Laura Ponte

One could say her defining trait is an innate ability for metamorphosis, one that touches only the surface, never her deeper self. Let us recall Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” (1915), in which he warns us of the fragility of identity and the disconnection between the individual and their surroundings. In a world governed by rules, expectations and judgement, the true tragedy lies in losing touch with our own humanity. Kafka leaves us with a haunting question: how much of who we are is shaped by others? My encounter with Laura, as you’ll soon discover, sparked a reflection: in this absurd world, things often happen for no clear reason, and we, as human beings, are left to face them without having the answers.

Well, not shy in this kind of setting — like the one you and I are in now, that’s much easier. But if I have to speak in front of a lot of people, I get embarrassed. I’m not the type to interrupt a conversation just to be heard. I’m still quite shy in that sense. I’d rather listen and observe than jump in. I pay attention to movements, gestures, tones of voice, and I connect them to different situations. I think it’s a good form of training.

Well, separately, they divorced. I never saw my father at home. I don’t remember him being there. My mother, aside from her work, got very involved in cultural circles, and yes, there was definitely a frenetic kind of energy at home, with her always trying to open up our eyes a little wider.

I never met my grandfather, only my grandmother. After the war, he moved to Barcelona to study tailoring. He became a tailor and eventually opened a department store in Asturias, in the mining region, the Nalón Valley. Later, he became mayor of the town. Things went really well for them, because at that time there was a lot of money in the area thanks to the mines. In the 1950s, they opened more shops and had a lot of employees. They sent their daughters off to university and really focused on their education.

No, but my grandfather was well-read, very curious — a cultured man. I lived in Oviedo with my mother, but she worked a lot, so on weekends she’d send us to my grandmother’s. I used to love going down to the shop around Christmas when I was eleven or twelve, helping out with the wrapping. I really did grow up surrounded by fabrics. I remember my mother constantly touching them, “This polyester is awful, this is terrible, look at this one, look at the weave, how beautiful.” That’s the kind of education I had. Even though my parents were open-minded, and I don’t mean to say their openness was a façade, but it was more of an intention than a reality. Because when you look closely, you realise our lifestyle was actually quite conservative. I grew up surrounded by dualities.

Yes, although when you don’t really know the person, or you’re not sure whether you really know them or a character they put on — it gets quite confusing. I was extremely sensitive to everything, and I picked up on things. I started to piece together the real story, not because anyone told me outright, but because I listened. In my family, there’s a strong belief that the less people know about your life, the better. I’m quite the opposite, opening up and starting to share things has helped me enormously. I’ve gone against the current of what was encouraged at home. Precisely because I was so sensitive, they tried to shield me a lot. I was the one who never said anything, but I always knew everything. I was doing my own kind of parallel research: trying to work out what was going on, why people were behaving a certain way, my own anthropological study, really. You end up getting to know your parents quite late, especially parents from that generation, who had no trouble talking about social issues but struggled to speak about their personal ones. They were great defenders of many causes but often failed to apply those ideals in their day-to-day lives.

My grandmother had a strong character. I remember, for instance, that my aunt used to buy shoes and wouldn’t show them to her, out of a sense of austerity. She would say, “Why do you need so many shoes? Buy one good pair that will last you a lifetime, that supports your foot properly, that doesn’t hurt, that’s comfortable, well made.” That was always a sort of motto in our household. She was very austere in that way. My grandmother believed you should have few things, but good ones. She was a child of the war.

I spent many years being extremely shy. It hit me hard that awakening that comes with puberty, when you suddenly become aware of everything: relationships, family structures, social dynamics. With all those hormonal changes, you don’t quite know what you are, how you come across, who you resemble, or whether you’re meant to resemble anyone at all. It really knocked me. I went from being someone who didn’t care much about anything to being almost crippled by shyness. I mean, I literally stopped speaking. It was intense. I stopped showing my body, stopped doing sport, stopped communicating, stopped dressing up, stopped everything. It was really tough, I had a hard time. Now when I think back, I just go: goodness me, that was intense! But I don’t think you ever lose your life, you’re just in a different phase. I actually feel very grateful for having gone through it. It’s made me more open to whatever may come. Also, more receptive to what others have gone through, the stories we don’t always know. That openness helps you not to fear quick connections, and not to trivialise them either.

