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COOL , CANDID, COURAGEOUS

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SELENA GETS REAL PRIME TIME

“I’M THERESA MAY. I DO THINGS MY WAY”

LENA DUNHAM MY BROWS, MY SELF

NO APOLOGIES MARIA SHARAPOVA’S BIG RETURN

SPRING’S

UPBEAT STYLE PLUS: THE EIGHT DESIGNERS TO WATCH RIGHT NOW


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TNT Elisabeth TNT returns to Gstaad, where prodigious parties redeem a dearth of snow

Beauty & Health 167

REAL TALK Charlotte Gainsbourg translates her strippeddown aesthetic into a new Nars makeup collection

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THE BODY ELECTRIC L.E.D. light’s age-delaying promise is evolving beyond high-end facial menus. By Marisa Meltzer TIGHTEN UP Antiaging via facial massage

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Swing TIME ROCK SOLID, P. 228

MODEL IMAAN HAMMAM WEARS A MISSONI DRESS, MARC JACOBS BAG, AND 3.1 PHILLIP LIM SANDALS. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ZOË GHERTNER.

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EDITOR’S LETTER

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NOSTALGIA As a kid obsessed with superheroes, Anthony Marra never imagined he’d see one in person

Talking Fashion 134

Roccia are launching e-tailer Maisonette

FACE ODYSSEY PART 2 Jancee Dunn‘s yearlong journey of coordinated, noninvasive cosmetic treatments continues

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FLORENCE IN ABUNDANCE Paul Andrew spearheads a shoe renaissance at Salvatore Ferragamo

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ALL EYES ON Nieves Zuberbühler

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COAST TO COACH Classic Coach and L.A.cool Rodarte join forces

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MASTHEAD

UP FRONT Caroline Kitchener learned to care for her two motherless nephews LIVES Andrea Glimcher is making art-world waves with her new advisory firm, Hyphen

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FUR SURE Granny’s standby or a new faux makes for equally cozy chic

NOT SO JUNIOR LEAGUE Sylvana Durrett and Luisana Mendoza

VITAMIN C Orange is the new black BEWITCHED Bronx-based skate crew Brujas design clothes—and give voice to their communities

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HOT ROCKS CVC Stones is having a moment

HEIR TRANSPARENT Serial beauty disrupter Marcia Kilgore is back with prestige makeup—and now skin care—with zero markup. By Kari Molvar

People Are Talkıng About 184

MUSIC The brothers behind The Lemon Twigs have a vintage flair worthy of Wes Anderson

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BOOKS Love and longing infuse the month’s most captivating fiction C O N T I N U E D >7 0

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FAS HI ON ED I TOR : CA MI LLA N I CKE RSO N . H A I R, A KK I; MA K EU P, A A RO N D E M EY. UGO ROND INONE, SEVE N MAGIC MOUN TAIN S. PR ESENTED BY A RT P RODUCTI O N FU N D A N D N EVA DA MUS EUM O F A RT. P RO DUC ED BY W ES O LSON FOR CONNECT TH E D OTS. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

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April Broadway transfer of the London hit Groundhog Day. By Adam Green

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CRAFT CULTURE Gigi Hadid, and a cast of characters from the New York stage, shines a spotlight on the season. Photographed by Patrick Demarchelier

Index 254

MATERIAL WORLD Buy better this Earth Day

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MAY DAY, P. 204

PRIME MINISTER THERESA MAY WEARS AN L.K.BENNETT COAT AND DRESS. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANNIE LEIBOVITZ.

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MOVIES Bravery is in the eye of the beholder in films starring Jessica Chastain and Cynthia Nixon

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OBJECT Flora meets fauna in Chive’s new collection

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THEATER Condola Rashad returns to Broadway in A Doll’s House, Part 2

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TRAVEL Two eco-minded resorts offer paradise off the coast of Singapore

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DESIGN Aerin Lauder launches a collection for Williams Sonoma

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TV The Handmaid’s Tale is adapted for the small screen

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DOCUMENTARY Citizen Jane brings a fighting spirit to life

Fashion & Features 193

HAPPY 125TH! Celebrate Vogue’s big milestone

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ON HER OWN TERMS Selena Gomez on the pressures of performing—and what makes her happy. By Rob Haskell

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BIG RETURN Maria Sharapova is back in the game. By Jonathan Van Meter

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MAY DAY U.K. prime minister Theresa May is doing things her way. Gaby Wood reports

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VISIBLE DIFFERENCE British painter Lynette Yiadom-Boakye is gaining attention for her brooding portraits of black life. By Dodie Kazanjian

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LAST LOOK

Cover Look RED HOT

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FASHION HOUSE Hamish Bowles peeks into the Duke of Devonshire’s storied estate

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FREE STYLE Yusra Mardini escaped war-torn Syria at seventeen. A year later, she swam in the Rio Olympics. By Janine di Giovanni

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ONWARD MARCH Eight labels moving fashion forward

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ROCK SOLID The season’s new bags are packed with pattern, personality— and vivid palettes

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ON FLEEK, C’EST CHIC? Lena Dunham signs up for microblading

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TIME AFTER TIME Andy Karl stars in the

Selena Gomez wears a Michael Kors Collection bralette and skirt and Jennifer Fisher earrings. To get this look, try: Studio Waterweight SPF 30 Foundation in NC35, Work It Out QuikTrik Stick in Soft Side/A Latte Sheen, Liptensity in Driftwood, Fluidline Pen in Retro Black, InstaCurl Lash, Brow Sculpt in Stud, and Brow Set in Clear. All by MAC Cosmetics. Hair, Shay Ashual; makeup, Aaron de Mey. Details, see In This Issue. Photographers: Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.

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S IT T I N G S ED I TOR : P HY LLI S P OS NI C K. HA I R , S HO N ; M A KEUP, NI A M H QUI NN . S ET D ESIGN, MARY H OWAR D. PH OTOGRAPH ED AT CH EQUERS. COVER: SET DESIGN: ANDREA STANLEY FOR STREETERS. PRODUCED BY ACROSS MEDIA PRODUCTION. PRODUCED BY GABRIEL HILL FOR GE PROJ ECTS.

Brexit Interview

IN THIS ISSUE


Letter from the Editor

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s someone who doesn’t really believe in looking back very much or very often, I’m going to break with the habit of a lifetime and start this April’s letter by talking about the recent past—specifically, our March 2017 issue, which celebrated the female designers who have helped define our vision of fashion, and the new generation of models who are as feisty as they are gorgeous, bringing, thankfully, a more pluralistic idea of beauty to the runway. That issue was the starting point for our 125th anniversary, which we have decided to commemorate by celebrating throughout this year 125 women from all walks of life who share one singular quality: Each of them makes the world an infinitely better and more fascinating place. The women we bring you this month don’t, perhaps, at first glance seem to be united by anything at all: How does one join the dots between our cover star, Selena Gomez; the tennis champion Maria Sharapova; the British prime minister, Theresa May; the artist Lynette Yiadom-Boakye; and the Syrian swimmer Yusra Mardini? Not easily, would be the answer, and to my mind that’s the whole point of bringing people together in the pages of Vogue; E D I T O R ’ S L E T T E R > 9 4 VOGUE.COM

G OM EZ : FAS HI O N E D ITO R: CA MI L LA NI C KE RSON . HA I R, SHAY AS HUA L; MA KEUP, AARON D E MEY. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

STRENGTH OF CHARACTER LEFT: SELENA GOMEZ IN TORY BURCH, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MERT ALAS AND MARCUS PIGGOTT. ABOVE: MARIA SHARAPOVA, PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANNIE LEIBOVITZ.


LEADING LADIES ABOVE: THE ARTIST LYNETTE YIADOM-BOAKYE. RIGHT: THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON, IN GUCCI. BOTH PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANTON CORBIJN.

it’s always the unexpected mix— from celebritydom to politics to culture to sports—that keeps things interesting. Yet look below the surface and you’ll find that these women have all, to a greater or lesser degree, overcome trials and tribulations, challenges that have been crucial in shaping their identities. That’s certainly true of Selena Gomez, who has a refreshingly honest and forthright opinion of modern-day fame—and given that she ranks as having the most Instagram followers in the world, being famous is a condition she is acutely acquainted with. The conversations that Selena had with writer Rob Haskell for our cover story (“On Her Own Terms,” page 194) reveal someone who has an uncanny ability to genuinely connect with her fans, but who is also entirely conscious of the price and the perils of stardom. I have to say I was impressed with Selena from the moment I met her. She was just finishing up the negotiations on her Coach collaboration, and as part of the deal the company pledged to invest $3 million in the female-focused charity Step Up. Both she and Maria Sharapova have been world-known since a very early age, and the press has not always been kind to either of them. Maria received coverage that was highly critical of her when she went public with the news that she had tested positive for a banned substance—one that had been hitherto approved for her to use for health reasons. Jonathan Van Meter went to meet Maria at home in California for “Big Return” (page 202), and anyone expecting a groveling mea culpa from her will be sorely disappointed—and, quite frankly, why should she give one? Maria is not the type of person to make that kind of mistake. I’ve known her since the

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very beginning of her career, and she has always struck me as fiercely focused and ambitious, yet also scrupulously honest; a victory won through any means other than enormous amounts of hard work would be worthless to her. She has long been characterized in the media, as well as by her fellow tennis players, as someone aloof and cold, yet that’s not the person I know—or that Jonathan met. The truth is that oftentimes enormously successful people are adept at keeping their public and private personae separate, and, as Jonathan points out, when that person is a woman, sadly misogyny all too often and too quickly rears its ugly head. Lastly, I’d like to congratulate the wonderful Hamish Bowles on the exhibition he curated at Chatsworth House in England with the Countess of Burlington (“Fashion House,” page 212). It revolves around the incredible treasures he found squirreled away in the many closets, drawers, and attics of the ancestral seat of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, and for Hamish, getting to work on the show was something of the fulfillment of a very particular childhood dream. And while the exhibition contains plenty of beautiful things to feast the eyes on, it also honors several centuries of women of remarkable character and resolve. Then, as now, that’s worth celebrating.

VOGUE.COM

SITTINGS EDITOR: PHYLLIS POSNICK. YIADOM-BOAKYE: MAKEUP, MARY GREENWELL. BURLINGTON: HAIR, SHON; MAKEUP, NIAMH QUINN. DETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Letter from the Editor


ANNA WINTOUR Editor in Chief Creative Director DAVID SEBBAH Fashion Director TONNE GOODMAN Features Director EVE MACSWEENEY Market Director, Fashion and Accessories VIRGINIA SMITH Executive Fashion Editor PHYLLIS POSNICK Style Director CAMILLA NICKERSON International Editor at Large HAMISH BOWLES Fashion News Director MARK HOLGATE Creative Digital Director SALLY SINGER Creative Director at Large GRACE CODDINGTON FA S H I O N /A C C E S S O R I E S Fashion News Editor EMMA ELWICK-BATES Bookings Director HELENA SURIC Accessories Director SELBY DRUMMOND Editors GRACE GIVENS, ALEXANDRA MICHLER, EMMA MORRISON Menswear Editor MICHAEL PHILOUZE Bookings Associate ERINA DIGBY Associate Market Editors SARA KLAUSING, WILLOW LINDLEY, FRANCESCA RAGAZZI Market Manager TAYLOR ANGINO Associates GABRIELLA K AREFA-JOHNSON, YOHANA LEBASI Fashion Writer RACHEL WALDMAN Fashion Market Assistant MADELINE SWANSON BEAUTY Beauty Director CELIA ELLENBERG Beauty Editor LAURA REGENSDORF Beauty Associate ZOE RUFFNER F E AT U R E S Culture Editor VALERIE STEIKER Senior Editors TAYLOR ANTRIM, LAUREN MECHLING, COREY SEYMOUR Entertainment Director JILLIAN DEMLING Arts Editor MARK GUIDUCCI Style Editor at Large ELISABETH VON THURN UND TAXIS Assistant Entertainment Editor SAMANTHA LONDON Features Associate LILAH RAMZI Features Assistant LAUREN SANCHEZ ART Executive Visual Director ANDREW GOLD Design Director AURELIE PELLISSIER ROMAN Art Director MARTIN HOOPS Associate Art Director NOBI K ASHIWAGI Designer JENNIFER DONNELLY Visual Director, Research MAUREEN SONGCO Visual Editor, Research TIM HERZOG Visual Production Director NIC BURDEKIN Senior Visual Editor LIANA BLUM VOGUE.COM Executive Editor KOA BECK Director of Engineering KENTON JACOBSEN Fashion News Director CHIOMA NNADI Director, Vogue Runway NICOLE PHELPS Executive Fashion Editor JORDEN BICKHAM Beauty Director CATHERINE PIERCY Art Director FERNANDO DIAS DE SOUZA Director of Visual Production and Development ALLISON BROWN Style Editor EDWARD BARSAMIAN Senior Fashion Writer MARJON CARLOS Market Editor KELLY CONNOR Associate Market Editor ANNY CHOI Archive Editor LAIRD BORRELLI-PERSSON Fashion News and Emerging Platforms Editor STEFF YOTK A Fashion News Writers BROOKE BOBB, EMILY FARRA, JANELLE OKWODU, LIANA SATENSTEIN Senior Beauty Writer MACKENZIE WAGONER Beauty Writer MONICA KIM Associate Beauty Editor JENNA RENNERT Culture Editor ALESSANDRA CODINHA Senior Culture Writer JULIA FELSENTHAL Culture Writer PATRICIA GARCIA Living Editor VIRGINIA VAN ZANTEN Living Writer MADELEINE LUCKEL Staff Writer MARIA WARD Visual Director SUZANNE SHAHEEN Senior Visual Editor EMILY ROSSER Visual Editors SAMANTHA ADLER, RUBEN RAMOS Entertainment Media Editor SOPHIA LI Visual Content Creator BARDIA ZEINALI Visual Associate ALEXANDRA GURVITCH Designer SARA JENDUSA Social Media Director LINDSEY UNDERWOOD Social Media Manager, Vogue Runway LUCIE ZHANG Associate Social Media Manager JULIA FRANK Associate Editor, Emerging Platforms NIA PORTER Visual Producer AMANDA BROOKS Production Manager MALEANA DAVIS Assistant Managing Editor OLIVIA WEISS Producer IV Y TANN Associate Director, Audience Development ANNA-LISA YABSLEY Manager, Digital Analytics ZAC SCHWARTZ Senior Product Manager BEN SMIT Senior Developers JEROME COVINGTON, GREGORY KILIAN Developers JASON CHOI, SIMONE HILL, BEN MILTON P R O D U C T I O N / C O P Y/ R E S E A R C H

Deputy Managing Editor DAVID BYARS Copy Director JOYCE RUBIN Research Director ANDREW GILLINGS Digital Production Manager JASON ROE Production Designers COR HAZELAAR, SARA REDEN Production Associate ADRIANA PELLEGRINI Copy Managers ADRIANA BÜRGI, JANE CHUN Research Managers LESLIE ANNE WIGGINS, LISA MACABASCO, COURTNEY MARCELLIN Fashion Credits Editor IVETTE MANNERS S P E C I A L E V E N T S / E D I T O R I A L D E V E L O P M E N T/C O M M U N I C AT I O N S Director of Special Events EADDY KIERNAN Special Events Manager CARA SANDERS Editorial Business Director MIRA ILIE Associate Director, Operations XAVIER GONZALEZ Contracts Manager ALEXA ELAM Editorial Business Coordinator JESSECA JONES Executive Director of Communications HILDY KURYK Director of Brand Marketing NEGAR MOHAMMADI Communications and Marketing Manager DANIK A OWSLEY Executive Assistant to the Editor in Chief CORINNE PIERRE-LOUIS Assistant to the Editor in Chief JASMINE CONTOMICHALOS European Editor FIONA DARIN European Fashion Associates CAMILA HENNESSY, ANTHONY KLEIN West Coast Director LISA LOVE West Coast Associate CAMERON BIRD

Managing Editor JON GLUCK Executive Director, Editorial and Special Projects CHRISTIANE MACK CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

MIRANDA BROOKS, SARAH BROWN, SYLVANA WARD DURRETT, ADAM GREEN, ROB HASKELL, NATHAN HELLER, LAWREN HOWELL, CAROLINA IRVING, REBECCA JOHNSON, DODIE K AZANJIAN, SHIRLEY LORD, CHLOE MALLE, CATIE MARRON, SARA MOONVES, SARAH MOWER, MEGAN O’GRADY, JOHN POWERS, MARINA RUST, LAUREN SANTO DOMINGO, TABITHA SIMMONS, JEFFREY STEINGARTEN, ROBERT SULLIVAN, PLUM SYKES, ANDRÉ LEON TALLEY, JONATHAN VAN METER, SHELLEY WANGER, JANE WITHERS, VICKI WOODS, LYNN YAEGER

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Up Front

Learning CURVE When her older sister unexpectedly died, Caroline Kitchener had to put her grief to the side and figure out how to take care of the two young boys who were suddenly motherless.

M

y one-year-old nephew, Teddy, started to cry as soon as his father handed him over to me. I didn’t know how to hold a baby. Scrunching up his face, now bright red, he squirmed defiantly in my arms. “Please, little man,” I whispered, rocking Teddy from side to side, shaking a rattle inches from his nose. “Just let Daddy take his shower.” I sang “B-I-N-G-O,” stuck out my tongue, played peekaboo—all the things I’d seen Teddy’s father do to make him laugh. The crying came harder. I held out my phone—something Teddy always wanted to play with, but we never let him do—and watched him smear his tiny fingers across the glowing screen, mesmerized and, miraculously, quiet. It didn’t

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HOLD STEADY TRAGEDY FORCED THE AUTHOR INTO A NEW ROLE. LEFT: UNTITLED, (LL1), BY HANNA PUTZ, 2012.

last long. My brother-in-law Craig returned downstairs in his suit, Teddy started crying again, grasping wildly for his father. I felt the need to apologize, but I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry I have no idea how to take care of a baby. I’m sorry I’m 24. I’m sorry I’m not Milly. We were in our fourth month of living without Milly. A few days after her thirty-seventh birthday, Milly went to the hospital, thinking she had a bad case of the flu. She died fourteen hours later from what the doctors suspected to be meningitis. Milly was thirteen years older than me. Technically, she was my half sister—my father’s younger daughter from his first marriage—but we never used to say that. Milly corrected anyone who called me anything but her sister. The two of us almost always lived in different countries— Milly stayed in England while my parents and I moved all over the world, following my father’s job. I U P F R O N T>1 1 8 VOGUE.COM


Up Front

In Her Shoes

As we discussed the proper procedure for cleaning a baby bottle, I heard a yelp that sounded like it was coming from a wounded animal. I jumped up from my chair and looked through the kitchen window. I realized the sound had come from the living room, where Craig and my father had been sitting silently all night with the curtains drawn. My brotherin-law was coming undone. This, I realized, was why we were all here, gathered in Milly’s kitchen: to handle the demands of daily life for the people who couldn’t. Around 8:30, Craig came in to ask if I wanted to read Harrison a bedtime story. “Is that OK?” I asked. “Can I see him?” Hanging back in the doorway, I peered into my nephew’s room. Harrison was sitting on the top of his bunk bed in his patterned Darth Vader pajamas, staring intently at each page in his binder of soccer collector’s cards before flipping to the next. When he noticed me, he squealed and started bouncing on his knees. hen my older sister Sarah called I grabbed a book from his shelf, climbed up to his bed, and to tell me that Milly had died, I slid under the covers next to him. His paper-white skin, dotwas living in Nanchang, China, teaching English at a university. ted with freckles, felt soft and reassuring as he tucked his face It took me 36 hours and three difinto the crook of my neck. We didn’t talk about Milly that night—there would be time for that later—I just squeezed ferent planes to get to Harrogate, him extra tight and told him that when he got home from miles and miles of sheep farms, horse paddocks, and windschool the next day, we could make cupcakes. ing roads that hug the curves of soft, grassy hillsides. People “OK,” he said. “But the icing has to be green.” flock to this corner of England for a weekend away: for good After Harrison fell shopping, cherry blosasleep, I went to see soms that line paths in Teddy. He was sleepthe park downtown, and tearooms where ing on his stomach, waitresses in eyelet oxhis round, rosy cheek pressed against his ford shirts serve scones teddy bear. I brushed with strawberry prea blond curl out of serves on doily-covered his face, crouched plates. Milly’s house is down by his crib, and ten minutes from the started to cry. Because center of town, tucked I’d moved to China away at the end of a two months after he cul-de-sac—one of was born, this was the about 50 short, interfirst time I’d seen him woven streets in the in person, without a area around Harrison’s screen between us. I school. There are alnever got to see Teddy ways kids playing right with his mom. outside the door, runThat first night, I ning after soccer balls didn’t imagine that that bounce into the a couple months latdriveway. By the time I arrived, er—once Craig took MIRROR, MIRROR the rest of my famthe condolence cards THE AUTHOR, AGE FOUR, AND MILLY, AGE SEVENTEEN, CATCHING UP DURING A FAMILY VISIT, SUMMER 1995. down off the mantel ily was already there. and neighbors stopped Handing my mom and knocking on the door with trays of frozen lasagna—I would me each a slice of reheated shepherd’s pie, Sarah pulled a piece be standing outside Milly’s house again, about to fill in as the of paper off the fridge and laid it flat on the kitchen table. boys’ second parent. I felt like I was on some kind of realityShe’d tried to reconstruct Teddy’s schedule—when he ate, TV show that I wasn’t cut out for—and instead of getting when he napped, when he needed a change of clothes. eliminated in the first few weeks, as I should have, I’d made it “I’m completely guessing on all of this,” she said. “Craig to the final round. Right after Milly died, I’d U P F R O N T>1 2 2 isn’t sure. Milly handled almost everything for Teddy.” met Milly for the first time when I was three months old, when she came to the United States for Christmas. My mother tells me that she cradled me in her arms and sang Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” as I stared up at her, wide-eyed and reaching for her ginger hair. As a mother of two boys—Harrison, then age seven, and Teddy—Milly was wildly, unabashedly loving. After she died, I looked through all the pictures on her cell phone. At least half were goofy selfies of the three of them together— Milly and Harrison pulling down on their ears, puffing out their cheeks, trying to touch their noses with their tongues, while baby Teddy smiled at his mom and older brother. At night, when they watched TV in the living room, Harrison would climb into his mother’s lap and nuzzle against her sweater. Every visit, as he got older, I wondered whether this would stop. It never did.

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COU RT ESY OF CA RO LI N E KI TCHE N ER

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Up Front

In Her Shoes

lived in her house for three weeks before going back to China. But on that trip, I didn’t do much child care. I stepped aside for the army of 30-something moms who streamed into the house in Barbour jackets, baby bags slung over their shoulders, and busied myself in other ways: writing Milly’s eulogy, planning the funeral, constructing ten two-by-three-foot photo collages to place around the room at the wake. I wasn’t prepared. Usually I saw Harrison twice a year, for Christmas and a few weeks over the summer. I was the fun aunt—the one young enough to have water-balloon fights and jump higher than anyone else on the bouncy castle. Whenever I was in charge of Harrison, there was always a more kid-savvy adult nearby, ready to swoop in with an appropriate punishment or a first-aid kit. When I met Teddy, it was the first time I’d held a baby in seven years. My mom—Milly’s stepmother, whose lullabies and gentle rocking could quiet Teddy in seconds—had been helping out for the past few months, living in Milly’s guest room. But my grandmother got sick, and my mom had to go back to the United States. Everyone else in my family had their own responsibilities—kids or a full-time job they couldn’t do remotely. Craig needed support for the next month. I was the only option left. “Caroline?” Craig called from the bottom of the stairs. “You awake?” I’d collapsed onto the bed in the attic as soon as I got to his house, giving in to jet lag. I jumped up, hitting my head on a low-hanging eave. “Yes! Yes, I’m awake. Be down in a minute.” I knew Craig was leaving to pick Harrison up from school. I threw on a sweater, ignored the smeared mascara under my eyes, and sprinted down the stairs. “Ready!” I said, jumping over the last four steps. Craig is the most dependable guy I’ve ever met. He has worked at the same company, selling industrial equipment, since he was nineteen. Craig knows what he likes: cold beer with dinner, old James Bond movies, and his favorite soccer team, Aston Villa. After he puts Harrison and Teddy to sleep, he regularly flips through Harrison’s binder of soccer cards, compiles lists of cards he’s missing, emails them to friends who have kids with their own collections, and tries to fill the gaps.

he used exclusively for the dog bowl, I made some excuse to leave the room, walked outside, and called Sarah. “What if I poisoned him?” I asked, hysterical. “Those bottles were supposed to be sterilized!” Caring for Harrison was hard in a different way. It would be years before Teddy would know what happened to his mom, but Harrison knew now. Since I’d last seen him, his understanding had sharpened, the permanence of his mom’s absence bringing her death into cruel focus. On my last trip to England, he’d been sad, but he’d also been running around a house buzzing with relatives, eager to take him out for pizza or buy him treats. By May, his life had settled back into old routines. Except now his mother wasn’t a part of them. Harrison’s grief counselor told us to talk to him about Milly, but I never knew what to say. When I put Harrison to bed, we’d play Roses and Thorns, a game I’d learned years ago at Girl Scout camp. We’d say one rose—a good thing—from our day, and a thorn—a not-so-good thing. One night, I told Harrison that my thorn was missing his mummy. His face hardened. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You don’t miss her as much as I do.” After I kissed Harrison good night, I locked myself in the third-floor bathroom. I didn’t want anyone else to see me cry. People I loved had lost a wife and a mother. The tragedy hung in Milly’s house like stagnant air, suffocating and constant; Craig, Harrison, and Teddy couldn’t ignore or escape it. And here I was, moving in for three weeks, then a month. Soon I’d return to a world where Milly hadn’t marked every page of the kitchen calendar and held every mug. It seemed indulgent to acknowledge how much I missed her. I was only a half sister, around not even half the time, usually half a world away. Living in Milly’s house, I wasn’t there to grieve but to help. And I felt like I was failing. A few days before I left England, right after I told Craig I’d accidentally hit Teddy in the face with the living-room door, he shook his head and smiled. “You are so much like Milly. She was the clumsiest person I knew,” Craig said, laughing. “When we first had Harrison, she smacked him in the face with doors all the time.” I knew this about my sister. I knew she’d constantly been spilling tea, breaking glasses, forgetting her keys. But I hadn’t thought about any of that since she died. Over the past few months, I’d memorialized Milly as the perfect mother. And in a lot of ways, she was. She was the mother I wanted to be. But she was also just doing her best, making mistakes and muddling through. As I reminisced with Craig about how often Milly used to drop her iPhone in the bath, some of the pressure I’d felt, living in her house, fell away. Milly wouldn’t have cared that I washed Teddy’s bottles with the dog’s brush. She would have waved it off with a laugh and told me to pour myself an extra-large glass of wine. The boys needed to know they were loved, she would have told me. Everything else was beside the point. 

