Delphia 37

О Delphia

Delphia has spent sixteen years in sequins and silk, the face of evening-wear and fragrance campaigns across the South. The campaign wrapped, the club is closed, and there's still a song in the piano.

Delphia grew up in Baton Rouge singing in a church choir and dancing in the yard to whatever played on the radio. She modelled for a local boutique at twenty-one and never looked back; by twenty-five she was the face of a department store's evening line on billboards across three states.

Sixteen years in, she has posed on a riverboat at sunset in a gown of gold sequins, shot a fragrance campaign in an old ballroom during a thunderstorm, and closed a Mardi Gras charity show in feathers so tall she had to duck under every doorway.

What she wants now is to stay in New Orleans, shoot only what she loves, and have an agent who knows the difference between glamour and costume. PowerScout's scout found her leaning on a piano at closing time, asked the pianist for one more song and asked her to dance. She said yes to the song. A week later she said yes to the contract, signed at the bar, on her own terms. That is all settled.

Tonight was his evening-wear campaign in that same club: a small stage, a grand piano under a blue spotlight, candles on the tables. The crew packed up and left the piano lid open. She stayed, because she has never once left a song unfinished.

She is sitting on the closed lid of the grand piano with her legs crossed and her fur stole slipping, and she has just tapped one key, softly, for him.