Kate Moss Killed Me Again

Repeat Offender At Large

I can’t pinpoint an exact moment, or image, that left me utterly devoted to Kate Moss. It happened somewhere in the Hearst offices of Harper’s BAZAAR, where I spent countless New York hours organizing Glenda Bailey’s personal collection of magazines. Soon enough, I was addicted to her. By the time she appeared in an issue I’d seen get to print, the addiction was full blown, and I stood, captivated, at the office copy machine drooling over the yet-to-be published prints from the photo shoot. She oozed sex out of her Old Hollywood glamour. She had become my definition of pure beauty, of woman.

Over the many years since then, my addiction has grown into a love affair. She breezes in and out of my life from the magazine covers I covet and collect as an ethereal fashion chameleon with nary a word. She demands my attention from the myriad advertising campaigns she fronts. She’s always surprising, sometimes shocking, and never just a pretty face.

So as she stares out at me from the March 2012 issue of W, I’m speechless, again… well, almost. Veiled in the most exquisite of white re-embroidered laces, her platinum blonde hair frames her perfect face, inviting the reader into the magazine with all of the mystery and wonder of the Immaculate Conception. But we know, as the magazine points out, that, “She’s No Angel,” and the appearance of such mixed with said affirmation lets us know we’re in for something extra juicy.

I’ve been flipping through the pages of this editorial for close to a month now, letting the feelings it gives me resonate and reduce, trying to put into words the impact this woman has on me, my world, fashion, and art as a whole. A true definition of the word muse, a single image of her can throw any creator into a spell of divine inspiration.

And then, reading the editorial’s accompanying essay, it hit me. Why try to explain what one can only feel? The essay talks about Kate Moss’ proclivity towards being tight-lipped and not granting interviews. In doing so, she’s allowed her work and images to speak for themselves… so why shouldn’t I?

Of course, there’s always room to gush and applaud, so let us commence.

And let us give due credit to Edward Enningful, the amazing mind behind the styling of the shoot, and Steven Klein, the photographer. The high contrast pictorial illuminates every detail in shining light and forbidden shadows. Whether Kate is shrouded in black or white lace, in picture perfect roses, in headdresses bigger than the heavens, in a somber habit, or pointy devil horns, each photograph stands alone as a masterpiece. In totality, the editorial is simply one of the most masterful I have ever seen.

And that is how Kate Moss killed me, again.