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April 2018 60 Editor’s Letter
in an extravagant new space. By Plum Sykes
66 96 Up Front After a childhood as a motherless Rwandan refugee, Clemantine Wamariya found safety and success in the U.S. But hers is not, she insists, a feel-good story
104 V Life Our guide to fashion, culture, and beauty news
154 Fresh Ink The cat eye’s enduring appeal is back in the spotlight for spring
159 Point of View 160 Flights of Fancy Seven designers weave the dream of fashion at its frothy, frilly, flashy, flowery, glittery, and color-saturated best. Kendall Jenner soaks up the revelry.
164 Kendall Gets Candid The world’s highestpaid model is riding high, riding horses— and reevaluating her life and career. By Jonathan Van Meter
172 Viva Annabel’s!
FLYING COLORS MODELS ADWOA ABOAH AND CARA DELEVINGNE WEAR BURBERRY FEBRUARY COLLECTION. PHOTOGRAPHED BY PAUL WETHERELL.
London’s legendary nightclub—host to Princess Diana, the Rolling Stones, and everyone who was anyone— comes roaring back
176 Out of the Trenches After seventeen brilliant years at the helm of Burberry, Christopher Bailey signs off with a little help from his friends— and his family. By Sarah Mower.
184 Garden Variety Dark florals— exquisite, moody, and manysplendored— sprouted all over the spring runways. Actress Mia Goth blossoms in the very best. CONTINUED>56
Cover Look Birds of a Feather Kendall Jenner wears a Chanel Haute Couture dress and a Chanel Fine Jewelry ring. To get this look, try: Double Wear Nude Water Fresh Makeup SPF 30 in 1N2 Ecru, Pure Color Envy Sculpting Blush in Wild Sunset, Double Wear Highlighting Cushion Stick in Champagne Glow, The Brow Multi-Tasker in Dark Brunette, Pure Color Envy Defining EyeShadow Wet/Dry in Amber Intrigue, Pure Color Envy Lash Multi Effects Mascara in Black, Pure Color Love Lipstick in Sky High. All by Estée Lauder. Hair, Paul Hanlon; makeup, Lauren Parsons. Details, see In This Issue. Photographed by Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.
FAS HI ON ED I TOR : CA MI LLA N I CKE RSO N . H A I R, RECI NE FO R ROD I N ; M A KEUP, SUS I E SOBOL. SET D ESIGN, ALICE KIR KPATR ICK. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE
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198 Dreaming Big After a year in Washington, Kamala Harris has proved she doesn’t back down from a fight. How far can the star senator go? Abby Aguirre reports
202 Wild About Harry With the feverishly anticipated Harry
Potter and The Cursed Child, the latest—and perhaps final—chapter of the story comes to Broadway. By Adam Green
206 Happy Valley In his native Italy, garden designer Luciano Giubbilei has created a verdant oasis that grows
underthe Tuscan sun. By Marella Caracciolo Chia
212 Western Promises Chinese-born, English-educated Chloé Zhao has done more than upend expectations. Her film The Rider reinvents a genre. By John Powers
214 Smoke Signals They’re quickly becoming popular accessories backstage and in the front rows. But how safe is your vape? asks Julia Felsenthal
216 The Greenest Green Fava beans are a historical curiosity,
a cult ingredient among chefs, and—best of all—a harbinger of spring. By Rob Haskell
psychedelic, supersaturated humanoids take them for a highly embellished whirl
218 Sparkles Fly
The newest handbags—all spangles and sequins and pearls, oh my!—resemble tricked-out treasure chests. Artist Raúl de Nieves’s
Forget the flowers! April showers bring the chicest assortment of storm-ready staples
234 Last Look
FAS HI ON ED I TOR : G RACE CO D D I NGTO N . H A I R, JU LI E N D’YS FO R JU LI E N D’YS; M A KEUP, D IANE KENDAL. SET D ESIGN, MARY H OWAR D. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.
