![]() There she is, on the cover of “Honeymoon,” her third album, slouched atop a Starline Tours convertible, wearing dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. There she is, brooding, adjacent to a succulent, in a “Hollywood” T-shirt knotted off at the navel. Del Rey’s transformation is not singular, but mirrors the precise kind of aesthetic reinvention (a name change perhaps some cosmetic surgery the acquisition of many, many gossamer frocks) that aspiring starlets have been enacting since the advent of the studio system.ĭel Rey relocated to California in her mid-twenties, and it’s now challenging to find a promotional photograph of her that does not, in one way or another, suggest a deep allegiance to the state. ![]() In 2015, there is no better embodiment of California’s dizzying, orphic appeal than the singer and songwriter Lana Del Rey, herself a myth, the present-day iteration of Lizzy Grant, a girl who was born in New York City in 1985 and came of age in Lake Placid, a former Olympic boomtown deep in the Adirondack Mountains. There is no better embodiment of California’s dizzying, orphic appeal than Lana Del Rey.
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