In school, I was used to working hard and getting good grades. I figured motherhood had to be similar: Put in effort, get results

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wanted Craig to know he could count on me. I was determined to help him just as much as my mom had—to absorb items from his to-do list without being asked. In school, I was used to working hard— putting in long hours of study—and getting good grades. I figured motherhood had to be similar: Put in effort, get results. It wasn’t. I made mistakes every day—glaring, oozing ones I couldn’t forget, even after Craig smiled and told me not to worry. I dressed Teddy in shorts when it was 50 degrees outside. I realized he hadn’t been strapped into his stroller after we got home from a 30-minute walk. When Craig informed me that I’d been washing all of Teddy’s bottles with the brush

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DEALER’S CHOICE

Former gallery director Andrea Glimcher is making waves in New York City’s art world with her new advisory firm, Hyphen. And unsurprisingly, her own collection is simply marvelous. ROBERT SULLIVAN reports.

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n a recent sun-drenched morning, Andrea Glimcher led me through the front screen door of a large, century-old house in Southampton into a living room that looked a lot like a painting by Fairfield Porter. Getting inside the work of an artist—for galleries and museums, for collectors and clients of all kinds—is a big part of what Glimcher does, though here she’s being quite literal. The house she’s renting, it turns out, was once the home of Porter and his wife, Anne, and a gathering spot for New York School painters and poets like Jane Freilicher and Frank O’Hara. To let me fully experience Porter’s The Living Room, Glimcher places me where Porter would have stood, then presents me with a copy of the 1952 painting—a languid interior, with fireplace, a table, chairs, windows to the summer outdoors—as if it were a map. For a moment I am in dialogue with the room’s past, with Porter, in that place between representational and abstract that the artist continually explored. “I like to connect the dots when I can,” says Glimcher, who, tall and blonde in shorts and sneakers, looks as if she might have stepped off the court of The Tennis Game, another iconic Fairfield Porter painting.

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Glimcher, 46, has been connecting the dots for two decades, first while running public relations and special projects for Pace Gallery and, more recently—since her marriage to Marc Glimcher, Pace’s president, ended in 2013—with her own company, Hyphen. An arts advisory firm, Hyphen acts as a link between artists and institutions, whether introducing writers and filmmakers or helping artists navigate the increasingly complicated world of dealers, galleries, international fairs, and exhibitions. Artists like the way she thinks. “When she started her business, my husband said to me, ‘You should work with Andrea,’ ” recalls Pat Steir, the painter and printmaker, who first met Glimcher at Pace in the mid-nineties. “But I didn’t listen to him—he’s too close! Then my friend Carol LeWitt said the same thing. I listened to her. So now, Andrea acts as a go-between between me and the galleries. She is a kind of translator.” Since they began collaborating a year ago, Glimcher has helped Steir transition to the Dominique Lévy Gallery— changing galleries being no small thing for an artist whose career began in 1962. As a result, Steir had her first London show in 25 years at Lévy’s Old Bond Street space last December (an expanded version L I V E S >1 2 6 VOGUE.COM

FRA N ÇO I S HA LA R D. SI T T IN G S ED I TO R: M IRA NDA B RO O KS. HA I R, A ND RE A G RA B H ER ; MAKEUP, MIN MIN MA. A RT: A DA M P EN D LE TO N. B L ACK L I V ES M AT TER # 3 ( WA L L WOR K ) , 201 5. A D HES I V E VINYL. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Lives

HOUSE PROUD GLIMCHER AND HER CHILDREN, KATHARINE AND ALEXANDER, IN FRONT OF A MURAL BY ADAM PENDLETON.


An Eye for Art

PRIMARY FOCUS PAT STEIR’S TRIPTYCH DRAGON, 2008.

will arrive in New York’s Lévy Gorvy Gallery in September). “I think that Hyphen is serving a real niche,” says LeWitt. “Because, you know, artists often need another perspective on whom they should be working with, and on what terms. And Andrea’s very, very good at that level of counsel. She’s very sophisticated.”

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ike a planetary system that’s still expanding, the art world manages to create new orbits and power relationships every few years. Glimcher has lived through a few such realignments since starting out as a high school intern at the Florence Griswold Museum, in Old Lyme, Connecticut (she grew up in nearby Old Saybrook). After studying art history at Barnard, she landed her first job, creating patron experiences at the Guggenheim. When she arrived at Pace, in 1994, the gallery was one of the first to run an in-house press office. Glimcher expanded her role from writing press releases to coordinating books and films—acting as the liaison, for example, between Agnes Martin and the makers of the documentary, Agnes Martin: With My Back to the World. “It’s really wild,” Glimcher says. “A lot of the bigger galleries have become so focused on being in many different cities, and yet their artists aren’t necessarily going with them. I recognized there was a need for someone to act as an advocate, an adviser to artists and estates.” She started Hyphen nearly three years ago, found an office at Sixty-ninth and Park Avenue, and before long had one of her first clients, Washington, D.C.’s, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, whose director, Melissa Chiu, was an old friend. Job one: help organize the Hirshhorn’s fortiethanniversary gala in New York, home of the Brooklyn-raised

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Joseph Hirshhorn—a controversial decision in D.C. “She has a very attuned art sensibility,” says Chiu, “not just for the visual design but for knowing the right people.” Since then, Glimcher has been working with clients in New York and environs, not to mention racking up frequent-flyer miles to the Motor City, where she spent a good part of this past winter advising the nonprofit organization Midtown Detroit Inc. on its upcoming festival DLECTRICITY. She’s a member of the Public Theater’s Musical Theater Council and busy developing literary properties that she’s not quite ready to talk about. Not long ago, a friend in the Hamptons, Arielle Tepper Madover, the Broadway producer, invited Glimcher to see her mother’s old East Hampton studio, which was filled with hundreds of canvases. Madover’s mother was Susan Tepper, a painter in the late 1970s and 1980s, who cofounded the East Hampton Center for Contemporary Art, a nonprofit designed to promote new artists. “I said, ‘I don’t know what to do,’ ” Madover tells me. “ ‘I need help.’ ” Once Glimcher stepped in, Susan Tepper had her first, posthumous solo exhibition, at Southampton’s Tripoli Gallery. (She died of cancer in 1991, at 47.) “It’s very hard for me to talk about my mom’s work because I get emotional,” says Madover. “But Andrea can. She can read it.” It was hard for Glimcher, too, to leave what had become the family business. “In the case of the breakup of the marriage, it really was enormous, the ripple effect—it touched every part of my life,” she says over a recent lunch at the Hyphen offices. She tried, at first, to concentrate on her kids and, eventually, herself—hiring a trainer, teaching herself boxing, taking a shot at high-altitude skiing, which was, despite her lifelong athleticism, a stretch. “I didn’t want to be stuck L I V E S >1 2 8 VOGUE.COM

PAT STE I R. TR I PT YCH DRAG ON, 2008. S IL K- SCRE EN MO NO P RI NT W IT H HA N D CO LOR ING, 72 ″ X 72″. © PAT STEIR . PH OTO COURTESY OF TH E ARTIST AND PACE PR INTS.

Lives


An Eye for Art

in the same routine—but it’s not easy,” she says. “Divorce is absolutely a loss. Looking back, I realize I went through a lot.” She did eventually come to moments of clarity. “Once you make a decision, you’ve made it—and to use an old tennis analogy, are you going to stay deep? Are you going to go up to the net? Are you going to be stuck in no-man’s-land? I would say I’ve honestly been in all three places in this chapter of my life.” Her new business seemed a natural progression from her work at Pace: She could be a spokesperson for artists, an advocate in the press. “I feel like now I’ve really hit my stride, and it’s frightening and thrilling because there is no turning back. I’ve questioned myself now and again, but then there are other moments where I just cannot believe how things have come together.” A secret in her transition’s success is that she loves her work, and her clients can tell. Recently I tagged along as she toured a client through a Cecily Brown exhibition at the Drawing Center. Claire Gilman, the curator, came down from her office to greet Glimcher and Michael Wang, a Chinese businessman who had been introduced by a mutual friend. “Andrea is opening the door to contemporary art for me,” Wang said, and added he was already becoming a big fan of Brown’s MIXING MEDIA FOUR FROM GLIMCHER’S COLLECTION (CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT): GEORGE work. Glimcher discouraged him from CONDO’S BIG RED INCORPORATED; JOHN CHAMBERLAIN’S GIGOLO GRAFFITI; ALEX buying anything too hastily: “Before you KATZ’S POPPIES; VIK MUNIZ’S PASTORALES TAHITIENNES, AFTER PAUL GAUGUIN. buy anything you should really look.” by Lucas Samaras in the entrance; a Louise Nevelson in the Gilman noted that Brown’s drawings—the show is titled living room, as well as a Pat Steir that makes you think “Rehearsal”—are themselves about seeing, and even rethe artist works less with paint than with tectonic plates. seeing, specifically Hogarth and Bruegel, as well as the In the bedroom is a queen-size Robert Rauschenberg, a cover of the Jimi Hendrix Experience’s Electric Ladyland. montage of streetscapes. Wang listened patiently, clearly pleased by the guidance. The stairs spiral up, leading to a dining room in the round, “It’s all beyond my expectations,” he said. filled with a circular mural by Adam Pendleton, who met Glimcher in 2011. As Pendleton recounts, “About a year and limcher has lived in a Beaux-Arts building on a half ago, she said, ‘You know, I have this room in my house, the Upper West Side since 2005, but not long and one of your pieces would look amazing in it.’ ” After seeago expanded by combining its two top-floor apartments. She began a tour by stepping onto ing the room, he went back to his studio, and began making the little balcony overlooking Broadway: Out in what he calls “wall works,” immersive murals that present the the breeze, 200 feet above the street, she seemed like a captain phrase black lives matter in varying degrees of abstraction. at the bow. “I’d say it looks like something by Hassam,” she A piece based on the one he made for Glimcher is included joked about the view, while wearing a black lace Prada blouse, in Pendleton’s traveling exhibition, which is at the Museum a caramel-colored leather skirt by Frame, black Roger Vivier of Contemporary Art Cleveland until mid-May and will be flats, and a vintage Bakelite bracelet. at the Detroit Institute of Arts this summer, in an exhibition Hanging in her kitchen (where the board game Life is in exploring the 1967 Detroit rebellion. It’s just another example progress, awaiting the return of her children, twelve-yearof how Glimcher’s home and work and life intersect. old Katharine and seven-year-old Alexander) are gorgeous “Hyphen has been like putting up a tent,” she says. “It color studies by Robert Mangold, and in the place where a starts in your mind, and then it’s an idea, and then it’s on TV might blast cable news, a quiet underwater video by Kiki paper, and then you figure out what it should be called. And Smith plays on repeat. There is a quasi-pointillist seascape that’s when I was thinking, You know, I’m on my way.” 

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VIK MUNIZ. PASTORALES TAHITIENNES, AFTER PAUL GAUGUIN (PICTURES OF PIGMENT), 2005. CHROMOGENIC PRINT, 70¾″ X 91½″. EDITION 4 OF 6. © VIK MUNIZ/LICENSED BY VAGA, NEW YORK, NY. ALEX KATZ. POPPIES, 1967. OIL ON LINEN, 49″ X 56½″. © ALEX KATZ/LICENSED BY VAGA, NEW YORK, NY. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

Lives


Nostalgia

CAPE OPTIONAL MARIO TESTINO CAPTURES CAROLYN MURPHY AND SUPERMAN FOR VOGUE, 2009.

As a kid obsessed with superheroes, ANTHONY MARRA never imagined he’d see one in person.

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ho is your hero, and why?” I often find myself thinking about that question, which was first posed to me in a sixth-grade English class. Back then, I had a stacked roster to choose from: Superman, Batman, Spider-Man; any nerdy kid who’d been bitten by a radioactive bug received my unvarnished admiration. This was before Christopher Nolan and Joss Whedon turned superheroes into billion-dollar tent-pole franchises, before Alessandro Michele made geeks chic, before a generation of tech bros followed Mark Zuckerberg to Silicon

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Valley, back when eyeglasses were still just one notch more fashionable than hearing aids. The contemporaneous photos still sleeved in Ritz Camera envelopes in my parents’ suburban Maryland basement depict an eleven-year-old walking prayer for early-onset puberty. It pains me to admit this in the pages of Vogue, but my signature look consisted of black Airwalk Void sneakers, cargo shorts that fell to mid-shin, and a shirt purchased in the husky department of Hecht’s (“In my day, they called it the portly section!” a salesclerk once helpfully remarked). Then there was the hair. These were the dark days when Home Improvement’s Jonathan Taylor Thomas reigned. I secretly admired his hairstyle on the covers of N O S TA L G I A > 1 3 3 VOGUE.COM

SUP E RM A N A N D A LL RE LATE D C HA RACT ERS A N D E LE ME NTS A RE T RA D EM A RKS A ND © D C CO MI CS. US ED W I TH P ER MI SSI O N .

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Nostalgia

Hero for a Day

Tiger Beat and Bop that lined the CVS counter where I picked up my monthly regimen of allergy medicine. To mimic the JTT look, I divided my hair straight down the center. Even though I shellacked it in mousse each morning, the two halves would lift within hours. My dad, who was not particularly interested in matters of style, kindly suggested I sleep with one of my mom’s panty-hose legs pulled over my head to keep the part. Which I did, every night, for weeks.

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ixth grade was a claustrophobic spell in which I was the very confining space I sought to flee. Thankfully, comic books served as escape hatches. At night I’d sit beneath the plasterboard leprechaun that adorned my bedroom wall, courtesy of a cousin who’d recently had a Notre Dame–themed bar mitzvah. With the panty-hose leg cinched to my eyebrows and a thick omnibus on my lap, I must have looked like a preheist bank robber studying the caped crusaders who would bring him to justice. Knowing their son was . . . let’s say, easily persuadable, my parents wisely restricted my intake to the PG-rated Golden and Silver Ages of the medium. My superheroes were unabashedly earnest, devoid of the gloom and moral relativism that mark their later incarnations. Inked in buoyant primary colors, they fought oppression, protected the innocent, stood up for what was right. They always acted when called upon. When I flip through those comics now, Superman’s ethical universe seems too simplistic, too Manichaean. But at an age when I too often looked the other way while friends were bullied, the contact high of heroism gave my moral compass a magnetic north. In retrospect, it strikes me that admiration isn’t a passive state. It’s the assertion of who you want to become. So while many of my childhood heroes now leave me embarrassed for my former self (see: JTT), I could have done worse than to lionize guys who went out of their way to do good. But no matter how fervently I wanted to believe in superheroes, I kept bumping up against one inexorable fact. My world brimmed with Clark Kents—most noticeably my father, a bookish and bespectacled Brooklyn-born lawyer who took inordinate pride in his parallel parking, ate two hamburgers a year (on Memorial Day and Labor Day), and spent his weekends tending to his tomato plants and reading 800-page histories of ancient Rome. I had never seen a real-life Superman. Not until one afternoon in 1996, when he landed at Denver International Airport to save my little sister. She must have been five or six, the age when every curb and ledge is a balance beam, including the strip of aluminum siding that ran along the exterior wall of the terminal’s freestanding escalator. I was supposed to be watching her while my parents mazed through the car-rental line, but olderbrother duties were still as indecipherable to me as laundrylabel symbols. I looked up only when I heard the sharp cry overhead. My sister had climbed ten feet up the siding, too far to jump down. The terrifying circularity of her predicament

was readily apparent, even to me below: She could balance at that height only by clutching the rubber handrail, but as the handrail continued its slow scroll upward, she had to climb higher and higher to keep pace. This should have been my moment. I kept a length of twine in the side pocket of my cargo shorts for the inevitable day when I’d need to rappel from a great height or tie up criminals with a Webelos Scout knot. Surely, now that a hero was actually needed, I could jury-rig my twine into a net or a pulley system. But my heels were bolted to the terminal floor. Instead I shouted for my parents. Within moments, my mom was trailing beneath the escalator, arms raised to catch my sister. The gesture was as beautiful as it was hopeless because memory has elasticized the escalator, and it now stretches into the stratosphere. Way up there, my sister still clung to the handrail. Her wails for help rebounded off glass and concrete to fill the terminal’s vaulted heights. Just a few steps farther, the siding dropped off. That’s where she would fall. Then, out of nowhere, a figure crashed through the gathered rubberneckers. His legs pistoned on pure adrenal panic. By the time he reached the bottom of the escalator, he was no longer running but bounding. The moving stairs fell away beneath him, four at a time. Down below, I watched among the bystanders. With a hallelujah in my heart, I thought, It’s a bird . . . it’s a plane . . . no, wait, what? It’s my dad?! Just as my sister was about to tumble to the terminal floor, he hoisted her over the handrail and into his arms. Twenty years later, I still live immersed in imagined landscapes, though I’ve traded Metropolis and Gotham for my own settings: Chechnya and post-Soviet Russia in my first two books, 1940s Los Angeles in my current one, places where the paucity of heroes make their emergence all the more urgent. The questions that animated my childhood continue to preoccupy me, as a writer and as a citizen. What is the value of courage or compassion in a world that rarely honors either? How are we pint-size mortals to face the superhuman task of being good? The memory of my dad rocketing up the escalator provides one answer, not because he’s Superman but because he was and remains Clark Kent to the core. His superpowers—and they are superpowers—are making great time on road trips, explaining how things work, remembering everyone’s birthday, making his kids feel better. Before I get carried away, I should say that a week later my dad got himself locked in a hotel bathroom and had to hide in the tub while firefighters axed down the door. By then, the escalator rescue was already on its way to becoming an anecdote trotted out every few Thanksgivings. But even now, 20-odd years later, long after my sister grew up to become the person I turn to when I need a hand, I remember the sparkle of relief I felt watching my father carry her down to us. The world is filled with danger, injustice, and cruelty. We want to believe in Superman, but in my experience, it’s the Clark Kents who save us instead. 

This should have been my moment. But my heels were bolted to the terminal floor

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Talking Fashion

COAST to Coach

American heritage stalwart Coach and L.A.-cool Rodarte join forces.

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appy Sunday morning,” says Rodarte’s Laura Mulleavy, calling from Pasadena. “Good afternoon from New York,” chirps Stuart Vevers. Pleasantries aside, the bicoastal buzz of camaraderie on this conference call is as buoyant as the upcoming collaboration between Rodarte and Coach. New York heritage brand meets L.A. dreamers—could it get more American? The fact that the collection will be for purchase in international

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markets is almost beside the point: Though Vevers hails from Yorkshire, since he took on the creative directorship of the brand in 2013 a kind of filmic Americana has roared through his collections and—inspired by what he calls Rodarte’s “freeing, thoughtful, TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 4 1 GRIT AND GRACE ACTRESS SASHA LANE IN REVVED-UP (AND ENCHANTINGLY EMBELLISHED) LEATHER. COACH X RODARTE DRESS, $2,500; COACH.COM. ALEXANDER MCQUEEN EARRING. RODARTE BELT. HAIR, TAMARA MCNAUGHTON; MAKEUP, LOTTIE. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

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CLARA BALZARY. FASHION EDITOR: ALEX HARRINGTON. PRODUCED BY TALLULAH BERNARD AT ROSCO PRODUCTION.

EDITORS: MARK HOLGATE & MARK GUIDUCCI


Talking Fashion

BAG: STUART TYSON. BATTAGLIA ENGELBERT AND ROCKEFELLER: HUNTER ABRAMS/ BFA/REX/SHUTTERSTOCK. QUANN: NEIL RASMUS/BFA/REX/SHUTTERSTOCK. ROCKY: MELODIE JENG/GETTY IMAGES. JENNER: JEAN-MARC HAEDRICH/SIPA/NEWSCOM.

and transportive” qualities—prompted him to contact the Mulleavy sisters. Like so many great American creations, the adventure began with a road trip. “I loaded up my suitcases with tons of stuff and just headed to L.A., solo,” says the Manhattan-based Vevers. “Something about that Hollywood glow excites me.” The wonders of California, meanwhile, are central to the Rodarte universe. “We share certain references and ideas and see things on the same level, but at the same time we’re very different,” says Kate Mulleavy. Chatty dinners at such old-school Hollywood hangouts as Musso & Frank Grill and the Chateau Marmont cemented the trio’s bond. The result? A 39-piece collection of dresses, biker jackets, sweatshirts, and, of course, great workaday bags, now with ineffably gorgeous Rodarte touches—think handembroidered “sequins” of metallic vachetta leather dressing up stalwart saddlebags. Along with such rock-star swagger, there’s also feminine whimsy, from jazzy chain-handle evening purses to laser-cut white leather dotted with pearls, and the shared cheekiness and instant chemistry of the collaboration is played out in sweatshirts and intarsia knits emblazoned with vintage advertisements, which also happen to come with an accessible price point (instant gratification!). “It’s very rare to have the opportunity to capture our ideas from a different angle,” says Laura. “It felt very seamless, and just so fun.” She was particularly drawn to a 1973 satchel that conjured nostalgia for her first Coach bag— a hand-me-down natural brown purse—yet the nub of

FIRST BLUSH WITH A LITTLE GLITTER AND ROMANCE À LA RODARTE, A SIMPLE COACH X RODARTE CROSSBODY POSITIVELY BLOOMS. $795; COACH.COM.

the collection is beyond the mere bygone, extending easily to the independent ingenues who have rallied to Rodarte on the red carpet in embellished-leather minidresses. The carryall tote (available in black, pink, and chalk), meanwhile, is modeled on the very ones that Vevers saw Kate and Laura bring to every lunch and meeting. Laura makes no apologies, for either the constancy or the contents. “You have to keep a lipstick for every color possibility in your purse at all times,” she says. —EMMA ELWICK-BATES TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 4 2

FUR Sure GIOVANNA BATTAGLIA ENGELBERT IN FENDI.

A$AP ROCKY IN DIOR HOMME.

CIPRIANA QUANN IN GUESS.

KENDALL JENNER IN VINTAGE.

Facing a frigid forecast? Granny’s standby or a new faux makes for equally chic defense.

INDRÉ ROCKEFELLER IN VINTAGE.


Talking Fashion

Not So Junior LEAGUE

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ommy-and-me style—once as sublimely simple as color-coordinating with your toddler—has recently come of age. With Beyoncé and Blue Ivy twinning in Gucci on Instagram, and Dolce & Gabbana’s recent runway shows a kind of ne plus ultra of mother/daughter couture spectacle, children’s clothing has become fashion’s latest obsession. But while Europe is a virtual playground for finding sustainable and stylish luxury clothes for toddlers and kids, the American market has been slow to adapt to changing times. Luisana Mendoza Roccia and Sylvana Durrett, cofounders of the new children’s shopping site Maisonette, are out to change that. Friends and former co-workers at Vogue, Durrett and Mendoza Roccia started their business after becoming frustrated when trying to buy clothes for their kids online, only to find their options limited to mass retailers such as Zara or Old Navy, or department-store legacy brands that felt stuffy and outdated. “If you’re looking for something unique or higher quality, the only place you can find it is in brick-andmortar boutiques,” Durrett says.

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Maisonette aims to do for the kids’ market what Net-aPorter and Farfetch did for designers: stock hundreds of brands, from cult and international houses to little-known labels, in one convenient location online. “An estimated 90 percent of new parents are millennials, people who are going to be shopping in a completely different way,” Mendoza Roccia says. “A big part of what we’re doing is bringing a localboutique experience to the masses,” Durrett continues, “so you can browse a really beautiful shop in Paris from your sofa.” Maisonette will also feature kids’ furniture, home decor, and toys—“We are truly a one-stop shop,” Durrett explains—and has a few designer capsule collections in the works as well. On this newly launched site, keep an eye out for a collaboration line with Oeuf and limitededition Vans sneakers in matching prints for both moms and kids. Suddently, wearing the same thing never looked better.—PATRICIA GARCIA TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 5 0 DO YOU HAVE THIS IN A SMALLER SIZE? DURRETT, ABOVE LEFT (IN A GUCCI JACKET AND LEVI’S JEANS), AND MENDOZA ROCCIA (IN A KULE SWEATER AND ALTUZARRA SKIRT), AT DURRETT’S HOME WITH THEIR CHILDREN.

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V I CTOR I A H ELY-HU TCHI N SO N . SI T T IN G S ED I TO R: EM M A M OR RI SO N. HA I R , YOI C HI TOM I ZAWA ; MA KEU P, J U NKO K I O KA . D E TA I LS, SE E I N T HI S I SSUE .

Inspired by their foiled searches for distinctive children’s clothing, Sylvana Durrett and Luisana Mendoza Roccia are launching e-tailer Maisonette—all ages welcome.


FLORENCE in Abundance The award-winning footwear designer Paul Andrew spearheads a renaissance as he dreams up shoes for Salvatore Ferragamo.

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hen the dapper young English shoe designer Paul Andrew arrived at Salvatore Ferragamo in Florence last summer to take on the role of designing the 90-year-old house’s shoes, he had only one thought: Everyone wears a sneaker today. Looking at the kind of inventive, brilliant, and sometimes even plain crazy ideas that Signor STEPPING FORWARD ANDREW UPDATES THE Ferragamo dreamed up when he HOUSE’S SIGNATURE shod just about every Hollywood F WEDGE. SALVATORE FERRAGAMO VELVET SHOE, star able to walk the length and $795; SELECT SALVATORE b re a d t h TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 5 4 FERRAGAMO BOUTIQUES. VOGUE.COM

GRANT CORNETT. PROP STYLIST: NOEMI BONAZZI.

Talking Fashion


DRAWING ON THE PAST T ANDREW, ABOVE, HAS UPDATED FERRAGAMO WHILE STAYING TRUE TO ITS HERITAGE. RIGHT: A POSTER FROM THE 1930S BY ARTIST LUCIO VENNA.

G FORCE THE ICONIC GANCIO MOTIF— NOW GILDED—IS USED TO ADORN A SATIN SANDAL, $895; SELECT SALVATORE FERRAGAMO BOUTIQUES.

