veil | W. Axl Rose

ⅩⅤⅠ

𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔

When winter mornings are made of steel, with a metallic taste and sharp edges, Linda began her second semester. In January, at seven in the morning, it's plain to see that the world was not made for Man, and definitely not for his comfort or pleasure.

She found herself thrust back into the routine of lectures, textbooks, term papers, crowded halls of campus and juggling assignments. Gone were the designer gowns, soirées, posh galas, the scent of Guillemette's Ma Griffe. No longer were there attires made of green crocodile, leather, velvet, leopard print, or Japanese denim displayed in futuristic boutiques, tugging your wallet like a tantalizing temptation. Los Angeles cursed her again. Sometimes the wind made her feel like she was not alone. The icy blasts that seemed to whisper and call her name. What is it about the Los Angeles feeling— past everything else, low-glowing numbness that propelled her around? On the West Coast, she never knew what to do or where to go, and the entire future seemed to be nothing but a black void. Naturally, she was by no means interested in what she would find in that void.

College also turned out to be a void fueled by some mania. Boys blew her kisses in the halls, eyes followed her every move, drawn magnetically to the aura that her Vogue cover seemed to cause her; invitations to frat parties flooded her inbox, each one more eager than the last, boys vied for her attention, vying to be the one to catch her eye. But she could hardly see them, they were just shapes in the smoke. Conrad, Trent's friendly dealer from design class, slipped her joints in the hall. He didn't intrusively ask her out for bowling or drive-in theaters to see the lamest schmaltz of 1985 like "The Slugger's Wife". He could see the flames in her hair, he knew her lips would scorch him. She liked the feeling in some way. She felt like her mother in wolfsbane's time. Lovers entwined in a deadly embrace now will blame it on the wind.

During this time, Linda never spent more time with anyone than she spent with Khatya. Khatya has been also crashing at Linda's house for two weeks, because Luke, her temporary roommate, has been really getting on her nerves. North wing of Saxon Suites had some plumbing issues, resulting in flooding, so students originally housed there had to be relocated to other dormitories. Luke was majoring in pharmacy. He'd make you describe the most personal stuff that happened to you, but if you started asking him questions about himself, he got sore. These quasi-intellectual guys don't like to have an intellectual conversation with you unless they're running the whole thing. They always want you to shut up when they shut up, and go back to your room when they go back to their room. He hated-you really could tell he did-when after he was finished giving his talk about roundworms and flatworms to a bunch of his fellow students from parasitology class in Khatya's room they stuck around and chewed the fat by themselves for a while. He always wanted everybody to go back to their own room and shut up when he was finished being the big shot. The thing he was afraid of, he was afraid somebody'd say something smarter than he had. Fortunately for Khatya, the entire lark lasted just a fortnight.

Linda made quite a lot of money from photo shoots, covers and art show, so, for a week, they ate out of paper cartons and jars with foreign writing on the labels from the Chalet Gourmet. Soft runny wedges of cheese, crusty baguettes, wrinkly Greek olives. Dark red proscuitto and honeydew melon, rose scented diamonds of baklava, and occasionally syrniki with sour cream and cinnamon as they used to in Petersburg. After three weeks with Claire, she didn't need urging to finish anything.

How prepared is anyone at 18 to become a public figure? How ready was Linda McKagan when Coco Claire Schoenhals made her an icon overnight? With sparkling blue eyes, a porcelain face and cool elegance, she embodies the figure emerging from the avenues of change this winter. Her tastes are acutely defined: A sharp tailleur, a clean A-line, the pointed toe of a well-heeled shoe, the decorative edge of a smoking trimmed in marabou. Take a good look. She's someone you'll be seeing a lot more of. Opposite: Black wool twill pea coat, about $925. Black panne-velvet sweater, about $195. Both, and shoes, Gucci. Photographed by Peter Lindbergh.