This shoot came together quite spontaneously. I knew there would be some Dior looks involved, they’d mentioned it and sent over a few options, but I didn’t realize the entire production would be Dior. What a dream! That’s one of the great things about this job, it keeps you in the present moment. And that’s how I live. I’m very used to improvising and going with the flow. It’s honestly the best training you can have for photo shoots. It all comes down to your attitude and how high you set the bar for yourself.

I started working in it because of a party at a friend of my aunt’s studio, in Madrid. She said to me, “Why don’t you try modelling?” I didn’t have a strong sense of vocation. I like things because they’re fun, not because I’m fixated on becoming a great something or other. I enjoy moving through places, learning things, seeing that I’m capable of doing them. If those things happen to stick over time because I find them engaging like designing, or whatever, then great. If you suddenly told me, just for today, that I had to grow potatoes, I’d do it brilliantly and I’d get into the technique of it. In that sense, I consider myself lucky. Maybe precisely because I don’t overthink things too much, everything tends to feel enough. And it’s also true that I’m not someone who gets obsessive about anything.

I think I’m considered one because I came onto the scene at a time when it was unusual for someone who wasn’t conventionally beautiful to do well, and to last. Even though I was already working abroad, when I got married, I felt like everything that came my way during that period was somehow because I was married to someone. It was as if my public persona got a bit muddled with the profession. And I do think that at the time, that had a certain pull. But funnily enough, those were actually the years I worked the least. That said, I’m sure I got some jobs because of that particular circumstance. There was a time when I felt quite confused, even though my start in the fashion world had nothing to do with getting married. I got married at thirty and started working at twenty-two. But there were a few years when I really questioned whether I was still in the profession because I was married to a certain person.

Well, nowadays age hardly matters. But it’s true that when I started working at twenty-two, I was already one of the older ones in my circle, most of the others were fifteen or sixteen. I’ve always looked older. I think, over time, I’ve gradually caught up with the age I projected. Sometimes, I’ve had quite a stern expression. It’s not that I’ve never smiled in photos, but they always seemed to prefer me serious rather than anything else. It wasn’t something I chose. A lot of people think I’m very serious and quite unfriendly, and I’m not at all. I’m someone with absolutely no mystery. I’m anything but serious. But it’s funny how these images form, in the end.

The truth is, it’s very hard to know what image you project. It’s something I’ve always been incredibly curious about, what sort of impression I give off. Also, because I often think about how we construct identities in others. Like when people say to me, “Well, you, being attractive…”, there are people who make all sorts of assumptions about me and don’t really make the effort to speak with complete honesty. But it’s not something I can define straight away, because I’ve been told so many different things over time that I genuinely don’t know what I am.

My mother left journalism and moved to Madrid because she was offered the position of director of the Delegation of the Principality of Asturias. I was studying in England at the time, and I just said, right, off we go to Madrid. In my life, everything has happened very much by chance and yet, strangely, everything has always been deeply interconnected, in quite an extraordinary way. It’s funny how things link up through these coincidences, sometimes messed up, but most of the time nice. I suppose it also has to do with a lack of prejudice, you know? When you throw yourself into life, and it’s taken a long time, or it’s still taking time, to understand who you are, or not just who you are, because as you’re trying to understand yourself, you’re also trying to make sense of everything around you — you start to understand what other people are going through too.
It’s like now, having children and spending time with them, I’ve started to understand a lot about my own relationship with my mother. Life teaches you from places you never expected. Generally, you have to say yes, say yes without prejudice, and see what happens. I was someone who spent a long time feeling paralysed, but I’ve had to come to terms with that paralysis. And maybe I only healed it thirty years later. That kind of attitude makes you put everything into perspective, makes you want to strip people of all their labels, their names, surnames, and backgrounds. That became my constant practice.

