An interview is either like a shower or a bath: quickfire and perfunctory, or pleasantly languorous, often cooling towards the end. Interviewing Trevor White is very much the bathing option, likely in a Victorian freestanding claw-foot bath whose contents are gently defoliating the toile du jouy wallpaper from the surrounding double height walls. White is, in short, great company. And at 45, he’s timeless; all patch-covered elbows and the lavender air of moneyed flaneur.
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