GQ USA - 11.2019

(Jacob Rumans) #1

THE INSTANT I JOIN Pharrell Williams
and his wife, Helen, in the lobby of the Hotel
Georges V in Paris, my day becomes suddenly
frictionless. The hotel door whooshes open.
We step out and into an idling black Mercedes
Sprinter van. It glides o≠. We slide out at the
Guimet National Museum of Asian Arts, paus-
ing briefly at the top of the museum stairs for
Pharrell to bow to a young girl, maybe four or
five years old.
Inside the museum they are waiting for
us. Pharrell has come to Paris to launch an
anime-inspired collaborative installation
with Mr., a Japanese artist associated with
Takashi Murakami’s Kaikai Kiki Co. The
museum people greet us at the door; the exhi-
bition space has been cleared so we can hang
out and talk.
After a while we drift over to Market, a
Jean-Georges restaurant. They are waiting
for us. Delicious, healthful food arrives at the
table. Pharrell and Helen close their eyes in
prayer. We eat and talk and slip out. If a bill
comes, I do not see it.
At Chanel they are waiting for us. In
2015, Pharrell starred in a campaign for
the vaunted French fashion house—never
mind that it isn’t in the menswear business.
Earlier this year, at the behest of the late
Karl Lagerfeld, he became the first celebrity
(of any gender) to collaborate on a capsule
collection with the maison. It’s called Chanel
Pharrell. A fitting is going on in the atelier.
We all wave hellos; Pharrell bows. We float
up the mirrored staircase to Coco Chanel’s
apartment. A sta≠ historian is waiting for
us. She regales me with stories of Coco and
her fabulous hideout. The metalwork of her
decadent smoky-and-rose-quartz chandelier
has the maison’s famous double C’s worked
into it. When we have heard enough history,
our guide evaporates so we can keep talking.
There’s a lot to discuss.
Pharrell has been an agent of change
his whole career. When he broke into the
public consciousness, about 20 years ago,
as a producer and then as the frontman of
N.E.R.D., he looked di≠erent from everyone
else in hip-hop, wearing slimmer jeans, more
fitted skate tees, and mesh trucker hats. That
might not sound earth-shattering now, but a
whole generation of young African American
misfits will tell you that Pharrell Williams


was the first time they saw themselves in pop
culture. A weirdo called Skateboard P who
stood confidently apart from rap’s mono-
lithic archetype. A nerd who made being
di≠erent feel cool.
As he created hit after hit, Pharrell’s
wardrobe continued to morph. He special-
ordered a custom-made Hermès Birkin bag
in inky purple crocodile and, in 2007, began
wearing it everywhere. He started wear-
ing Chanel clothes and jewelry, as well as
designs by cultish Céline creative director
Phoebe Philo.
Pharrell’s wardrobe inspired subtle shifts
in the culture around him—and reflected
shifts going on inside him too. This deep con-
nection between his evolving fashion sen-
sibility and his evolving sense of self—and
the never-ending stream of miraculous pop
music he created all the while—has made him
an icon to those of us here at GQ who believe
style is about more than just clothes.
Pharrell, now 46 years old, has a brain that
seems to run algorithms that project and sim-
ulate the future. He talks easily about mas-
culinity, working through thorny ideas about
the patriarchy, about the politics of gender
and sexual identity in 2019 and beyond, about
past missteps and his personal evolution.
(As you’ll see, I don’t have to bring up the
“Blurred Lines” controversy from 2013—the
one where the lyrics of the song he cowrote
and produced for Robin Thicke were deemed
“rapey”—because he does.) He speaks with
energy, range, and humility. Occasionally he
slows down to choose his words carefully, but
there is never a shadow of hesitation or fear.
He thinks about this stu≠ constantly. He has
a lot to say.

GQ: On the plane here, I was reading all of
your past interviews, and they are almost
all about music. But here in Paris you’re
opening this art exhibition, meeting with
Chanel—you have much more going on
than just music.
PHARRELL WILLIAMS: I like to keep things
separate. Because I don’t want to get tired
of myself. It’s cool to work in different

disciplines, but it’s annoying to come off
like an arrogant Swiss Army knife. I like to
keep things separate so that there’s still that
element of surprise. I think that’s important
when it comes to any kind of art: the element
of Wait, what? Rather than I did this, and
that, and this, and that...

“And I’m soundtracking it all!” When I was
really young, I thought that was cool. Now
I understand that the element of surprise is
what makes it cool.

When we were walking into this museum,
we passed the cutest little girl. And you
bowed to her. Why are you always bowing
to people? Oh, I started bowing almost 20
years ago, when I met Nigo. Because up until
meeting him, my greatest references—the
guys that garnered the most respect—were
the guys with the big Bentleys. My big
brother Jay. Big brother Puff. They were not
quiet about being successful. They had
created this energy of what success could
look like for us as African American men. We
saw that in Virginia and looked up to that.
Like, wow. First of all, it’s possible. Second
of all, this is the way you’ve gotta do it. And
they had a lot of music to back it up.
And then I met Nigo, and he didn’t say
anything. His cars, his houses, his
apartments—he was such an incredible
collector. His points of view. But this guy
would not say one word. He just bowed
all the time. When I went to Japan, I had
never met a more humble culture. I was like,
These people are so kind, and they have
the best taste. Now, at the time [2006], I was
still doing, like, my Gangsta Grillz mixtape.
I could never listen to it now, because I was
bragging so much. I’m so embarrassed by
that. I behaved so obnoxiously. But I didn’t
know no better. And Nigo’s way of humility,
and Tokyo’s way of humility, was seeping
into my soul. And then the more I humbled
myself down, the less I bragged. The less
that I felt like I needed to flex. Humility is
a skill set. It’s an art form. It’s something
you work at.

THE MORE I HUMBLED


MYSELF DOWN,


THE LESS I BRAGGED.


THE LESS THAT I FELT LIKE


I NEEDED TO FLEX.


HUMILITY IS A SKILL SET.


IT’S AN ART FORM.


IT’S SOMETHING YOU WORK AT.


72 GQ.COM NOVEMBER 2019


(text continued on page 76 )
Free download pdf