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BURBERRY’S CHRISTOPHER BAILEY
KARL LAGERFELD AT CHANEL’S FALL 2017 SHOW
GUCCI’S ALESSANDRO MICHELE
ALEXANDER MCQUEEN’S SARAH BURTON
A PORTRAIT OF MAISON MARTIN MARGIELA’S JOHN GALLIANO
VALENTINO’S PIERPAOLO PICCIOLI
The Dreamers OUR APRIL ISSUE FOCUSES ON DREAMERS—those individuals who can envisage whole worlds of their own making, worlds that are beautiful and compelling in their originality. The theme came from Fashion News Director Mark Holgate during a fashion meeting not long after we’d returned from the spring 2018 collections last October. It was inspired, in part, by the idea that sometimes fashion doesn’t have to be anything other than magical and magnificent; whether it was wearable or not didn’t factor too much into our decisions about what we wanted to shoot. Usually at Vogue I’m a great believer in addressing real needs about clothes, but let’s be honest: We all want to eat dessert sometimes. The fashion we chose came from those designers who took this approach the best, most notably Karl Lagerfeld, who has led Chanel for more than three decades, and whom I have been fortunate enough to call a friend for about as long. Karl is eternally inspiring to me for his creativity, his intellectual curiosity—and his immense kindness. Recently, I’ve started calling him the Swedish Admiral—for his newly grown beard as much as for his northern European sensibilities. (Though he may have been born in Germany, he retains many of the characteristics of his Scandinavian forebears.) Incredible pieces by him, as well as many of the other designers you see here, were shot on cover star Kendall Jenner. She was styled by Fashion Director Tonne Goodman and photographed by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott at the recently reopened London nightclub Annabel’s, epicenter of all sorts of late-night shenanigans. After all, what’s the point of being all dressed up if there’s nowhere to go? Speaking of London, we celebrate another dreamer, Burberry’s Christopher Bailey—who showed his final collection 60
for the label in February after a seventeen-year tenure—with a special portfolio featuring a suitably starry cast of Christopher’s family and friends. That they all happily and quickly agreed to participate speaks volumes about this modest and fiercely talented Englishman’s popularity. His swan song paid tribute to gay pride, honoring an idea of a rainbow-hued world that’s inclusive, empowering, and, ultimately, optimistic. Christopher is so well versed in so many aspects of our lives today, from the arts to technology to globalism, that he’d make a terrific future British prime minister. We can but dream, can’t we? Elsewhere, we chronicle the arrival on Broadway of J. K. Rowling’s bespectacled young hero in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. It’s already been a huge success on the British stage, and for the same reason that Rowling’s story of an orphaned wizard leaped into our collective consciousness in the first place: We all want to believe that good will ultimately triumph, even if we have to endure quite the ride to get there. And lastly, we profile the remarkable Senator Kamala Harris, who refers to herself with an absolute seriousness—laced with her particular brand of forthright humor—as a “joyful warrior.” Writer Abby Aguirre met Senator Harris the day President Trump gave his State of the Union address, and the state we’re in is never far from her mind as she has emerged as a fearless figure on so many important issues, from the DACA program to gun control (“I’m not going to be silenced by the NRA or anyone else,” she has stated). Just how far she will go is bound to be of avid interest in the months and years to come, but right now, with her unwavering belief in doing what’s right, Senator Harris reminds us that hope is a close relation to dreaming.
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Going Deep After a childhood as a motherless Rwandan refugee, Clemantine Wamariya found safety and success in the U.S. But hers is not, she insists, a feel-good story.
The earth felt soft and lumpy, a bucket of broken chalk. Once we reached the tall trees we ran, for real, off the farm and deep into a thick banana grove, where we saw other people, most of them young, some of them bloody with wounds. We walked for hours, until everything hurt, not toward anything, just away. We rubbed the red-brown mud and eucalyptus leaves on our bodies so we could disappear. We heard laughing and screaming and pleading and crying and then cruel laughing again. We avoided roads and walked instead only on the little paths animals used to pass through the scrub. If we heard any noise we crouched and froze. Claire’s face—I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t look at her eyes. We stopped and knelt by a stream to drink. I started to shiver, and said, “I want to go home.” Claire stood up, pulled my wrist. “We can’t stay here. Other people will come.” A man told us he knew the way to safety. We followed him to the Burundi border, at the Akanyaru River. There were bodies floating in it. I still didn’t understand what killing was. To me, the people in the river were sleeping. People in water sleeping and sleeping. That’s all I knew. U P F R O N T>1 0 0 THE ADVOCATE YALE-EDUCATED CLEMANTINE WAMARIYA, NOW 30, WORKS AS A HUMAN-RIGHTS ACTIVIST ON BEHALF OF CONFLICT SURVIVORS.