My mother always says, “I never thought the same story would repeat itself.” But the truth is, as a child I never wanted to be a mother. I always pictured myself going around with a briefcase. I don’t know why, I just didn’t see myself having children. I think it’s because, when I was little, I found children quite intimidating, they always tell the truth. They scared me, and I didn’t know how to handle things on an emotional level. My family wasn’t particularly expressive when it came to affection or physical closeness. That said, I probably would’ve had children with all of my boyfriends. There were moments when I’d think, if I get pregnant, I can handle it. It’s not that hard. But then there’s the whole matter of sustaining that existence. We often have children to preserve the family unit or the lineage, and yes, that does play a big part. I didn’t feel that pressure, but even so, having children is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

For me. But I don’t mean to say that having children is the best life experience, because I don’t believe that. I think life brings each of us whatever it needs to: work, a parent, friends, a certain situation that becomes your lesson. In my case, my children have helped me enormously, because until they came along, I had never really turned my gaze inward. And I learnt that when you’re responsible for two people who have no power at all, you need to be in a really good place yourself. You need to be coherent in your thoughts and your actions. That’s what pushed me to start questioning: what am I, really? To what extent am I this way, and to what extent am I not? I always say I separated for them, not because of them, poor things, not like that, but because I believed that keeping them in an environment I didn’t feel was right wouldn’t be fair. I couldn’t lie to them and pretend that, for me, that was normal.

The day I met my mother-in-law, I felt the same fear I had when I was sixteen and had a boyfriend, what will his mum think of me? When you go into something from that place of pure emotion, from your deepest self, everything else fades into the background. That’s the space I live in.
You don’t choose where you’re born. But it’s also true that life has given me the chance to be around people who’ve had a lot of power, and I’ve seen power from many different angles. I managed to get in through the heart, but I’ve been lucky to have very strong people around me, people who, despite everything, remain human. You have to understand how that person deals with their circumstances. Some of those situations are chosen, they’ve chosen to study a certain subject, to face a certain challenge, or to take a certain stance. But the real question is: where are they coming from?

To watch, to listen, to observe. Most of the time, you don’t choose your family, nor how you’re brought up, and that’s something I’m really aware of now: not to impose. You can end up clashing hard with your child, because each one is an individual. And that independence is something I have to actively work on. How does their independence make me feel? And where do I place maternal love, where do I draw the line, where does coexistence sit, and where does detachment begin? I feel very lucky, because life has allowed me to see so much, from so many different angles and yet, you realise that no matter the path you take, you remain the same being.

Growing from that place has been harder. But I always say that everything has been positive. Even the deepest pain, it’s always positive. A friend once told me: “Lau, no one has power over you but yourself. You weren’t born in a country where you need to ask for permission.” And then you realise how capable you are of clinging to things, even to the most harmful kind of pain, and how easy it is to wallow in it. It’s incredible. You ask yourself: how long do I want to stay here? How much do I need to understand this? I mean, what kind of darkness do I need to grasp about human nature? It’s all very well telling people to be raw, to be unfiltered, but unfiltered means completely unfiltered.

Yes, but we have to try. That’s why I believe we all need to come face to face with our deepest darkness, because then we’ll recognise it even in our worst enemy. When we see someone we can’t stand, I always say, there’s something in that horror that belongs to you too. It’s incredible.

Absolutely. There comes a point where you even start to feel comfortable in it, because you’re able to justify everything. But I’m grateful, because afterwards I’ve felt such immense strength. I always say: I have the power to change things. Ever since I was little, something inside me said: I can change this. I’d see people around me suffering over things that weren’t easy to grasp. But until you go through it yourself, you don’t truly understand. And we all experience it at some point in life, often through unimaginable things. We tend to picture pain through abuse, through dark, ugly situations. But in the end, it often starts as something very small inside you, something you yourself start feeding, giving power to. It’s mind-blowing. And then you start testing yourself and the other person. If I show them my greatest vulnerability, will they do this? And then you think: but why am I provoking someone’s cruelty? What is it I’m trying to see there? But you do it, and you’re also forced to confront what that means.

