The Reinvention of Taylor Swift

Since she’s been single, Swift has been acquiring girlfriends with the fervor she once devoted to landing guys. (For instance: Two years ago she told Vogue she wanted to be friends with Kloss; now they’re going to the gym together and taking road trips to Big Sur.) Swift says this is another byproduct of being single. “When your number-one priority is getting a boyfriend, you’re more inclined to see a beautiful girl and think, ‘Oh, she’s gonna get that hot guy I wish I was dating,'” she says. “But when you’re not boyfriend-shopping, you’re able to step back and see other girls who are killing it and think, ‘God, I want to be around her.'” As an example, she cites her pal Lorde, whom she calls Ella. “It’s like this blazing bonfire,” Swift says. “You can either be afraid of it because it’s so powerful and strong, or you can go stand near it, because it’s fun and it makes you brighter.”

Earlier in her career, Swift deflected questions about feminism because she didn’t want to alienate male fans. But these days, she’s proud to identify herself as a feminist. To her, all feminism means is wanting women to have the same opportunities as men. “I don’t see how you could oppose that.” Dunham says Swift has always been a feminist whether she called herself one or not: “She runs her own company, she’s creating music that connects to other women instead of creating a sexual persona for the male gaze, and no one is in control of her. If that’s not feminism, what is?”

Swift’s focus on sisterhood cuts both ways, because when another woman crosses her, she’s equally fierce about hitting back. The angriest song on 1989 is called “Bad Blood,” and it’s about another female artist Swift declines to name. “For years, I was never sure if we were friends or not,” she says. “She would come up to me at awards shows and say something and walk away, and I would think, ‘Are we friends, or did she just give me the harshest insult of my life?'” Then last year, the other star crossed a line. “She did something so horrible,” Swift says. “I was like, ‘Oh, we’re just straight-up enemies.’ And it wasn’t even about a guy! It had to do with business. She basically tried to sabotage an entire arena tour. She tried to hire a bunch of people out from under me. And I’m surprisingly non-confrontational – you would not believe how much I hate conflict. So now I have to avoid her. It’s awkward, and I don’t like it.”

(Pressed, Swift admits there might have been a personal element to the conflict. “But I don’t think there would be any personal problem if she weren’t competitive,” she says.)

As is often the case, Swift dealt with her emotions by writing about them. “Sometimes the lines in a song are lines you wish you could text-message somebody in real life,” she says. “I would just be constantly writing all these zingers – like, ‘Burn. That would really get her.’ And I know people are going to obsess over who it’s about, because they think they have all my relationships mapped out. But there’s a reason there are not any overt call-outs in that song. My intent was not to create some gossip-fest. I wanted people to apply it to a situation where they felt betrayed in their own lives.”

Swift prides herself on never explicitly saying whom her songs are about, and she’s not going to start with this one. Yes, she sprinkles clues in her liner notes and makes winking references onstage, but she tries to keep them obscure enough to maintain some modicum of mystery (or at least plausible deniability). She’s so disciplined on this front that she won’t even say any of her ex-boyfriends’ names out loud – so when she does slip up, even in the most innocent way possible, it’s highly entertaining.

Swift is still talking about “Bad Blood” when she starts to explain why she wants everyone to know it’s about a female. “I know people will make it this big girl-fight thing,” she says. “But I just want people to know it’s not about a guy. You don’t want to shade someone you used to date and make it seem like you hate him, when that’s not the case. And I knew people would immediately be going in one direction—” As she suddenly realizes that she just accidentally referenced her ex-boyfriend’s band, Swift goes white. She buries her face in her hands. “Why?!” she howls, cracking up. It’s a classic Taylor Swift Surprised Face, only for real this time.

Swift won’t say much about her relationship with Styles, other than that they’re now friends. But talking to her, it seems clear that many of the songs on 1989 that are about a guy are about him. There’s “I Wish You Would,” about an ex who bought a house two blocks from hers (whom she implies was Styles). And “All You Had to Do Was Stay,” about a guy who was never willing to commit (ditto). Then there’s the song that sets a new high-water mark for Swiftian faux secrecy – a sexy Miami Vice-sounding throwback about a guy with slicked-back hair and a white T-shirt and a girl in a tight little skirt that is called – no joke – “Style.” (She allows herself a satisfied grin. “We should have just called it ‘I’m Not Even Sorry.'”)

Of all the songs on the album that seem to be about Styles, the most intriguing one is “Out of the Woods.” Co-written by Antonoff, it’s a frantic tale of a relationship where, Swift says, “every day was a struggle. Forget making plans for life – we were just trying to make it to next week.” The most interesting part comes when Swift sings, “Remember when you hit the brakes too soon/Twenty stitches in a hospital room.” She says it was inspired by a snowmobile ride with an ex who lost control and wrecked it so badly that she saw her life flash before her eyes. Both of them had to go to the ER, although Swift wasn’t hurt. She corrects herself: “Not as hurt.”