JU LI A ZAV E
ne day my mother told me and my older sister Claire to pack a few things to go to my grandmother’s farm in Butare, a few hours south of Kigali, toward the Burundi border. Claire and I loved it there and we revered our grandmother. She lived in an adobe-style house with small windows, a thatched roof, and rows and rows of sunflowers behind it—a house out of a fairy tale. A man arrived in a van early the next morning. It was still dark. We stopped at other houses; other girls entered. We all squished together in the middle of the seats, away from the windows. We rode up and over the hills, the curved slopes soft, like a body, past the stands of trees, the rice paddies. When I tried to speak, Claire insisted we play the silent game. In Butare, when we arrived, some of my cousins were already in my grandmother’s kitchen. Every hour I demanded an update on when my parents were coming, or at least my brother, Pudi. I missed him. My grandmother, cousins, and sister all just said, “Soon.” Nobody would play with me. We heard a knock on the door. My grandmother gestured for us to be silent—checkeka checkeka. Then she motioned for us to run, or really to belly-crawl, out past the sunflowers and through the sweet-potato field. Claire pulled my arm.
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We started taking on water as soon as we left. The only My toenails fell out. We lived on fruit. Days were for hiding, way to slow our sinking was to make our boat lighter, to trade nights for walking. I thought I was 100 years old. I thought possessions for lives. So people began dropping heirlooms— I was the thunder’s child. I had always wanted to be Claire’s framed pictures, silver, jewelry—into the water and watching age or my mother’s. I was six. Age made no sense anymore. them disappear. The looks on their faces, the look of panic. It’s After days, a week—I could not keep track—we found a easier to scream, but if you scream you’ll get shot, and what’s cornfield where we heard children playing. Claire and I exthe point if everyone is screaming with their faces already? One changed no words. Our mouths, our bodies, had gone mute. woman tossed her china plates, one by one; then she started Only our eyes still could speak and even then only in bursts. I on her glass teacups. Still, the cold water kept rising, creeping could see, and then I stopped seeing, up the adults’ shins, over my knees. It’s strange how you go from being a person who is away I prayed like my mother had prayed, to every saint that I from home to a person with no home at all. The place that is could remember—Mary, Rose, Katherina. I didn’t want the supposed to want you has pushed you out. No other place kids on the boat to die like this. I promtakes you in. You are unwanted, by everyone. You are a refugee. ised if we got out, I would be the best One day a Red Cross truck arrived. child ever, the best sister. The authority felt reassuring. The The water was a monster. Claire held driver invited pregnant women and the her baby, Mariette, then eight months wounded to sit in the back. He told the old, up to her chest. The moon was full. rest of us to follow on foot. We were I willed myself to be light as air, to atomjust a mass, a herd. We walked for alize and scatter in the wind. Water crept most a whole day before we reached up to my waist. No one said a word. Ngozi, two hills covered with blue and We reached Tanzania catatonic and white tents. We were given a tent, two exhausted. The boat pulled right up to water jugs, two scratchy blankets, a the beach. Steep hills rose just 20 feet large plastic bag, and a pot. from the water’s edge, so we fell asleep Staying alive was so much work. We on the cold sand. We had nothing. had to wait five hours in line for maize Rob’s cousin had left Zaire with one and five hours again for beans. We had bag. In that bag was her whole remainto fetch firewood. No one had matches, ing life—all her money, her husband’s so you had to look out for smoke, and college diploma. It disappeared overwhen you saw some you walked over night, while she slept. there, with some kindling, to carry the The next morning, immigration flames back to your tent. police rounded us up and we resumed You had to try to hang on to your being refugees. We spent the night at a BOOKISH AN INSPIRED READER OF ELIE WIESEL, W. G. name, though nobody cared about nearby school. I wrapped Mariette in SEBALD, AND OTHERS, THE AUTHOR, WITH your name. You had to try to stay a our one blanket, then put her inside our ELIZABETH WEIL, TELLS HER STORY. person. You had to try not to become one remaining suitcase to keep warm. invisible. If you let go and fell back into the chaos, you were All night, in the suitcase, Mariette remained silent. All the gone, just a number. If you died, no one knew. If you got lost, children with us in the school had stopped crying. Only the no one knew. If you gave up and disintegrated inside, no one adults wept. The next day we rode one of those godforsaken knew. I started telling people, I’m Clemantine, I’m Clemanwhite UNHCR trucks to a refugee camp in Kigoma. tine, I’m Clemantine! I don’t want to be lost. I’m Clemantine! I FOUR YEARS LATER. People holding welcome to america thought if I stated my name enough times, my identity would signs at Chicago O’Hare airport were walking toward us. I was fall back into place. I wrote my name in the dirt. I wrote my twelve. Claire was 21. We stood erect and dazed as a bright name in the dust. But a name is a cover, a placeholder, not the white couple hugged the five of us: me, Claire, Rob, Mariette, whole story. A name is a basin with a leak that you need to age four, and Freddy, age two. The couple had