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of the RKO back lot—the 1938 gold leather sandals resting on sky-high rainbow wedges, for instance, or the 1947 Invisible sandal, whose barely seen threads strapped the foot to a gold metallic kid-leather heel—Andrew’s observation would seem to run counter to everything Ferragamo stood for. Not so, he says: “Salvatore moved to America in 1914, then studied anatomy in California so that he could create the most comfortable and the most fabulous shoes.” When you try on some of Andrew’s new designs (which, oftentimes, riff ff on the old), you’ll find that he has succeeded in ticking both the former and latter boxes. There’s his update on the curvaceous 1940s F wedge, rendered as an ankle-strap pum mp or bootie in rose velvet or violet suede (mollding those materials onto the heel, by the way, ttakes two labor-intensive days). The classic 1978 Vara bow pump now rests on a golden striated d columnar heel galvanized in a car factory. Ass for the Gancio—that iconic metal G-like motif—it punctua ates the crisscrossing of multistrapped satin sandals in dusky y pink or cobalt. Each of them has had its cconstruction reconfigured—a different ff set of proportions for the instep, arch, and across the toes; memory foam, for the firrst time, in every shoe. “People are much more involved in sp ports today, so their feet have changed,” Andrew says, addin ng with both a laugh and a hint of grimace: “The natural collag gen of our feet is about half of what it used to be, which is why y I had to add the cushioning.” (To underscore how the perfo ormative qualities of athletic shoes run our lives now, he has also created a tech-knit sneaker, as well as an ankle boot thaat comes with either a mid- or higher heel. Both look equallyy comfortable—and cool—but as to whether you could sprintt in them, who can say?) Andrew, who continues to work w on his own collection from his base in New York, his hom me for eighteen years, has had plenty of time to consider thee house on his frequent flits to and from Florence (he makes th he trip at least a couple of times a month, sometimes more). “IIt’s unique not only because of its design landscape, but becaause inside, Ferragamo is only Ferragamo; it’s family-owned d,” he says, though the family has given Andrew carta bianca a to do whatever he wants—and provided him with the artisanall know-how to make it happen. Andrew possesses a pretern naturally calm demeanor and had already been visiting Itaaly a lot to produce his own label, so he and his long-term m boyfriend are used to the schedule—but the more con nstant to-ing and fro-ing has meant getting into a new rhyythm of life. What has helped has been the distractions Flo orence and its environs have been able to provide: trips to o look at the Botticellis in the Uffizi Gallery (some of the p paintings’ pink tones made it into the collection); spending g the weekend at the eleventhcentury Castel Monastero neeear Siena; or rolling up for dinner at the restaurant Fuor d d’Acqua, where, says Andrew, “I don’t even look at the m menu—they just bring out this amazing branzino cookeeed in salt.” In more ways than one, it seems, he’s gettting t his feet under the table in Florence.—MARK HO OLGATE O TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 5 6 VOGUE.COM

AN DR EW: CLE ME N T PASCA L. G RO O MI N G, LAU RA D E L EO N . P OST E R: SA LVATO RE FER RAGAMO. STILL LIFE: STUART TYSON.

Talking Fashion


N I CK DO REY. S IT T I N G S ED I TOR : LI N DS EY FRUG IE R. HA I R , I LKE R A KYOL ; M A KEUP, CYND LE KOMAROVSKI. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

ALL EYES ON

Talking Fashion

NIEVES

Zuberbühler

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n late 2012, Nieves Zuberbühler submitted a job application to CBS’s 60 Minutes in which she proposed to investigate law enforcement’s use of young confidential informants in the war on drugs. A bold move, considering that she was only applying for an internship. “I just thought it was outrageous,” the Buenos Aires–born news producer remembers, noting that detectives prey specifically on young people, often teenagers, who have few options but to cooperate. “Eventually, I became obsessed.” She also got the internship. TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 5 8 ON THE DOT 60 MINUTES ASSOCIATE PRODUCER NIEVES ZUBERBÜHLER IN A GUCCI DRESS AND VEST.

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Talking Fashion

DOUTZEN KROES IN SIES MARJAN.

Clementine, persimmon, and apricot hues make the case that orange is the new black.

ALL HALLOWS EVENINGWEAR ZUBERBÜHLER WEARING BRANDON MAXWELL AT HER HALLOWEEN WEDDING.

When Zuberbühler was promoted two years later, she pitched the story again and, with her boss Shari Finkelstein, produced it. Reported by Lesley Stahl, “Confidential Informants” went on to win a 2016 Emmy Award, a statuette that now perches on a white bookshelf in her modernist West Village apartment—well out of reach of her Scottish terrier, Chucky. Since then, Zuberbühler has worked on a series about early-onset Alzheimer’s and secured an interview with President Mauricio Macri of Argentina, his first with an American broadcaster. Another recent accomplishment? Orchestrating her wedding celebration this past Halloween for no fewer than 700 costumed guests. After the ceremony, the bride asked the designer Brandon Maxwell to shear the dress he created for the occasion, a confection of 250 yards of satin-faced chiffon, into a minidress, the better for dancing after midnight. “It would have been more heartbreaking to take it off,” she says. Zuberbühler’s day-to-day style is much more straightforward—her friends even call her a tomboy. Business basics for the office—checked skirts, oxfords, and chunky glasses—give way to an off-duty wardrobe that might be described as gaucho rock. And her favorite social event by far is Okeechobee, the annual music-and-arts festival in Florida organized by her husband, Julio Santo Domingo. “My life is eclectic,” she says, “but I always like to find some magic in a look.”—MARK GUIDUCCI

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VICTORIA BECKHAM IN HER OWN DESIGN.

LAURA HARRIER IN JIL SANDER.

Vitamin C

RITA ORA IN ACNE STUDIOS.

JESSICA CHASTAIN IN DOLCE & GABBANA.

NAOMI CAMPBELL IN ATELIER VERSACE.

WED D ING: ELIZ ABETH LLOYD. KROES: ROBIN MARCH ANT/GETTY IMAGES. QUAMMIE: PH IL OH . HARRIE R: ZACH HILT Y/BFA/RE X /S HU T T E RSTO CK. CH ASTAIN: MED IAPUNCH /AKM-GSI. CAMPBELL: MARC PIASECKI/GETTY IMAGES. ORA: AKM-GS I. BECKHAM: G E T T Y IMAG ES.

JANMICHAEL QUAMMIE IN A COAT BY RAF SIMONS.


Bewitched

Bronx-based skate crew Brujas design clothes, host events, and give voice to communities that need one. Photographed by Inez and Vinoodh.

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hen Arianna Gil was fourteen years old, she visited New Orleans as a student volunteer after Hurricane Katrina had devastated the city— and was shocked by what she saw. “I learned what it means to live in a world where the government doesn’t care about black lives,” says Gil, a native New Yorker. “And I realized that I had been given tools to think about grassroots organizing and empowerment. That’s part of my MO, now and forever.” Years later, on a break from her studies at Oberlin Conservatory of Music, she and a friend would form the skate group Brujas as an inclusive, safe space for women (and particularly women of color) at their Bronx skate park. (“In Spanish culture, brujas refers to women who are spiritual and have mystic powers,” Gil says.) Though the group quickly grew to include anyone who felt an affinity with Brujas, a real turning point came when, while touring with indie R&B darling SZA as a bass player during her last year of college, Gil met some girls on the road who wanted to photograph the group; once those pictures hit Tumblr, she says, “it all went crazy.” What started as a skate team that threw house parties and convened occasional kombucha-making

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workshops—along with an art residency at Recess gallery in SoHo—evolved into both a political and cultural force. Today Brujas have narrowed their focus to become a tighter organization that seeks to engage and support the local public—a group that includes myriad ethnic backgrounds, the LGBTQ community, and immigrants. They’re also ramping up the design and development of their popular line of streetwear, which itself has found an activist voice in the “1971” collection, named to mark the year of the Attica uprising and sold to help raise legal funds to support incarcerated people. And while Gil insists that Brujas’ mission has always been “to build something bigger than ourselves, together,” the presidential election may have helped distill a sense of purpose. “Of course it’s affecting what we do,” says Gil of the Trump administration. “We are focusing on producing agents of change—the more people we can empower as organizers, the better.” —LILI GÖKSENIN TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 6 2 UPTOWN GIRLS SEVERAL OF THE BRUJAS, FROM LEFT: DAPHNE RICKARDS, NIKKI ESCOBAR, ASHLEY LUCIANO, SHEYLA GRULLON, AND DANIELLE MELENDEZ, WEARING T-SHIRTS AND SWEATSHIRTS OF THEIR OWN DESIGN. TRACK WEAR BY ADIDAS ORIGINALS BY ALEXANDER WANG.

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S IT T I N G S ED I TOR : CA M I LLA N I CK ERSO N . HA I R, CH RI ST I A A N ; MA KEU P, A A RON D E MEY. SET D ESIGN, MAR LA WEINH OFF. P RODUC ED BY ST E P HA N I E BA RGAS FO R V LM P RO DUCTI ON S. D E TA I LS, SE E I N TH IS ISSUE.

Talking Fashion


Talking Fashion

Hot Rocks As of now, the only stones I’ll be sporting across my knuckles will be literal ones: CVC Stones, to be exact. It’s been two years since financier–cum–fine jewelry designer Charlie de Viel Castel first crafted his simple, oh-socool pebble-like pendant necklaces riddled with gemstones and suspended from goldlink chains, mesmerizing both celebrities and fashion editors. Now he’s applying that same instinct for clean, elemental chic to rings. The result? Globally sourced stones set with single diamonds that seemingly float on your fingers. “I wanted to create something new for the inspiring women in my life,” says Viel Castel in his design studio, a converted conference room at Stelac, the private equity firm where he serves as managing partner. “I knew I got something right when the guys gathered at the door to buy pieces for their wives and girlfriends.”—RACHEL WALDMAN SAY IT WITH STONES CVC STONES RINGS, $2,800–$3,700; BARNEYS NEW YORK, NYC.

Elisabeth TNT returns to Gstaad, where prodigious parties redeem a dearth of snow.

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RI N G S: ST UA RT T YSO N. T NT: COURTESY O F T N T.

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Swiss ski resort without much snow? Pointless? In Gstaad snow is low on the priority list. Year after year an international crowd with suitcases full of furs and Manolos descends on this sleepy village, knowing full well that they can count on white Alba truffles on their perfectly al dente pasta. Snowflakes, however, can make a more scant appearance. Growing up in Bavaria, I was on the slopes all day, my ski pass the only accessory needed. Gstaad reminded me of different rules, where being invited into beautiful chalets is what it’s about. My uncle Mick Flick’s newly finished chalet gave my cousins and me pole position on the view. He’s a patron of the arts with his own museum in Berlin and a vast private collection, and here he has brilliantly juxtaposed the scenery with some of contemporary art’s most important masters (Bruce Nauman, Thomas Schütte). But an impressive roster of art is by no means an exception in Gstaad. Another night we were invited to the Vieux Chalet, formerly owned by infamous playboy Gunter Sachs, who was once married to Brigitte Bardot. I pushed past hordes of well-dressed guests and almost crashed into an abstract painting. Oh, wait, that’s a Picasso, and oh, here is a Picabia. Welcome to Gstaad. The next day I cross-country-skied around a beautiful alpine lake. My cousins rolled straight from bed onto the chalet’s balcony. The sun hit our faces over lunch as we sat there gazing out at an oversaturated blue sky, perfect little bouncy clouds, and wooden huts stretching far into the horizon. If it were any more alpine we’d be yodeling along with an CHALET SASHAY old bearded mountain man blowing OUR COLUMNIST TAKES IN AN ALPINE VIEW. into his alphorn. 


Beauty

Real

EDITOR: CELIA ELLENBERG

Talk

With a signature raw beauty, Charlotte Gainsbourg is translating her stripped-down aesthetic into a new Nars makeup collection. CHERCHEZ LA FEMME GAINSBOURG IN A SAINT LAURENT BY ANTHONY VACCARELLO TANK TOP AND JEANS. HAIR, TAMAS TUZES; MAKEUP, KANAKO TAKASE. PHOTOGRAPHED IN NEW YORK CITY BY MACIEK KOBIELSKI. FASHION EDITOR: JORDEN BICKHAM. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

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Beauty Makeup black liner, a slight flush—“little touches,” she explains, that enhance, rather than change, her angular features. François Nars tapped Gainsbourg for the collaboration after photographing her for an upcoming project. “There is a thread of emotion in everything Charlotte creates. You can hear it in her music, see it in her acting. Her authenticity is her beauty,” the makeup artist says of her unusual mix of vulnerability and strength. Authenticity is an overused word in fashion circles, but in Gainsbourg’s case it carries weight. In developing her line, she harnessed early memories of her mother railing against heavy, sixties-era makeup, and dabbing on blush in a taxi. The resulting lip-to-cheek Multiple Tints feature a new translucent formula for just a kiss of color; she named the berry shade Jeanette (a pet name Serge had for Jane) and the two others after her daughters, Alice, fourteen, and Jo, five. An array of eye-shadow duos, sheer liquid lipsticks, matte lip pencils, and a set of sculptural artists’ brushes round out the range, which also includes a trio of eye kohls—a standout dark mossy green matches the line’s custom packaging—to

PERSONAL TOUCH ON-THE-GO EASE GUIDED THE MAKEUP FORMULATIONS, WHILE THE NAMES SKEW AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. ALICE, A SHEER MULTIPLE TINT, NODS TO GAINSBOURG’S FOURTEENYEAR-OLD; THE RUE ALLENT DUO EYESHADOW RECALLS A STREET FROM HER CHILDHOOD.

awkward,” she insists. “In the end, not being too confident, and being with someone who loves you—with makeup but also without—makes you know more deeply who you are.” Who Gainsbourg is today is very much informed by that heritage. Now 45, she is an actress (she has three movies out this year, including The Snowman, with Michael Fassbender, and Ismael’s Ghosts, with Marion Cotillard) and a musician, like her late father, Serge (her fifth album debuts in September). She is also a muse to such designers as Nicolas Ghesquière and Saint Laurent’s Anthony Vaccarello, thanks in part to a gamine sensibility that has just helped earn Gainsbourg her first cosmetics contract. Never mind that the mother of three is more or less barefaced as she talks through her new eighteen-piece color collection with Nars, out this month. “I learned early on what suits me”—a smudge of

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handily re-create the next-day smoky look that Gainsbourg favors on the rare occasions that she dials it up for red-carpet premieres, fashion events, and live shows. Speaking of which, she is mulling promotion around her new album, and the prospect of performing live makes her nervous. “My father is on a pedestal,” she says, elaborating that she becomes uneasy onstage. But herein lies the expressive power of makeup à la Gainsbourg: For instances like these, she worked with Nars to design a lightweight tinted illuminator that helps you “feel that you have camouflaged a little of the imperfections” when you need it most. Her own success and good genes aside, Gainsbourg still has those days, as she admits with a refreshing honesty. So did Birkin, she adds, joking: “Being uncomfortable was sort of our trademark.”—LAURA REGENSDORF B E A U T Y >1 7 0 VOGUE.COM

P RODUCTS : COU RTESY OF N A RS. BAC KG ROU N D : JA M ES WOR REL L/G E TT Y IM AG ES.

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n a recent afternoon in Manhattan, Charlotte Gainsbourg, the famous daughter of iconic parents, is leaning back in an office chair, detailing a very different version of her charmed upbringing in Paris than the one more commonly idolized. “She cut my hair short, and people in the street called me ‘Mon petit gar,’ short for garçon,” she recalls of the early stylistic choices that her mother, model and actress Jane Birkin, made for her, right down to the boy’s school uniform Gainsbourg was dressed in as a child. “Later in life, I thought, Why am I so uncomfortable being a girl?” she says, her trimmed shag haircut rustling gently as she laughs. Despite her attempts to look feminine as an adolescent, lipstick and frills just never worked for her, Gainsbourg explains. It wasn’t until she was 25, after she had her first child—a son with her longtime partner, the Israeli director Yvan Attal—that she started to feel more at home in her own skin. “But I liked being


SEEING RED TOUTED FOR ITS MULTITIERED COMPLEXION BENEFITS, L.E.D. LIGHT THERAPY IS TRENDING BELOW THE NECK. MODEL CHARLENE HÖGGER IN A TABLEAUX VIVANTS BODYSUIT.

Electrıc

TheBody

L.E.D. light’s wound-healing, acne-eradicating, and age-delaying promise is evolving beyond high-end facial menus. By Marisa Meltzer.

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sk any aesthetician what their clients are buzzing about, and the answer may come in three letters: L.E.D. Small, low-intensity, and energy-efficient, light-emitting diodes are trending at cosmetic-dermatology practices and spas. The noninvasive technology is said to kill acne-causing bacteria, kick-start collagen and elastin production, and speed the healing process after resurfacing procedures, spurring the at-homedevice market as well. Now comes the Next Big Thing in L.E.D.: the first F.D.A.-cleared over-the-counter gadget for so-called full-body rejuvenation. LightStim’s new Professional LED Bed resembles a massage table crossed with a Lite-Brite game. Outfitted with 30 temperature-controlled L.E.D. panels that raise body heat in order to initiate a photochemical reaction with the skin, seven consoles were available in the U.S. in January; by June, 75 will be installed across the country. The futuristic piece of furniture is said to help reduce inflammation, lower blood pressure, improve circulation, and even increase stamina, with applications that could range from sore-muscle and -joint relief to better sex. “I’ve seen a huge benefit,” says Jason Martin, M.D., a plastic surgeon in Aspen who has worked with LightStim for six years on its clinical research. Other doctors are more circumspect. People who suffer from chronic pain “will do anything to get out of it,” says Jennifer Solomon, M.D., a physiatrist who specializes in sports medicine at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York. While promising, these kinds of studies just aren’t there yet, she adds; the benefits people experience may simply be due to the placebo effect. But intrigue led me to Dangene: The Institute of Skinovation in Manhattan, where I felt both relaxed and oddly euphoric as I absorbed the warmth emanating from the bed’s 18,240 L.E.D.s beneath me—almost four times the power of more primitive designs. My body ached less, I could breathe easier, and when I went to yoga the next morning a pulled thigh muscle merely twinged with a numb pain. It was subtle, but the difference was there, placebo effect or not.  B E A U T Y >1 7 2 VOGUE.COM

BE N HASS ET T. FAS HI O N E DI TOR : KA REN KA I S ER. HA I R, I LKE R A KYO L; M A KEUP, KABUKI. SET D ESIGN, RACH EL H AAS. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Beauty Health


Beauty Antiaging

TıghtenUp

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hese days, there’s a gym for every workout whim. But even in our fitness-obsessed culture, the idea of regularly exercising all 43 of our facial muscles to boost circulation and curb fine lines and wrinkles without Botox is a refreshing one. “Facial massage should be about routine,” says Rachel Lang, the cofounder of New York’s FaceLove, which quietly opened last fall inside the Greenwich Village outpost of Intelligent Nutrients after a series of pop-ups. Lang, a former global spa educator for Aveda, and her partner, Heidi Frederick, a massage therapist, had a simple goal for the boutique spa concept: to reimagine the long-standing beauty ritual found in Chinese, Japanese, and Indian cultures (and more recently at top-tier aestheticians’ studios) by making it readily available and affordable. Recommended weekly, the sessions run between fifteen and 45 minutes, and, with a starting price of $35, cost little more than a mani-pedi. The protocol includes a blissfully vigorous massage of the neck, shoulders, and scalp; guided facial stretches to replicate at home; and an ice-cold, depuffing jade roller to deliver brightness and plumpness, not to mention an endorphin rush. “We improve your mood, and it shows immediately on your face,” explains Lang, who will debut two new Manhattan pop-ups this spring. With outposts planned in New York and Los Angeles later this year, and a book in the works, there’s plenty to smile about—which also happens to be a great tip for toning.—FIORELLA VALDESOLO

TRAINING DAY A NEW SPA CONCEPT SPECIALIZING IN CIRCULATION-BOOSTING SKINKNEADING AIMS TO COMMODIFY THE BENEFITS OF FACIAL MASSAGE. MODEL SASHA PIVOVAROVA, PHOTOGRAPHED BY DAVID SIMS, VOGUE, 2014.

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FaceODYSSEY

Catching up with writer JANCEE DUNN on her yearlong journey of coordinated, noninvasive cosmetic treatments.

’ve now entered phase two of a twelve-month project to refresh my face nonsurgically: my first-ever dose of filler. Despite the success of the tightening laser Macrene Alexiades, M.D., Ph.D., has already advised (phase one), I am still on edge about having my face “volumized.” When I reconnect with Dr. Macrene, she nods as I relay my fears. “I don’t do point and shoot. You will not. Know where. The filler is,” she says. At least hyaluronic-acid injections are reversible, I tell myself. Dr. Macrene starts by administering Juvéderm in my upper jaw to vanquish incipient jowls. In seconds, said jowls have glided upward like an automated window shade, and she has unearthed a chin dimple that was long buried, like an Etruscan urn. We move on to under-eye bags; then the needle darts like a hummingbird to my nasolabial folds and hairline. Twenty minutes later, the hollows in my face have subtly vanished. The whole process required just one syringe, “which is very little in my business,” Dr. Macrene says, handing me an ice pack and reminding me not to smile until the next day, or the filler could drift. I heed her advice until, while I’m dining with my husband the following evening, a waiter calls me “Miss.” The corners of my mouth raise involuntarily. A decade ago, I made the discouraging transition from Miss to Ma’am. At the time, I thought I looked youthful; ma’am was the world telling me otherwise. “Miss?” he repeats. I contemplate not answering, just so he’ll say it one more time.  B E A U T Y >1 74

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THE PROCEDURE A stabilized form of hyaluronic acid, facial fillers like Juvéderm are injected into creased or slackened skin, most commonly around the nose and mouth, along the hairline, and under the eyes. New advancements, like the Vectra M3 device, allow doctors to finesse a three-dimensional facial image with virtual filler. THE DETAILS Juvéderm can last for a year and run close to $900 per vial, with most doctors recommending one to three vials per session.

VOGUE.COM


Beauty Trend

Heir TRANSPARENT

Serial beauty disrupter Marcia Kilgore is back with a factory-direct membership model that promises prestige makeup—and now skin care—with zero markup. By Kari Molvar.

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NEW ORDER STREAMLINED DISTRIBUTION HELPS BEAUTY PIE KEEP ITS PRICES SHOCKINGLY LOW. TOP LEFT: LABTESTED INGREDIENTS PHOTOGRAPHED BY RAYMOND MEIER, VOGUE, 2005. LEFT: A TRIO OF HIGH-PERFORMANCE PRODUCTS IN THE NEW SKIN-CARE RANGE.

P RODUCTS : COU RTESY OF B EAU T Y P I E

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arcia Kilgore was on a train, zipping across the Italian border into the foothills of the Swiss Alps, when the idea came to her. She was transporting makeup samples from a luxury cosmetics manufacturer, and, looking down at the assortment—lipsticks, mascaras, and blush—Kilgore started to calculate the price markup that would occur as these tubes and compacts moved from laboratory to supplier to distributor to retailer before reaching consumers’ hands. It could easily amount to ten, maybe twelve times the cost—and that, she concluded, was absurd. The concept for Beauty Pie, her radical wholesale startup, was born. “I want to bring customers these amazing products at incredible prices, and be transparent about my motivation,” Kilgore reveals from her home in Founex, Switzerland. In case there is any confusion: That motivation is to upend and blow open the beauty industry.

Launched last winter in the U.K. and U.S., Beauty Pie has an elegantly simple business model that Kilgore likens to a food co-op. For a monthly membership fee ($10), you can buy top-grade products at unheard-of prices—eyeliner for $1.61, lipstick for $2.39, foundation for $5.07—while nonmembers can also shop online at full retail for, say, a $25 lipstick. By partnering with a global network of in-demand laboratories—often the exact same ones that supply prestige brands— and eliminating overhead costs, Beauty Pie combines the allure of Pat McGrath Labs’ right-off-the-conveyor-belt kits with the efficiency of direct-to-consumer brands (Glossier) and membership-driven sites (Dollar Shave Club). After going live with makeup in December, Beauty Pie racked up 3,000 members in 60 days. Now the company is going after skin care. “The beautiful thing about being at this stage in my career is that there are no compromises I need to make on behalf of the consumer,” says Kilgore, who is something of a legend in the business world. A trained esthetician who founded Bliss Spa in 1996, she sold a majority stake to French conglomerate LVMH for a reported $30 million just three years later; the U.K.’s Boots bought her second skin-care project, Soap & Glory, in 2014. Her latest endeavor is all about quality, insists Kilgore, who sought out next-generation ingredients like the buzzy Korean aloe in her Moisture Shot Serum ($7.04). Test-driven on a Swiss ski weekend in Verbier, it’s the “next big thing” for “plumping and hydrating without the grease,” she claims. Another standout is the anti-aging cream, with youth-enhancing agents including encapsulated hyaluronic acid and skinrenewing plant stem cells. At a whopping $11.96, the salve commands the highest price in the line, although “normally,” Kilgore whispers, “it would cost $500.” Figures like that will surely impress would-be members. So will the sizing of serums, such as the Micropeeling Drops ($7.02), spiked with pore-clearing fruit acids and packaged in a 50-milliliter bottle, instead of the typical 30-milliliter, to encourage users to apply the precious ingredients liberally. Or “with a little bit of reckless abandon,” advises Kilgore, who has never been much for timidity. 


People AreTalking About EDITOR: VALERIE STEIKER

Glam Rock With a vintage flair worthy of Wes Anderson, the brothers behind The Lemon Twigs are going for it.

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rian and Michael D’Addario are pop-rock connoisseurs. Raised on a steady diet of Beatles and Bee Gees in the Long Island suburb of Hicksville—one of Brian’s earliest memories is their father teaching him to play “Love Me Do”—the brothers supplemented their musical self-education with classical-guitar lessons, ensemble roles in such Broadway productions as Les Misérables and The Little Mermaid, and an early passion for YouTube. Fluent in everyone from Nirvana to Joan Jett, Lou Reed to MGMT, they could probably write a cultural history but instead are trying their best at making some. At twenty and eighteen, respectively, Brian and Michael perform as The Lemon Twigs, a band that can add a debut album and world tour to its nascent CV. Produced by

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BROTHERS MICHAEL, IN GUCCI TROUSERS, AND BRIAN D’ADDARIO, IN ORLEY SLACKS, OF THE LEMON TWIGS.