I help the bride create her dress, I don’t just do whatever I want. I might suggest things she hasn’t thought of, or that hadn’t crossed her mind. I’m very much the type to say, go buy that dress from the shop down the road, and if you like, we can make something to go over it. Or, bring me something you love and we’ll transform it, that way you’ll spend less. All the options are there. I wouldn’t necessarily call it creative work. I know I don’t have limits, but that’s because I’m not afraid. There’s nothing that drives me in a fixed direction. I don’t have a defined aesthetic; I don’t follow a particular style. That’s something I’ve always been keen to protect, the freedom to try everything. I’m like an amoeba that flows and simply wants to learn. In fact, I probably learn more about managing my own ego, because I have to make things the client wants and sometimes, it’s not the dress I would have made. I have to step into her style and help her. I can make suggestions, but she’s the one who says yes or no. She sets the boundaries.

The first reality is me. The primary sentient thing, that lives, that bleeds, that smells. That’s the truest reality I have, and it’s the one I’m most focused on. I see myself as a person like any other: porous, receptive, feeling. I don’t mean that I project myself onto everyone else. The reality I live in is that of someone who was raised to get up in the morning, though I do sometimes say to myself, I’ll give it two more hours. And I’m never quite sure whether to start with Vanitatis, El Diario, or Público. Sometimes I think, right, let’s have a bit of frivolity before diving into the day.
I believe our thoughts shape our reality. I really do believe in that power. But my reality is just that: someone who remains alert to what’s going on in the world, because that’s what I grew up with. I’m constantly curious about what’s happening around me. And I’m also very aware of what I think. My reality is that I coexist with many other realities, and with lots of different people, in a space where all those realities can be expressed, and I think that’s important. I feel I’m in a privileged place, where there’s freedom of thought and freedom of action. That’s my little reality.

I believe in the quiet craft of changing reality from within. Each of us changes it in small ways. It’s changed through how you wake up, how you speak, how you treat others. That’s where real action lies, in the closest exchanges we have: generosity, listening, time, the simple act of holding someone’s hand and going out to protest with them. It’s from the micro level that things get done. I’m not interested in people who go around giving grand speeches but whose lives lack coherence. I don’t buy into that kind of discourse. What I believe in is your micro-reality, how you behave with the people you work with, how you build your teams, how you form your families. Because that shows how you’ll behave with those you don’t know. I believe in small-scale power, and we forget that far too often. We’re constantly stuck in the mindset of someone else will fix it. But who’s going to fix it? You fix it, through how you behave with your neighbour, your friend. If people realised the immense power we hold as human beings through the little things. The problem is, we’ve built our idea of power completely the wrong way round.

You can’t undo everything overnight. The very thing that made us all equal is now, ironically, the same thing that might bury us. Still, I always hold on to faith and I believe the major players will step up and do things properly. The time has come. We’re pushing from below, calling for change, but we also need to be mindful of our own consumption. How do we tackle that? I can’t control what others choose, their judgement is their own. I’d love to live in a world that worked differently.

No, I don’t hold back. The real question is how to transform that entire industry. I think some pretty intense events are coming. There’s all this talk about energy and I genuinely believe we’re very close to understanding that. It’s a tricky subject. For centuries, we handed enormous power to the Church and other structures that supposedly acted for the greater good. And what about now? These days, no one wants to look, we just want to be entertained. What I mean is, we don’t want to think. And we’re living through a time that’s intense, really full-on. There are going to be some major changes. That’s how I feel. I see it as positive though, because I have faith. I don’t know why, but I believe in the small power of the heart. Things will happen. I’ve been saying it since I was little: we’ll witness terrible things if we allow them to happen, and we are allowing them. There’s a lot of analysis to be done. And the world is vast, in some places people are still living deep in the jungle, and in others they’re already far into the future. Look at China, for example: developing mind-blowing feats of engineering and providing excellent education, through a system we in the West tend to question.

