There is no one, not on this planet or this galaxy, who so thoroughly embodies what I enjoy about Gender Fuck Thursday than Tilda Swinton. She exists in a universe that totally disregards the boxes we put ourselves into. She is the woman who fell to Earth, and I fucking love it. Part fiery goddess, part folk legend, part space alien, all delicious. We get sold cookie cutter perfection everyday and told to call it beauty. But Tilda defies any mold known to man. Delicate, yet fierce. Beautiful, yet strange. Talented, period. No, wait, exclamation point. There are not enough exclamation points.
Perhaps one of the most of many delightful things about Tilda is that she has crafted her public persona this way on purpose, yet not in a calculated way. In an interview and intergalactic photoshoot with W magazine, she said her red carpet style is a collaboration with her close friend Jerry Stafford, the creative director of a French production company and “It’s a game, and we have great fun with it.”
And her definition of androgyny is even more refreshing.
“People talk about androgyny in all sorts of dull ways,” says Swinton, noting that the recent rerelease of Orlando had her thinking again about its pliancy. “Cahun looked at the limitlessness of an androgynous gesture, which I’ve always been interested in.”
Her style inspirations include her male androgyny doppelganger, David Bowie, and her father, Maj. Gen. Sir John Swinton.
“From childhood, I remember more about his black patent, gold livery, scarlet-striped legs, and medal ribbons than I do of my mother’s evening dresses,” she says. “I would rather be handsome, as he is, for an hour than pretty for a week.”
Mission accomplished, Swinton. Mission a-fucking-complished.