Foxygen’s Jonathan Rado—“the first person that ever took interest in us,” according to Brian—the appropriately titled Do Hollywood was recorded on the D’Addarios’ first trip to Los Angeles, where they laid down ten songs in twelve days. Featuring odes to their myriad influences, it brims with invention and eccentricity (xylophone solo, anyone?). Equally compelling is The Lemon Twigs’ look: Michael, a fan of Todd Rundgren’s style, recently chopped his eighties mullet down to a British Invasion mop, while Brian has long nurtured a grunge-era shag. No wonder they’re the subject of Hedi Slimane’s most recent photo diary. Like Slimane, the D’Addarios have a retro obsession, and a point of view that P ATA >1 8 6 is all their own.—MARK GUIDUCCI VOGUE.COM

CH A RLOT TE WA LES. S I T TI N G S E DI TOR : CLA R E BYRN E. HA I R , S HI N A RI MA ; MA KEUP, J EN MYLES. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Music


MISSING You

Uprooted from her prep school and dropped into a desolate Lake Michigan town, Cat, the teenage narrator of Julie Buntin’s magnetic first novel, Marlena (Henry Holt), finds a life buoy in the girl next door: a reckless beauty with perfect pitch, a backyard meth lab, and “that glow to her that lives in lost things.” A disquieted privilege marks Julianne Pachico’s fearless debut, The Lucky Ones (Spiegel & Grau), in which young women grow up sheltered from but haunted by the Colombian civil war. In the digital age, the lives of glamorous others have never felt more tantalizingly near, or so finds the lonely antiheroine of Olivia Sudjic’s Sympathy (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). A fatherless Chanel No. 5–loving boy navigates coming of age in New Jersey amid the mixed messages of his pious grandmother and lusty hairdresser mother in Victor Lodato’s Edgar & Lucy (St. Martin’s), while the father-daughter Bonnie and Clyde in Hannah Tinti’s The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley (Dial Press) find their attempts at a more stable life scarred by the losses of the past. But few books capture history’s wounds like Natalia Ginzburg’s A Family Lexicon (NYRB), about an Italian clan doomed by the rise of fascism, in which survival is about conjuring lost voices—irascible, elegiac, and not to be forgotten.—MEGAN O’GRADY

Movies

Brave New Worlds

Sometimes heroism comes calling. Antonina Żabińska (Jessica Chastain), the real-life inspiration for Niki Caro’s engrossing The Zookeeper’s Wife, is a wife and mother helping at the Warsaw zoo run by her husband, Jan (Johan Heldenbergh). But when the Nazis invade Poland, the two make it a haven for 300 Jews, requiring Antonina to manipulate their German overseer (Daniel Brühl). In adapting Diane Ackerman’s best seller, Caro covers ground similar to Schindler’s List, yet finds a fresh angle. Fueled by Chastain’s fully committed performance—she even sticks her hand up an elephant’s trunk—the film shows how her empathy toward animals leads her naturally to saving human lives. The courage is internal in A Quiet Passion, Terence Davies’s haunting portrait of Emily Dickinson (played as a teen by Emma Bell and as an adult by Cynthia Nixon), who overcame a famously reclusive life to become a poet of consummate artistry. If sometimes a tad stiff and theatrical, the movie is worth seeing simply for Nixon, whose Dickinson is every bit as magisterial as Daniel Day-Lewis’s Lincoln. She makes this painful yet artful life proof that, as the poet wrote, “A Wounded Deer—leaps highest.”—JOHN POWERS JESSICA CHASTAIN STARS IN NIKI CARO’S THE ZOOKEEPER’S WIFE.

Object

By the SEA

Flora meets fauna in Chive’s new collection of handmade ceramic objets inspired by nature found in and around the ocean. Anemones, dahlias, and succulents in beachy hues from coral to seaweed are the perfect springtime garnish for dinner tables, bookshelves, and elsewhere. “The original thinking,” says designer Todd Newgren, “was to create a piece that you would find in an antique store’s curio cabinet.”— LILAH RAMZI P ATA >1 8 8 FROM LEFT: TEAL DAHLIA, LILAC LOTUS, AND YELLOW MUM.

MOVIES: ANNE MAR IE FOX/FOCUS FEATUR ES, OBJ ECT: PH OTOS BY CH IVE.

Books

People Are Talking About


People Are Talking About Theater

Condola Rashad returns to Broadway as Nora’s daughter in A Doll’s House, Part 2.

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enrik Ibsen’s ground-shaking 1879 play A Doll’s House famously ends with “the door slam heard ’round the world,” as its heroine, Nora, walks out on her husband and children to discover who she is. Speculation about what happens next has been the subject of several stage sequels, most notoriously the 1982 musical flop A Doll’s Life, co-written by my own father, who years later told me, “Maybe we should have left perfect enough alone.” This month, the talented young playwright Lucas Hnath (Red Speedo; The Christians) is offering his own take with A Doll’s House, Part 2, directed by Sam Gold (Othello) and starring Laurie Metcalf as Nora and Condola Rashad as Emmy, the now-grown daughter she left behind. “It has to do with a woman making a choice for herself in a society that does not necessarily support her,” observes Rashad, whose finely etched portraits have won her acclaim (and two Tony nominations) in such plays as Ruined, Stick Fly, and Romeo and Juliet. “And that is literally the world that we’re living in right now.” The play involves the return home after about fifteen years of Nora—since become a successful author of protofeminist literature—who has discovered that her husband, Torvald, never filed for divorce. Things get complicated when she’s forced to ask her daughter to intervene. At the heart of the story is a showdown between Nora and Emmy over their competing visions of marriage. “I actually think it’s good

THE ACTRESS IN A BOTTEGA VENETA SWEATER AND IPPOLITA EARRINGS.

to be stuck in a marriage,” Emmy tells her mother. “It’s the fact that we’re bound together, that it’s difficult to leave, that actually makes people stick around and try.” Rashad herself is a child of divorce, and though quick to point out she was never abandoned, she gets where Emmy is coming from (her parents are the actress Phylicia Rashad and the sportscaster Ahmad Rashad). “During workshops, I got really emotional because there were so many feelings coming up that I hadn’t processed,” she says. She is also aware of the irony that she’s heading into this play newly engaged to the actor Sebastian Vallentin Stenhøj. “And then there’s that,” she says with a laugh. Her past year has been busy, between the 2016 movie Money Monster and filming season two of Showtime’s Billions. For Rashad, though, theater “feels like home. Even if I wander off,” she says, “I’m always going to come back.”—ADAM GREEN P ATA >1 9 0

Travel

Welcome to PARADISE A few hours east of Singapore is Indonesia’s Riau Islands Province, which includes hundreds of uninhabited Robinson Crusoe–style islands dotting the South China Sea. This month, Cempedak debuts as the world’s first private island resort constructed almost entirely of bamboo. To build this modern eco-paradise, one of the owners, Australian Andrew Dixon, hired Bali-based architect Miles Humphreys to create 20 organically shaped villas with roofs that, from the water, appear to hover over the jungle foliage like umbrellas. Guests can take winding paths through the jungle to their villas and traverse a suspended bridge from the cocktail bar to the restaurant for grilled seafood and sambol. A two-hour journey from Singapore is Bawah Private Island, opening this summer. Also built with eco-sensitive materials, the resort’s 35 villas are housed on one of five islands with thirteen white sand beaches. Stop by the yoga pavilion, take a dip in the beachfronted infinity pool, or, if you’re feeling really adventurous, explore three turquoise-hued lagoons, protected, like all of Bawah, as a marine-conservation area.—GISELA WILLIAMS TWO PRIVATE ISLAND RETREATS DEBUT OFF THE COAST OF SINGAPORE.

TH EATER : D R EW VICKERS. SITTINGS ED ITOR : GABR IELLA KAR EFA-J OH NSON. H AIR , N IKKI N E LMS ; MAKEU P, JU N KO KIO KA. P H OTO G RA P H E D AT CAST I RO N H OUS E . T RAV E L : COU RT ESY O F BAWA H P R I VAT E I S L A N D. D E TA I LS, S E E I N T H I S I SSU E .

Home Free


People Are Talking About Design

Family STYLE

AERIN LAUDER PUTS A FRESH SPIN ON CLASSIC BLUE-AND-WHITE PLATES.

Television

Survival of the FITTEST

Talk about capturing the Zeitgeist. In The Handmaid’s Tale, Hulu’s darkly gripping adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s controversial classic, America gets taken over by a totalitarian theocracy that forcibly imposes “traditional” gender roles. Elisabeth Moss plays Offred, a liberal-minded woman separated from her daughter and forced into sexual servitude in the house of the Commander (Joseph Fiennes), who wants her to bear the child his wife can’t. Naturally she wants to rebel, but whom can she trust to help? Her unreadable fellow handmaid (Alexis Bledel)? The seemingly friendly chauffeur (Max Minghella)? Or what about her oldest friend (Samira Wiley)? The Handmaid’s Tale plunges us into a claustrophobic reality that plays on current fears but also gives us a heroine who offers some hope. Showcasing Moss’s knack for playing smart women surrounded by retrograde men, Offred learns to fight for freedom in a culture that makes Mad Men’s skirt-chasing offices seem like a feminist paradise.—J.P.

HULU’S DYSTOPIAN SERIES THE HANDMAID’S TALE IS BASED ON THE BEST-SELLING NOVEL.

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VILLAGE Voice When Matt Tyrnauer (Valentino: The Last Emperor) first started work on Citizen Jane: Battle for the City, his new documentary about the mid-century urban theorist Jane Jacobs, he had no idea how relevant Jacobs’s example would feel in 2017. “If we have to gear up to fight, there’s no one better to look to than Jane Jacobs for the playbook of how to push back against wrongheaded political agendas,” he observes. Born in Scranton, Pennsylvania, Jacobs moved in 1934 to New York, where, over the next three decades, she became a journalist (for Vogue, among other places), an author (she laid out her bottom-up, organized-chaos theory of cities in 1961’s The Death and Life of Great American Cities), and an activist who took on New York’s megalomaniacal “master builder” Robert Moses when his urban-renewal schemes and highwayinfrastructure projects endangered beloved neighborhoods like the West Village and SoHo. Against all odds, Jacobs succeeded in blocking Moses’s attempts to extend Fifth Avenue through Washington Square Park and to build an expressway across Lower Manhattan (all this, and she garnered not a single mention in The Power Broker, Robert Caro’s seminal biography of her foe). In Citizen Jane, Tyrnauer uses writings by Jacobs and Moses—read by Marisa Tomei and Vincent D’Onofrio—and a trove of never-before-seen archival video footage to dramatize their David-andGoliath clash. “Stop being victims,” Jacobs advises in one clip. “It’s even wickeder to be a predator, but it’s wicked to be a victim, and allow it.”—JULIA FELSENTHAL

VOGUE.COM

D ESI G N : G O RMA N ST U DI O. T E LEV I S I O N: TA KE FI V E /HU LU.

Documentary

“It’s very much influenced by my grandmother Estée’s love for that traditional blue-and-white china,” says Aerin Lauder of the dinnerware in her new home collection for Williams Sonoma, while a set of Murano-inspired speckled glasses pay tribute to her mother, Jo Carole’s, effortless chic. As for the seashell-embroidered pillows, “as a little girl, I’d always bring home a pocketful of seaglass, coral, and shells from the beach.”—SAMANTHA REES


©2017 S.C. Johnson & Son, Inc. All rights reserved.

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Happy Birthday, VOGUE!

Look back or move forward? When you’re celebrating any birthday, there’s always the inclination to do both, and when you’re celebrating your 125th anniversary, asVogue does thıs year, it’s even more temptıng to take a nostalgic, dewy-eyed wander down memory lane. Yet that’s never really been our thing; newness should always be the lifeblood of whatever we do. Over the course of the coming months, to commemorate our big 1-2-5, you’ll see and read—and hear and taste and perhaps even wear—a whole host of birthday surprises that we have lined up, on these pages, online, and elsewhere. Meanwhile, back to the question we started with. It’s something many of us are grappling with right now, and this April, we bring you a whole cast of inspiring women who’ve faced huge challenges and seemingly insurmountable odds, and arrived at that most enviable

place in life where they can see a clear road ahead, even if they know there will still be a few bends and turns along the way. Yet the idea of going forward isn’t just philosophical. This issue is dedicated to a progressive idea of style—from artistically inclined, quirky-cool bags to a new generation of designers making daring, inventive clothes to spring’s exceptional pieces, which are lavished with artisanal, handcrafted details, details that by allowing a little of the past in their execution also manage to look to the future. Sometimes, it is possible to look backward and move forward.  193


On Her Own Terms Coming off a dramatic year, Selena Gomez opens up about the pressures of performing, what it feels like to record again, and the sÄąmple things that make her happy( hint:not Instagram). RobHaskell reports. Photographed by Mert Alas andMarcus Piggott.


GETTING REAL “People so badly wanted me to be authentic, and when that happened, finally, it was a huge release,” Gomez says. Louis Vuitton bodysuit and dress. Jennifer Fisher earrings. Alexander McQueen cuffs. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.


n an unusually wet and windy evening in Los Angeles, Selena Gomez shows up at my door with a heavy bag of groceries. We’ve decided that tonight’s dinner will be a sort of tribute to the after-church Sunday barbecues she remembers from her Texan childhood. I already have chicken simmering in green salsa, poblano peppers blackening on the flames of the stove, and red cabbage wilting in a puddle of lime juice. All we need are Gomez’s famous cheesy potatoes—so bad they’re good, she promises. She sets down her Givenchy purse and brings up, in gaudy succession, a frozen package of Giant Eagle Potatoes O’Brien, a can of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup, a bag of shredded “Mexican cheese,” and a squat plastic canister of French’s Crispy Fried Onions. “I bet you didn’t think we were going to get this real,” she says, and when I tell her that real isn’t the first word that springs to mind when faced with these ingredients, she responds with the booming battle-ax laugh that offers a foretaste of Gomez’s many enchanting incongruities. But real is precisely what I was expecting from the 24-yearold Selena, just as her 110 million Instagram followers (Selenators, as they’re known) have come to expect it. Of course, celebrity’s old codes are long gone, MGM’s untouchable eggshell glamour having given way to the “They’re Just Like Us!” era of documented trips to the gas station and cellulite captured by telephoto lenses. But Gomez and her ilk have gone further still, using their smartphones to generate a stardom that seems to say not merely “I’m just like you” but “I am you.” “People so badly wanted me to be authentic,” she says, laying a tortilla in sizzling oil, “and when that happened, finally, it was a huge release. I’m not different from what I put out there. I’ve been very vulnerable with my fans, and sometimes I say things I shouldn’t. But I have to be honest with them. I feel that’s a huge part of why I’m where I am.”

Gomez traces her shift toward the unfiltered back to a song she released in 2014 called “The Heart Wants What It Wants,” a ballad about loving a guy she knows is bad news. The title derives from a letter written by Emily Dickinson, though Woody Allen reintroduced the phrase when he used it to describe his relationship with Soon-Yi Previn. We can assume that Gomez is referring here to Justin Bieber, with whom she ended a threeyear relationship at around the time the song debuted. If you are over 30 and find yourself somewhat mystified by Gomez’s fame, unable to attach it to any art object—apart from several inescapable pop songs and a cameo in The Big Short in which, as herself, she explains synthetic collateralized debt obligations—then you might wish to watch the video for “The Heart Wants What It Wants.” (You will be late to the party; it received more than nine million views in the first 24 hours following its release.) Before the music begins, we hear Gomez’s voice as if from a recorded psychotherapy session, ruminating over a betrayal. “Feeling so confident, feeling so great about myself,” she says, her voice breaking, “and then it’d just be completely shattered by one thing. By something so stupid.” Sobs. “But then you make me feel crazy. You make me feel like it’s my fault.” Is this acting? Is it a HIPAA violation? Either way, there is magic in the way it makes you feel as if you’ve just shared in her suffering. Pay dirt for a Selenator. Gomez queues up a playlist—Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers—and back in the kitchen, there is a chile relleno casserole to assemble, green enchiladas to roll, and her cheesy potatoes to mix together. As I slip an apron over her mane of chocolate-brown hair, for which Pantene has paid her millions, and tie it around her tiny waist, I wonder whether her legions have felt for years the same sharp pang of protectiveness that I’m feeling at present. Even as she projects strength and self-assuredness, Gomez is not stingy with frailty. “I’ve cried onstage more times than I can count, and I’m not a cute crier,” she says. Last summer, after the North American and Asian legs of her “Revival” tour, with more than 30 concerts remaining, she abruptly shut things down and checked into a psychiatric facility in Tennessee. (This was the second time Gomez had canceled a tour to enter into treatment; in January 2014, shortly after being diagnosed with lupus, she spent two weeks at the Meadows, the Arizona center that has welcomed Tiger Woods, Rush Limbaugh, and Kate Moss.) The cause, she says, was not an addiction or an eating disorder or burnout, exactly. “Tours are a really lonely place for me,” she explains. “My self-esteem was shot. I was depressed, anxious. I started to have panic attacks right before getting onstage, or right after leaving the stage. Basically I felt I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t capable. I felt I wasn’t giving my fans anything, and they could see it— which, I think, was a complete distortion. I was so used to performing for kids. At concerts I used to make the entire crowd raise up their pinkies and make a pinky promise never to allow anybody to make them feel that they weren’t good enough. Suddenly I have

“I’ve been vulnerable with my fans, and sometimes Isay things I shouldn’t. But I have to be honest with them. That’s a huge part of why I’m where I am”


RED HOT Gomez has the world’s most popular account on Instagram—110 million followers and counting— but she’s trying to post less. “It had become so consuming.” Balenciaga top and pants.


HUMBLE BEGINNINGS The Texas native was raised by a single mother who was sixteen when Gomez was born. Landing a role on Barney & Friends launched her career as a child star. Dolce & Gabbana dress.


TURNING HEADS “I see her as a sort of third-generation feminist,” says film producer Donna Gigliotti, who worked with Gomez in the 2016 drama The Fundamentals of Caring. “She’s adorable and flirty and funny, but she’s also kind of kick-ass.” Hilfiger Collection bikini.


“We girls, we’re taught to be almost too resilient, to be strong and sexy and cool and laid-back. We also need to feel allowed to fall apart”

kids smoking and drinking at my shows, people in their 20s, 30s, and I’m looking into their eyes, and I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t say, ‘Everybody, let’s pinkypromise that you’re beautiful!’ It doesn’t work that way, and I know it because I’m dealing with the same shit they’re dealing with. What I wanted to say is that life is so stressful, and I get the desire to just escape it. But I wasn’t figuring my own stuff out, so I felt I had no wisdom to share. And so maybe I thought everybody out there was thinking, This is a waste of time.” On August 15, Gomez uploaded a photo of almost baroque drama: her body collapsed on the stage, bathed in beatific light. Whether this was agony or ecstasy, it drew more than a million comments from fans (who have handles like “selena_is_my_life_forever”). It would be her last Instagram post for more than three months. She flew to Tennessee, surrendered her cell phone, and joined a handful of other young women in a program that included individual therapy, group therapy, even equine therapy. “You have no idea how incredible it felt to just be with six girls,” she says, “real people who couldn’t give two shits about who I was, who were fighting for their lives. It was one of the hardest things I’ve done, but it was the best thing I’ve done.” She stayed for 90 days, making her first post-treatment appearance last November at the American Music Awards, where she collected the trophy for Favorite Pop/Rock Female Artist and gave a tearful speech about her struggles; it quickly went viral.

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n the tearoom at the Peninsula Beverly Hills hotel, little girls in pinafores and pink high-tops sit on heavily tasseled sofas and drink sparkling apple juice out of champagne flutes. One by one they approach our table, shyness replaced by rapturous giggles as Gomez praises their pretty dresses and invites them to sit with her for a picture. Her seemingly infinite patience with these intrusions is something between a habit and a principle. “Somebody I used to hang out with would always get very frustrated with me,” she says, presumably referring to Bieber, whose name she will not utter. “But I have a hard time saying no to children.” Donna Gigliotti, who produced The Fundamentals of Caring, a 2016 drama in which Gomez plays the love interest of a boy with muscular dystrophy, recalls the throngs of children ready to engulf her outside the set even in rural Georgia. “They love her because she is so generous and so authentic,” Gigliotti says. “I admit that I didn’t quite understand her huge fan base at first. Now I see her as a sort of third-generation feminist. She’s adorable and flirty and funny, but she’s also kind of kick-ass. I think her young fans go wild for that combination.” “There’s a vulnerability about Selena,” says Paul Rudd, her costar in The Fundamentals of Caring. “She’s never trying to sell herself or impress anyone. She doesn’t put on airs, and she was a good sport about really long days in sometimes

uncomfortable conditions. You’d never know she was so famous by the way she behaved, which, I think, is a huge key to her appeal.” Doll-like and startled in pictures but almost breathtakingly at ease in person, Gomez was once described by her good friend Taylor Swift as “both 40 years old and seven years old.” She grew up in Grand Prairie, Texas, raised by a single mother who was sixteen when she was born. Gomez remembers being asked to feel between the cushions in the car for change so that they could buy Styrofoam cups of ramen. But at age seven, after a few years on the pageant circuit, she landed a role on the children’s show Barney & Friends, which shot in Dallas and recruited talent locally. By twelve she was one of Disney’s young players, plucked out of thousands of hopefuls. At thirteen she moved to Los Angeles with her mother and stepfather, and the following year Disney gave her the lead in Wizards of Waverly Place, a sitcom about a family of wizards who own a downtown Manhattan restaurant. The show was a hit, and Disney did what Disney does, fanning Gomez’s talent across music and movies, with her mother, Mandy Teefey, continuing to act as her manager. (Gomez hired a Hollywood management firm in 2014, after her first mental-health crisis, but she continues to develop projects with her mother and prizes her opinion above all others.) “I worked with Disney for four years,” Gomez says. “It’s a very controlled machine. They know what they represent, and there was, 100 percent, a way to go about things.” No child star enjoys easy passage through the morass of adolescence, and Gomez struggled to shed her blandly perky Wizards persona. “For a guy there’s a way to rebel that can work for you,” she believes. “But for a woman, that can backfire. It’s hard not to be a cliché, the child star gone wrong. I did respect my fans and what I had, but I was also figuring out what I was passionate about and how far I was willing to go.” The first thing she did post-Disney was Harmony Korine’s darkly lurid Spring Breakers, a 2013 film about four college girls on a rampage of sex, drugs, and murder. (Gomez played Faith, the one who can’t quite stomach it all and heads back early.) “My mom wanted me to work with a director who would really push me,” she recalls. “I watched Kids, Trash Humpers, Gummo, and I was like, Mom, are you crazy? But it was fun to imagine how you might behave if you were set free of whatever was holding you captive. I’m a late bloomer. I grew up around adults, but in terms of getting out, having friends—at times I really didn’t know anything but my job.” In retrospect, Gomez’s childhood successes were always tinged with sadness. “My mom gave up her whole life for me,” she explains. “Where we’re from, you don’t really leave. So when I started gaining all this success, there was a guilt that came with it. I thought, Do I deserve this?” Though she has been in several other films since Spring Breakers, Gomez has enjoyed greater success as a musician. And yet the musician’s life exhausts her. On film sets she is buffered by the ensemble and can retreat into her C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 5 6


SET DESIGN, ANDREA STANLEY FOR STREETERS. PRODUCED BY AC ROSS MED IA PRODUCTION. LOCAL PRODUCTION, GABR IEL H ILL FO R G E PROJECTS. CUSTOM LOW R ID ER BICYCLE, MANNY’S BIKE SH OP, CO MPTO N , CA.

ME TIME Gomez spent 90 days last summer in psychiatric treatment after dark feelings surfaced during her “Revival” tour. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve done, but it was the best thing I’ve done,” she says. Coach 1941 leather jacket and shorts. In this story: hair, Shay Ashual; makeup, Aaron de Mey. Details, see In This Issue.


B ig Ret urn

would not have taken Maria Sharapova for a tea person. But here we are, standing in her kitchen parsing the finer points of grated ginger and stainless-steel infusers. I don’t even drink tea, but we both have rotten colds, so Sharapova has conjured the most delicious hot beverage I’ve ever tasted in a teapot made entirely of glass. The elixir is electric greenish-yellow— the color of a tennis ball—and one of the only splashes of color in the pristine white-and-gray Minimalist house that Sharapova spent three years building in Manhattan Beach, California. You would never know a tennis player lives here. “Nowhere will you find a clue,” she says, laughing. But you will find other clues—about its occupant’s interest in modern art, architecture, and good design. There are large paintings by Joe Goode and Chris Gwaltney; a floor lamp topped with a white-feather shade that, when lit, looks like a giant peony; and a framed black-and-white photograph of a very young Marilyn Monroe. A glass wall runs the length of the kitchen and living room, with sliding doors opening to a pool that laps right up against the side of the house. “This was as close as they could get it,” she says. Sharapova trains at the Manhattan Country Club, about ten minutes from here, and we were supposed to go there yesterday—a Monday, her day off—to hit some tennis balls and have a boozy lunch (her idea) but . . . well, tea instead. I must admit, I was surprised when she suggested the plan. Playing one’s sport and drinking are not the sort of things world-class athletes do with journalists, but Sharapova, who failed a drug test in January 2016 and was banned from competitive tennis for fifteen months (more on that in a minute), has had some time on her hands. “This past year, my intake of alcohol was so much more than ever in my life,” she says. “But it was because I actually had a social life!” When she emailed a couple days earlier, apologizing profusely for having to postpone (she is not a canceler, this Maria Sharapova), I told her I was doing just fine, watching the Australian Open and eating French fries in my hotel room. She wrote back: “French fries and the Four Seasons, yes please! Being sick and watching tennis, not so much.” It was a reminder that Sharapova has a peculiar relationship to the sport she has been at or near the top of since winning Wimbledon at seventeen—and that made her the highestpaid female athlete in the world for eleven years in a row.

Curled up on an enormous modern gray sofa wearing no makeup, hair pulled back in a loose knot, Sharapova comes across not as the ferociously competitive Russian tennis player that she is but more as a California girl who does a lot of yoga. Tall and pretty, she really knows her way around a big sweater, a pair of leggings, and simple jewelry. And if she seems to inhabit the world in a different way than most players, it is probably because tennis is not her religion. “I think I’d go crazy if I was only a tennis player,” she says, a teacup balanced on her knee. “Seriously.” A writer once described Sharapova as being both haughty and self-deprecating, but I would put quotes around “haughty,” as that part of her feels like an ironic performance: She’s mostly kidding when she drops a droll one-liner during her press conferences—like the time she packed a room with reporters last March to announce that she had failed that drug test. “I know many of you thought that I would be retiring today,” she said and then paused for effect. “If I was ever going to announce my retirement, it would probably not be in a downtown Los Angeles hotel with this fairly ugly carpet.” On that afternoon last March, Sharapova calmly laid out the facts: At the Australian Open in January 2016 she tested positive for a drug called meldonium. Manufactured in Latvia, it is not approved by the FDA but is in common use in Russia and Eastern Europe to treat heart conditions by increasing blood flow. Sharapova, who had been taking the over-the-counter drug for ten years, explained that her doctor recommended it because she had a magnesium deficiency and irregular EKGs, in addition to a history of diabetes in her family. Turns out, scores of Eastern European and Russian athletes were also taking the drug on the chance that it might improve recovery and endurance, a benefit of which experts say there’s scant evidence. The World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) had been monitoring the drug for several months in 2015 and then banned it, effective January 1, 2016, because of “evidence of its use by athletes with the intention of enhancing performance.” Maria did not get the memo (she says she failed to open an email link from the International Tennis Federation) and was suspended from the sport by the ITF for two years. After an appeal, the suspension was reduced to fifteen months, ending C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 5 6 GAME TIME “I love being in motion,” Sharapova says of making the most of her year off. “I like to work.” Solid & Striped swimsuit. In this story: hair, Sally Hershberger; makeup, Francelle. Details, see In This Issue. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.

