Mr. Jones wore a rectangular mirror, about 8 inches by 10 inches, strapped to the front of his face so that anyone he spoke to saw only their face reflected on top of the body of Stephen Jones. It was a disturbing, but brilliantly existential, disguise — if one was hoping to discover the deeper meaning of identity within the confines of a fashion party, where people are always gawking to see who else is there. Mr. Jones seemed to be saying, well, it is you who are there.

Looking at him from the side, his nose smushed painfully against the back of the mirror, you could tell that he was a man who would willingly suffer for his art.

“This is like an equivalent of high heels,” Mr. Jones said. “If you take it off, you’re done for the evening.”