the modernist drama reaches a funereal crescendo.
Eight years after the fact, the floating worlds above offer a floating bento box of liquidified sushi off the menu.