Yes, but one with systems of management. We’ve lived through a dictatorship in Spain too and the United States is going through its own version of one right now. We’ve invented so many names to describe the same thing, always trying to pin it on communism, anarchism, neoliberalism… breaking everything down into small, often extreme and reductionist examples that only serve to uphold this absurd polarity. Ignorance is dangerous, because when people don’t question things, it’s easier to form dangerous groups. And when there’s a lack of identity, the moment someone offers a ready-made label, we all jump on it. Oh great, I belong to that. Like when you’re a kid and you want to be a rockabilly or a mod. The world feels very strange right now. I think some massive shifts are coming, not all necessarily dramatic, but they’ll bring about the creation of two very different societies.

Last night I must have had a bad dream, because I woke up feeling unsettled. The first thing that came to mind was a negative thought about something that wasn’t even negative, but it triggered this pinch of anger over something that didn’t work out. And I asked myself how I had dealt with it. I thought, what did you actually do? And in the end, I realised it didn’t work out because, deep down, I never really wanted it to. You have to be so careful with your thoughts. I spent a while just sitting with the anger, which is really good, you have to do that. Just let it be. It’s fine. I’m a person who feels anger. I accept that. Everything running through my mind in that moment was coming from that small spark of rage. Just imagine how many things you absorb during the day without even noticing and suddenly, they shape your whole day without you having any idea why.

Well, the press isn’t doing anyone any favours.

It’s outrageous. Honestly, I’m ashamed. I read all the newspapers and when someone says something to me, I ask, but what have you actually read? I even read the ones I don’t like, because I want to see what they’re writing, why they’re writing it, whether they’ve put it up top or buried it in a tiny column. As the daughter of journalists, I know exactly how stories are shaped. My father did a lot of that — especially during the dictatorship — suddenly changing a headline at the last minute. I read the news. Maybe I don’t know every single fact, but I cross-reference everything. The press isn’t independent. It’s agitation for the sake of agitation. And to me, that’s neither journalism, nor politics, nor anything else, it horrifies me. And the worst part is, when you talk to people, they actually believe it. And I’m like, please! Please! Really intelligent people, very intelligent. That’s where I start to truly value data. Go and look at history. Where does all this come from? People haven’t got a clue. And maybe then you’ll understand what’s happening in Catalonia, what’s happening around the world, what the United States is, what the UK is, what Germany and Europe really are. You need to understand the world we’re living in. Don’t judge.

I think the more ignorance there is, the easier it becomes to sell people these anti-immigration narratives or scare them with the idea of squatting. And we fail to see that what’s really worrying are the vulture funds and the soaring rental prices, with all due respect. I don’t align myself with the left or the right. But honestly, how can you scare people with immigration? That said, this country survives in a truly miraculous way. We’ve got such good humour. You can tell we’ve had it all and lost it all. And the mix: we’re half Phoenicians, Arabs, Vikings, Celts… we’ve been invaded from all directions, by the French, from the top and the bottom. We were once a great empire and now we’ve got nothing. Maybe all of that has, in theory at least, made us more open to other cultures. Although of course, we also endured forty years of total isolation. People really don’t understand what that was. My mother couldn’t even open her own bank account without my father’s permission. I mean, come on, it’s shocking. People don’t remember. How can anyone talk about the virtues of a dictatorship?

We’ve forgotten our families’ histories. But once people settle into comfort, into what’s easy and fast, they stop looking back. They don’t want to know what came before. They live in the now, asking: who’s going to give me a quick fix for this so-called problem? That’s how they operate. And the truth is, no one’s taking anything from you. They’re doing the jobs you don’t want to do. But then you complain and it’s easier to point the finger at the outsider. We live in a world where the guiding principle is: what causes me the least hassle? What will supposedly bring me more comfort? And in that comfort we were given, that democracy of you can have everything, we forgot to ask where it came from. We forget far too quickly how hard-won it all was. For me, that’s what it comes down to: people who are ungrounded and far too entertained. And that’s very dangerous.

