Uptight for too long, the fashion world has finally elevated a plus-sized model to rock-star status. Paloma Elsesser is my favourite supermodel. Is it weird that I still have a favourite supermodel at 48? Maybe, I guess, but none of us gets to choose the pop culture we grow up with. I was 13 when Cindy Crawford first made the cover of British Vogue, and I had that picture taped to my bedroom wall, an altar to all-American sex appeal that would have been Elvis had it been 1956 not 1986. By the 1990s, supermodels were everywhere, like footballers on the then-ubiquitous Panini stickers, and I pored over their glamorous names and brief, glorious careers. I loved Christy Turlington, so serene and graceful. There was Kate Moss, obviously, and, much later, that day in London when Stella Tennant came out of retirement to open a Victoria Beckham show.