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As her fifteen-month suspension lifts, Maria Sharapova sits down with JonathanVan Meter to discuss what happened and what comes next. Photographed by Annie Leibovitz.


May


Day

She stepped into a whirlwind to lead Britain into the Brexit era. But—leather trousers aside— Theresa May’s own style isdecidedly no-drama. GabyWood meets her. Photographed by Annie Leibovitz.

HIGH PROFILE British Prime Minister Theresa May at Chequers. “He can lead a protest,” she says of her opposite number. “I’m leading a country.” L.K.Bennett coat and dress. Hair, Shon; makeup, Niamh Quinn. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


If

you’re running a country, most weeks present their difficulties, but the one in which I meet Theresa May is especially tumultuous. Five days earlier, she had become the first foreign leader to visit Donald Trump as president. The meeting was at first largely hailed in the British press as a diplomatic triumph, but within 24 hours it was portrayed as something closer to a disaster. May was on her way to Turkey—to meet President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, another high-risk encounter—when Trump issued his controversial executive order halting the admission of refugees and banning travel from seven Muslim-majority countries. May came under fire for not promptly condemning Trump’s actions and—in retrospect—for having invited him on a state visit before anyone had had a chance to see what kind of president he would be. She arrived home to find a member of the opposition Labour Party dubbing her “Theresa the appeaser,” in reference to Neville Chamberlain’s policy of capitulating to Hitler, and thousands of protesters gathered outside Downing Street. May’s defense minister, Michael Fallon, had commented a few days earlier that we are no longer living in “benevolent times”—words that seemed to capture the waters through which Theresa May, the unelected prime minister of the United Kingdom, has chosen to steer a course. I visit her on a Wednesday afternoon, between the vote in Parliament that would begin the process of leaving the European Union and a particularly pugilistic performance from May at the weekly grilling session known as Prime Minister’s Questions. At midday, she had been challenged in the House of Commons by Jeremy Corbyn, the leader of the Labour Party, to heed the 1.8 million people who had demanded that she rescind Trump’s June invitation. May stood up and leaned in: one elbow on the ornate wooden dispatch box, shoulder turned toward her opponent, as if preparing to deliver a left hook to his jaw (a gesture she would later tell me was subconscious). “Let’s just see what he would have achieved in the last week,” she said to the packed green leather benches, whose acoustics roughly resemble those of a zoo. “Would he have been able to protect British citizens from the impact of the executive order? No. Would he have been able to lay the foundations of a trade deal? No. Would he have got a

100 percent commitment to NATO? No!” She paused to let the parliamentary roar die down before raising her voice to human-loudspeaker level. “He can lead a protest. I’m leading a country.” Three hours later, the prime minister meets me in her brightly lit office at 10 Downing Street. Beneath a John Piper painting, where her predecessor David Cameron had arranged a pair of brown wingback armchairs, she has installed a large glass-topped table, turning a gentleman’s club into a boardroom. We sit, rather stiffly, at one corner of it, with matching cut-crystal glasses of water. “How are things?” I ask. A minute, amused exhalation. “Well, um, busy,” she says. “There’s a lot to do. Every day brings new challenges.” She can’t help smiling a little at the understatement. Then, in a brisk, low voice, she begins to speak a language, if not of victory, then at least of readiness for battle. “But it’s a great honor to do this job. A huge privilege. And there’s a real opportunity in doing it at this point in time, in terms of what we can do for the country.” She is wearing a restrained navy skirt suit, a necklace of large cream-colored beads, and black patent pumps with a red velvet bow and sparkly heels. Though much has been made of her ostentatious footwear (knee-high patent boots, brogues with a touch of diamanté, kitten heels in a range of animal prints), her dazzle is always in the undertow. May—Mrs. May, as we are to call her—is 60, tall, and a little stooped. She laughs with surprising ease but is in every other respect efficient, crisp, and studiously uneccentric. In the six months since she became prime minister, many Britons have wondered what lies beneath her carefully preserved carapace of conformity. (“I know I’m not a showy politician,” she admitted last year. “I don’t often wear my heart on my sleeve.”) And with every new revelation, the answer has appeared to be more of the same. She’s fond of cricket, but her favorite player is Geoffrey Boycott, one of the most boring batsmen in England’s history. Before she became a politician, she worked at the unexcitingly named Association for Payment Clearing Services. When she donated her recipe for scones to a British newspaper, it turned out to be austere: fruitless, a minimum of butter, and just enough milk to prevent the mixture from resembling sand. In an era of personality, May projects reliability. “It’s not a popularity stakes, being prime minister,” she says brusquely when I ask if she feels the need to be liked. “I think what’s important is for people to feel that I’m delivering for them.” In this respect, says former foreign secretary William Hague, “she is quite different from most modern global leaders.” As early as 2002, she spotted—prophetically, in the case of the United States—that “more people vote for a TV show than a political party.” She urged her colleagues not to become more like celebrities but to hold themselves more accountable. The curious story of Theresa May is that her practical, dogged, uncharismatic mission may turn out to make her the most unusual politician of her time.

“There can only ever be one MargaretThatcher,” she says.“I’m Theresa May. I do things my way”

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IN STRIDE May with her husband and college sweetheart, Philip, who, according to May’s colleague Anne Jenkin, “doesn’t mind walking a step behind.” May wears an Egg coat and a Sine for Egg sweater. Details, see In This Issue.

I ask her what she made of Donald Trump. “I like to think we got on,” she says. “I mean, obviously he has, uh . . . it was a stunning election victory, in that he’s someone who has not been involved in politics.” Was that a backhanded compliment from a seasoned politician? May had said, before he was elected, that she found Trump’s comments about women “unacceptable.” When she went to Washington, D.C., thousands of women asked her to confront him about them. Did that come up in conversation, I ask? “Well, I don’t . . . ,” she begins. “We don’t comment on private conversations that take place. All I would say is, I’ve been very clear: I’m not afraid to raise issues. And the nature of the relationship is such that we should be able to be frank and open with each other.” So open, indeed, that they held hands outside the White House—an image that quickly went round the world. “I think he was actually being a gentleman,” May says, laughing off this gesture. “We were about to walk down a ramp, and he said it might be a bit awkward.” May, who is the second female prime minister of the U.K., is often compared, rather lazily, to Margaret Thatcher—and her companionable appearance with Trump inevitably recalled the “special relationship” pursued by Thatcher and Ronald Reagan. (Trump referred to May as “my Maggie.”) I ask her if the constant comparisons to Thatcher frustrate her.

Her jacket moves, barely perceptibly, on her shoulders. “There can only ever be one Margaret Thatcher,” she says. “I’m Theresa May. I do things my way.” The historic whirlwind that led to May’s appointment as prime minister veered between Greek drama and Ealing comedy. On June 23, just over half the British voters chose to leave the European Union. David Cameron, the prime minister who had told them the decision was theirs, resigned, and the two male front-runners to replace him collapsed in a back-stabbing incident. Two women were left in the race: Theresa May, the home secretary, and Andrea Leadsom, a junior minister. Leadsom shot herself in the foot by seeming to imply that May would make a bad leader because she had no children and therefore no stake in the future; the public outcry led her to withdraw. And then, to paraphrase Agatha Christie, there was one. Theresa May, the only person sturdy or cautious enough to remain standing, took office without ever having to fully present herself to the people she was about to lead. Few of them knew much about her. In the run-up to the referendum, May had kept a profile so low she earned herself the nickname “Submarine May.” Cameron reportedly asked her on thirteen separate occasions to campaign for the “remain” side, and she refused. In the end, she voted, as he wished, to stay in the European Union. Now she is presiding over a tectonic shift to which she was apparently opposed—what William Hague calls “the most complex situation in British C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 5 8


VISIBLE DIFFERENCE

BRITISH PAINTER LYNETTE YIADOM-BOAKYE IS GAINING ENTHUSIASTIC AUDIENCES FOR HERBROODINGPORTRAITS OFBLACKLIFE. BY DODIE KAZANJIAN. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANTON CORBIJN.

I

t’s a cold, rainy morning in South London, and Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, wearing jeans and fluffy slippers, is stirring a pot of homemade porridge. There’s an easy confidence about her, a welcoming warmth and humor. Her duplex garden flat is a cozy mix of elements that don’t belong together but get along just fine— bold patterns, busy wallpapers (lots of flowers and birds), strange old pieces of furniture. The house is not far from where she grew up. “I always thought I’d end up living somewhere else,” she tells me, “but I really love it here.” There’s a photographic print on the sitting-room wall by her friend Lorna Simpson. “I didn’t understand the joy of owning artworks until I put Lorna’s piece up,” she says. But I don’t see any other art in the house, and not a trace of Lynette’s own work. Her hauntingly powerful paintings of black men and women, every one of them fictional, have been attracting more and more attention in the last few years. She was shortlisted for the 2013 Turner Prize and has recently had solo exhibitions at the Serpentine Gallery in London, the Haus der Kunst in Munich, and the Kunsthalle in Basel. Next month, a show of her work will open at New York’s New Museum. “If you walked into a room with a thousand people in it, and one of the people in her paintings was there, that’s who you’d want to meet,” says her friend the designer Duro Olowu. Most are large-scale, single-figure studies whose faces, set against loosely brushed dark backgrounds, look directly at the viewer. In some, only the whiteness of eyes and teeth pulls them back from near invisibility, but the effort of looking makes them seem all the more real. They have the gravitas and authority of nineteenth-century portraits, shorn of domestic detail—nothing to distract you from the invented yet intensely alive subject. John Currin uses old-master techniques to enrich his contemporary figures. Lynette’s seem to exist outside time. MAKING A SPLASH The artist, photographed in her London studio, paints fast, timeless portraits in oils. Her solo show at the New Museum in New York opens this May. Makeup, Mary Greenwell. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


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LYNETTE YIADOM-BOAKYE. TO D OUS E TH E D EVI L FOR A DUCAT, 2015. OIL ON CANVAS, 78 3/4" X 70 7/8" © LYNETTE YIADOM-BOAKYE. COU RT ESY OF T HE A RTI ST, JAC K S HA I N MA N GA LLE RY, N EW YO RK , A N D CO RV I - MO RA, LOND ON.

SUPPORTING CAST Yiadom-Boakye typically completes a painting in a day. ABOVE: To Douse the Devil for a Ducat, 2015, oil on canvas. OPPOSITE LEFT: Citrine by the Ounce, 2014, oil on canvas. OPPOSITE RIGHT: Any Number of Preoccupations, 2010, oil on canvas. All courtesy of the artist, Jack Shainman Gallery, New York, and Corvi-Mora, London.


LE FT, CI T R I NE BY T H E OU NCE, 2014. O I L ON CA N VAS, 21 7/8" X 17 13/16" . RI G H T, A NY N U MBE R O F PREO CCU PATIO N S, 20 10. OIL ON CANVAS, 63 " X 78 3/4" © LYNETTE YIADOM-BOA KYE. COURTESY OF THE ARTIST, JACK SHAINMAN GALLERY, NEW YORK, AND CORVI-MORA, LONDON.

For the New Museum’s artistic director, Massimiliano Gioni, who featured her in his 2013 Venice Biennale, the work has a particular urgency. “In a moment of racial tension like the one America has been living through, Lynette’s characters take on a completely different weight and presence,” he says. “It’s hard not to feel implicated as a viewer—I can’t help thinking that her imagined characters are engaging with me.” The daughter of Ghanaian parents who moved to London in the sixties to work as nurses for the National Health Service, Lynette says, “I was a boring child—good grades, no mischief—but also quite good at living in my head, using my imagination as an escape.” The idea of being an artist didn’t occur to her until her final year of high school. She applied for a one-year art-foundation course at Central Saint Martins, more or less on a whim. “I didn’t think it was serious; I just thought, I’ll do it and see what happens, and then I’d get back to something more sensible.” Central Saint Martins in the late 1990s was packed with ambitious students eager to ride to fame on the wave generated by Damien Hirst and the Young British Artists. Lynette recoiled from their blatant careerism. “You don’t think of a career before you have the work,” she says. But she refused to quit art school. “Somehow I knew I should carry on. I was not going to be defeated by this, but I needed to be somewhere else.” Somewhere else turned out to be the Falmouth School of Art, on the southwest tip of England in Cornwall, where Lynette found “space to think.” In her three years there, she came closer to identifying something she had felt since she was a little girl: a sense of what it means to grow up black in a white society. “My experience at school was largely positive,” she tells me, “but there were a lot of instances where

you came to understand that people saw you differently. I didn’t see color in that way. You would go bounding up like a puppy, completely not thinking about these things, and then you realized that someone had judged you already, and that was that. Sometimes I was singled out by other black girls because I was darker-skinned than a lot of them. My parents were quite unsentimental about this. They would say, ‘This is why you have to excel.’ ” Lynette knew that she wanted to make figurative paintings; she wanted to make black people visible and to make that seem normal, not celebratory. This was her breakthrough, but she wasn’t there yet. She had to learn a lot more about how to paint, and this happened in her last year at the Royal Academy Schools, where she got her M.F.A. in 2003. “Instead of trying to put complicated narratives into my work,” she explains, “I decided to simplify, and focus on just the figure and how it was painted. That in itself would carry the narrative.” She was given an exhibition at the Studio Museum in Harlem in 2010. Okwui Enwezor, who now runs Munich’s Haus der Kunst, had brought her to the Studio Museum’s attention. He had visited her studio five years earlier and followed the work ever since. “There was a kind of wickedness to her portraits, in a good way,” he tells me. “There was wit and literary as well as artistic sophistication in her loose brushwork. I just loved it.” Porridge in hand and wrapped in a blanket, Lynette speaks in a calm, cultivated British voice, with frequent eruptions of spontaneous laughter. She’s 39 years old, has never been married, and has what she calls a “gentleman friend” who lives in the U.S.—a recent development that she’s clearly not going to discuss. (She guards her privacy with a firm but gentle touch. “We Brits don’t air C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 0


Fashion

HO U S E When the Countess of Burlington invited Hamish Bowles to unravel the fashionable history of Chatsworth, the Duke of Devonshire’s storied house, for a historic exhibition, he leaped at the opportunity. Photographed by Anton Corbijn.

first meeting with Laura Roundell, now the Countess of Burlington, did not pass without incident. I was the fashion director for Britain’s Harpers & Queen magazine and she a young model whose classic English-rose looks smote me. I caged her in a waspwaisted Vivienne Westwood corset and had her flaxen locks teased into an immense beehive and wrapped in a silk scarf tied under the chin. Laura was then required to sit stock-still on a high stool for our photographer. I was going for an Elizabethan-portrait look, but even under the face powder Laura was looking exceptionally wan. Moments later, she keeled off her chair in a dead faint. We loosened the corset, I proffered a digestive biscuit and a cup of tea, and a faintly conspiratorial bond has existed between us ever since. Laura subsequently became a muse to the designer Roland Mouret, then a fashion editor, a buyer and consultant for several hip London stores, and an adviser on emerging talent to the British Fashion Council. In 2007, she married the soft-spoken photographer William Burlington, the son and heir of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. Her fatherin-law, Peregrine “Stoker” Cavendish, the twelfth duke, had succeeded to the title three years earlier, and the family was still making endless discoveries at Chatsworth, the family’s storied treasure house in the Derbyshire Dales. When the Earl and Countess of Burlington’s infant son, James, was about to be baptized a few years ago, her motherin-law, Amanda, suggested they look in the Sewing Room’s archives for a christening robe. A box was duly produced— one layered with a mille-feuille of tissue paper and babies’ robes, among them the one that had been used by the duke’s mother, the charismatic Deborah (“Debo”), the late dowager

My


DOWN MEMORY LANE Flanked by a pair of bronze hounds by Nicola Hicks, the Countess of Burlington, dressed in a Victoriana textured-jacquard Gucci ensemble, descends a flight of steps on the grounds of stately Chatsworth. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


FASHION FIND Inconspicuously draped on a wire hanger, an ice-pink satin gown commissioned by Debo Devonshire was instantly recognized by the author as Dior’s “Carmel” from spring 1953—and is now a centerpiece of the exhibition. Photographed by Thomas Loof.


G OW N : T HO M AS LOO F. DUC HESS: © D EVON SH I RE CO LLECT IO N .

duchess, and her fellow Mitford sisters. There were dozens more, together with capes, underdresses, and a flock of eyelet-frothed bonnets—and, in a nearby warren of former staff rooms, the ducal panoply of bullion-encrusted uniforms, plumed and spiked helmets, and coronation robes in silk velvet the color of homemade strawberry jam. Laura wondered what other sartorial treasures might lie lurking in the stone-walled archive room, its shelves piled high with tin trunks and hatboxes, and in various other attics and wardrobes. Then she called me up and asked whether I could possibly fit in a weekend visit to Chatsworth to join her in her adventuring; together, perhaps, we could see whether there might even be enough pieces of interest for a future exhibition to run through the rooms that are open to the public. She had me at the serendipitous marriage of Chatsworth and weekend. I had been to the house as a little boy, brandishing my ticket and gazing in awe at the Painted Hall and its Louis Laguerre murals depicting scenes from the life of Julius Caesar, and at the enfilades of staterooms filled with quirky arrangements of pictures, sculpture, furnishings, and objets d’art. I’d wandered the no less extraordinary grounds, variously laid out by Capability Brown and Joseph Paxton over 12,000 acres. At the time, I told my long-suffering father that I was clearly a changeling, with an unfortunate mix-up at the maternity hospital responsible for expelling me out of my Chatsworthian birthright and into the privet-hedged London suburbs instead. Finally, after all these years, my infant folie de grandeur would be indulged!

Philip II of Spain, et al, we laid siege to the collections. We discovered splendid turn-of-the-century coachmen’s capes and racks of the acid-yellow footmen’s liveries that were worn with powdered wigs up until 1924; we swooned over the costume made by the couturier Jean-Philippe Worth for Louise, the formidable wife of the eighth duke, to wear to the ball the couple gave at Devonshire House, their London residence, to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897—the grandest fancy-dress ball of the century. When we finally assailed Amanda’s wardrobe room, we discovered a treasury of immaculate evening gowns dating from her debutante days in the 1960s. Together with an armada of dashing hats, many of them worn to Royal Ascot, they tell the story of fashion over a half-century. Debo’s housekeeper, Christine Thompson, meanwhile, proved to have an encyclopedic memory about everything from Givenchy gowns (many of them hand-me-downs from Debo’s friend Bunny Mellon) to the certain pair of slippers

Considered one of the great treasure houses of England, Chatsworth was built by Bess of Hardwick, the richest and most powerful woman in Elizabethan England after the monarch herself. Bess outlived three wealthy husbands before securing the hand of the wily George Talbot, the sixth Earl of Shrewsbury and the country’s wealthiest nobleman. ApDRESS CODES pointed a lady-in-waiting by Queen ElizaThe resplendent emerald velvet gown by Jean-Philippe Worth, based on a design beth in 1558, she threw herself into making by Attilio Comelli (LEFT), is worn by the eighth duchess, Louise (RIGHT), representing Chatsworth her masterwork. Her great-greatQueen Zenobia of Palmyra at her famed 1897 costume ball at Devonshire House. grandson the fourth Earl of Devonshire was further ennobled by the monarchs William and Mary to a dukedom, and set about making Bess’s palace emblazoned with the image of Elvis Presley (Debo, who more palatial still, taking some notes from Louis XIV, and passed away in 2014 at the age of 94, had a late-in-life obsesthe family hasn’t stopped adding to its treasures since. sion with The King). On my first visit, I arrived bleary-eyed from the Paris colI soon became familiar with the rest of the family stars. The fabulous Georgiana (played by Keira Knightley in Saul lections and immediately set out on a route march punctuDibb’s 2008 movie The Duchess) introduced styles to the court ated by lunch, tea beneath a John Singer Sargent portrait of of her friend Queen Marie Antoinette—including the bigEvelyn (the indomitable wife of the ninth duke), and a hearty brimmed picture hat garnished with ostrich plumes that she dinner—amid the distractions of Laura and William’s three wore for Gainsborough’s fetching portrait. Adele Astaire, the adorable and willful young children—in the private family thistledown dancing sister of Fred Astaire, wore Mainbocher wing, where Velázquez and Poussin jostle Hockney and Luwhen she married Charles Cavendish, younger brother of the cian Freud. The day finished with a collapse into a cloudy tenth Duke of Devonshire, in 1932, and John F. Kennedy’s mass of comforters and marshmallow mattresses in a tented beloved sister Kathleen (“Kick”), who married Billy Cavenbed so high it needed a footstool to ascend to it. After stalwart breakfasts served in lidded silver dishes set dish in 1944, dazzled the local village fete in the latest nylon on gilded William Kent console tables in the magnificent stockings. (The future duke, however, was tragically killed in family dining room beneath swagger portraits of Henry VIII, action four months later in World War II.)


LADY OF THE HOUSE The Countess of Burlington stands before a newly regilded 17th-century urn on Chatsworth’s terrace in a Gucci suit borrowed from the boys— garnished with the necklace from the c. 1852 Devonshire parure and Debo’s bejeweled bug brooches. Hair, Shon; makeup, Niamh Quinn. Details, see In This Issue.

A year and several visits later, Lady Burlington arranged for every object under consideration to be set out in Louise’s Victorian theater for a final review. In the auditorium below were tables heaving with accessories practical and whimsical, along with rolling racks of tweeds and satins, Andrew and Debo’s granddaughter Stella Tennant’s McQueens, and Amanda’s equestrian ensembles. (When I later explained that I wanted to make sure that nothing related to dress or self-adornment had been overlooked, someone piped up: “Does Henry VIII’s rosary count?”) It was then that I noticed, on one of Debo’s racks—nestled among the Watteau-backed dresses in eighteenth-century patterned silks that Oscar de la Renta brought her each year when he came to stay—a faintly crumpled, wasp-waisted gown of pale-pink satin draped over a wire coat hanger. The dress had been discovered in the back of a drawer the afternoon before, and as I recognized its arcing bodice seams and tiny covered buttons, my heart skipped a beat: This was Christian Dior’s spring 1953 “Carmel” gown, and it would soon become the centerpiece of our installation in the State Dining Room. The dress may have been ordered for a stay at Balmoral with the newly crowned Elizabeth II, but then again, Debo and the eleventh duke dressed in black tie every evening—even if they dined alone—so who knows?

In Paris, Lady Burlington called on Hubert de Givenchy, who had dressed the future duchess Amanda for her 1967 wedding in an A-line gown of stiff ivory silk. (Laura’s own wardrobe, meanwhile, includes pieces by Erdem, Christopher Kane, Alexander McQueen’s Sarah Burton, and Simone Rocha, as well as Alaïa and Demna Gvasalia.) Soon Patrick Kinmonth came on board to design the exhibition’s installation, his imagination conjuring coups de théâtre with Antonio Monfreda to bring the clothes to life. The house’s chapel—where Damien Hirst’s Saint Bartholomew, Exquisite Pain stands below Antonio Verrio’s seventeenth-century The Incredulity of St. Thomas—hosts our exhibition’s christening and mourning clothes, along with a bevy of family wedding dresses. We were devastated to discover, though, that Stella’s wispy dress, specially designed for her by Helmut Lang in 1999, had gone missing. But as the stately 1963 gown of Stella’s mother, Lady Emma, and its 25-foot train were being repacked, Stella’s dress fluttered out, having long been mistaken for tissue paper. Chatsworth’s wonders, it seems, never cease. 

“House Style: Five Centuries of Fashion at Chatsworth” (with an accompanying book published by Rizzoli) opens on March 25 and runs through October 22.


THE DUCHESS GEORGIANA AND CHATSWO RTH: © DEVONSHIRE COLLECTION. DEBO: © NORMAN PARKINSON LTD. COURTESY OF NORMAN PA RKI N SO N A RCHI V E . LA DY WO LV ERTO N : © LA FAYETTE/VICTOR IA AND ALBERT MUSEUM, LOND ON. ALL OTH ERS: TH OMAS LOOF.

COURTLY LIFE TOP ROW (FROM LEFT): Thomas Gainsborough’s portrait of the duchess Georgiana, 1785–87; the coronet worn by the Duchesses of Devonshire; Henry VIII looms in the background of Norman Parkinson’s Madame X–style portrait of Debo Devonshire, 1952. MIDDLE ROW (FROM LEFT): The Emperor Fountain commands attention in Chatsworth’s reflection pool; Andrew’s beloved needlepoint slippers, handmade by John Lobb. BOTTOM ROW (FROM LEFT): The Mistress of the Robes coronation gown worn by duchesses Evelyn and Mary; state livery jackets by Haldane, Pugh & Co., early 1900s; Lafayette’s portrait of Lady Wolverton as Britannia at the 1897 Devonshire House Ball.


F r e e St yle

At seventeen,Yusra Mardini escaped war-torn Syria in a boat, then helped save her fellow passengers when it began to sink. A year later, she swam at the Rio Olympics; now she’s a High Profile Supporter for the U.N.’s refugee agency. By Janine di Giovanni. Photographed by Rineke Dijkstra. n a cold December morning in Berlin, a week before a terrorist attack in a Christmas market would kill twelve people, Yusra Mardini is getting ready for a competition at the Olympic training pool built for the city’s infamous 1936 Games. (Adolf Hitler attempted to use them as a showcase for Aryan athletic prowess.) The temperature outside is frigid, and the water in the pool is not warm. Mardini, who competed in last summer’s Rio Olympics, is wearing a purple one-piece, her hair in a smooth ballerina bun. She plunges in and hits the surface as straight as an arrow. The market attack would be horribly ironic, given that Mardini had escaped the carnage in her native Syria fifteen months earlier to live, as she puts it, in “a peaceful country.” Her story is an extraordinary one: Having boarded one of the numerous boats smuggling migrants across the Mediterranean, she helped tow it to shore when it began to sink. Her athletic skills propelled her forward, saving numerous lives, her own included. Mardini was unpacking boxes in her new apartment in Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf neighborhood, putting away pots and pans, when she turned on the news. She began to call everyone she knew to make sure they were safe. The attack saddened but did not shock her. For a nineteen-yearold who grew up during a devastating civil war, watching her country devolve from dictatorship to revolution to life with tanks and soldiers on the streets, the attack was a brutal reminder.” Her voice grows somber. “It made me feel awful. At home we saw so much.” Given President Donald Trump’s recent attempts at a socalled Muslim ban, halting the immigration of citizens from seven nations, including Syria, Mardini’s story of survival and triumph resonates more than ever. This is a young woman who, in the space of months, went from suffering in her war-torn homeland to meeting Pope Francis and President Obama, Queen Rania of Jordan and Ban Ki-moon while being feted at the U.N. and elsewhere. But Mardini wants to be more than a poster girl for refugee resilience; she hopes to go to the Tokyo Olympics in 2020 and win. “She wants gold,” says her mentor and former head coach, Sven Spannekrebs, who is more like a big brother to her.