balloons for constantly fill up. If you don’t, it drains and it’s just there, a Mariette, Freddy, and me, the supposed children. They gave husk, dry and empty. Claire and Rob $100 gift cards for Old Navy. Claire and I had lived in six different countries since leaving TWO YEARS LATER. Fleeing Kazimia, in the Democratic Rwanda. The United States was our seventh. I was callous and Republic of Congo, required not just traveling along the shore cynical. I didn’t trust kindness; I believed it came with a price. of Lake Tanganyika but crossing it, a six-hour trip. Claire, by I thought I could fool people into thinking that I was not prothat point, had married Rob, an ex-aid worker who had fallen in love with her at the refugee camp. Now 50 frantic people, foundly bruised. We just stared at our hosts—a middle-aged including one of Rob’s cousins, crammed with us into a small Germanic woman with short, curly blonde hair and her skinny boat. We carried our whole lives—or what we had left. Rob’s husband. They held a paper with our names. Their car smelled cousin had lost a baby a few months before. Malaria, no mednew. Their shampoo smelled like plumeria. There was so much concrete. I hadn’t seen my mother in six years. U P F R O N T>1 0 2 icine. A natural disaster with a war assist. 100
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Up Front Far from Home
Up Front Far from Home My eighth-grade English teacher at Christian Heritage Academy put genocide on a vocabulary list. I hated the word immediately. I did not understand the point of it then. I resent and revile it now. It is tidy and efficient. It holds no true emotion. It is impersonal when it needs to be intimate; cool and sterile when it needs to be gruesome. It’s hollow, true but disingenuous, the worst kind of lie. The word genocide cannot tell you, cannot make you feel, the way I felt in Rwanda. The way I felt in Burundi. The way I wished to be invisible because I knew someone wanted me dead at a point in my life when I did not yet understand what death was. “Oh, it’s like the Holocaust?” people would say to me—say to me still. To this day I do not know how to respond. No, I want to scream, it’s not like the Holocaust. Or the killing fields in Cambodia. Or ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. There’s no catchall term that proves you understand. You cannot line up the atrocities like a matching set. You cannot bear witness with a single word. I did not yet know the political history of Rwanda. I knew the president’s plane had been shot down. My mother, terrified, had come into my room early one morning and told me he had been killed, and then we knelt and prayed. But that was it. I just thought of the enemy, then, as bad guys who steal. I believed they were going to steal us, but worse. I thought, Abajura. . . . People are coming. Then they did come and I ran away from the bad people and the bad people stole my parents from me.
Soon the questions grew worse. People wanted to know if anyone in my family had been murdered, and if I had seen people get killed. I could not believe their sense of entitlement. These people did not have the right to my pain. They did not even realize that they wanted it, that they saw my life as a movie. Their questions felt prurient, violating, evidence of their inability to see me as fully human. I understand that fear of, and fascination with, death are central to the human condition, but I didn’t want to be asked about death. I did not want to be a tool or a case study. I did not want to be that Rwandan girl. Yet inevitably I was a curiosity, an emissary from suffering’s far edge. People asked me to speak at church youth groups, requests I mostly declined. I did agree to speak to a class at New Trier High School, since it was the high school I’d be attending the following year. “Just talk about your childhood,” the teacher said. I felt scared and out of control at the idea of sharing my interior life. So when I walked into the classroom of half-interested freshmen, I asked the teacher to pull down the wall map. That way I could stick to the itinerary. My character would be unimportant. “I was born here,” I began, pointing to Rwanda. The country looked like a gallstone in the center of the African body, a ball of pain. “We had a wonderful life and suddenly everything started to change.” I narrated my life as an adventure. I learned to speak seven languages. I wandered across a continent. I told a true story, though one that conveyed nearly nothing. In return, the class reacted without pity, which was the point. They just thought I was cool. I hadn’t known that was possible—that I could gain social status if I told my story in the right way. When I finished, one of the students asked, “Did you have any animals? Like, did you have elephants?” I tried to spin the query into what seemed like a cultural exchange, asking, “Why do you have those metal things on your teeth?” Another girl said, “You didn’t shower for days? Gross!” I pretended I didn’t hear. So few people knew who I was. Often adults said to me, “You’re so strong, you’re so brave.” But I didn’t want to be strong, I didn’t want to be brave. I wanted a fresh, fluffy brain, one that was not tormented by wars and fear. I wanted to backtrack in time to a world of innocence, to regress into the landscape of a movie where the brothers and sisters take care of one another. My life, at present, felt like a tar pit. I felt like I was disappearing, being consumed. My story was just so interesting— so foreign, so exotic. “Oh, my gosh, do you know Clemantine?” people said. “She’s a refugee. She’s African. I think she had to pass through some forest or she almost died on some lake.”
