A tall, muscular judge told the group, “Everything that is safe you can do.” His accent was Serbian. “One, two, three, begin!” Deep breathing could be heard; birds chirped loudly outside; spectators murmured on the periphery. Gallant, sleeveless and heavily tattooed, began slowly smoothing a white sheet atop his model’s shoulders. He wore pink pants and a belt holding massage oil. A German man dressed in black lit the blanket covering his recipient on fire; orange flames danced briefly and went out. Voilà: blanket warmed. A Hungarian woman in a white jumpsuit began spreading a green substance onto a man’s bare back. Harris perched like a dancer in her hammocks, tilting toward her model’s shoulders, a beatific expression on her face. Music like a synthetic sunrise began playing. It was hard to tell who was winning.