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Out of the pool, Mardini is strikingly pretty, in black shorts and rhinestone earrings. She is smaller than most of the swimmers—five feet five inches tall and 119 pounds—munching on chocolate cake that one of her teammates’ parents made. Spannekrebs brushes the top of her head lightly and teases her about her height. “If she were an inch taller. . . ,” he says, meaning that taller swimmers are usually faster. Mardini rolls her eyes. It’s a joke she hears often. Despite her harrowing experiences, she exudes no sense of victimization or self-pity; instead, she is confident and self-assured. She looks you straight in the eye, as if to say, “I’ve escaped a war on a boat that was sinking. I can do anything.” What she lacks in height Mardini makes up for in drive and focus. The toughest part for her, she says, is the patience required to see results. “It’s what swimming is all about,” she says slowly, watching another swimmer’s event intently. “You have to wait to achieve goals. It can take a year to swim one second faster. You wait five years to get in your top form.” As a child Mardini dreamed of being a pilot, not a swimmer. At home in Daraya, a suburb of Damascus that had once been famous for its furniture production, her Muslim family led a comfortable life. Her mother, Mervat, was a physiotherapist, and her father, Ezzat, was a swimming coach who would take his children to the pool on Saturdays. “He just put us in the water,” Mardini says. Her older sister, Sarah, now 21, began to swim competitively, and Yusra followed suit. (She also has a younger sister, Shahed, now eight.) Mardini was in seventh grade when the protests against President Bashar al-Assad began in 2011, leading eventually to civil war. Like everyone else, she had no idea at that time that it would descend into a conflict that has so far killed some 470,000 people and forced nearly five million Syrians out of the country. At first, she hardly noticed what was going on. “I just kept swimming and going to school, trying to live like a normal kid” is how she puts it. Then things got worse. In 2012, there was an epic battle in Daraya between Assad’s government forces and opposition rebels. The town was destroyed and hundreds of civilians were massacred. Survivors were reduced to eating soup made from leaves. “After that, it was all different,” Mardini says. “Tanks, and electrical wires hanging down from their poles, everything ruined.” It became harder to get to the pool because of shooting outside. She and her family moved C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 0

WATER WORKS Mardini, in her adopted home of Berlin, trains at the Olympiapark Berlin, originally built for the 1936 Games. Hair and makeup, Helena Narra. Sittings Editor: Anna Schiffel.


Attico

Elegance meets edge, courtesy of the Milanese duo of Giorgia Tordini and Gilda Ambrosio. Katie Moore wears an Attico vinyl coat ($1,485) and silk dress ($2,198). Coat at fwrd.com. Dress at net-a-porter.com. 3.1 Phillip Lim earrings. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.

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Eight emerging labels are moving fashion forward at light speed. Far from being merely “young designer” wunderkinds, they have a generational point of view—and provocative, audaciously wearable work—that is in sync with how we want to look today. Photographed by Inez and Vinoodh.


Hood ByAir Shayne Oliver two-steps between street culture and Surrealist cool. Karlie Kloss wears a Hood By Air deconstructed rugby polo shirt ($1,200), satin pants ($780), and boots; hoodbyair.com.

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Wanda Nylon Trust a Parisian like Johanna Senyk to reinvent the little black dress. Luna Bijl, FAR LEFT, wears a Wanda Nylon dress ($1,354) and hat; wandanylon.fr. J.W.Anderson earrings. Anna Ewers wears a Wanda Nylon jumpsuit ($2,000) and hat; wandanylon.fr. J.W.Anderson earrings.


Marques’ Almeida

Lustrously ornate eveningwear, in the hands of Marta Marques and Paulo Almeida, is as laidback as a T-shirt and jeans. Ewers wears a Marques’Almeida corset top ($417) and pants ($977); Saks Fifth Avenue, NYC.

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Sies Marjan An accomplished and original colorist, Sander Lak is turning up the intensity of sherbet orange, neon lime—and candied pink. Lineisy Montero wears a Sies Marjan dress, $1,290; barneys.com. Chrishabana fingertip rings (worn as ear cuffs) and septum cuff. Anthony Dreyer x Pearl Collective necklace. Leather cuffs by the Frye Company and Jill Platner.


Jacquemus Simon Porte Jacquemus is renowned for radical geometric silhouettes; now, though, he’s doing it with a playful nod to eighties Paris. Fei Fei Sun wears a Jacquemus blouse ($600), pants ($655), hat, and belt; jacquemus.com. BEAUTY NOTE

A bright, poppy mouth instantly amps up graphic blackand-white details. Burberry’s Liquid Lip Velvet in Military Red delivers a highvoltage hue with a creamy, matte finish.


Gypsy Sport Rio Uribe’s raw take on gender play grows up a bit: Think embellished tweed instead of hooded sweats, and lace over denim. Grace Hartzel wears a Gypsy Sport jacket, lace-trimmed jeans, lace boxers; belt, and slippers; gypsysportny.com. Necklaces by David Yurman and Wanda Nylon x Maison Desrues. Bracelets by Irene Neuwirth and Annie Costello Brown.


P RODUC ED BY ST E P HA N I E BA RGAS FO R V LM P RO DUCTI ON S

OffWhite

Virgil Abloh earns his stripes with an asymmetrical shirt typical of his streetwise stylistic flourishes. Grace Elizabeth wears an Off-White c/o Virgil Abloh shirt ($891) and jeans ($1,177); off---white.com. Y/ Project necklace. In this story: hair, Didier Malige; makeup, Diane Kendal. Details, see In This Issue.


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THE SEASON’S NEW BAGS ARE PACKED WITH PATTERN, PERSONALITY— AND VIVID PALETTES. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ZOË GHERTNER.

BEYOND THE HORIZON Natural wonders set the scene at Ugo Rondinone’s Seven Magic Mountains exhibition in the desert outside Las Vegas, while a fiercely printed clutch brings the bite. Model Imaan Hammam carries a VBH handpainted clutch, $1,950; (212) 717-9800. Louis Vuitton dress; select Louis Vuitton boutiques. 3.1 Phillip Lim sandals. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.


FULL SWING The art-imitates-life mood of the moment comes full circle when the bag matches the boulders. Tibi by Myriam Schaefer bag; tibi.com. CĂŠline top, skirt, and belt; CĂŠline, NYC. Proenza Schouler earrings and sandals. Rings by Bulgari, David Yurman, and Proenza Schouler.


HOLDING PATTERN Balenciaga’s bright and bold buds take pride of place in this spectacular rock garden. Balenciaga bag, $2,785; balenciaga.com. Givenchy by Riccardo Tisci lace dress ($3,295) and necklace; Givenchy, NYC.


A CALL TO ARMS The classic hobo gets shaken up with standout straps in Crayola-colored hues. Loewe bag, $2,850; loewe .com. Victoria Beckham top ($920) and skirt ($985); victoriabeckham .com. Givenchy by Riccardo Tisci necklace.


GRAB AND GO With a capacious bag in the supplest of calfskins, you can pack pretty much everything under the sun. Longchamp luggage bag, $845; longchamp.com. Rebecca Minkoff guitar straps ($95 each) and tassel ($50) on bag. Loewe dress ($1,790), earrings, and belt; loewe.com.


LET’S THROW A PARTY The riotous pattern play spells fun; the inventive clasp spells intrigue. Chloé water snake–and–suede bag, $3,970; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Roksanda dress, $2,117: roksanda.com. Paige Novick for Tibi earring.


P HOTO G RA P HE D AT SEV EN M AG I C M OUN TA IN S. P RESE NT E D BY A RT P RO DUCTI ON FUND A N D N EVA DA MUS EU M O F A RT. P RO DUCE D BY W ES OLSO N FO R CO NN ECT T HE D OTS.

HOLD ON TIGHT The bucket bag is back—this time, though, with a little lift, courtesy of razorsharp graphics and top-handle upgrades. Proenza Schouler bag ($1,990), red braided strap on bag ($350), dress ($2,750), and earrings; Proenza Schouler, NYC. In this story: hair, Akki; makeup, Aaron de Mey. Details, see In This Issue.

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On Fleek, C’est Chic? WHEN MY GRANDMOTHER

After years of overplucking, Lena Dunham signs up for microblading, a popular brow-shaping technique that’s changing the way we think about permanent makeup.

developed skin cancer over her right eye and was forced to have her entire eyebrow removed, she would draw, using a bluishgray Maybelline pencil, an eyebrow of her own creation on top of the mottled, baby-pink patch of flesh that remained. It was nothing if not approximate (by this point she was too blind to drive)—more of a concept, a blinking sign that said, insert eyebrow here. I would often watch her smudge on the line before we headed out to Toys “R” Us or the Fashion Bug, and she’d look at me as if to say, “Set? All set!” I was too shy to ask whether I could draw it myself, although despite being a small child, I felt deeply that I could improve the overall look and tone. In eighth grade, around the time I’d discovered what my goal weight should be in Seventeen magazine, I decided to put my imagined eyebrow skills to the test. I didn’t have the dramatic forties arches of my mother, or the full Brooke Shields beauty bombs of my little sister, then seven and already being indoctrinated by our parents to appreciate her unibrow (even when her peers did not). Mine were thin and pale, roughly the color of roadkill, with random hairs sprouting where they might, creating the effect of a sparse forehead rug. But I had a totally untested plan: I’d create a superthin shape using my dad’s dull tweezers, then use a pencil of some sort (lip- or eyeliner; who really knew the difference?) to fill in what God had not gifted me. So, seated on the bathroom sink as close to the mirror as possible, I made an arch out of single hairs with squiggles on the ends like cartoon sperm. The outcome was a little lopsided, vulgar, obvious, and exactly what I was going for. I walked into school the next day with pride, sure that some ineffable change would cause other kids to gravitate toward me. Instead a popular boy very plainly asked, “What the fuck is wrong with your eyebrows?” Thus began a near 20-year saga, during which my brows never really grew back. At first I didn’t let them, more scared of what they’d been than what they’d become. When I finally laid down the tweezers, implored to do so by the first professional makeup artist I worked with, a hormonal imbalance meant that they ultimately grew back thick

toward my inner eye, but completely missing the necessary downstroke. (PSA: If your eyebrows are naturally patchy, it’s worth getting your hormone panel taken by your doctor because the hair loss can be a sign of underlying issues.) Guided by the cosmetics floor at Bloomingdale’s, I used a variety of products—Benefit’s Brow Kit, a mousy MAC pencil—to draw in arches I would now refer to as “aggressive,” the kind of brows that might travel down the cheek or, worse, onto a stranger’s pillowcase following a college tryst. But on days I woke up too late to scratch them on, I walked around feeling as though my eyes—the windows to my soul—were missing some very essential drapery. I have always equated eyebrows with power—with women who know what they want and get it. Like a good perfume or a giant latte in a pure white cup, a great set of eyebrows is an immediate introduction to a person’s city-wise strength, letting your adversaries know you mean business. Without them, however, you can cut the figure of a nervous bobbysoxer. (There are a few exceptions to this rule, of course, like Tilda Swinton, whose pale eyebrows evoke a conquering alien queen, or Lynn Yaeger, who has created such a thoroughly dramatic fashion persona that eyebrows would almost be too much.) And while I have tried many a purported fix—some tinting, some shaping, mascara wands and pots of goo, and a brief dalliance with RevitaBrow, a product that did provide real growth—it was not enough, never enough. So when I heard about microblading last summer (from a receptionist at my ear, nose, and throat doctor, obviously), I became obsessed with the idea. A semipermanent tattoo where small amounts of pigment are placed under the skin using a sharp and flat handheld tool, microblading is done by experts who take pains to draw in each missing eyebrow hair for an effect that resembles a trompe l’oeil arch. While I have no qualms about tattoos—I currently have twelve—I have distinctly ungenerous associations with permanent makeup, inextricably tied to a hairdresser I used in middle school with a creepy plum-colored line drawn around her mouth for eternity, and women with Marilyn moles they’ve committed to for life. But I didn’t just want this: I needed it. To start the process, it felt C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 1

Photographed by TimWalker


S ET D ES IG N , SH ON A H EAT H. P RO DUC ED BY JE FFR EY D ELI CH FO R PA D BU RY P RODUCTION.

TWIN PEAKS A long-lasting means of eyebrow enhancement is gaining ground among those chasing fuller, thicker arches. Model Kiki Willems in a Vetements x CDG shirt, Balenciaga necklace, and rings by Ana Khouri and Marc Alary. Hair, Shon; makeup, Sam Bryant. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


T i m e After

Andy Karl stars as the cantankerous weatherman who relives the same day in the Broadway transfer of MatthewWarchus’s London hit Groundhog Day. By Adam Green. Photographed by Anton Corbijn.

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or nearly two decades, Andy Karl worked steadily on Broadway, often as a replacement in shows such asWicked and Jersey Boys. But despite his leading-man looks, big voice, and obvious charisma, he never quite rose to the top. Even his big break, playing the title palooka in the 2014 musical adaptation of Rocky, failed to make him a star. The years of ups and downs, he admits, sometimes led to a feeling of déjà vu. “You find yourself starting rehearsals for another show,” he says, “and you think, Haven’t I been here before?” Then, in 2015, Karl played a vain, accident-prone B-list actor opposite Kristin Chenoweth in a revival of the 1978 musical comedy On the Twentieth Century. His bravura slapstick performance called to mind a young Kevin Kline (who had his breakthrough in the original). It also caught the attention of the English director Matthew Warchus, who was looking for an actor to take on the Bill Murray role in a new musical adaptation of the cult comedy Groundhog Day. “You could see that he had a genuine clown in him,” Warchus recalls. Now, after a smash run at London’s Old Vic theater, the production is coming to Broadway, with Karl as the curmudgeonly weatherman forced to live the same day over and over again. “This role lets me use everything—the physical comedy, the sarcastic wit, the romance, and the deeper, darker stuff,” Karl says. “It’s the culmination of all those things over all those years.” The original film was the brainchild of the screenwriter Danny Rubin, who back in 1989 came up with an idea for a movie about a man who lives forever. “I imagined one of those arresteddevelopment guys,” he says, “for whom maybe one lifetime wasn’t enough to grow up.” But the idea seemed cumbersome, till Rubin remembered an old premise of his about a man stuck reliving the same day. “I thought, Wait—you could get an infinity just like that, in a circle instead of in a straight line,” he says. “Only now it was an epic tale of a person’s life, like Siddhartha.” Carried by Murray’s performance and directed by Harold Ramis, the film was a hit that went on to become a classic—a meditation on the human condition couched in a high-concept romantic comedy. When Warchus called Rubin in 2012 to see if he would be interested in adapting it into a stage musical, Rubin had already written a draft of one and been C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 3

T i m e


PRODUCED BY LOLA PRODUCTION. PROP STYLIST, NICHOLAS DES JARDINS FOR MARY HOWARD STUDIO. TAYLOR ANGINO AS GROUNDHOG.

DÉJÀ VU “You could see that he had a genuine clown in him,” says director Matthew Warchus of Andy Karl, seen here with the show’s groundhog at Brooklyn’s Café de la Esquina. Costumes and set design by Rob Howell. Grooming, Campbell Young. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


Craf t Culture Designers are approaching dressing for spring with both artistry and sleight of hand, striking the perfect balance between homespun and haute. Gigi Hadid—along with a thriving and eclectic cast of characters from the New York stage—shines a spotlight on the season. Photographed by Patrick Demarchelier.


IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS Hand-worked pieces are livening things up with a shimmy shake. Model Gigi Hadid wears a Dries Van Noten scarf, $1,670; Barneys New York, NYC. Giorgio Armani lace dress and tulle top; select Giorgio Armani boutiques. Fred Leighton earrings. The Row bag. Dolce & Gabbana pumps. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s Ryan Foust (FAR LEFT), Ryan Sell (CENTER), and Jake Ryan Flynn (NEAR LEFT) wear Armani Junior suits and shirts. Fashion Editor: Tabitha Simmons.


COAT OF ARMS Painterly petals soften a tailored coat, trousers, or a heavysoled shoe for a new feminine glory suited to day or night. Hadid wears an Alexander McQueen leather coat, embroidered jeans ($3,795), earring, and boots; Alexander McQueen, NYC. David Yurman rings. Dear Evan Hansen costar Mike Faist wears an Alexander McQueen tailcoat, trousers, rings, and sneakers. Gucci shirt. Tiffany & Co. clip on jacket.


DOUBLE FEATURE Structured separates in sensuous fabrics and deep-sea tones take his-and-hers dressing to new heights. Hadid wears a Chanel pearl-embellished dress; select Chanel boutiques. Fred Leighton earrings. Cartier ring. Tiffany & Co. bracelet. Actor AndrÊ Holland, who stars in August Wilson’s Jitney, wears a Chanel coat, sweater, jeans, and necklace.


HOLDING PATTERN A bomber rendered in brocade makes an artisanal riff on the classic flight jacket. Hadid wears a Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello jacket ($2,990), blouse ($3,490), jeans ($690), and bag; Saint Laurent, NYC. Rodarte earrings. Chanel necklace. Faist wears a Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello jacket, T-shirt, and jeans. Selim Mouzannar necklace. BEAUTY NOTE

Make a statement with gravity-defying texture. L’Oréal Paris’s Advanced Hairstyle Air Dry It Ruffled Body Mousse builds shape while enhancing natural waves.


FLOWER OF THE FLOCK This study in pretty makes its impact with larger-than-life blooms. Hadid wears a Fendi dress ($2,000), bag, strap on bag, and boots; select Fendi boutiques. Cartier necklace. Lucas Hedges, who this season made his Off-Broadway debut in Yen (and will next be seen in Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird), wears a Fendi suit and sneakers.


PRINTS CHARMING The new mood for evening is gutsy and freespirited: Delicately embroidered sweater, meet swishy tulle skirt. Hadid wears a Dior sweater ($1,250), skirt, and clutch; select Dior boutiques. Tory Burch sandals. Simon Teakle Fine Jewelry bracelet. Actor Finn Wittrock, who stars in Sam Gold’s revival of The Glass Menagerie, wears a Dior Homme suit. Calvin Klein shirt. Burberry shoes.


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LOOM STATE Jewel-tone jacquards that resemble wallpaper prints can (and should!) be draped over the body for a look that resembles a work of art. Erdem dress and sandals. Actor Alistair Brammer, who costars in the Broadway revival of Miss Saigon, wears a Dries Van Noten coat, Boss shirt, Valentino trousers, Church’s shoes.


CUT FROM THE SAME CLOTH A shining chinoiserieinspired ball gown trimmed with red fur cuffs will have you conquering any evening affair. Gucci dress and shoes; select Gucci boutiques. David Yurman earrings. Bulgari rubellite ring. Justice Smith, who starred with Lucas Hedges in Yen and is currently shooting the next Jurassic Park film, wears a Gucci suit, shirt, and shoes. Tiffany & Co. clip on jacket.


DETAIL WORK The quirky touches—a white fur stole and a bag blossoming with 3-D florals—can be the most irresistible. Hadid wears a Marc Jacobs coat ($3,800), blouse ($1,200), and skirt ($450); select Marc Jacobs stores. David Yurman earrings and ring. Coach 1941 bag. Hedges wears a Marc Jacobs jacket, shirt, and jeans.


GOOD AS GOLD Fringe, florals, and layers of gossamer lace? This gilded confection is primed for a showstopping night on the town. Hadid wears a Dolce & Gabbana dress, earrings, bag, and sandals; select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. Wittrock wears a Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo, shirt, and shoes. In this story: hair, Duffy; makeup, Diane Kendal. Details, see In This Issue.


Index

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EDITOR: EMMA ELWICK-BATES

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Looking for role models? Liya Kebede founded her line Lemlem to support traditional weavers in her native Ethiopia. The two surfers behind Dick Moby, meanwhile, launched ecofriendly frames made from bio-based or recycled acetate to help reduce pollution in our oceans. On land, cotton farming accounts for almost a quarter of the world’s insecticide use; enter St. Roche’s new cotton-and-linen collaboration with artist Hugo Guinness that’s as easy on the earth as it is on the eyes.

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M ATER I A L WOR LD Want to buy better? Celebrate Earth Day while making stylish changes for your wardrobe, your home, and your life. 254

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1 : COURT ESY O F M ON I QU E P ÉA N . 2 : COU RT ESY O F M ODA O P ERA N D I . 4: COURTESY OF NUORI. 17: COURTESY OF THE LINE. 19: COURTESY OF TORD BOONTJE. 21: COURTESY OF FWRD. 22: COURTESY OF AMUR.

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5 : DA N I EL RA MOS W E N ZEL . 6, 18, & 20: COURT ESY O F N E T-A- P ORT ER. 7: COURTESY O F D I C K M OBY. 8. COURT ESY O F MA I SO N D E MO D E. 9 : COURTESY O F AT E LI ER SWA ROVS KI . 10 & 13 : LI A M GO O D MA N . 11 : COU RT ESY O F SH IN O LA . 12: COU RT ESY O F JOHN HA RDY. 14 : COURT ESY O F H&M . 15: COURTESY OF SELFRIDGES & CO. 16: PAPERKITES/GETTY IMAGES. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

1. Monique Péan necklace; (646) 370-5409. 2. Lemlem dress, $495; modaoperandi.com. 3. Model Liya Kebede. Photographed by Mikael Jansson. Vogue, 2014. 4. Nuori Vital Hand Cream, $45; nuori.com. 5. Azulik Resort & Maya Spa, Tulum, Mexico. 6. Susanne Kaufmann Oil Bath for the Senses, $76; net-a-porter.com. 7. Dick Moby sunglasses, $238; dick-moby.com. 8. Maison de Mode hat, $95; maison-demode.com. 9. Atelier Swarovski by Rosie Assoulin earrings, $299; maison-de-mode.com. 10. Mara Hoffman dress, $395; marahoffman.com. 11. Shinola bicycle; shinola.com. 12. John Hardy earrings; johnhardy.com. 13. St. Roche dress, $398; st-roche .com. 14. H&M Conscious Exclusive sandal, $129; hm.com. 15. Oyuna travel blanket, $475; selfridges.com. 16. Lauren B. Beauty Nail Couture, $18 each; laurenbbeauty.com. 17. Murchison-Hume Best in Show Fresh Coat Moisturizing Shampoo, $15; theline.com. 18. RVDK/Ronald van der Kemp blouse; net-a-porter.com. 19. Tord Boontje tumblers, $42 for set of four; shop.tordboontje.com. 20. Manu Atelier bag, $575; net-a-porter.com. 21. Brother Vellies clog, $550; fwrd.com. 22. AMUR pants, $398: amur.com.







 


ON HER OWN TERMS CONTINUED FROM PAGE 200

character, but in a concert, all eyes fix upon her. “It’s weird,” she says, “to get up onstage and have everybody know where you were last night.” With the tour and treatment behind her, lately Gomez is feeling unusually relaxed. The Netflix miniseries 13 Reasons Why, which she executive-produced, airs this month, and it addresses several issues dear to her, among them teen suicide and the pressures of social media. Eight years ago, Gomez and her mother reached out to Jay Asher, who wrote the novel from which the series has been adapted. Its title refers to the thirteen reasons why its protagonist, Hannah Baker, chose to take her life. “I didn’t know much about Selena back then,” Asher remembers. “I think I watched Princess Protection Program to prepare. She explained to me how deeply she connected to the book, which is really about how there’s no way to know what people deal with. In that very first meeting we talked about Twitter, and I remember her telling me that there’s this idea that celebrities aren’t supposed to notice or care about what’s being said about them. But she can’t help but care.” Gomez has also been in the recording studio off and on, and in February she released “It Ain’t Me,” a song cut last November, produced by the Norwegian DJ Kygo. It’s both a dance-floor anthem and a polemic against dependency and enmeshment. (“Who’s gonna walk you through the dark side of the morning?” she sings. “It ain’t me.” A few years back, it might well have been Gomez.) She is collaborating with Coach on a line of accessories, out this fall, and Stuart Vevers, the house’s creative director, recently met with her in Los Angeles for a bit of brainstorming. “There’s a very warm and inclusive way that Selena has with her fans,” Vevers says. “That’s the nature of her power. What fashion house wouldn’t want to tap into that?” There are no movies in the works and no time pressure from her record label. “For a change,” she says, “it feels like I don’t have to be holding my breath and waiting for somebody to judge a piece of work that I’m doing. I’m not eager to chase a moment. I don’t think there’s a moment for me to chase.” Gomez currently lives in an Airbnb in the Valley and honestly doesn’t get out much, except for long drives with her girlfriends: a realtor, a techie, some folks from church. “I think seventeen people have my phone number right now,” she says. “Maybe two are famous.” She is taking Spanish, which she spoke fluently as a little girl but lost, in the hope of recording some Spanish-language music in the future. She sees her shrink five days a week and has become a passionate advocate of Dialectical Behavior

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Therapy, a technique developed to treat borderline personality disorder that is now used more broadly, with its emphasis on improving communication, regulating emotions, and incorporating mindfulness practices. “DBT has completely changed my life,” she says. “I wish more people would talk about therapy. We girls, we’re taught to be almost too resilient, to be strong and sexy and cool and laid-back, the girl who’s down. We also need to feel allowed to fall apart.” She has hardly been posting on Instagram. In fact, the app is no longer on her phone, and she doesn’t even have the password to her own account. (It’s now in the possession of her assistant.) She sometimes fantasizes about disappearing from social media altogether. “As soon as I became the most followed person on Instagram, I sort of freaked out,” Gomez says. “It had become so consuming to me. It’s what I woke up to and went to sleep to. I was an addict, and it felt like I was seeing things I didn’t want to see, like it was putting things in my head that I didn’t want to care about. I always end up feeling like shit when I look at Instagram. Which is why I’m kind of under the radar, ghosting it a bit.” Well, not entirely under the radar. A few days after we met, Gomez flew to Italy with her new beau, The Weeknd, and the paparazzi did not fail to notice. (Neither did The Weeknd’s ex, the model Bella Hadid, who took to social media and promptly unfollowed Gomez.) When I ask Gomez about the romance, she tells me that everything she has said about her relationships in the past has come back to bite her, and that she will never do it again. “Oh, Mylanta!” she wails, watching her cheesy potatoes travel around the table, a whiff of the simpler joys of home. “Look, I love what I do, and I’m aware of how lucky I am, but—how can I say this without sounding weird? I just really can’t wait for people to forget about me.” 