Their questions felt prurient . . . I did not want to be a tool or a case study. I did not want to be that Rwandan girl
n the intervening years I had no references. Nothing to order or anchor my thoughts, and for a time I stopped trying to discipline them or pin them down. I didn’t ask questions. I had been shut down so many times. Checkeka. It seemed better to be like Claire: Claire was numb. She focused on building a life here, now, not excavating and examining in the Midwestern American sunshine the secrets that nobody wanted to see. I had a few floating fragments of memory, bits of seaweed in a fish tank. I remembered my mom folding things and putting things away in a way my mother did not fold things and put things away. I remembered my grandmother burying objects in the ground, objects that nobody buried. I remembered that when she saw me staring she shooed me inside. Now I was sitting here, in Kenilworth, a suburb of Chicago, across a rift in the galaxy a million miles wide, learning about one group of people killing another group of people, people that they lived with and knew. This genocide, I read in very matter-of-fact terms, started on April 7, 1994, and lasted 100 days. One group, the Hutus, killed another group, the Tutsis.
In 2004, when the movie Hotel Rwanda came out, a student in my class asked me if I had been scared during the war. He was the first peer to ask me that question directly. I took offense. You want me to tell you how I felt? How dare you ask me to return to that place? 102
Adapted from The Girl Who Smiled Beads, by Clemantine Wamariya and Elizabeth Weil. Copyright © 2018 by Clemantine Wamariya. Published by Crown, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC.
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VL I F E Fashion Culture Beauty
With a new global beauty director, Estée Lauder finds a fresh, French-accented voice. IN THE WORLD ACCORDING TO VIOLETTE, a Manhattan park is a perfectly acceptable place to film a makeup tutorial. Dressed in a Gallic striped top and flared jeans, the Parisian expat nestles into a garden chair, spreading out products on a cloth napkin like a plein air picnic. As she works her magic on a model—blending concealer, fluffing lashes, painting on cherry lipstick with a blurred-edge technique coyly supertitled “#frenchkisslook” on YouTube—the effect B E A U T Y >1 0 6
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and cheeks. “She’s very driven, but for the right reasons: driven by excellence and art and expression,” says Cassandra Grey, whose Hollywood-favorite beauty boutique Violet Grey has teamed up with the makeup artist for shoots and tutorials. Creating a person-toperson connection, even if mediated by a screen, is a motivating factor for Violette, observes Grey: “She really appreciates how beauty can help women feel comfortable in their skin.” A knack for sleight-of-hand ingenuity lends a further sense of ease to her work, which is why “nonchalant” is the conveniently bilingual word that best sums up Violette, according to lead hairstylist Laurent Philippon, Bumble and Bumble’s global artistic director and a frequent on-set collaborator. “She wants to be able to live with her makeup,” he says—a sentiment shared by her fellow time-strapped New Yorkers. It’s about time joie de vivre had a Stateside ambassador.—LAURA REGENSDORF
T RAV E L
Hotels California If paradise was paved to put up a parking lot, two new California wine-country hotels—the Astro and Skyview—are doing just the opposite. Once mid-century motor lodges, both properties have transformed park-outside-your-hotel-room lots into edible-garden green spaces. And as the region recovers from last year’s wildfires and mudslides, renewal is in the air. In Sonoma’s Santa Rosa, the Astro Motel embraced its sixties origins, explains co-owner Liza Hinman.