I had such a good time. I discovered these second-hand shops called Guerrisol, out on the outskirts. I’d buy men’s suits and then they’d vanish from my suitcase. There was no one like my mother in the mornings going, what on earth are you wearing? I lived with a guy, Luis, whom I met through my then-boyfriend. We moved in together without knowing each other at all. Everything just unfolded in a really gentle way. I didn’t go to fashion parties, I wasn’t that into them, and I travelled a lot. To be honest, I wasn’t always in Paris. That’s where I met my ex-husband. It felt a bit like coming up for air, a lot of air. It was like reclaiming my childhood, before I became this strange, complex-ridden creature. I had a job that allowed me to witness all sorts of curious things. People of all ages working together, total freedom to do whatever I wanted and no one cared. Anarchy, you know? I loved it. I’d think, this is amazing, what a wonder this is!

I arrived in Paris with a job already lined up. It’s true that on the first day the agency felt quite aggressive, I remember a lot of shouting. But the work itself came very easily to me. What I enjoy most about my profession is that I can be any woman I want. And you’ve no idea how healthy that is. Because everything I have inside from all those different women, I can express in a way that doesn’t compromise me, because I’m doing it through another character. It’s still me, but dressed in clothes I haven’t chosen. I choose very little. I simply bring who I am. Sometimes I feel one way, sometimes another or I might decide, Today I’m going to explore my vanity. Or my insecurities. I’ll confront my own sense of ugliness. I put myself into all of it. And that’s really interesting. As a child, I used to dress up, my mum would do my makeup, I’d speak in made-up languages and ask people to interview me. That was my fantasy. And this job is perfect for letting your mind wander. Then there’s another side to it, the body language, which I find absolutely fascinating. How you can communicate through a gesture, a posture, how you can provoke something through movement. Coming from a home where everything was very verbal, this is completely the opposite. My face is like soft clay, I can make a thousand different expressions.

I don’t experience it as a game anymore. For this shoot, for example, I saw the clothes and had no idea what to do in the first shot. Of course, I didn’t know the photographer. Sometimes you’ve worked with them before and you know roughly where to go, but I always go blank in the first photo. Every movement carries intention. In the end I just say, right, I’ll do everything and if not, you direct me, and you choose. I give you everything. It can be infinite, any gesture. If I’m wearing something with volume and I can play with it, I give that volume significance, I might jump. I just go with it. And it’s wonderful, because you end up doing childlike things. I allow myself to do things that free me up. And at fifty-one, in theory, that’s not something you’re supposed to do. You ask yourself, at what point did I stop playing? It’s a kind of fantasy, in the sense that it gives you space to explore. It’s a beautiful job and a really fun one.

I always thought of it as something temporary, just a way to see a bit of the world before going off to study design. It definitely helped me a lot, but there came a point where I thought, I don’t even know what new expressions I can pull anymore, I’ve done them all. I started to repeat myself, and I got bored. I experienced it in a different way to how I do now. At the beginning, I didn’t even know who I was working with, whether they were good, bad, or somewhere in between. I just thought, I’ll learn, I’ll see how a photographer works, how a stylist works, how fashion production works, how clothes are made, how a show is put together. I wanted to understand all parts of the business, because if I ever ended up designing, that knowledge would be useful. I saw it as an experience. I’d form these little micro-families on set, even though I didn’t really socialise much. I worked with lots of photographers — Mario Testino was one of the first. And if you let them down, they’d say, “Right, I’m not working with you again.”

