It was throughout that point that Max and I grew to become constants. From basements to whispery FaceTimes to lavish Vogue Week events, and now right here on the Met. Our friendship has at all times been about reverence—his for poetry by design, mine for presence, and a shared language of magnificence, self-discipline, and play.
That is my sixth Met Gala. Each carries its personal climate system, its personal fantasy. Working with my beloved stylist Carlos Nazario, now we have discovered to form narrative by gown—by silhouette, by material, by rigidity and restraint. When working with my expensive good friend Fara Homidi for the wonder look, we leaned into steadiness. Contemporary, bouncy, sincere pores and skin and an odd however refined, nearly powdery purple lip that wanted not to match the gown. My hair, carried out by the angelic Joey George, was a literal twist on the French twist however carried out in an nearly alien-like form that replicated a seam, a nod to the theme.
Photograph: Heidi Stanton
Photograph: Heidi Stanton
However amongst all of this, this 12 months, the story is Max. This 12 months, I wished to honor him.
He’s, to his closest, affectionately often known as Maxine. To the world, he’s a poet, a designer, a thinker, however to me, he’s magnificence amongst chaos. He’s restraint as resistance. He’s the embodiment of Black dandyism, not as aesthetic however as inheritance, as technique, as declaration. Black dandyism shouldn’t be about assimilation. It’s about subversion. It takes the tropes of thinness, whiteness, and wealth, and rejects them. It’s precision. It’s defiance wrapped in silk.
Photograph: Heidi Stanton