A Googie-style neon sign blinks, and doors alternate in shades of atomic orange and teal. Shinola bikes are at the ready for trips to nearby wineries, or guests can venture downtown à pied for microbreweries and garagiste winemakers. Skyview is situated in Santa Barbara’s Los Alamos, and its outdoor lounge area and restaurant’s vegetable garden suggest nothing of the hotel’s origins as a car park. “We wanted the property to reflect the town’s old-timey Western roots,” says Skyview’s Kimberly Walker. Wineryseekers have several options within walking distance, and, as of next year, the hotel’s two-acre Pinot and Chardonnay vineyard will see its first vintage.—LILAH RAMZI
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is persuasive: part Nouvelle Vague realism, part Sex and the City sisterhood, part QVC finesse. Last summer, when Estée Lauder tapped the self-taught makeup artist to be its global beauty director, it seemed like an unexpected move for a brand long synonymous with American pluck and polish. How did the French-born art school alum, whose painterly way with loose pigments earned her entrée into French Vogue, fit into the equation? But the partnership quickly took off with a curated, online-only lip trio for holiday, and the New York brand has likely seen its visibility rise thanks to Violette’s devoted viewership (350,000 and counting). That the 34-year-old’s ground-level approachability also happens to strike an unlikely chord with Lauder’s late founder is an added benefit. As a 1973 Vogue profile described Estée, “She can make up a woman in a wink (and has been known to touch up perfect strangers in elevators).” Had the smartphone cameras been rolling back then, much like the Parisian in the park multitasking lipstick as rouge, Lauder would have also been a viral sensation. Violette shares Lauder’s sixth sense for knowing what women want, an intuition distilled into her debut limited-edition capsule for the brand. Called Poppy Sauvage, the seven-piece line, out next month, crystallizes a memory in makeup form: passing through fire-red poppies and golden wheat on a sunset train ride to the South of France. That shimmering landscape translates into duochrome eye shadows (bronze taupe and gilded rose); a standout matte liquid lipstick in the collection’s namesake red-orange; and the Soft Glow balm, a
FIELD WORK VIOLETTE (INSET) LOOKED TO POPPIES AND GOLDEN WHEAT FOR THE INSPIRATION BEHIND HER ESTÉE LAUDER CAPSULE. FROM TOP: A ROSE-GOLD EYE SHADOW FROM THE PURE COLOR ENVY SCULPTING PALETTE; SOFT GLOW FOR LIPS & CHEEKS; PAINT-ON LIQUID LIPCOLOR IN POPPY SAUVAGE.
Talent Show FAS H I O N
MATTHEW ADAMS DOLAN The young Australianraised designer is reinventing American cool—and working with Rihanna. 108
“I’M A BIG GEEK—I’M OBSESSED with reading, I’m obsessed with art history,” the fashion designer Matthew Adams Dolan says, looking both exhausted and really, really excited. Exhausted because in the runup to his just-staged fall show he was sewing until 4:00 a.m. every night, his Lakeland terrier, Maisie, at his side, soul music blaring. And excited because that show—with its electric-blue country club–ready cable cardigans, its button-down shirts sporting exaggerated plaid cuffs, its crisp swing-back
checked coats—brought a bright burst of energy to New York Fashion Week. Dolan, 30, who is very tall and very boyish, is dressed today in one of his vastly oversize denim jackets—the silhouette that first put him on the fashion map. He lives in a huge loft in the Seaport district of Manhattan with two roommates and FA S H I O N >1 1 0 LAPELS AND BOUNDS DOLAN AND HIS DOG MAISIE (SEATED LEFT) WITH MODELS TOMMY BLUE (TOP LEFT), NORA ATTAL (CENTER), XEL (TOP RIGHT), AND ROBERT ROSSELLINI (SEATED RIGHT), ALL IN MATTHEW ADAMS DOLAN; MATTHEWADAMSDOLAN.COM.
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describes the place—which is both home and atelier—as “a disaster zone,” with swatches covering every inch of wall space. If his clothing seems to defy conventional categories—it’s streetwise but refined, polished but frisky—it may be because, like the best artists, he is interested in so many things beyond fashion: medieval illuminated manuscripts! Jackie Kennedy and Camelot! Though Dolan was born in Massachusetts and is a direct descendant of John Adams, his family moved to Sydney, Australia, when he was very young, his father working as an agronomist and his mother a narcotics investigator for the department of health. (An avid quilter, she destroys drugs by day and sews by night.) He was not the kid who whiled away the hours leafing through fashion magazines, instead growing up in L.L. Bean and OshKosh overalls sent by his grandparents from his homeland (though his mom would occasionally break down and buy him the skate clothes all his friends were wearing). When he was 17, Dolan won a scholarship to visit the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra. “I was thinking I wanted to do art curation,”
he says. As it happened, there was a Vivienne Westwood exhibition on display. “It was a retrospective of her career, plus the art that influenced her, and what I saw for the first time was the link between fashion, art, and culture.” These clothes—with their striking political content, their street sensibility, their exquisite execution—changed his life. Dolan quickly became preoccupied with the evolution of American style. His undergrad thesis, he says, laughing, was called—as best he can remember—“From Calvinism to Calvin Klein.” He moved to New York, earned a degree from Parsons, and began working at the Alexander Wang store in SoHo. Then something miraculous happened: The stylist Alastair McKimm caught his graduate presentation in 2014, showed his clothes to Rihanna, and she fell in love. Suddenly Dolan was in business. “She asked me to make stuff for her, and then I started working on the Puma collection with her,” Dolan says. “She’s an incredible woman.” From the outset, Dolan has been exploring classic American workwear and uncovering the secrets of
A Cut Above “I’m a nostalgic woman,” says Nathalie Lété, “I’ve always been drawn to the images I saw in books as a child.” The Parisbased artist and illustrator collaborated with British boutique Avenida Home to create a series of charming cutting boards adorned with (food-safe) vintage garden imagery and folklore motifs. A hedgehog plays coy in the corner of one of the boards, and here, a sprawling floral bouquet adds life to the most mundane of kitchen accoutrements.—NOOR BRARA
TRAY CHIC THE BIRCHWOOD CUTTING BOARD CAN DOUBLE AS A SERVING PLATTER.
