Fashion icon and snake-fascinating weirdo Daphne Guinness is famous almost exclusively for showing up places in crazy outfits, but that sprawling couture wardrobe doesn’t do her much good unless she abstains from eating. The New Yorker profiled here recently and this happened:
Teresa Alfonso, Guinness’s personal assistant, tried to get her to eat some of the pasta that had been prepared for the production team. “If I eat, I can’t work,” Guinness, who had been subsisting on Red Bull and Ensure, said. “I’ll eat when I’m dead.”
And then, some editorializing:
She costumes herself with the bodily rigor that is seen among ballet dancers, whose art depends upon the denial of pain and the mastery of appetite. Even if Guinness insists that her heelless shoes are comfortable, they connote suﬀering, and render her literally unstable. Her appearance conveys a sense of immense discipline combined with boundless fragility. It is impossible to look at her and not wonder when, in some way or another, she will topple.
This sucks but I almost prefer her candor to “I just have good genes/I’m chasing my infant/I hike occasionally/I eat lean protein and whole grains” and all the other ridiculous shit we hear ad nauseum.