In the resplendent tableau of Vogue’s January 1990 issue, a quintet of ethereal figures coalesced to herald a new decade and an era of unparalleled allure. The venerable lensman, Peter Lindbergh, embarked on a visual odyssey, encapsulating the essence of the 1990s woman through the embodiment of superlative beauty. Naomi Campbell, regal at the tender age of 19, Linda Evangelista, a statuesque 24, the lamented Tatjana Patitz, an ethereal 23, Christy Turlington, poised at 20, and Cindy Crawford, enchanting at 23, graced this iconic cover, affirming the supermodels’ ascent to apotheosis. Within the construct of this luminous constellation, the coverline queried, “The 1990s – What Next?” An inquiry that presaged the epochal trajectory, wherein these extraordinary beings, the supermodels, would ensconce themselves as paramount arbiters of elegance, a captivating continuum that unfurled with every toss of their majestic manes and each stiletto-striding step that resonated with beauteous resonance.
The zenith of that annum summoned George Michael to orchestrate the quintet’s presence in the evocative tapestry of his magnum opus, “Freedom! ‘90.” These “muses” graced the global catwalks of preeminent designers and commandeered the covers of illustrious glossy magazines, reigning as bewitching iconoclasts known by their preeminent monikers alone. This transcendent metamorphosis, guided by the enigmatic hands of fate, resonated with the esoteric aura of a pantheon, drawing millions into their mesmerizing orbit, their ethereal essence seamlessly transmuting into boundless fortune. In 1990, Evangelista’s incendiary declaration, “We don’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day,” became a clarion call, an anthem that bespoke a realm where the quotidian was cast asunder, yielding to opulent splendor.
A year hence, Turlington eclipsed this zenith by inking an exclusive Maybelline accord that furnished her with an astounding $800,000 for a mere twelve days’ labor. Three decades on, the contemporary epoch witnesses the facile fabrication of impeccable digital avatars, yet it was during this ethereal juncture that beauty took on the visage of mythic goddesses. Lindy, Christy, Naomi, Cindy, and Tatjana, along with the subsequent enigma Claudia Schiffer, materialized akin to spectral envoys from a celestial domain. This Martian poetics, transforming mundane into the exotic under the discerning gaze of an alien observer, epitomized their catalog: a shimmering constellation of legs, cascading tresses, opulent bosoms, and chiseled cheekbones, all embellished with an audacious attitude, forever ablaze with bravura effulgence.
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Beauty had hitherto graced our cognizance, but the advent of super beauty transcended precedent, manifesting as a resplendent amalgamation of opulence, allure, and Amazonian grandeur. Larger than life, these titans strode imperiously, ensnaring our senses in an awe-laden tapestry of scale and sublimity that surpassed the confines of the fashion stage. A luminal radiance enveloped them, an epic veneer that resonated with a mythical fervor. Transfixed, we beheld this tableau, ensnared by a mythos of perfection, a covenant between artisans and audience, conspiring to celebrate artifice while neglecting its construction.
Impeccable assemblage it might have been, yet the façade obscured the mechanics, as Evangelista eloquently confessed, “When people ask how have I kept on top, I have to say with the help of every photographer, make-up artist and hairdresser I’ve ever worked with.” Enchantment thrived in tandem with sweat and toil, the lofty semblance underscored by unrelenting exertion. In her candid reflection, Evangelista surmised, “In photos, I don’t know who the real me is – it’s all pretend, just pretend.” Crawford concurred with eloquent brevity, stating, “Even I don’t wake up looking like Cindy Crawford.”
Amidst the labyrinthine labyrinth of glamour and cinematic illumination, their labor mirrored that of athletes, entailing a regimen tantamount to their superlative pursuits. Evangelista’s musings further elucidated, “If they had Nautilus [gym equipment] on the Concorde, I would work out all the time.” Maestro of coiffure, Sam McKnight, a prominent architect of their appearances, expounded that post-production manipulation was minimal, necessitating impeccable hair, makeup, and luminous illumination, or alternatively, costly reshoots. This pursuit was an artisanal symphony, an attunement of their craft to the zenith of artistry, with Evangelista’s transformative sorcery rendering high-street ensembles akin to Chanel raiments.
