I first met Maximilian Davis in 2015 on a photo shoot for a high street brand, one of those early jobs that felt both inconsequential and defining. He loves to remind me how, in my signature husky voice, I said, maybe too confidently, “We have a lot of friends in common—what’s up.” It wasn’t a question. It was an opening.
What I noticed first about Max was his elegance. It was innate, quiet, not performative. A kind of grace that held space in a room without needing to overpower it. And then, that boundless smile, radiant enough to cut through any sorrow or any dark club—and we did love the night. Our friendship took shape in London, through long conversations, strange parties, moments of stillness between motion. London felt like a portal, full of makers and misfits, possibility and grit.
I had just started modeling full time, and because of my British passport (I was born in a bathtub in Kentish Town, as lore would have it), I could slip easily between London and New York. London always offered a certain kind of freedom. The circles were expansive and surprising. You didn’t need pedigree, just curiosity and the stamina to stay out late.
It was during that time that Max and I became constants. From basements to whispery FaceTimes to lavish Fashion Week parties, and now here at the Met. Our friendship has always been about reverence—his for poetry through design, mine for presence, and a shared language of beauty, discipline, and play.