its proportion. “Even that first denim jacket I made had a sort of curved sleeve, and the shoulders were pushed to the front,” he says. “This season, I was looking at actual sportswear: tailored blazers, jackets, pants.” The goal: to make these classic styles feel modern “through the color or the cut. I did trucker jackets with this big swing back and a gusset—a kind of couture construction.” (Or, one might argue, couture for a construction worker.) But though the designer may spend endless nights bent over the sewing machine, that doesn’t mean he isn’t paying attention to the wider world. After all, when your project is American fashion, how can you ignore the fraught national mood? “I wake up every morning and read the newspaper for an hour because you need to know what’s going on. I’m always interested in this idea of protest—but in a way that doesn’t feel like a slogan T-shirt.” That said, he did create a slogan tee once. It read, remember the ladies— the famous feminist words of Dolan’s ancestor Abigail Adams. It’s a sentiment as fresh today as a fierce young woman holding forth in a swing-back trucker jacket.—LYNN YAEGER
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LUDOVIC DE SAINT SERNIN
A PARISIENNE GRANDE DAME ’s approval is not generally given easily, but 27-year-old École Duperré graduate Ludovic de Saint Sernin has succeeded in obtaining just such validation. “I saw your grandson’s collection, and I am so happy,” wrote a friend of Saint Sernin’s grandmother. “It’s really reaching into something that’s more elegant, because fashion . . . it can be really weird-looking nowadays.” But don’t let the fin de siècle tone—or Saint Sernin’s dashing resemblance to an artsy, blond Balzac hero—fool you: His self-titled debut is both passionately modern and artisanal. “My clothes would not be too out of place on a woman from the Upper East BLANK SLATE Side—or on a teenage boy from the SixMODEL OUMIE teenth Arrondissement,” he says with a JAMMEH IN A LUDOVIC DE SAINT SERNIN nod, his slight six-foot-two frame dressed JACKET ($1,800) AND JUMPSUIT ($623); THE in jeans and a simple black tee, movWEBSTER SOHO, NYC. ing with leonine grace toward a rail of JOSEPH SHOES. clothes. Born in Brussels and raised in the Ivory Coast, Saint Sernin now designs from his minimalist flat on Rue Cadet, a simple jeté by Rihanna, and his stealth showmanship is playfully visible from the Villa Rose—a pink mansion in the Ninth—where in the laced leather chaps he’s holding up. he presented his ten-look, gender-free spring collection. (In “It’s very Christina Aguilera,” he says, smiling, the “mega, January, he showed a kind of extension of the theme—with mega low-waisted” dip-dye leather pants in his hands bearadded cheeky, surrealist pops—for fall.) Pared-back natural ing an uncanny resemblance to those worn by the singer knits and loose flared pants came charged with a kind of on the cover of her 2002 Stripped album. Saint Sernin may Mapplethorpe eroticism. have been only twelve when it came out, but he loves the Though Saint Sernin says he designs “for anyone who “no-hype rawness,” which is also translated into a black wants to wear it,” the androgynous discretion of his languid leather halter-neck top and apron dress. Provocative to the shapes, small gathered-leather handbags, and beribboned touch, trench coats and pants come in PVC or blackout satin ballet shoes (the last a collaboration with French dance spe(“somewhere between a kind of silk jersey and something leathery”) sourced on a research trip to Japan. Many of the cialists Repetto) is speaking specifically to female shoppers. pieces incorporate small ceramic discs inscribed with kinky “I show on male models, but my collection is unisex,” he Japanese words, which are designed to lie directly on the skin. says. “I like the idea of a woman looking at the boys in the “I want to be unapologetic—but to present a tamed sexualipresentation and thinking she could wear that.” Such restraint is perhaps unexpected from someone with ty,” says Saint Sernin. It’s an outré French elegance—but one three years at Balmain under Olivier Rousteing, but Saint that travels well: The Webster has ordered the belted eyelet Sernin has also worked on the deluxe denim corsetry worn jacket in three exclusive fabrications.—EMMA ELWICK-BATES 112
