Do you remember singing into a hairbrush as a kid? Or giving an acceptance speech to the mirror? For me, it was walking down an imaginary catwalk, face arranged in a fashion grimace. Blame Naomi Campbell. She was electrifying. So beautiful it made my chest ache.
I can’t remember the first time I saw Campbell, now 45. It must have been in the late 1980s, because she was already familiar enough for me to squeal excitedly when I saw her in George Michael’s music video for Freedom! ’90.
You know what she looks like but let’s recap: a face almost offensive in its symmetrical beauty: eyes that transmit a cool unknowability, a smile as wide as the Caribbean, cheekbones on which to sharpen knives, that cute as a button nose. And her limbs! She moves them like jazz musicians play: strong, sure, wildly experimental. It’s bewitching to watch. So much so that there are YouTube compilations of her catwalk strut. Listen, how many models’ walks have made it into the lyrics of a Beyoncé song? I rest my case.
Sure, there have been many downs. That Top Of The Pops appearance wasn’t great. Neither was appearing at the Hague war crimes tribunal over allegations that she received a gift of blood diamonds. And let’s not forget the phone-throwing. She’s battled cocaine addiction, taken a stand against the racism and lack of diversity in her industry, and now operates as a sort of fashion godmother to other models of colour. And, as she launches a new lingerie line, she still looks amazing. She is timeless. She is magic. She still makes my chest hurt.
