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PERFECTLY AWFUL

EARLY ONE EVENING last winter, the 34-year-old British-born, Brooklyn-raised, and Paris-based couturier, painter, poet, musician, and hair-and-makeup artist Andre Walker went for a stroll along the eastern half of 14th Street in Manhattan. Moving through the stale winter air, buoyed along by his own centrifugal reverie and strikingly costumed as was his custom (ankle-high horsehair boots, plaid summer trousers, green mohair jumper, brown mohair scarf), Andre Walker alternated singing and explaining lyrics of his own invention: “You knew I was a dodo bird when you met me. . . . / Would you mind?” he sang, casting a sidelong glance at his companion, who nodded appreciatively, though Walker’s meaning and syntax—abstract, and replete with nonsense words such as “dodo bird,” and with equally nonsensical questions, in the context of Andre Walker, such as “Why can’t people just see me as a normal

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