CREEPY GALS — Bloodline at Superchief
I found the show the way you find trouble in Los Angeles — by pretending you’re not looking for it. A random scroll, a flyer half-buried in the algorithm, a whisper about latex and lunacy at Superchief Gallery. Good enough. I put on all black, wrapped feathers around my neck like I’d recently escaped a decadent crime scene, and went hunting.
Inside Superchief Gallery,: pink walls sweating under too much art, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and a heart-shaped bed sitting in the main room like a dare. The lighting made everyone look slightly unreal — flushed, conspiratorial. Romance with a warning label.
I took a position near the runway. Anthropologist. Narcissist. Witness.
Jane Doe Latex
JANE DOE LATEX opened the artery. Valentine-themed romantic BDSM goth — latex that gleamed like fresh lacquered sin. Dresses and gowns in leopard red, light pink V-neck thigh-high silhouettes, a sharply tailored suit, a latex heart-print moment that felt equal parts sweetheart and dominatrix.
My favorite: a red leather dress split by a long mid-panel, dripping in gold buckle accents: pure restraint fantasy, but polished. Then she pivoted: cute, flirty, weaponized femininity. Everything dipped in shades of pink and red. An A-line dress crowned with a massive red latex bow exploding from the back. Recurring puffed long sleeves — one in deep red and brown like chocolate-dipped devotion.
For the finale: a white V-neck corset dress. Bridal. Pure. Or pretending to be.
Jackalope Land
JACKALOPE LAND hit the runway like Barbie after a desert bender. Same Valentine palette, but messy. She stormed out in a cowboy hat — festival showgirl chaos — stars and tassels swinging from her tits. The more glitter, the better.
Ella Loca
Then the mood snapped, and Ella Loca took the room somewhere darker and more intimate. Her work landed as Latina avant garde with teeth, theatrical and political, but never distant. Every look felt like a scene, every detail a symbol you couldn’t unsee.
She opened with a tight white corseted mini dress built around a pregnancy bump. Inside the bump sat a teddy bear, turning softness into commentary, a blunt image of childhood forced to carry adulthood.
Next came matrimony as dystopia. A couple entered like a living installation. He wore a tailored suit with Los Angeles baseball caps mounted on his shoulders, white lace spilling from one cap like a veil. She wore a short wedding dress structured with a cage encircling her hips, almost peplum, almost table, with baseball caps ringing her perimeter like an audience. Their wrists were tied together and tethered to the teddy bear “baby,” transforming the wedding tableau into a spectacle of constraint. Marriage as performance. Marriage as trap.
Then she shifted into vulnerability made visible. A woman in a wheelchair rolled out, teddy bears lining the sides like witnesses. She wore a sheer black and pink club dress, short and transparent, with pink braided lines slicing through the fabric, fragility rendered with intention rather than pity.
The ending tightened into devotional bondage. A girl appeared in a skintight dark brown corseted gown wrapped in rosaries, crosses running down her body in chains. Her partner matched in chains, wrists restrained in a prayer pose, as if devotion itself had handcuffed him. Faith stopped reading as sacred and started reading as control. Who is pulling whom.
After that, the imagery turned even more overt. A nude skintight bodysuit appeared with an imprinted Virgin Mary, the model holding a barbed wire rose bouquet, tenderness and danger fused into one object. The final look closed like a funeral for innocence, a cage dress stuffed with teddy bears and flowers, the model veiled in black. Love became shrine, warning, and memorial all at once.
Nuwa 1997
NUWA 1997 closed it like a rhinestoned storm warning. Not “pretty” — premeditated. E-leather and fur treated like armor and status symbol at once, like the clothes were engineered for surviving a beautiful apocalypse.
A guy walked out in an oxblood vertebrae coat — spine-coded, predator-coded — like he skinned the old world and wore the receipts. Then a dress with a faux-fur-trimmed cage skirt: part silhouette, part trap. Sweet from a distance, sinister up close.
And the hands: medieval gauntlets, sharp and aggressive, like the styling was daring you to reach and double-daring you to regret it.
Then it went full vampire pageant. Pink muscle suits, insane blonde wigs — hyper-body, hyper-glam — fur-trimmed and bedazzled like undead royalty on a sugar high. Rockstar goth, rhinestones on hunger. Couture for creatures who don’t sleep, they stalk.
The models were marked with blood-spatter styling across their bodies — horror-pop theatrics, glamour with fangs — and then someone came out carrying a stage-prop bloody hand. I took it as the bluntest caption possible: we do live in a human-eat-human world. Sometimes metaphor is just… reporting.
Before the runway even started, the street style crowd made it clear they understood the assignment
Makeup was BEAT — clowncore menace to porcelain-doll deadpan.
Fits were pink/black/red, latex + lace, pink hair, DIY everything, heart necklaces like little altars on our chests.
And honestly? The creativity coming from the attendees was unmatched.
After witnessing the creativity and community at the show, the message felt impossible to ignore. This is what society is supposed to look like. People making things with their hands and their hearts, showing up for each other, telling the truth through fabric, silhouette, symbolism, and performance.
And it clarified the priority. Protect children, because they are our children.
We live in a world that has programmed us so deeply that division feels normal, even when it’s manufactured on purpose. NARCISSIST calls for unity. We dismantle the old system by building something new, starting in the mind. The revolution is internal first. Attention is currency, and we have to spend it wisely.
Choose optimism. Create more art. Stay connected to real community. Art is resistance. Unity is the key. For our children, who need us more than ever.
-NARCISSIST