The very thing that was celebrated was not protected. “My physical prowess and instinctual movements allowed me to collaborate with the world’s most recognized visual artists, but at the same time the industry said my body had no rights. “There was no way to say no to the work,” she remembers. “I wanted to get to the bottom of what was wrong,” she says, but her schedule made it hard to fit in doctors’ visits. Her porcelain skin became plagued with cystic acne. However, the breakneck pace was catching up with Harlow. My favorite artist in the world is going to watch me not know what I’m doing.’ But it was Lee putting me into an environment that he trusted I would know how to respond to.” “I came out to wash my hands, and Björk was there. It’s going to spin, the arms are going to come alive, and they’re going to hit you with paint.’” Harlow insisted on a quick run-through in the high-heel mules that she was supposed to wear and then ran downstairs to use the bathroom. “The producers were like, ‘Walk on that thing. “I got straight off a red-eye flight and went right to the show,” she remembers. As she explains it, what looked like a highly choreographed routine was anything but. Like a terrified silent-film actress, Harlow spun slowly on a wooden turntable as two giant robotic arms sprayed black and yellow paint across her voluminous white trapeze dress. Her flair for the theatrical helped bring one of modern fashion’s most iconic moments to life - the finale of Alexander McQueen’s spring 1999 show, No.
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