Whenever the human art installation that is Daphne Guinness walks into a party, the conversation stops. First you notice the hair, a punkish, white-blonde updo edged with sweeping black streaks, then the armor-like silver jewelry covering the length of every finger. But it’s her improbably vertiginous shoes — platformed at the front but heelless — that make you gasp. How on earth does she walk in them? She will tell you they are as comfortable as trainers. They look treacherous, a little sadomasochistic, but rather fabulous too.
So it’s a shock when I arrive at Guinness’s imposing Chelsea town house with its grand sweeping staircase to see her running down the steps in Mary Jane flats and dressed down in loose black thinly pleated Issey Miyake trousers, a cut-out asymmetric top that reveals most of her tiny waist and chest, and a thin black cardigan. She is make-up free and the streaks in her hair are now fuchsia pink. Even her trademark pompadour is softer and gently collapsed.
