Aerial

Here Comes the Sun // Aerial Magazine

At first, I am nervous to be in his presence. Not only because of the unspoken energy he exudes, but because the opportunity to be in his presence is unheard-of and a first for one of the most paradoxically prominent and elusive athletes in the industry. Why he chooses to speak with Aerial Magazine here and now is an utter enigma, but I try to allow that pressure to roll off my back. Mr. Styles' last official statement was with the Associated Press in 1965, three years prior, to announce his departure from the circus as well as an indefinite departure from the spotlight, without a promise of return.

It left the whole world with leaking buckets, filled to the brim with watery inquiries.

Admittedly, I entered this interview hoping that the mystery of Harry Styles would be solved. I didn't expect it to leave me with more questions. Not about him, but about myself and those around me. As if Harry were delivering a quiet message from some secret interstellar black hole that I didn't realize I was waiting for. It took several hours, but upon finally returning home later that evening, I'd realized I felt energized. Renewed. Humbled and awakened. Grateful.

A sparrow of the air. A silver bullet of the sea. Mystery man. Heartthrob. Fashion trailblazer. A quiet strength in public. Loud and vulnerable in private. Most likely to steal your girlfriend. Harry wears many hats. Some of which are rumors and fabrications due to the insurmountable stealth he has managed to withhold throughout the past ten years. But some of his "hats" are obvious to anyone with a pair of working eyeballs.

Harry is indeed intimidating upon first glance. He walks with confidence and enunciates with his hands. He threads an impressive pearl necklace of profanity that is strung together by a pink thread of cotton candy, which he chainsmokes like he's being sponsored by Crush Cigarettes themselves. His tobacco smells of baking waffle cones and he dresses like a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream, frosted with a cool sprinkle of jewelry. It's as if the past, present and future can simultaneously be seen in his bedroom eyes, but he's too privy to burden anyone with all of that pain, so he chooses to keep it to himself. He feels familiar even though we've never been in the same room before. And once I'd gotten over the shock and allure of his appearance, my mind slowly humbled and allowed me to begin absorbing his wisdom. If you're paying close attention, it lingers like a sunburn. Because Harry speaks in pastel jewel-toned shapes, not words.

You'll see what I mean.

Aerial Magazine: Hi, Harry.
Harry Styles: What's happening, man?

AM: Thank you for taking the time to sit down with me. You've competed in ten tournaments this year, which leaves one last competition in Spain in order to qualify for the World Surfing Championship in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, coming up in October. Are you scared of the contenders?
HS: Yeah. And no, it's cool. Should I be? Honestly, I'm mostly scared of sharks. I'm just razzing. Take that shit out. That was a terrible way to start.

AM: Alright. Let's ease in with some ice breakers first. You're stranded on a desert island for an unknown amount of time. Which three musical albums do you have?
HS: Three? Okay. In the Groove, Safe as Milk and Forever Changes. Also, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Face to Face and Surrealistic Pillow. Really digging Electric Ladyland and Os Mutantes right now, too. Oh, and Astral Weeks. Begin Here, Disraeli Gears, Beggars Banquet, Revolver and Pet Sounds are always on solid standby, too. Shit, I can't choose just three. You're asking too much of me. That's fucking nuts. Maybe I'd be better off just covering my eyes and pulling three at random. Are there even record players on deserted islands?