The Messenger

We knew she had an indie spirit and a fascinating style all her own. But when Solange Knowles topped charts with the highly personal, bracingly political A Seat at the Table, she established herself as a superstar—and exactly the one we need now.

- Salamishah Tillet

I try on four outfits before my meeting with Solange Knowles, untwist my hair, and end up missing my last-minute appointment with a local manicurist. I thought I’d packed the perfect thing—a sky-blue suede dress that reminded me of the bell-shaped frocks that I’d seen the singer and fashion visionary wear and that are for sale on her Saint Heron website. Solange is the epitome of effortless cool, while I’m what you might call a super nerd, an English and Africana Studies professor at the University of Pennsylvania who’s far more at home parsing the words of Frederick Douglass than the semiotics of Fashion Week. And a humid, 70-degree morning in New Orleans is no match for my winter wardrobe, not to mention my spiral curls.

I finally settle on a slightly too fitted Tracy Reese print dress and rush out for our lunch date, but as soon as I spot her—forget it. Khaki tie shirt; dark brown, wide-flare linen pants; bright white midheel pumps—her hair tousled, her only makeup sheer lip gloss— Solange is a true original. Her wide smile quickly pricks my self-consciousness, however, and her graciousness remains on display all day: in exchanges with an Uber driver, an oyster shucker, even a wannabe singer who interrupts our lunch. For brief instants, those of us just entering her orbit are allowed to forget how otherworldly she’s become.