FKA Twigs

A few years ago, I saw the FKA Twigs video for “Cellophane”—the one where she’s pole dancing and swirling in silks, wearing steep plastic hooker shoes and looking hauntingly elegant. She maintains the mystery of Mata Hari while conveying so much emotion: at one point in the video, the expression on her face is pure yearning. And when she’s dancing, she’s like a lightning rod. I remember her from L.A. when she was a little sprite. I could see the artist in her then. I love how, over the years, she has toyed with us, as if she’s whatever we imagine her to be but you know she’s not. This year, on her mixtape Caprisongs, she breaks it all down in front of us: her insecurities, sex, heartbreak, her songwriting, her trauma. The photo on the cover was so on point—her mouth open, ready to spill her guts. She is ready to tell us who she is, victorious, flying by in the breeze, the music in every muscle in her body.

Love is a Grammy-­nominated musician

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