Window displays are always theatre, always mausoleums—perfumes and blouses rehearsing for the lives they will never live. Gambino seizes this form, twists it, and casts himself as the eternal understudy in his own spectacular demise: the life of an artist, the life of a star. These sculptures are not just props but players, not objects but mirrors. This year, everyone gets coal, but bring Christopher his flowers. Please.
