PARIS IN THE SPRING
http://www.harpersbazaar.com/culture...son-interview
The king of pop's daughter, Paris Jackson, is out to make her own mark.
Paris Jackson is definitely starting something. Just a few days before this interview, she was causing a sensation in Paris—France, that is—during the couture shows. At the Givenchy show, she was proclaimed the house's standout guest—the one person everyone else wanted to meet. Wearing an oversize sweater and black combat boots, and looking a tiny bit like she didn't care, Paris was praised for her cool fashion sense and her laid-back attitude.
Then there was the shoot at the Eiffel Tower. Posing in a slightly see-through white shirt, her arms spread wide, and her red-lipsticked mouth smiling in a way that made you do a double or triple take—was that Marilyn? Madonna? Or Madonna doing Marilyn?—the photos had the Internet buzzing. There was speculation that fashion neophyte Paris had already landed a campaign for Chanel.
It was quite a launch for an ingenue, and right before she left Paris, her manager, Tom Hamilton, took a photo of her on the airport train, which was quickly posted to her Instagram, looking like a happy teenage girl. She's wearing her trademark garb—loose and hippie-ish and young—and clutching a jazz record album in her hand. Which makes sense: This teenage girl loves music from the '70s, from the era of her boomer dad's youth, when there were still vinyl records. But while Paris was at 38,000 feet, soaring above it all on a transatlantic flight, a media frenzy was breaking out below.
Still clutching that precious album—why else carry it all the way from Paris to LAX?—Paris and her manager got off the plane and headed, as they always do, to baggage claim. But this time it was different. This time they found themselves surrounded by dozens of paparazzi. Paris did what any sensible 18-year-old would do. She put the album over the side of her face like a mask. And she ran. And ran. And the paparazzi chased her. The paparazzi made her cry.
Because despite all the hoopla, there's one thing that's easy to forget about Paris: She's really still a kid.
The death of Michael Jackson eight years ago, when Paris was 11 years old, has left her scarred. She tried to take her life several times, ending up in treatment at age 15. Paris declares that she "was always the weird kid." When asked if she'd like to have children someday, she hesitates, then says, "Eventually, I guess. It's just the thought of bringing more life into the world we're current living in—are you kidding me? I'll spare them all the tears and drama."
But Paris has passed out of that phase of her life and is now clean and sober. She's also in possession of a fortune, both in money and legacy. As Jane Austen might say, a young woman in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a career. And a platform.
"I've always wanted to kind of break off and do my own thing, just 'cause I feel I enjoy independence very much," Paris says. And so, while Paris Jackson famously grew up in Neverland, she now lives in Nowheresville. Her base of operations is located in some part of the Valley in Los Angeles, near a freeway. The city here is not unlike the desert just beyond, monotonous and endless. Block after block of little houses, bisected by six-lane roads of strip mall after strip mall. It's the type of neighborhood that people generally go into showbiz to escape.
Comparing the address on my phone with the one on the gate next door, I decide that even though the numbers don't match, I'm going to have to take my chances that this is the place. Rusted cameras peer at me through the foliage. The intercom is a piece of slick metal, as if the numbers had been rubbed off by a million fingerprints from the past. The gate creaks open, and I walk cautiously up a rutted asphalt driveway, past a large Tudor-style house with turrets. A little farther on, I pass a laconic man wearing the pants of a security guard. He barely glances my way as he strolls by.
And not for the first time I think, Who here is minding the store?
Literally. I have reached what appears to be an English village square, complete with a dusty florist next to a cobwebbed sweets shop. At a right angle is a sort of firehouse garage with four bays dominated by a giant old-fashioned clock.
Then it clicks: I know I'm in the right place. This is the old Jackson family estate, where Michael lived in the 1970s and '80s. Hidden behind the shops is the studio where Michael recorded the demos for some of his biggest early-'80s hits. At some point he redid the place as something of a practice run for Neverland.
Then, as if I were in an alternate version of Neverland, a roly-poly dog, big enough to be menacing if she wanted to be, waggles toward me. Nana? I wonder. A handsome guy with a man bun walks over. One of the Lost Boys, perhaps? No, it's Paris's manager, Tom. "Oh, don't mind her," he says casually. "That's just Kenya. She was Michael's dog."
And suddenly Paris appears. She looks exactly the same as her Instagram photos, a little grungy, her face unmade up. She has on a lot of necklaces and no bra. Her top is a mustard color; her jeans, a pair she wears a lot, slightly faded.
"Hi," she says, in the softest, sweetest voice you've ever heard. She flings out her arms, and we hug.
