If we are to believe the late, great Michael Jackson, Liberian girls have a history of coming and changing one’s world. Unsuspecting suitors and laymen, alike, fall susceptible to the enigmatic personas and ethereal allure of these “precious pearls,” forever altered. Certainly the stuff of love songs, but in so many ways, Jackson’s tale was pointed and true.
I never met the very Liberian girl I was named after. She was to make her homegoing years before I was to make my entrance, but my parents assured me she was a woman to know.
Whip smart, popular, outgoing, friendly, a presence; she was putting herself through law school and was the only woman my parents could conceive as my namesake. A feat, as I come from strong lines of matrilineal descent on both sides of my family tree.
…and they say women don’t know how to work together! Ha!
CURB APPEAL’s Shanita Sims and I were brought together by the Twitter-verse recently, and we instantly kind of knew we wanted to collaborate. She suggested a STYLE PROFILE feature and I couldn’t refuse her: she’s far too talented a photographer for that. So I welcomed her into my home this Sunday and we chatted for five-hours straight about New York, fashion, clothes, love lives, family, life: the whole gamut, while she shot me in five various looks. And just imagine: this was the first time we had even met!
We vibed on all fronts, especially in regards to her philosophy on diversity within her work. Having shot for Refinery29 and ELLE, she wants to photograph anyone with amazing style and understands that this idea crosses racial and gender lines; in her eyes, there is no need to set any barriers on herself or her work. I couldn’t agree more.
As you can see from the finished results on CURB APPEAL now, the meeting was orchestrated by fate (and my ever-expanding shoe collection), alone–and I am so glad our paths crossed.
All my darn shoes!
All pictures courtesy of Curb Appeal’s, Shanita Sims
The light shone brightly on my female form, as Fela Kuti’s “African Woman” pulsed through the room, altering its energy dramatically. Is it a cliché to say that the African rhythms sent this raconteur sailing through her imagination? Or was it the bias cut of a threadbare micro-printed dress that had her swinging ? No matter, I was in another stratosphere by now: I was thinking of the life once before lived in this dress, cut finely along the slight of a woman’s curve. A woman must have been courted in such a dress, her beau dabbing at the sweat beads that had surfaced along his brow and across his upper lip upon beholding her image.