Susan Eldridge was the face (and body) of a generation. The mercurial model personified the listless new millennium in fashion, the hangover of the 90s and the love bites, point-and-shoot snaps and hypersexuality that came with it. She’s the kind of girl whose editorial you would rip out and put on your wall. In fact, we still have pictures of her on our wall.
Eldridge has always had a chameleon-like quality. She has that nubile, Lolita thing going on. She can play the doe-eyed virgin and the bad girl, the wholesome athletic type and the high fashion plate. With her then-boyfriend Terry Richardson, she was part of some of the defining fashion photographs of the past decade. The pair re-imagined the raw veracity of Nan Goldin and Larry Clark before them, with a teenage Eldridge appearing sometimes bruised, unkempt, a little unhinged, legs akimbo, sulking, cigarette dangling, in the throes of passion, a cheeky glint in her eye – laid bare, both literally and figuratively.
She was the poster child of Terryworld, the face of Sisley and Marc Jacobs, the girl licking a big wooden bat on Whirlwind Heat’s album sleeve and the blonde-wigged babe cavorting with Pharell on the cover of The Face. But she never appeared as simply an appendage to the picture, neither the photographer’s prey. She gave as good as she got, and every frame oozed with her personality. She WAS the picture.
Eldridge and Richardson caused controversy wherever they went – not least because the brunette with the devilish smile, although in her 20s at the time, appeared to be in her tweens. Six years and two children later, she could still almost pass for a 12-year-old. It must have been fun screwing with people like that – it looked like a lot of fun anyhow.
After a three-year hiatus she took to nurture her sons, Eldridge is back with a bang looking as delectable and dynamic as ever. She never fails to bring it.