YESTERDAY, GQ PUBLISHED an interview with actress Tilda Swinton. As is to expected at this point, it was little bonkers.
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When she picked the journalist up from the airport, she assured him that everything goes slowly in Scotland.
I fidget, still tight from the plane.”Everything goes really slowly now,” she says, patting my back, giving me permission to relax. “You’re in Scotland now.”
Mildly creepy, but sure.
She took the journalist to Loch Ness.
Is this Loch Ness?“This is baby Loch Ness,” she says. “The appendix, or the small intestine.”
This is the kind of information she drops mid-convo.
There are some very zealous admirers of my great-great-uncle who want him to be instated as the true inventor of the cathode-ray tube for television.
Oh yeah, same.
She talks to her dogs like they’re humans.
We bet they nod their heads and say, “Yes, Tilda,” too.
She survived by betting on horses.
Well, I was a professional gambler. When I lived in London, there were a couple of years when I didn’t really earn money doing anything else. I mean, I did other things, like I made work, and I was working with Derek Jarman at the time, but the way I made money was putting money on horses.
Pardon?
She even lived off the proceeds of one bet for a year.
One wager—one horse, named Devilry, running one race—”kept us for nearly a year,” Tilda Swinton says.
She made the writer of the piece eat haggis and seemed to relish in how scared he was.
“Haggis!” Tilda Swinton says delightedly. “Now, don’t look frightened.”
DON’T KILL ME, TILDA SWINTON.
This is how she talks about acting.
I love feeling like I’m—I won’t even say acting out, but performing in some deep seam of my consciousness, or my family’s consciousness, or my past. That’s really amusing to me.
She takes a lot of photos of eggs.
“My tropes are dogs and eggs,” Tilda Swinton decides, scanning through her photographs, trying to find one particular egg shot—she has chickens in her yard; they lay the most beautifully colored eggs.
And then: “Here we are. Look, I found it!”A photo of four eggs, each a different, distinct shade of white.
This is an e-mail she sent.
please send me a message in a bottle or tied to a pigeon or even to the neck of my white hen, speckled jim, who disappears every night and i think must live nearer your windows tonight than ours..sleep very wellps creeping hydrangea (brain like wet cake)x
Finally, she thinks stones are shells.
Tilda Swinton kneels down in the sand. “Here, take a shell! Take a shell for your girl!” she says, handing me a perfect white stone.
All hail Tilda Swinton.