You’d let them down by choosing to do a different job instead of theirs. They’d say, “You’re ditching me to do this rubbish with someone else?” And it happened. I never worked with Testino again after that. I’ve always seen the profession as something very circumstantial, so it never really bothered me. I was planning to go off and study design anyway. I think I’ve been incredibly lucky, but I became more aware of that over time. The impact or reach of my work has never been something I’ve worried about. Now, I just see every job as a gift.

Good people, yes, but I wouldn’t say they were better than others I’ve worked with who don’t have big names and were far more interesting. The world of the renowned is only open to the renowned, and it’s a very small group. I usually accept projects as long as they feel aligned with who I am. Many times I’ve been offered things and I’ve just said, but I don’t even use this. I can’t sell something I don’t use. That said, sometimes you’re like, damn, I need to eat. I try to make sure everything I do makes sense to me and that I can stand behind it. Sometimes I think, what a shame I can’t defend this, because it would really get me out of a tight spot for a year. And that sucks. But hey, you keep going, and honestly, I’m calmer now. So I think, well, I don’t know where we’re headed. We have fewer and fewer things, and maybe we’ll end up with nothing, but I’m happy. I always say, I’ve got plenty of paths I could take.

From the tiniest place, really. I didn’t even know if it was going to happen or not. I showed up and they said, “Stay here, let’s see what happens.” Before I got to the shoot, I had no idea how big the campaign was going to be. And then, that Phoebe Philo photo is criminal. I mean, criminal. We shot it with the light we had, and I look so sad I can’t even stand it. But hey, it’s one of my faces. And they’re like, “Great shot! Amazing!” And I’m just thinking, are you all idiots? How can you say amazing? You’ve been blinded by Phoebe Philo. That name clouds your vision so much that you approved that shot. If anyone else had taken that picture or if I posted it myself with no name behind it, you’d tear me apart. But now? Everyone’s like, “Brava! Brava!” Really?

Honestly, I don’t give it that much weight. Everyone shapes their own universe however they want. Everything’s so relative. Same with aesthetics. I haven’t worn makeup for years, I don’t get injections or beauty treatments, same as my mother, who’s never worn makeup or had anything done to her face. Why doesn’t she get applause? It’s like being natural is now a trend, and that’s the wildest thing. The wildest thing is that we’ve reached a point where being natural is considered a trend. As if naturalness were a fashion statement. That’s just humanity, that’s people. Why should we have to curl our hair while men can have it short, carry nothing, and go grey? Since when has naturalness been a trend?

Because being is just being. It’s how you are when you wake up in the morning. And yet we wake up and immediately try to become something else, like it’s a battle. And I think, why do we have to go on a crusade just to be? Fashion is actually a great channel for this, because it’s always had that openness — go back to the 17th century or wherever, when men wore makeup, heels, and wigs. Travel the world and understand human history.

Let everyone do whatever they want. You want to be platinum blonde? Go for it! I walk down the street and I think everyone looks beautiful. I wish I could photograph them all so they could see how easy it is to be beautiful. Everyone has it, some from many angles, some from one. Sadness can be beautiful, too. Even deformity can be attractive.

Yeah, it’s like suddenly you supposedly can’t do anything anymore, but you can actually do everything. No, I don’t really have any other talent. Last year I was offered to write a book. I turned it down because I have nothing to say. People always say, “Oh, everyone has a story to tell,” what a cliché. But honestly, I can’t be bothered to write. My brother says I don’t write badly, I’ve written things before, just to try it. I’ve written for Marie Claire and for El Mundo, some little columns about fashion, I can’t really remember. I’ve done pieces when asked to write travel stories. I even did a TED talk. All because I thought, I haven’t done this before, let’s give it a go. And then I regret it, two days before I’m like, why the hell did I say yes?

I always say I want to go live in the mountains in Asturias or Galicia. I don’t want to get dressed up, I don’t want to wear shoes, I just want a simple life, a life close to nature. I want to be in a meadow counting the petals on millions of daisies. The contemplative life. I don’t know, life will shape itself. I have no idea. My mother says I’m very detached. You have to hold on lightly to material things, to memories.