For a couple whose every move was so thoroughly documented, it’s kind of shocking to think that something as newsworthy as a trip to the emergency room wouldn’t have wound up on the Internet. “You know what I’ve found works even better than an NDA?” says Swift. “Looking someone in the eye and saying, ‘Please don’t tell anyone about this.'” Even so, it’s impressive: The most top-secret hospital visit would necessarily involve three or four witnesses – and none of them talked?

Swift says that’s sort of her point. “People think they know the whole narrative of my life,” she says. “I think maybe that line is there to remind people that there are really big things they don’t know about.”

I didn’t know what kind of coffee you wanted, so I brought options.”

Two weeks later, Swift is in the back seat of an SUV idling next to Central Park, with a tray of four iced coffees balanced on her lap. Outside wait a dozen paparazzi and several dozen fans. The plan is to take a nice walk in the park – and maybe, though this is unspoken, to get a glimpse of the attention she faces daily.

Swift takes her bodyguard’s hand and steps out of the car. She’s dressed in the decidedly un-park-friendly outfit of a tweed skirt and crop top, pink suede Louboutin pumps, and a yellow Dolce & Gabbana bag. She navigates the muddy trail impressively in her heels, the crowd behind her swelling every few feet. In front of her, two bodyguards clear a path. Behind her, another bodyguard carries a bag of scones.

Swift turns down a dead-end path where the paparazzi can’t follow and takes a seat in a gazebo on the shores of the lake. On the wooden posts are carved hundreds of initials, the stories of couples who came before – the kind of thing that might appear in a Taylor Swift song. Excitedly, Swift points at the lake: “Turtles! And ducks!” She looks at the ground. “Oh. And a used condom.”

Swift says that the only time she could come to the park and have it be normal would be in the middle of the night (“which is dangerous”) or at four in the morning (“which is early”). She hasn’t driven alone in five years, and she can’t leave her home without being swarmed by fans. (“When a sweet little 12-year-old says to their mom, ‘Taylor lives an hour from here . . .’ – more times than not, they’ll make the trip.”) Although she doesn’t like to draw attention to it, she says there is a contingent of fans that think her songs contain hidden messages to them. “Think about it,” she says. “Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone? Take that, add ‘crazytown’ to it, and it sounds like an invitation for kidnapping.”

We’ve been talking for a while when a boat rows up carrying three teenagers – two girls and a guy. “Oh, my God!” says one of the girls. “Today is my birthday! Can I please take a picture with you?” Swift laughs. “You can, but I don’t know how you’re going to. You’re on a boat, buddy!”

“I’ll get off!” the girl says. “I’ll find a way.” Swift and her bodyguard reach out and help her into the pavilion. “You’re going to make me cry!” she says.

“Is it really your birthday?” Swift asks.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” the girl says.

“Oh, that’s a good year.”

“I know. I’m excited.”

The girl says she lives on Long Island. She and her friends took the train in for the day. “That’s cute,” Swift says. “Are you going to dinner somewhere?”

The girl scrunches up her face. “We were going to . . . Chipotle?”

Swift smiles. She goes to her purse and pulls out a wad of cash – $90, to be exact. “Here,” she says. “Go somewhere nice.”

“Oh, my God,” the girl says. “Thank you!” She climbs back in the boat, and she and her friends paddle off.

Pretty soon it’s time to go. One of Swift’s bodyguards, Jeff, a former Marine Corps anti-terrorism specialist, comes over to brief her. “OK, we’ve got a six-minute walk to the exit. Twitter is going like wildfire, so some of the more obsessive fans . . .” He trails off. “We’re just gonna close the gap on you and keep them back.”

Swift gives her bangs one last check in her phone’s camera, then she looks out at the lake. “I wish we had a boat.”

She stands up to go. Immediately we’re surrounded by a crush of paparazzi and fans. Even the hot-dog vendors are snapping pictures. As Swift winds her way through the park, the crowd grows larger and more aggressive; it’s a little scary. “OK, everybody, we need some room, please!” Jeff says. “Step back. Give her space!”

But Swift is unfazed. “You want to know a trick to immediately go from feeling victimized to feeling awesome?” she says. She pulls out her phone and hands me the earbuds: “This is my go-to.” She presses play, and Kendrick Lamar’s “Backseat Freestyle” fills the speakers. As Swift bobs her head, Lamar raps:

All my life I want money and power
Respect my mind or die from lead shower
I pray my dick get big as the Eiffel Tower
So I can fuck the world for 72 hours
Goddamn, I feel amazing
Damn, I’m in the Matrix . . .

Swift smiles wide. “I know every word.”