"When you went to Saint Martins' library on a Friday afternoon, you could hear this dull bassy sort of thudding music from the strip club underneath," Gareth Pugh says. He's remembering his years spent studying at Central Saint Martins on London's Charing Cross Road, the back of which building was pressed up against Soho, and the memory marks the beginning of his enduring relationship with London's dark, salacious underbelly. "It’s that higgledy-piggledy ramshackleness that…
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