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April 25, just in time for her to play a warm-up tournament in Stuttgart, Germany, and then the French Open, which starts on May 22. Finding herself at the center of the first high-profile doping scandal in tennis, Sharapova took responsibility and admitted that she used the drug. But trying to get out ahead of the scandal seemed to work against her; the condemnation was swift, opprobrium raining down on her via Twitter, while the sports press rushed pieces online with headlines like the tennis world turns their back on sharapova. Current and former players called for her head, some suggesting that she should be banned for life. Jennifer Capriati said she should be stripped of her 35 titles. Other attacks were startlingly personal.

Dominika Cibulková said in an interview, “She’s a totally unlikable person, arrogant, conceited, and cold.” Andy Murray’s former coach Brad Gilbert, among others, was galled by the stupidity: “Still stunned that nobody on Shazza team checked new list from WADA, players are responsible but this is big-time oversight on team as well.” Martina Navratilova may have been the only one in the tennis world who gave her the benefit of the doubt: “Seems 2 me to be an honest mistake.” But it was Chris Evert, on ESPN, who speculated as to why Sharapova had become both a punching bag and pariah overnight, explaining that she has no friends on the tour: She “has always isolated herself from the rest of the tennis world . . . so it’s hard.” Sharapova admits that she doesn’t know a lot of players personally. “I spend as little time in the locker room as I can get away with,” she says, “because I’ve set up another life. I have family, I have friends. And the less time I spend there, the more energy I have for them. I’m respected for what I do on the court, and that’s much more meaningful to me than someone saying that I’m a nice girl in a locker room.” It’s the kind of quote that reminds you why Sharapova, who likes to “describe things as they are,” is never going to win Miss Congeniality. “She’s a very private person—as private as you can get in the position she’s in,” says one of her best friends, Sophie Goldschmidt, a British woman twelve years her senior who works in sports marketing. They met when Sharapova was fourteen and Goldschmidt was with the Women’s Tennis Association. “People don’t often get to see the full Maria: a complex, worldly, well-rounded person who is fun and loyal and has a lot to say.” I would not normally report whom I failed to get on the phone while working on a story, but in this case, it seems worth highlighting that Chris Evert, Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova, Mary Carillo, and Pam Shriver all declined to talk to me about Sharapova. Paul Annacone, who has coached both Pete Sampras and Roger Federer, was, on the other hand, happy to chat. “Maria does keep to herself, as do a lot of other tennis players,” he says, bringing up the fact that Sampras was famously standoffish. “She’s merely trying to do as well as she can within the structure that makes her work best.” It’s a bit of a double standard: No one begrudged Sampras the structure that made him work best. And I’m fairly certain no one ever described him as “cold.” Let’s face it: As doping scandals go, Maria’s is minor league. She’s no Barry Bonds. Whether or not you choose to believe Sharapova about why she was taking the drug—one that she knew by one of its many trade names, Mildronate—it was perfectly aboveboard to use it until it was

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banned. Indeed, the whole thing sort of boils down to a missed message. The ITF sent out emails that included a link to the updated list of banned substances, which both Maria and her longtime agent, Max Eisenbud, admit they failed to read thoroughly. “I had been taking it for ten years,” she says, “and for about seven of those years I had gotten a written certificate from a WADA-accredited lab that all the substances I was taking were totally fine for me to take. I just became completely comfortable that they were fine. That’s the mistake I made: being too comfortable.” For his part, Annacone feels Sharapova was treated fairly. “A rule was broken. I don’t know exactly the chronology of events in her personal situation, but I do know a bit about the rule, and it seems like the biggest mistake was that she didn’t put this substance on her report. It wasn’t tracked. You’re supposed to let people know what you’re taking.” (For the record, the Court of Arbitration for Sport [CAS] ruled that Sharapova did not hide her intake of meldonium and that the ITF and WADA had inadequately notified athletes of the change.) Looking back now, Sharapova says the real punishment “was the trial process,” those agonizing months of defending herself in court. That is all behind her now, but I suspect she will have to endure a more insidious penance. When I ask her if she thinks a cloud of suspicion might linger around her for the rest of her tennis career, she is at first defensive. “I think if I was trying to hide something, I don’t think I would come out to the world and say I was taking a drug for ten years. If I was really trying to take the easy way out, that’s not a very smart thing to do.” She stops herself and then lets out a heavy sigh of weary resignation. “But the answer to your question is, absolutely.” A week after our talk in California, Sharapova calls me late one night. She has just gotten back from a trip to Cologne and Moscow, where she had attended to the business of Sugarpova, her candy company. Sugarpova has suddenly taken off, partly because she’s been much more hands-on this year—one of the many silver linings to the dark storm cloud that was 2016. “The tennis circuit defines your schedule,” she says. “And for a control freak, it felt so liberating to take things into my own hands.” She took the time to travel to places she’d never been, like Barcelona and Croatia. “I got to explore London,” she says. “I knew Wimbledon. I didn’t know London.” A serial monogamist, she also dated more than one guy at the same time. “I didn’t even know what the hell that was!” she says, laughing. “I was like, This is really new! And I kind of like it!” From books like The One Thing: The Surprisingly

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Simple Truth Behind Extraordinary Results, she’s turned to memoirs written by women, like Love Warrior, by Glennon Doyle Melton, and Jeannette Walls’s The Glass Castle. “Both very strong, tough, emotional books,” she says. She squeezed in summer courses on strategic brand management and leadership at Harvard Business School, and followed those up with a few short, intense internships at the NBA, a London ad agency, and Nike. “I love being in motion,” she says. “I like to work.” Oh, and she somehow found time to write her own memoir (with Rich Cohen); it comes out in September, just after the U.S. Open. Mostly because of her voice, which is entirely free of an accent, it is easy to forget that Sharapova is Russian, an only child born in Siberia who found herself living in sunny Florida at the age of seven, hitting tennis balls all day long. I had been curious about something when we were in California, and here was my chance to ask. Does the subject of Russia’s interference in our presidential election ever come up with her parents, Yuri and Yelena, over dinner? “Not at all; we never discuss politics,” she says. “I carry such a big part of my country in my soul. When I host people at home, I think of my grandmother’s afternoon tea. I remember being around books—Tolstoy, Pushkin, my mother reciting poetry. That’s the piece of Russia that I have in me.” The other piece of Russia she clearly has in her is the athletic drive. When people talk about what makes Sharapova such a formidable competitor, they always point first to her “mental toughness,” by which they mean that she plays every point as if it were match point. When I ask Sharapova if it was this quality that helped her get through her year in the barrel, she says, “There’s no doubt that that resiliency that I built from scratch, it helps you, but it doesn’t mean you’re not vulnerable.” Back in L.A., we talked about her comeback. She did not want to dwell on it too much, saying in her inimitable way, “Why do I need to sit in January and think about April? I’ve got this week to get through; I’ve got shit on my agenda!” Is she at all apprehensive about how the fans will react to her return? “I received really nice receptions when I walked out to play my exhibition matches in Las Vegas and Puerto Rico,” she says. Indeed, when she played Monica Puig in December, she was showered with love from the 12,000 people in the stadium in San Juan. Her sponsors have taken notice. All of them— including Nike, Head, Porsche, Evian, NetJets—suspended her contracts after that press conference in March. Today, all but one, TAG Heuer, are back on board. The sport of tennis is thrilled to have her coming back, and why wouldn’t it be? It desperately needs stars, and Sharapova is a one-woman ratings bonanza. As

commentator Brad Gilbert says, “Look, she was incredibly popular with tennis fans all over the world before this happened, and people like her who know how to win have a way of figuring things out and making things . . . better.” It is not hard to imagine that one of the things motivating Sharapova is the chance, at long last, to again beat Serena Williams, who just won her twenty-third Grand Slam title in Australia and whom Sharapova has lost to eighteen times in a row. When I ask Sharapova about Williams, she is cautious. “We’re not celebrated as two women with completely different backgrounds who have created incredible opportunities for ourselves and our families. Instead we are ranked against each other for our differences, our game, our earnings. I think the concept of lists and the amount that players make is bollocks.” Her description of Serena could just as easily be about herself. “It would be so easy when you’ve gone through injuries and setbacks to just let it all go. But to have that desire still?” Sharapova says. “The amount of respect that I have for her as an athlete is enormous.” The days when Sharapova and Williams were sniping at each other in the press over the other’s choices in men (they both dated Grigor Dimitrov) are over—and thank God, as that was beneath them. As everyone now knows, Williams just got engaged to Reddit cofounder Alexis Ohanian, but Sharapova, though clearly dating, has been pretty much single since she and Dimitrov broke up. It did not end well. But one night a couple of months ago she ran into him in New York City. They hadn’t seen each other since the summer of 2015. “We closed down a restaurant after talking for five hours,” she says. “He was such an important part of my life, and he’s a very delicate, complicated person. It was so nice to just be normal human beings.” We get to talking about the idea of finding a soul mate. “Is it possible?” she says. “Maybe I’m just too difficult of a human being. I really want to have children. But I’m very focused on my job, and honestly, that’s a big reason why a lot of my relationships have not worked for me. I can’t live with the feeling that I’ve sacrificed one thing for the other. I hate the word balance. What is balance? Because if it’s fifty-fifty, that means you’re only giving 50 percent to both things.” Perhaps the sweetest surprise of her difficult year has been finding out that people are rooting for her. “Ever since all this happened, I’ve had so many strangers actually come up to me. Like chefs coming out of the kitchen, or pilots come out of the cockpit to say something. It is so heartening. I’ve had tunnel vision about my career, and I don’t think I ever realized the effect I’ve had on people. That has blown my mind.” One night C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 5 8

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last September, just as the U.S. Open was winding down, Sharapova and her father boarded a flight to New York City. “And we weren’t flying to play the U.S. Open,” she says. “We were flying to go into court.” It was her final hearing in front of the CAS. “Someone came up to me at the airport,” she says, “and then someone came up to me on the plane, and then a car service picks us up and the driver looks at me in the mirror and says, ‘Hey! Can you let me know when you’re coming back? I can’t handle watching the U.S. Open and you’re not in it!’ And my dad’s like, ‘Thanks, sir!’ He turned to me and just quietly gave me a thumbs-up.” With three of the four Grand Slams (the French Open, Wimbledon, and the U.S. Open) in May, July, and August, Sharapova’s return from exile will be one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in modern tennis —and the biggest story in the game this summer. “I have expectations of myself because I know what I’m capable of. Will I have those standards? Of course. Will I have to be patient?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not my greatest strength.”

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foreign policy since the 1940s.” To May, the notion of a kept promise matters more than the referendum result. “One of the things we’ve seen happening in recent years in politics is an increasing lack of trust between people and the politicians,” she tells me. “I think it’s very important that people feel that politicians are holding faith with them. And Parliament having said to the public, ‘You vote, you decide,’ we need to deliver on it for them. So yes, I did vote to remain. But also what’s important is that the country feels, I think, that it wants to come together.” As a gesture toward unity, her position couldn’t be more canny: She can honor half of the people’s wishes while keeping one foot in the camp of the other. On a frosty day in January, two weeks before we met at Downing Street, May prepared to announce the precise way in which she aimed to lead her country out of the European Union. Hundreds of diplomats and European journalists gathered in a gilded function room at Lancaster House, in the shadow of Buckingham Palace, to hear her “Plan for Britain.” May emerged in the Vivienne Westwood tartan pantsuit she’d worn to make her leadership bid in June. (“People have described it as a lucky suit,” she later told me irritably. “I think I’m going to stop wearing it now.”) Her speech was composed, like a sonata, in three movements. The first was a peace offering to Europe (“The decision to leave the E.U. represents no desire to become more distant to you, our friends and neighbors”). The second was a detailed account of her extensive

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demands (control of immigration, free trade with Europe, new trade agreements with the rest of the world, cooperation in fighting cross-border crime, and the right to drain the brains of European universities). The third was a veiled threat: The government would not be pressured into revealing more. And if European countries chose to punish Britain for wishing to leave their union, well, that would be an act, she said, of “calamitous self-harm.” Britain’s intelligence capabilities, May explained, were unique in Europe and had “already saved countless lives in very many terrorist plots that have been thwarted in countries across our continent.” It was to be a “hard Brexit”—no halfmeasures—and security appeared to have become May’s global bargaining chip. Where does May really stand? As the historian Amanda Foreman points out, British conservatism doesn’t correlate exactly with American Republicanism. “Conservatism in the U.S. means free trade coupled with an un-free way of living,” she says. Issues such as reproductive and LGBT rights are not at risk in Britain in the way they are in the U.S. Health care is free; handguns are virtually banned; statutory maternity leave is a full year. “American conservatives are very much in your bedroom. In Britain that is so fringe-y that it’s practically on the freak-show side of politics,” says Foreman. May, she believes, is “ideologically much closer to Hillary Clinton than she is to Donald Trump.” But May is harder to pin down than that. Until last July, she was the longestserving home secretary in more than a century. It’s a crash-and-burn sort of job in which steeliness is more of a requirement than charm. Her current stance on a number of major issues can be seen as stemming from her experiences in that office. For instance, in the supposed interests of security, she introduced the Investigatory Powers Act—nicknamed “the snooper’s charter”—which gives the government unprecedented access to the phone and computer data of its citizens. May is keen to leave the European Convention on Human Rights, as a result of the difficulty she had in deporting her two counterterror trophies, the radical clerics Abu Hamza and Abu Qatada. She is far more restrictive on immigration than many in her own party, recently capping at 350 the number of unaccompanied child refugees who can enter Britain. Though she is sometimes compared to the German chancellor Angela Merkel (they are both the daughters of Protestant clergymen), the two women are unalike on these issues in particular. Yet on other matters May has been borderline liberal. She has excoriated the police force for racism in their ranks and investigated deaths in custody. She has told her Conservative colleagues that they had a reputation for being “the

nasty party.” She has regularly voted in favor of same-sex marriage. Her signature piece of legislation, the Modern Slavery Act (2015), penalized humantraffickers with life sentences, and it is the first of its kind in Europe. Karen Bradley, currently the government’s culture minister, worked on that act and notes that May changed the institutionalized habits of the Home Office by always asking first, “What will this mean for a victim of the crime?” William Hague observes that May “likes to take the necessary time over decisions. She studies things herself. She works late. If she needs more information, she’ll ask for it.” He adds that her skill at making alliances behind the scenes is often underestimated. (May’s work ethic is all the more striking for the fact that she has to watch her diet and exercise regimen carefully—almost four years ago she was diagnosed, unusually late in life, with Type 1 diabetes.) Yet her reflective, case-by-case decisionmaking has led many people to wonder what she actually stands for. “What do I believe in?” she says when I put this question to her. “I suppose if I could sum it up: in opportunity, freedom, security.” And does security trump freedom? I ask. She shakes her head. “I think it’s very important that we always ensure that we maintain the fundamental freedoms that we have. Because if you lose your freedoms, then actually the terrorists have started to win.” In her bid for the Conservative leadership, she spoke about “burning injustices,” about what it meant to be born poor or black, and she put herself “at the service of ordinary, working people.” In other words, as the Guardian columnist Owen Jones put it, she had “raided the rhetoric of the left.” Are these really, I ask her, Conservative values? “Yes,” she insists. “If I try and exemplify what I consider to be the difference between the Conservative Party and the Labour Party, I think the Labour Party believes in pulling people down to a level; we believe in helping people to rise up— to improve their lives and the lives of their children.” May grew up in Oxfordshire, where her father, Hubert Brasier, was an Anglican vicar. She remembers that he never wrote out his sermons but delivered them vividly—occasionally using props from their kitchen (a pie dish went missing once and was found in church, illustrating the miracle of the loaves and the fish). May resists the suggestion that being an only child made her especially self-sufficient, but she says it did mean she was “exposed to more adult thinking” than if she’d had siblings “because the conversation around the breakfast table is more about current affairs—and cricket.” At twelve, she

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decided she wanted to become a member of Parliament (school friends remember her wanting to be prime minister, but May disputes this), and volunteered for the local Conservatives, stuffing envelopes. She studied geography at St Hugh’s College, Oxford, but devoted much of her time to politics. At a disco held by the Conservative Association, she met her future husband, Philip May. (They were introduced by Benazir Bhutto, who would go on to become prime minister of Pakistan and was assassinated in 2007.) Many British politicians have been members of the Oxford Union debating society, but May—then Theresa Brasier—was president of its more anarchic sibling, the Edmund Burke Society. It specialized in silliness, but its style could also, reportedly, be caustic, drunken, parodic, and vituperatively personal. May presided over proceedings, Mad Hatter–like, brandishing a meat tenderizer in place of a gavel. On one occasion, after she’d graduated and Philip had taken over as president, May returned to speak against the proposition that “sex is good . . . but success is better.” No one can recall her argument, exactly, but she was at least dressed to prove the point, revealing her décolletage in a floor-length red gown that she’d had made from a length of satin found in her mother’s closet. May still occasionally flashes her sense of humor, much remarked upon by people who know her well. If you catch her eye in a meeting, Bradley says, “her face is deadpan, but you can see the laughter behind the eyes.” At a recent Prime Minister’s Questions, a male Conservative MP asked May what “message of reassurance” she had, given the welcome progress of women and ethnic minorities, “for fat, middleaged white men who may feel that we have been left behind?” She stood up, waited soberly for the laughter to die down, and said, with impeccable timing: “That’s a very interesting point. Perhaps my honorable friend would like to come up and see me sometime.” Soon after the Mays were married, Hubert Brasier died in a car crash. May’s mother, Zaidee, suffered from multiple sclerosis and died a few months later. At the age of 25, the future prime minister was left with Philip as her sole close family member. “I’ve been fortunate that he’s been very supportive to me,” she says. They’ve known each other so long that “there’s something, which is the bond between you, that develops over time.” As for the lack of a family of their own, she says, “Look, it’s one of those things. We didn’t have children. You just get on with life.” Philip May, a banker, is by all accounts affable, private, and modest. “He doesn’t mind walking a step behind,” says their friend Anne Jenkin, a Conservative member of the House of Lords. The couple spends occasional weekends

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at Chequers—the prime minister’s official country house—but their permanent home is in Sonning, a gentle, postcardpretty village in the constituency May represents as a local MP. Somewhat improbably, George and Amal Clooney bought a house in the village too. While George has been known to pop into the local pub for a pint, the Mays’ social life tends to revolve around the village hall. On vacation, they like walking in the Alps and reading through piles of crime fiction. At home, May enjoys cooking. “We have a very good system,” she says. “I cook, and he puts everything in the dishwasher.” Still, she has less time for that these days and has been amazed to discover that her husband cooks a very good mushroom risotto. “What do you argue about?” I ask. “Do you know, I think we argue about the same things that most people argue about—like, who has the remote? And what we’re watching tonight. His history program? No—NCIS!” One significant way in which May differs from Margaret Thatcher is that she has been active in supporting women behind the scenes. In 2006, she was photographed wearing a black T-shirt that read, this is what a feminist looks like. When I ask her, at Downing Street, whether she would still call herself a feminist, she prevaricates. “I haven’t thought about that for a very long time!” she says with a laugh. In 1997, when May was elected to the Commons as MP for Maidenhead, the Labour Party won by a landslide, and one of its proudest achievements was the number of new female MPs: 101. In a famous photograph, Tony Blair stood surrounded by them, earning them the nickname “Blair’s babes.” Meanwhile, the Conservative Party lagged behind with thirteen women—and even those few were, in Jenkin’s phrase, “at the battle-ax end of the spectrum.” As May tells me, “The party did have a problem.” As party chairman, May altered the selection process so that it became less inadvertently gender-biased. Then, with Jenkin, she founded Women 2 Win, a support network for Conservative women who wanted to become members of Parliament. “It is a little-known fact,” she said at the launch, “that there are more men in the Shadow Cabinet called David than there are women.” May went up and down the country, encouraging women to stand for Parliament. “We could deploy her like a very effective Exocet,” says Jenkin. The generation of Conservative women elected to Parliament in 2010, when the Labour Party lost and May was made home secretary, became “her girls.” Karen Bradley, who was one of them, remembers that May was “incredibly supportive in practical ways. The force behind it was amazing.”

The women who work closely with May all attest to her loyalty—and to the loyalty she inspires in them. It is a fact rarely mentioned that Andrea Leadsom, May’s rival for the leadership, is now a minister in her cabinet. One of the minor freedoms May has sought to protect for herself is the ability to wear the clothes she likes. She has no style advisers and shops in a boutique in Henley, a town near her constituency known for its regatta. Though she often wears the British designer Amanda Wakeley and has a new coat by the young Southeast London–based Daniel Blake, she doesn’t feel the need to restrict herself to British brands. She grumbles a little over the fact that when she wears something more than once, journalists describe it as “recycled.” “There aren’t many people who buy things to wear only once,” she says. But her clothes have already got her into trouble. For an interview with a British Sunday-newspaper magazine, she wore a pair of brown leather trousers worth almost £1,000 ($1,250). Was this the right gesture to make, asked a fellow Conservative MP, when May was supposed to be speaking up for what her government calls “JAMs”—families who are “just about managing”? A furor ensued. The press dubbed it “Trousergate,” and for at least a couple of weeks, “leather trousers” was the top predictive search after the prime minister’s name on Google. When I ask if this surprised her, May makes a dismissive sound. “Pfft,” she says. “Look, throughout my political career, people have commented on what I wear. That’s just something that happens, and you accept that. But it doesn’t stop me from going out and enjoying fashion. And I also think it’s important to be able to show that a woman can do a job like this and still be interested in clothes.” One morning last fall, May visited an elementary school in Maidenhead, where she had recently judged a cake competition. She was wearing a pair of court shoes with clashing opinions: Red leather, green croc, and leopard print vied for attention with tartan trim and a diamanté clasp. Of all the times I saw her, this was the most approachable and thoughtful she’d been. The children—aged between seven and eleven—fired a range of questions at her, and she considered them carefully before replying. “If you had a superpower, what would it be?” “I think I’d want to make sure that everyone in the world had access to clean water and sufficient food, so that we didn’t see people starving,” she said. “What advice would you give to girls who want to be prime minister?” “Be yourself,” she suggested. “And if you have any C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 0

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setbacks, don’t ever think it’s because you’re a girl.” At one point, she bent almost in two to hear a small voice at the front of the hall. Then she took a question from the back. “How much money do you get paid?” The audience laughed as one. “I get paid two salaries,” said May plainly. “I get paid as a member of Parliament, and I also get paid as prime minister. And if you add those two up. . . .” She made a lightning-speed calculation about whether the boy deserved a straight answer. “I suppose it’s public knowledge,” she went on, “it’s £142,000 [about $177,000].” “Oooooooohhhhhh!!”A surge from the sea of red cardigans: the sound of 360 small children, amazed. This was in stark contrast to the way she conducts herself in her office at Downing Street. There, May refers at one point to “the law of unintended consequences,” and she appears to have this in mind as we speak, operating at all times as if a trap were being laid for her. She says she doesn’t read much history and tries not to picture how things will be in advance. She doesn’t think about her legacy. When I raise the notion of empathy, she dismisses it as being “a very ‘today’ word” (she prefers understanding). She seems willfully unimaginative, kicking every question into an area of generality. But her directness with the schoolboy in Maidenhead leads me to wonder: Is it necessary to love our leaders? Or is it enough to trust them? May’s most pronounced characteristics, her rigor and sense of duty, may turn out to be more useful than a grander plan. As the glossy black door of 10 Downing Street closes behind me, an image comes to mind unbidden: May in a suit of armor—unbreachable, a little embellished, and prepared for whatever might come her way. 

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our dirty linen in public,” she says, laughing.) Every other week, she hops on a train to Oxford, where she teaches at the Ruskin School of Art. She also writes fiction— lean and satiric poems and short stories, several of which she has published in her museum catalogs. Swimming keeps her fit. Her London friends tend to be writers, doctors, and teachers—very few artists. “Her conversation is never heavy with insecurity,” says Olowu. Right now she is deep into putting together her New York show. “It’s forming,” she says. “I need to feel my way through it, but there’s a lot more to figure out.” She works alone and stretches and primes her own canvases. Sometimes she listens to music (everything from Miles Davis to Prince to classical), but more often to

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radio plays. “I have an addiction to John le Carré adaptations, and I listen to them on rotation like a mad person. I really love theater.” At one time she wanted to be an actress, but realized she didn’t have the competitive nature it required. “My problem has always been that I’m not ambitious in the career sense or the financial sense. The drive is only this internal fight with myself. Every show and every body of work is a terror for me—an enjoyable terror. Every time I go into the studio, I’m just praying it’s going to work out that day.” Her studio, a large rectangular room with a row of high windows, is in East London’s Bethnal Green, an hour’s Uber ride from her home. (Sometimes she will stay in a hotel nearby so as to have more time there.) It has two horizontal canvases, ten feet wide or more, hanging on the wall and dozens more propped together across the room. Scrapbooks are strewn around the floor, filled with images cut from magazines and elsewhere to provide source material for her invented faces. Lynette works fast. She doesn’t make preliminary sketches but improvises on the canvas, usually completing a painting in one day. She may go back into it the next day, or decide it doesn’t work and destroy it. On the entry wall is a bearded man, seated and in profile, holding a bird in his right hand. (Birds are a familiar motif in her paintings: a parrot, a peacock, an owl.) Man and bird regard each other with intensity. A brushy yellow, red, and orange background accentuates the man’s dark skin. “I don’t use black pigment,” she says. “It completely deadens things. I use a mixture of brown and blue instead.” His feet are bare. None of her subjects wear shoes (slippers are OK), because shoes would place them in a particular time. There’s something supernatural about the image. It’s not a portrait but a work of fiction. It’s masterful, yet appears effortless. “I’m a bit scared of New York,” she says, but her fear is probably misplaced. “The painted image carries so much more weight than the ephemeral, digital image,” says the independent curator Alison Gingeras. “The permanence that painting has, especially oil painting, and the kind of skill it takes to create makes Lynette’s work seem magnified right now.” As for its political resonance in this time of worldwide dysfunction, Lynette says, “the wonderful thing about painting is that it’s separate. I think there is something in small gestures that can be quite powerful.” She tells me about an Instagram post that Kimberly Drew, the Met Museum’s social-media manager, put up just after the Trump election. It was a selfie, and the message was portrait of a queer, black woman in america who did the best with what she had today. “That’s all any of us can do,” Lynette says. “It really moved me.” 