Inside the modest kitchen, Paris makes tea, fluttering around like a house-proud mama. This is the first place she's lived on her own, her first adult place, and you can tell that, like any young woman, she's thrilled to be here. She hands me a cup of milky tea and then, explaining that the room's a bit dark because the lightbulbs are broken, motions me into the living area. Tom sighs. "She has to change some bulbs," he scolds.
Paris may be the next It girl, but she has to buy—and install—her own lightbulbs like everybody else. She also has to make her bed. And clean up her bedroom. "Oh, Paris," Tom sighs again, looking at the modest mess.
"I didn't think you were going in there," Paris says guiltily. "So I didn't bother cleaning up."
"It's not so bad," I say. While the bed isn't made, at least it has clean white sheets.
What the room is not is girly. It has that utilitarian look that suggests a crash pad for a teenage guy. Which makes sense because Paris didn't have a lot of female influences as a child. "I wasn't around a lot of other girls," she says, picking up a tie-dyed shirt. "When I was a kid, I was with my dad and my two brothers. Growing up, I was treated as the favorite because I was the only girl. I was the princess; I was perfect in my dad's eyes."
If you look at early photos of Paris, you see that Michael always dressed her like an idealized little girl—in dainty, old-fashioned pinafores and lacy collared blouses and Mary Janes. Now, on her own, her style is all tiedyed bright colors, dangling peace-sign necklaces, and battered Converse sneakers. Her throwback vibe goes seamlessly with her surroundings. The couch is covered with a handmade patchwork quilt, which is in turn covered with various hippie fabrics and pillows in a riot of bright colors. A round glass coffee table has barely an inch of space, its surface taken up with a gold Buddha, candles, incense holders, and a small green alien that might have come from a child's game.
Along the wall, next to the recording studio, the door to which is concealed by another wall hanging, are three acoustic guitars of varying sizes, arranged on their stands as if just waiting for someone to grab one by the neck and head into the studio.
As Paris ushers Tom out, I understand why she would live here. While the place has the feel of a treasured time capsule, with records on the walls and vintage rock posters (at one point there was talk of giving tours of the estate), it mostly has the comforting atmosphere of a family rec room, a place that's familiar and safe.
Paris lights a bundle of sage. We sit crosslegged in front of the coffee table. Her dog, Koa, a rescued brindled pit-bull mix, nestles into the pillows on the couch.
"Once I got introduced into the real world, I was shocked. It blew me away," Paris says. "Not just because it was sexist, but misogynist and racist and cruel. It was scary as hell. And it still is really scary."
That introduction was precipitated by Michael's death. Paris's young life could easily be divided into before and after that moment. Her father had been the most important person in her life, the one who told her, when she went through phases of wanting to be "an astronaut, a vet, and a nurse," that she should do whatever would make her happy.
"The first 12 years of my life I was homeschooled," she explains, and, indeed, this fact is a defining thread in her narrative. "Which means that the only interactions I'd ever had were with family members or other adults." The children were encouraged to interact with adults, but they had to act like adults around adults, and the adults were not allowed to talk to them like children.
Michael's obsession with protecting the privacy of his kids is well-known: When they went out with him, they always wore masks or veils. But then Michael died, and suddenly the children were unmasked. Not only were their faces exposed, but so was their isolation from the real world.
When she was 12 years old, Paris says she "didn't have social skills. I had to force myself to learn so fast." Even today she lives a pretty solitary life. "For the past six years, I've been learning how to communicate. And I think I've gotten pretty good at it."
To be sure, she has, and nowhere more so than on social media. Well before Paris launched herself into the limelight, she'd amassed a substantial number of followers on Twitter (1.28 million) and Instagram (1.1 million). Her Paris trip brought it to a whole new level. "There are some days when I still don't want to deal with any of it," she says with a shrug. "There are some days where I'm like, 'Nope, I'm not going to go online.' There are days when I'm too sensitive."
Her phone rings. She picks it up and frowns at the number. "I'm so sorry," she says politely. "I have to take this."
It's the photographer from Rolling Stone; Paris has just appeared on the cover. The reaction has been phenomenal, he tells Paris, then advises her not to worry about all the nasty stuff about her online. Social media was going wild with some of the sound bites from her interview.
Paris opens her striking blue eyes very wide. At that moment she looks like an ancient goddess, with her bright tattoos and the pile of necklaces around her neck. "I'll call you back, I promise," she says in a modulated tone. "I'm sorry?" she asks. Paris has very nice manners, the kind one picks up being around English aristocracy. "No, I'm great," she insists quietly. "I'm totally fine." She suddenly stiffens. "Yeah, that's going to happen; it's part of life. I'm not too worried about it. Yeah, don't stress out," Paris says with an eerie calmness into the phone.
She hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. It's obvious that, protestations aside, Paris is now not fine. She isn't crying, but it's as if she's looking inward at some film loop playing over and over in her head.
I suggest that we go outside for some air. We sit down on a brick wall, and for a moment neither one of us speaks. The green grass is almost Technicolor. I can't help but wonder how many times Michael Jackson sat staring at the very same grass while contemplating his fate when he was about Paris's age.
"Paris?" I ask. "Are you okay?"
"All anyone wants to talk about is my father, and it makes me sad," she says mournfully, in a voice so quiet it's almost a whisper.
Her skin is very pale, and she has a little turned-up nose, and she looks very young and naive and, yes, vulnerable. And now her teeth are nearly chattering. Forget about Michael Jackson. Paris needs food.
At the mention of vittles, Paris looks suddenly stricken with guilt. "I don't have anything in the kitchen," she says, as if worried that one of the Lost Boys will walk in and scold her. "I just got back and I haven't had time to go to the supermarket."
"Do you want to go grocery shopping?" I ask. Then I come up with a better idea. "Let's have lunch. Let's go to your favorite place and do what you'd normally do."
What Paris would normally do is drive around. "I'm a sightseer," she says in her cool chick voice as she grabs her keys. In true Paris style, the key fob is dangling with feathers and other doodads. She just got a new car, a green Jeep, and she's already made it pure Paris. The seats are artfully draped with Indian textiles. There's a small cactus on the dashboard. More feathers and leathers hang from the rearview mirror. The steering wheel is wrapped in a pink flowered cover that I immediately covet. "Etsy," she says helpfully. "I get everything from Etsy."
As she roars down the drive, Paris reveals that she gets her style inspiration from Stevie Nicks and Janis Joplin. "I'm obsessed," she says. "And it's an unhealthy obsession because there's never been anyone like them and there never will be. They're legendary and incredible."
Then she plays Fleetwood Mac. As we slide into Nowheresville, she begins to relax, singing along to the Rolling Stones and Simon & Garfunkel. She too writes music. "It's folky," she says. "I'd love to write rock music because that's what I dig. But I'm good at sad stuff and acoustic stuff."
But right now Paris is feeling happy and carefree. She punches my arm when she spots a Massachusetts license plate—"one punch for every out-of-state license plate, two punches if you're lying." She divulges that she doesn't mind being a bit of a loner. She has a tight group of friends, goes camping a lot at Joshua Tree, sees her older brother ("he's my rock, my best friend") as often as she can, and usually falls asleep binge-watching a Netflix show.
In keeping with her style, Paris's favorite lunch spot is in a nondescript wood building. She orders soup and half a sandwich. I get the curried chicken salad. Paris insists on paying. The place is half-full. "Where do you want to sit?" I ask.
"Anywhere," she says. "As long as I can face an exit." We take a table near the door.
"So why are you doing all this?" I ask her.
"It's a complicated answer. It's a feeling of doing something important, that actually matters, that's going to impact people," Paris says. "Plenty of times I've thought about not doing anything in the public eye and having my own private life. Then I started seeing how everything in the world is going. And I feel like each year it's getting worse."
Paris talks like this a great deal, and she can sound fierce and also touchingly innocent in a way. Because this isn't just talk for Paris. She tweets and posts videos of her political views, including her thoughts on Donald Trump and a woman's right to choose. "If there were to be a suggestion of an idea that women would be controlling what men do with their bodies, it would be World War III," she points out. Her willingness to wade into controversial issues makes her very much admired by her fans, especially considering how often young women in showbiz are advised to keep their mouths shut to protect their careers.
But Paris somehow feels above all that. "I know there are a lot of people who would feel very blessed to be in my position, so I want to use it for important things."
She bows her head. "I have a couple of ideas. I have a lot of ideas, but I'm still trying to figure out the right way to do it. I mean, I'm 18. I can't have it all together, but I do have a plan."
"Aren't you scared of the haters?" I ask.
Paris leans across the table, her blue eyes flashing. I remember that every time she leaves her house she sees a vintage poster of David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust taped to the back of the door. She even has the lightning bolt tattooed on her finger. "Who gives a ****?" she asks. "You're on their mind—how is that a bad thing? Doesn't matter if they're saying good or bad things about you. They're thinking about you enough to write about you. You just can't care."
"But what if you do care?" I ask.
Paris looks at me sympathetically, "I used to feel that way," she says. "Then it gets to a point where, you know what, it's going to happen. Not everybody is going to be happy with what you do. If you're not happy with what you're doing, that's a problem," she says. "If you're happy, who gives a ****?" What the ****, I think. She's right.
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