Mr. West’s remembrance of his mother, who died a few days before his scheduled appearance, was a somber moment. The night’s only somber moment. What followed was an hour of street dancing, trapeze stunts, ballet routines, and clothes and the lack of clothes. There are no metaphors at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. A rose is not a rose—a rose is a two-story bed of petals each the size of a Volkswagen Jetta. The runway etiquette of Milan and Paris seems quaint when you see the models breaking whatever shallow fourth wall once existed to whoop and wave as their fellow Angels pass.
Desperate to top itself even as it unfolds, the show’s final act featured human cartoon character Nicki Minaj performing in the middle of a knot of graffiti-covered b-boy dancers. Rainbow confetti blanketed the air. Koonsian balloon dogs washed in glitter descended from the ceiling. The procession of models continued—they wore pink pajamas, slathered chrome, little orbs that looked like Dippin’ Dots, neon wings, futuristic heel-boots: a slumber party staged in a Blade Runner dystopia.
And closing the show was Karlie Kloss, who attained her own personal American Dream by walking down the runway in a dress that resembled a disco ball.
It would not be her last outfit of the night. In the back right corner of the Gallery at Dream, Ms. Kerr stood with husband Orlando Bloom (who declined to comment, offering The Observer no more than a bro hug), Maroon 5’s Adam Levine (with Angel girlfriend Anne V) and Leonardo DiCaprio, who was puffing on an electronic cigarette.
Then, suddenly, there was Ms. Kloss. She had opted for a backless black dress and massive heels. She had to lean down to peck us on the cheek.
“Was it everything you imagined and more?” we asked.
Ms. Kloss smiled.
“It was fantastic,” she said. The eyes of the world’s biggest movie stars—Mr. DiCaprio, Jake Gyllenhaal, even the married Mr. Bloom—homed in on the teenager. She didn’t return their glances.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” she said.