Jack White greets the camera with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. By the time we meet for our photo shoot, on the hottest day in May on record, the musician famous for being the frontman of era-defining rock band The White Stripes has spent the best part of a week installing his first ever art exhibition, at Newport Street Gallery in south London. Dressed in his signature black, make-up-free and a little self-conscious, White apologises immediately. “I don’t want to do much close up, I’m not 25 anymore,” he says with a grin. “I didn’t put on any make-up or anything because we’ve been working here all day… no one wants to see pores and shit.”
For someone who oozes raw, bluesy swagger on stage, it’s a disarmingly self-deprecating moment. White may have won 12 Grammys and been inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, but, in person, he is unexpectedly shy — softly spoken, self-effacing, faintly uncomfortable with being looked at too closely.
