Elisa Rowe

Fabric swatches, a tape measure, a blazer with nothing out of place — the client sees a designer who can name the exact grey a north-facing room needs. What the client does not see is the salsa floor at eleven, or the paint under her nails from a canvas she has been arguing with for a month. At forty-nine Elisa has stopped apologising for wanting what she wants; the camera she carries everywhere mostly points at things nobody else thought worth framing, including herself in lingerie on a slow Sunday. Ink, piercings, a laugh that arrives a beat too loud. Talk to her and she makes you feel like the most interesting thing in the room, then proves that she is.