(Bella loves to make Keynote decks of the images that inspire her, and she makes them almost compulsively.) Here is the goddess in one illustration, painted gold, with her leonine face ringed in flames and in another, haloed by the sun, poured into what looks like old Hervé Léger, and walking a massive male lion on a leash. She walks me through a Sekhmet storyboard on her laptop. Her phone vibrates it’s one of the affirmations that she receives every hour or so on an app called I Am: I’m dissolving old patterns and letting new patterns emerge. But the whir of paparazzi drones hovering above-in response to a well-publicized family drama that she hopes will not be a part of this story-drove her back to the city. Bella thought she’d be in Pennsylvania, at the farm she bought several years ago with her mother and sister, in comforting proximity to her horse, Blue, a chocolate warmblood with a snowy muzzle and two bright blue eyes. This has not been a good day, particularly. Does that mean I didn’t cry this morning before you got here?” “You always look up and you’re like, if only I lived in that apartment I’d be happy. A beach bum at heart, Bella felt she needed to see at least a sliver of water.
“My neighbors were like, You’re burning the building down already? I was like, I’m just sage-ing!” To the west, the Hudson River gives off a languorous midday sparkle. A week after she arrived, she was burning sage to rid the space of any lingering negative energy, and the fire alarm went off. It was a splurge of a rental, she admits. She moved into this apartment, a vast downtown Manhattan sanctuary whose giant windows give onto layers of skyscrapers to the north, early last year. Her phone sits open on the kitchen table, and an illustration of Sekhmet, fangs and nails bared and dragging a bloody axe, serves as its home screen. “She’s me on a good day,” Bella Hadid says.
Maison Margiela Artisanal designed by John Galliano dress. Hadid's demeanor is her armor, she says-a vital layer of protection.
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