Gomez, at 28, is in the middle of a political awakening. And my main focus was really politics, and making sure I took it seriously.”
“The whole point of quarantine for me personally was just to stop, and I have a hard time doing that. “I can’t function unless I’m working,” she tells me. When the afternoon doldrums came over her-she imitates her impatience: “What am I going to do? Like, right now, what am I going to do?”-she sometimes gave up and marathoned Bridgerton or The Undoing or watched two movies in a row. Every day she made sure to change into a different pair of sweatpants. She walked her dogs with her friends and sat down to eat her nana’s corn casserole and did yoga and played “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” on her guitar.
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“I know how to make a French omelet now, and molé.” She did her best to fill the sudden stretches of cavernous time. (The shtick of the show is Gomez’s amateurism, but she’s ably beheading a raw octopus by episode two.) “I got good at roast chicken,” she tells me. She filmed a quarantine cooking show for HBO Max, called Selena + Chef, in which each episode features a famous chef teaching Gomez how to cook a dazzling meal via videoconference. She started recording a long-promised Spanish-language EP, Revelación. Gomez spent a few weeks in a miasma of panic, then got to work.
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The deeply surreal aspect of this situation is heightened by the fact that it’s been nine months since I’ve had an indoor conversation with anyone outside my household-and suddenly I’m alone in a room with Selena Gomez, who a few years ago was more popular on Instagram than any other of the seven and a half billion people on the planet whose “ Lose You to Love Me” has been streamed nearly twice as much as “Let It Be” on Spotify whose charisma is rooted in a sort of warm everydayness but who is so frankly beautiful that I feel that I’ve been transplanted into a movie about a doll who came to life.īut then the pandemic hit. Behind her, a fireplace crackles obediently a single string of rainbow Christmas lights hangs across the windows. Selena Gomez is, in fact, across the street, in an oversized Nirvana shirt and black leggings and a ponytail, waiting on a big white couch, with her caramel Maltipoo curled on top of a furry green throw at her bare feet. Lightly mesmerized, I walk up to the wrong front door and am greeted by a kindly man in a suit and an N95 mask. The sky is fogged to white the Bronx River ruffles the heavy quiet. It’s early in the New Year, and Selena Gomez is hidden away north of Manhattan, tucked in a room in an anonymous Tudor nestled in the crook of a picturesque village’s curving hills. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
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