In the effulgent constellation of the early 1990s, beauty engendered power, an equation harmonizing with the zeitgeist, wherein Carole White, Premier Model Management’s CEO, recalled the transcendence. These transcendent figures transcended the mold of the silent celluloid actress, emerging as resplendent sirens resplendent with charismatic personas. Designers pleaded for their patronage, and famed individuals gravitated to their orbits, enshrining them as paragons of elegance. The Concorde, emblematic of their prowess, rendered time and distance trivial, permitting their traversal from London to New York in a mere triad of hours. They burgeoned as exemplars of indomitable feminine strength, a paradigm of luminous allure and opulent prosperity, resplendent sirens of youth in an untamed uproar, formidable figures who transcended the very brands they adorned.
Alexandra Shulman, curator of British Vogue’s editorial landscape during this period, contemplates, “When the supermodels appeared on the 1990 Vogue they were already famous individually, but it was the power of the collective that enshrined them.” As radiant as the heavens may have shone with alternate beauties, the cultural cosmos conspired for the supermodels’ ascent, meticulously molded by a cabal of periodicals, visionaries behind the lens, and architects of couture. The resultant aura, their visages crowned by celebrity, propelled them beyond the astronomical realms of allure, the apotheosis of visage, coveted and cherished in a resplendent nexus of desire. Yet, contemporaneous sensibilities wrestle with ambivalence towards this paradigm of consummate refinement.
For in the grand tapestry of existence, mutability stands as an immutable law, and fashion abides no exception. The venerable Elite model agency, which had serenaded the world with the magnetic splendor of Crawford, Evangelista, Campbell, and Schiffer, yielded its dominion to Storm, a new harbinger of transformation, heralding the ascendancy of Kate Moss – the “anti-supermodel,” a testament to uniqueness, subtlety, and audacious allure. Standing at a comparatively diminutive 5 feet 7 inches, with an enigmatic grace in contrast to the supers’ ostentation, Moss symbolized a seismic shift from glamor to grunge.
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Concurrently, the chimeric year of Lindbergh’s legendary portraiture saw a paradigm shift as 14-year-old Moss shed conventional shackles, baring her singular essence for “The Face,” a bastion of edgy vanguard. Moss’s allure resonated, a clarion call heralding a new era wherein exalted exceptionalism transmuted from a monolithic edifice of perfection to a vibrant mosaic of singularity and inclusivity. With wisdom in its wake, this shifting epoch celebrated authenticity, embracing the kaleidoscope of ages, ethnicities, and physiques, extolling the idiosyncratic, imperfections unabashedly nestled amidst strengths.
Ironically, this precipitates the subliminal malaise that taints the supermodels’ incursion into September’s Vogue, a manifestation of temporal incongruity not emanating from their quinquagenarian standing, but rather from their audacious embellishment. Airbrushing renders them paradoxical phantoms, less as mythic seraphs than clumsily cobbled simulacra. A venerable insider, swathed in anonymity, laments their transformation into an assemblage reminiscent of a prosaic M&S Christmas advertisement, envisioning matronly figures draped in lackluster attire. This disheartening spectacle kindles a lament, a longing to witness them unshackled, radiating authenticity with lucidity and luminance.
This regression signals not only a squandered opportunity to showcase the evolution of super beauty amid the annals of time, but also elicits nostalgia for the zenith of superlative grandeur. The venerable makeup sage, Lisa Eldridge, muses, “There’s an acknowledgement that beauty isn’t one size fits all. People are able to see themselves reflected. It’s so much more interesting.” Embracing diversity augments the human experience, yet an ardently ponderous yearning endures – a yearning for an unvarnished sight of the supermodels, unfurling their legendary allure with unadorned luminance, an exalted testimony to the wondrous power of pulchritude, a feast for the senses wherein astonishment unfurls its magnificent wings. As we relinquished perfected beauty, we forsook a quintessential pleasure, a prism through which to apprehend the unfathomable.