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to a safer part of Damascus that year, but Mardini stopped training. She missed two years of practice; during that time, Spannekrebs says, she lost strength and got out of shape. “When she arrived in Germany as a refugee, we had to get her body fat down and build muscle to make up for those lost years in speed,” he explains. In Damascus, she began to yearn for a life beyond war. But her parents refused to discuss the notion of leaving. Like most families, they did not want to split up, yet it was impossible for all five of them to go to Europe. But by the summer of 2015, Mardini was begging. She wanted to swim again—and to lead a normal life. “I started saying, ‘You know what, Mom? I’m leaving Syria. If I die, I’m going to die in my wetsuit.’ ” One morning her mother came to her door. She was crying. She said that Yusra and Sarah could leave. Two male relatives had agreed to accompany them to Turkey and then onward. She had no idea where her daughters would end up. “It was the hardest thing for her to do,” Mardini says. “But she knew we had to go.” From Damascus, the sisters flew via Lebanon to Turkey. There they met with a smuggler and a crowd of other refugees trying to flee. They waited in a forest near a Turkish beach for four days without food, not sure when they would get their boat or when was the safest time to set off. “The moment had to be right; the waves had to be right; there had to be a time when there were no patrols,” she explains, to get to Mytilene, the capital of Lesbos, a Greek island close to Turkey in the Mediterranean. In the forest, waiting, she tried to stay calm. She had her phone, her flip-flops, and a pair of jeans. “That’s it,” she says. She had no idea where she would go when she arrived in Greece. “We had a little bit of money, but not much. The trip out of Syria was meant to cost $1,500—but by the time we got to Germany, it was much, much more.” They left at dusk on the fourth day with eighteen others. Not far out from the Turkish shore—about 20 minutes into a trip that should have taken 45 minutes— the motor stopped. Yusra felt the boat lurch forward and then start to sink. Sarah and Yusra immediately climbed out into the cold water and began pulling the boat with a rope toward the island, briefly assisted by two other passengers. “We used our legs and one arm each—we held the rope with the other and kicked and kicked. Waves kept coming and hitting me in the eye,” she says. “That was the hardest part—the stinging of the salt water. But what were we going to do? Let everyone drown? We were pulling and swimming for their lives.”

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The sisters swam with the boat in tow for three and a half hours. “There was a boy, Mustafa,” Yusra recalls. “He was only about six. He was really funny, and when we were in the forest, we were playing with him and joking with him. I think when we were pulling the boat, we wanted to save everyone, but we were thinking the most about him.” They swam, rested for a minute, swam, rested, until they were able to drag the disabled boat onto Lesbos. The voyage was not over, though. “There was literally nothing on the other shore,” she recalls. “I had no shoes, as I had to kick my sandals off in the water. Someone on the road gave me a pair of shoes. But people were suspicious—I would not say they were friendly.” When she and the other refugees went into restaurants, the locals would not let them buy food. They slowly made their way overland through Europe. After getting stuck in the central Budapest train station when the Hungarian prime minister, Viktor Orbán, decided to close the borders to refugees, the sisters managed to get to Germany. Once in Berlin, they spent six months in a camp there. “I was sleeping on a floor—but I was safe,” Mardini says. From an interpreter, they heard about a swimming club that trained young athletes: Wasserfreunde Spandau 04, one of the most important and well-regarded teams in Berlin swimming circles. They arranged to try out. The sisters still longed for home. “Every time we called to tell Mom we were OK,” Mardini says, fiddling with her earring, “she would just cry. ‘When can I see you?’ ” Her mother and younger sister are now in Berlin, living with Yusra in the new flat. Her father lives nearby. Spannekrebs, a gentle 36-year-old, knows very well the life of a teenage swimmer, having also trained with the Spandau team as a youth. When he watched the Mardini sisters try out for the first time, he was amazed at their tenacity. “It was clear these two sisters had trained seriously. Their technique was good.” He took them on and helped them get their papers to live in Germany. “I never expected we would go to Rio,” he says. “I just wanted to make their lives easier.” He reminds Yusra it took her a year to get into shape. “I had to give up McDonald’s,” she jokes, then grows serious. “But I kept thinking about all the years I had worked so hard.” “Her progress was fast,” Spannekrebs continues. “She did everything I asked: wake up at 6:00 a.m. to go to the pool. Classes. Gym. Back in the pool.” Sarah, meanwhile, decided to give up competitions. “She loved swimming, but she just did not want to make a career of it,” Yusra says. Now Sarah works for an NGO in Greece helping refugees. “She is happier.”

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When Yusra gets tired, she thinks about Rio. In a blue blazer and tan slacks, a silk scarf around her throat, and wearing an enormous smile, she marched with her team, joining Olympic unity under the “refugee” umbrella. A few days later, Yusra raced to one minute, 9.21 seconds in the 100-meter butterfly. Her entry time, listed at 1:08.51, was about a second shorter. She didn’t swim fast enough to advance to the semifinal, but she won her preliminary heat, and the Refugee Olympic Team made history. For Yusra, it was the spirit that seized her as she competed alongside others who had escaped to build new lives. “It was amazing to watch her, really moving,” observes Jonathan Clayton from the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), who was at the Rio Games to report on the refugee team. The transition from Brazil back to Germany wasn’t always easy: Some of the other swimmers had been surprised at her swift ascent to the Olympics. Yusra shrugs it off: There’s always competition in athletics, she says. When I visit her at home the next day, she’s in sweats, a T-shirt, and fluorescentgreen sneakers. She proudly shows off the apartment. Everything is new; nothing remains from her life in Syria. She reminds me she took nothing with her when she fled. Since her story became known, Yusra has received multiple book and movie offers, and she and her team are considering their merits. Spannekrebs has concerns about the publicity around Mardini, which may be too much for a teenager straight out of the trauma of a war zone to adjust to. “I was thinking about stopping everything when we gave a press conference, right after the fighting in Aleppo got worse,” he says. “But she became more and more comfortable. I ask her if she wants to just be a normal teenager for a while, and she always says, ‘No! This is my life. I’m happy to be alive.’ ” Yusra has agreed to become a High Profile Supporter for UNHCR, with whom she is planning site visits, and is interested in becoming a motivational speaker. At the recent World Economic Forum in Davos, she gave five speeches, including one at a U.N. World Food Programme event, and sat on a panel with the abruptly widowed Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg, who talked about grief, loss, and resilience. “That was the high point of Davos for me,” Yusra says. “What a strong woman! Hearing her talk about moving on from grief. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? Moving on?” 

ON FLEEK, C’EST CHIC? CONTINUED FROM PAGE 238

important to get a “good” shape from someone I trusted before going under the

needle. I was told by the chicest and bestbrowed people I know that the woman for that job was Manhattan brow guru Jimena Garcia, whose own Kahlo confections and thick-framed spectacles immediately confer icon status upon her. She set to work plucking, waxing, and dyeing, and I was left with a better brow than I’d ever had, tidy and dark. If this were where I ultimately netted out, I thought, Dayenu, as the Jews say—it would have been enough. But like a young lover or a heroin addict, I wanted this feeling to last forever. So my next stop was the Madison Avenue–adjacent Core Club, where the Beverly Hills–based cosmetic artist Dominique Bossavy holds court when in New York. Considered a permanent-makeup pioneer, Dominique—diminutive, blonde, and highly French—is adamant that etching hairlike strokes into the brow line, one by one, “is a trend that has existed for years. They just keep changing the name.” Dominique calls her specific practice Nano Color Infusion, rather than the more popular microblading, a hashtag with nearly 1.5 million mentions on Instagram—and almost as many cautionary tales. While the technique is considered safe, there is a risk of implanting too much pigment too deeply, Dominique warns, explaining that the body rushes to heal the incisions, which can result in an unfortunate blurring effect and even scarring. Then there’s the blocky, one-size-fitsall shape that is increasingly associated with microblading (and the subject of many a YouTube tutorial). As I settle into her chair, Dominique immediately puts me at ease by describing how she custom-blends and compounds her own pigments and uses the teeniest, tiniest needles for smaller punctures. We chat as she sets to work drawing impossibly fine follicles where my hairs ought to be, explaining how a series of permanentmakeup horrors suffered in her 20s sent her, like a mad scientist, down the path to learn how to create perfect, indiscernibly artificial brows, eyeliner, and even flushedpink lips. Dominique practiced her craft on sheets of pigskin in a basement in Paris’s Sixteenth Arrondissement, near the Champs-Élysées, before moving onto the faces of an illustrious list of Hollywood A-listers, she tells me. This is the part where everyone asks if it hurt. I may be the wrong person to answer, as I have had more noncosmetic surgery than you can shake a stick at, but I found the experience less painful than a sunburn and utterly delightful thanks to Dominique’s heavily accented exclamations of joy: “Beaoooteeful! I am so excited for zees!” A mere 40 minutes later, when I finally sat up, I was too stunned to speak. On my face were two C O N TIN U ED O N PAG E 26 2

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perfect brows, the same hard-to-capture brown as the hair on my head, multidimensional, thick in all the right places, giving my face a grounded seriousness I had been wishing for since that day in the bathroom almost 20 years ago. As I waltzed onto Fifty-fifth Street and into a dream state, I only vaguely heard Dominique telling me it would require two more sessions to perfect my new face friends, and that I needed to avoid getting them wet for a few days while using her plantbased salve with calming chamomile and cooling cucumber to minimize itching and flaking.

Out in the world and on my socialmedia channels, the response from friends, family, and complete strangers was overwhelmingly positive: “You look amazing. Did you dye your hair?” “You just got back from vacation, right?” “Well, you sure have a lot of energy today!” If I were able to keep secrets I would have just politely thanked them all. Instead, I could barely contain myself as I revealed that I had just had my freaking eyebrows tattooed onto my face!

A few weeks after my first session, I became mired in the kind of passing Internet scandal that modern public life as an exhausted woman almost demands. An ill-considered joke on my podcast had both the left and the right vilifying me like I was Tomi Lahren, or maybe even Eva Braun. Texting with a friend, I bemoaned how used to this kind of mayhem I was becoming and how it made me feel like moving into a cave in Appalachia. “Stay strong,” she said. “And don’t forget: You have perfect eyebrows.” So with joy and gratitude, in the name of my grandmother, I took them for a spin in the late-December sun. 

Think Before You Ink

and position before getting inked. “Botox can literally change the position of the brow on your face,” says Whitney Bowe, M.D., a dermatologist with practices in Manhattan and Westchester. “Everything else you do—tweezing, waxing, threading—can shape the brow but won’t move it up or down.” Making these kinds of small adjustments, says Bowe, can add lift—and open up tired-looking eyes. Filler is also important when it comes to combating the drooping that can accompany volume loss, says New York dermatologist Patricia

Wexler, M.D., who likes to inject tiny droplets of Restylane under the muscle above the lateral brow. “It has a lot of structure to it and will hold the muscle up, like a scaffold.” It’s all about synergy, says Wexler, who also adds skin-tightening therapies into the mix for additional elevation. “Each does a little bit. I can get one to two millimeters with Botox, another one to two with filler, a little more with radiofrequency or Ulthera.” Both doctors recommend waiting two weeks after receiving injections before microblading or tweezing.—SARAH BROWN

W

hile microblading can fill out brows for perennially groomed, no-pencilnecessary perfection, most of us have slightly asymmetrical faces to begin with: one arch might be a tiny bit higher than the other; one tail may be slightly out of whack. As we age and skin slackens, the brows drop, too, which no amount of plucking can address. Lately, those in the know are turning to their dermatologists first, to optimize eyebrow shape

In This Issue Table of contents 44: Dress, $1,495; Missoni, NYC. Bag, $4,500; select Marc Jacobs stores. Annie Costello Brown earrings, $219; needsupply.com. Sandals, $795; 31philliplim.com. Cover look: Bralette ($2,250) and skirt ($5,995); select Michael Kors stores. Earrings, $550; jenniferfisherjewelry.com. In this story: Tailor, Susie Kourinian. Manicure, Tom Bachik. Editor’s letter 84: On Gomez: Tory Burch swimsuit, price upon request; (866) 480-8679. Jennifer Fisher earrings, $550; jenniferfisherjewelry.com. On the Countess of Burlington: Gucci jacket ($5,200), gilet ($1,350), and shirt ($720); select Gucci boutiques. Lives 124: On Glimcher: Saint James top, $90; saintjamesboutique.com. Joe Fresh jeans, $39; joefresh.com. On Katharine: YAM Bonpoint dress, $365; bonpoint.com. In this story: George Condo. Big Red Incorporated, 1997. Acrylic, oil, colored pencil, ink, pencil, and paper on canvas, 90″ x 65″. © 2016 George Condo/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. John Chamberlain. Gigolo Graffiti, 2006, painted and chromiumplated steel, 16½″ x 16″ x 19″. © 2016 Fairweather & Fairweather

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LTD/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. Rug: Diego Giacometti. La Promenade des Amis, 1984. Handwoven rug, 68″ x 91½″. © 2016 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris. Talking fashion 134: Earring, $395; Alexander McQueen, NYC. Rodarte studded-leather belt, price upon request; rodarte.net. 142: On Durrett: Jacket, $4,100; select Gucci boutiques. Jeans, $98; levi.com. On Mendoza Roccia: Sweater, $198; kule.com. Skirt, $1,295; similar styles at select Barneys stores. Paul Andrew sling-back flats, $545; modaoperandi.com. 156: Top ($2,300) and dress ($2,900); select Gucci boutiques. Altuzarra boots, $1,100; net-a-porter.com. 160: On Daphne Rickards: Brujas hoodie, $48; brujas-nyc .myshopify.com. Adidas Originals by Alexander Wang shorts, $170; alexanderwang.com. Vans sneakers, $60: vans.com. On Nikki Escobar: Brujas T-shirt, $25; brujas-nyc.myshopify.com. Adidas Originals by Alexander Wang track pants, $220; alexanderwang.com. Vans sneakers, $60; vans.com. On Ashley Luciano: Adidas Originals by Alexander Wang track jacket, $270; alexanderwang.com. Brujas

T-shirt ($25) and shorts (price upon request); brujas-nyc .myshopify.com. Vans sneakers, $65; vans.com. On Sheyla Grullon: Brujas T-shirt (price upon request); brujas-nyc.myshopify .com. On Danielle Melendez: Brujas hoodie, $48; brujas-nyc .myshopify.com. Paskho travel pants, $98; paskho.com. Beauty 167: Tank top ($490) and jeans ($690); Saint Laurent, NYC. In this story: Manicure, Ada Yeung. 170: Bodysuit, price upon request; tableauxvivantsdesign.com. In this story: Manicure, Alicia Torello. PATA 184: On Michael: Trousers, $690; gucci.com. On Brian: Slacks, $365; orley.us. 186: Ceramic dahlia ($40), lotus ($29.50), and mum ($20); chive.com. 188: Sweater, $1,350; (800) 8456790. Earrings, $7,500; ippolita .com. 190: AERIN by Williams Sonoma floral dinner plate ($15) and appetizer plates ($40 for set of four); williams-sonoma.com.

ON HER OWN TERMS 194–195: Bodysuit and dress, priced upon request; select Louis Vuitton boutiques. Earrings, $550; jenniferfisherjewelry.com. Hand jewelry bangle (price upon request), and jeweled cuffs ($1,095–$1,545); Alexander McQueen, NYC. 197: Top ($665) and pants ($885); Balenciaga, NYC. 198: Dress, price upon request; select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. 199: Bikini, $190; select Tommy Hilfiger stores. 201: Leather jacket ($1,900) and shorts

($295); similar styles at coach .com. Legier signet ring, $375; legier.la. Beladora sapphire-andruby ring, $2,950; beladora .com. SheBee diamond-and-topaz ring, $1,200; shebee.com. Jennifer Zeuner Jewelry nameplate ring, $198; jenniferzeuner.com. The Three Graces Jewelry garnet-and-diamond ring, $2,750; thethreegraces.com. Lana Jewelry 14K-gold ring, $475; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. In this story: Tailor, Susie Kourinian. Manicure, Tom Bachik.

BIG RETURN 203: Swimsuit, $158; solidandstriped.com. MAY DAY 204–205: Coat ($795) and dress ($395); L.K.Bennett stores. 208: Coat ($546) and cashmere sweater ($1,506); eggtrading .com. In this story: Tailor, Della George. FASHION HOUSE 212–213: Gucci kimono coat, ($19,000), hat ($1,390), and gloves ($435); select Gucci boutiques. 216: Gucci jacket ($5,200), gilet ($1,350), shirt ($720), and pants ($1,290); select Gucci boutiques. ONWARD MARCH 220: Earrings, price upon request; 3.1 Phillip Lim, NYC. 221: Boots, price upon request. 222: On Bijl: Hat, price upon request. Earrings, $650; j-w-anderson.com. On

Ewers: Hat, price upon request. Earrings, $495; j-w-anderson .com. 224: Fingertip rings ($95 each) and septum ring ($115); chrishabanajewelry.com. Freshwater pearl necklace, $420: pearlcollective.com. Studdedleather cuff, $78; thefryecompany .com. Sterling silver–and–leather cuff, $850; jillplatner.com. 225: Hat ($620) and belt (price upon request). 226: Tweed jacket, jeans, boxers, belt, and slippers (priced upon request). Pearl layering necklace, $1,200; davidyurman .com. Metal tie necklace, price upon request; wandanylon.fr for information. 18K–rose gold bangle, $6,710; ireneneuwirth.com. Silver cuff ($216) and brass cuff ($216); anniecostellobrown.com. 227: Pearl necklace, price upon request; yproject.fr for information. In this story: Tailor, Leah Huntsinger for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Gina Viviano.

ROCK SOLID 228–229: Dress, price upon request. Stella McCartney earrings, price upon request; Stella McCartney, NYC. Tuleste white enamel rings, $50 each; tuleste .com. Bulgari 18K–white gold ring, $2,350; bulgari.com. Sandals, $795; 3.1 Phillip Lim stores. 230: Bag, price upon request. Top, skirt, and belt (priced upon request). Earrings ($995) and sandals ($1,050); Proenza Schouler, NYC. Bulgari pink gold–and–ceramic ring ($1,590) and 18K-gold ring ($2,200); bulgari.com. David

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TIME AFTER TIME CONTINUED FROM PAGE 240

A WORD ABOUT DISCOUNTERS W HI LE VOGU E TH OROUG HLY RESE A RCH ES T HE COMPANIES ME N TI O N ED I N I TS PAGES, W E CA N N OT GUA RA N TE E T HE AU TH EN T IC I T Y O F ME RC H AND ISE SOLD BY D I SCOUN T ERS. AS I S A LWAYS T HE CASE I N PU RCH AS I NG A N I TE M FRO M A N YW H ER E OTH ER THAN THE AUTHORIZED STORE, THE BUYER TAKES A RISK AND SHOULD USE CAUTION WHEN DOING SO.

approached by Stephen Sondheim, one of his idols. “But he had people he wanted to work with who weren’t me,” he says, “and I thought long and hard and decided I was willing to give up Sondheim to pursue it myself.” After flying to London to see Warchus’s dark-hued musical version of Roald Dahl’s Matilda and meeting with that show’s songwriter, Tim Minchin, he decided he had found his creative partners, and they set to work. The result—with the estimable help of Matilda the Musical choreographer Peter Darling and set and costume designer Rob Howell—is a high-octane musical entertainment that is funny and heartfelt and uplifting, with an existential undertow and echoes of The Music Man and A Christmas Carol. As in the film, the plot revolves around Phil Connors (Karl), a dyspeptic, world-weary weatherman sent to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, on Groundhog Day to cover the annual appearance of the town’s winter-forecasting rodent, an assignment that he treats with disdain—as he does everything and everyone around him, including his lovely young producer Rita (Barrett Doss). When a snowstorm strands them in Punxsutawney overnight, and Phil wakes

Yurman stack rings, $500 for set of two; davidyurman.com. Proenza Schouler white metal rings, price upon request; Proenza Schouler, NYC. 231: Jersey dress, under lace dress ($950) and necklace ($685). 232–233: Necklace, $685; Givenchy, NYC. 234: Earrings ($355) and belt ($850). 235: Earring, $675; tibi.com. 236–237: Earrings, $695.

ON FLEEK, C’EST CHIC? 239: Shirt, $810; doverstreetmarket.com. Necklace, $1,695; Balenciaga, NYC. 18K-gold stem ring, $6,364; Barneys New York, NYC. 18K gold–and–enamel ring, $1,000; marcalary.com. CRAFT CULTURE 242–243: On Hadid: Dress ($7,895) and top ($9,695). Earrings, price upon request; (212) 288-1872. Gucci ring, $410; gucci .com. David Yurman tourmaline ring, price upon request; David

up to discover that he is literally trapped in the same day, he goes from panic to hedonism to boredom to despair until he becomes a better man. “He’s a jerk, and he kind of knows it,” Karl says. “He’s rude, arrogant, disrespectful, selfish, cynical, dissatisfied—and miserable. Then, after he’s been completely tortured and stripped of everything, he learns to live in the moment.” Rubin adds, “We see him on the worst day of his life and the best day of his life, and they’re both the same day—the only thing that changes is him.” The hard part was imagining Phil without Bill Murray. “That was the big challenge: Can Phil sing?” Minchin says. “I had to go back in my head to a more kind of classic Scrooge, and once I got rid of the Bill Murray of it all, it started to feel like the show could sing.” Known for his mix of the perverse and the sincere, Minchin hit on an ingenious way to overcome the fact that the character is, as Warchus says, “someone who wouldn’t want to be in a musical but finds himself trapped in one.” In the opening number, as the townspeople sing in an upbeat chorus about the joys of small-town life, Phil croons, with increasing desperation, about how depressing it is to be stuck in a onebar town “talking to hicks about magical beavers.” At each turn, Minchin matches

Yurman, NYC. Bag, $2,450; select Neiman Marcus stores. Shoes, $995; select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. On Foust, Sell, and Flynn: Suit jacket ($420), suit pants ($175), and dress shirt ($145); Armani Junior, NYC. Little Lids cap, $36; littlelids.com. Ties .com clip-on ties, $18; ties.com. Shoes, $60; florsheim.com. 244: On Hadid: Leather coat ($24,195) earring (price upon request), and boots ($3,550). Tourmaline ring and black opal ring (priced upon request); David Yurman, NYC. On Faist: Tailcoat (price upon request), trousers (price upon request), rings (priced upon request), and sneakers ($560); Alexander McQueen, NYC. Shirt, $980; select Gucci boutiques. Clip, $30,000; tiffany.com. 245: On Hadid: Dress, $46,400; select Chanel boutiques. Earrings, price upon request; (212) 288-1872, Ring, price upon request; (800) CARTIER. Bracelet, $135,000; (800) 843-3269. On

Holland: Coat ($7,500), sweater ($2,200), jeans ($1,000), and necklace ($2,200); select Chanel boutiques. 246: On Hadid: Bag, $1,590. Draped earrings, price upon request; modaoperandi .com. Necklace, $6,300; select Chanel boutiques. On Faist: Jacket ($2,690), T-shirt ($450), and jeans ($490); Saint Laurent, NYC. Necklace, $47,760; Lesley Ann Jewels, Houston. 247: On Hadid: Bag ($5,000), strap on bag ($1,600), and boots ($1,050). Necklace, price upon request; (800) CARTIER. On Hedges: Jacket ($1,200), pants ($500), shirt ($650), and sneakers ($700); Fendi, NYC. 248–249: On Hadid: Skirt ($11,500) and clutch ($2,350). Sandals, $350; toryburch.com. Bracelet, price upon request; simonteakle.com. On Wittrock: Jacket ($3,000) and pants ($1,500); Dior Homme boutiques. Shirt, $80; calvinklein .com. Saint Laurent by Anthony

Phil’s moods with different musical idioms, from seventies funk to nineties emo for a tour de force number called “Hope,” during which he tries repeatedly and unsuccessfully to kill himself. That scene, in which Phil shoots himself, steps in front of a truck, and sits in a bathtub holding a toaster, posed significant staging questions, as did the sequences in which Phil repeatedly wakes up in the same bed on the same day. (Jump cuts are not part of the theatrical vocabulary.) Warchus and Howell’s solutions involve an unseen revolving floor and the stage magic of illusionist Paul Kieve, combined with the use of miniatures and modular pieces of scenery assembled and taken apart by the cast. “We wanted it to not be a shiny production, but textured and organic and very human,” Warchus says. “I thought a lot about Our Town and that sense of community.” Perhaps the main reason that the story of Groundhog Day continues to resonate for audiences is that, for most of us, its central conceit hits close to home. Warchus finds its message particularly poignant today. “You realize how short life is and how important it is to become the best version of yourself and not waste time standing apart or being blind to things,” he says. “Open your eyes and join in.” 

Vaccarello tie, $225; Saint Laurent, NYC. Canali pocket square, $115; Canali stores. Shoes, $750; burberry.com. 250: On Hadid: Dress ($6,240) and sandals ($1,090). On Brammer: Coat, $1,780; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Shirt, $175; Hugo Boss stores. Trousers (part of a tuxedo), $3,750; select Valentino boutiques. Canali pocket square, $115; Canali stores. Shoes, $590; 011-44-1-604-751251. 251: On Hadid: Dress ($23,000) and shoes ($1,100). Earrings, price upon request; David Yurman, NYC. Rubellite ring, price upon request; (800) BVLGARI. Tiffany & Co. tanzanite ring ($65,000), opal ring ($42,000), and green tourmaline ring ($25,000); (800) 843-3269. On Smith: Jacket ($3,200), pants ($1,350), shirt ($980), shoes ($980), and bow tie ($170); select Gucci boutiques. Clip on jacket, $3,800; (800) 843-3269. 252: On Hadid: Earrings and ring, priced

upon request; David Yurman, NYC. Bag, $995; coach.com. On Hedges: Jacket ($1,285), shirt ($330), and jeans ($755); select Marc Jacobs stores. 253: On Hadid: Dress (price upon request), earrings ($7,250), bag ($2,495), and sandals ($4,295). On Wittrock: Jacket ($2,695), trousers ($995), shirt ($795), bow tie ($215), and shoes ($795); select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. In this story: Tailor, Alexander Koutny for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Yuko Tsuchihashi.

Index 254–255: 1. Necklace, $19,980. 11. Bicycle, $2,950. 12. Earrings, $2,400. 18. Blouse, $1,605. Last look 266: Earrings; select Gucci boutiques. ALL PRICES APPROXIMATE.

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LastLook

Gucci earrings, $2,280 Call it animal magnetism: The fiercest pair of Gucci’s new collarbone-grazing clip-ons is this set of feline-head earrings, which slunk into the collection alongside a menagerie of other critters, from bunny rabbits to serpentine dragons, all of them rendered in metallic needlework and diamanté garnishes. Here, multicolored crystals of light topaz and emerald conjure whiskered kittens with eyes of glittering blue. Couple these featherweight bijoux with a Little Edie–style head wrap (as Gucci creative director Alessandro Michele did recently on the runway) for an eccentric and embellished take on a familiar fashion standby: the cool cat.  PHOTOGRAPHED BY ERIC BOMAN

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D ETA I LS, S EE I N T HI S I SSUE

EDITOR: VIRGINIA SMITH


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tap chi thoi trang thang 3 hay  

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