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H E A LT H
Postpartum anxiety, often misdiagnosed as depression, is beginning to catch the medical field’s attention. Jancee Dunn reports. AFTER MANHATTAN PEDIATRICIAN Deena Blanchard, M.D., gave birth to her second son, in 2010, she was looking forward to, as she terms it, “four months of glorious maternity leave.” She planned on spending sweet, drowsy mornings bonding with her newborn in her Upper West Side apartment; enrolling in postnatal yoga; and taking long walks in Central Park. “I was going to totally engulf myself in new mom–hood,” she says. But Blanchard was immediately consumed with paralyzing worry, barraging her husband and fellow doctors with phone calls. “I’d say, ‘I think he has reflux. I think he has a milk-protein allergy.’ ” She lost an alarming amount of weight—30 pounds in just six weeks. She couldn’t sleep. She took her son to a specialist and a lactation consultant as her thoughts swirled with “a never-ending cycle of ‘What if, what if, what if?’ ” Standing in her humming office in the Flatiron District recently, clad in jeans and a lilac cashmere sweater (“The white 114
lab coat scares kids”), Blanchard and her smooth chestnut bob telegraph confidence and capability. “That’s why anxiety is so deceptive,” she says. “I consider myself very accomplished, and at the time, I just felt like, ‘I don’t get it. I’ve had a baby before, and I’m a pediatrician.’ ” When debilitating panic attacks struck two weeks before she was due back at work, Blanchard finally took herself to a therapist. She was told she had postpartum anxiety. She had never heard of it. Postpartum anxiety, or PPA, afflicts an estimated 10 percent of new mothers, according to the advocacy nonprofit Postpartum Support International. A 2016 University of British Columbia study found that it’s more than twice as common as postpartum depression (PPD), a mental disorder that can range from feelings of hopelessness H E A LT H >1 1 8 SHADOW PLAY AN ESTIMATED 10 PERCENT OF NEW MOTHERS WRESTLE WITH ANXIETY, WHICH CAN FLY UNDER THE RADAR. ABOVE: PINK SUIT, BY ISCA GREENFIELD-SANDERS, 2016.
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Food in Vogue is a chronicle of the fashion authority’s long-standing fascination with culinary culture, drawing together images that have appeared in Vogue from the world’s top photographers— Irving Penn, Helmut Newton, Anton Corbijn, Annie Leibovitz, and others—as well as the journalism of food writers, including James Beard Award–winning Jeffrey Steingarten. Foreword by Phyllis Posnick Introduction by Taylor Antrim
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new moms is if they can rest when they know someone else and sadness to thoughts of suicide. PPD has become a much is watching their sleeping baby and monitoring their safety. more widely reported and talked-about phenomenon in “The mom that needs to be treated will say no,” she reveals. recent years. Yet—as in Blanchard’s case—PPA is so little Recovery usually involves one or more of four elements: known that it often goes undiagnosed. stepped-up self-care; behavioral therapy; social support, such Or it’s misdiagnosed as postpartum depression, “which is as helplines; and, if necessary, antidepressants, a decision that a wastebasket term,” says reproductive psychiatrist Catherine requires a detailed conversation with one’s medical providBirndorf, M.D., of the Motherhood Center in Manhattan, which specializes in perinatal mood disorders. “I feel like er—especially during breast-feeding. (The National Institute bazillions of women get missed because they are anxious,” of Health’s website, LactMed—toxnet.nlm.nih.gov—proshe goes on. “Often the first, second, and third symptoms vides additional information on drugs and breast-feeding.) they list off in consultations are anxiety, anxiety, and anxiety, Blanchard, with the support of her doctor, ultimately but unless there is some flavor of depression, they don’t get decided to start taking Zoloft, and the clouds lifted, she says. identified.” (There’s a movement afoot, she says, to replace Her pediatrics practice began screening new mothers for the term postpartum depression with the more inclusive periPPA soon after. “When I got the help I needed, I was able to fall in love with my baby in a way I never thought I could natal mood and anxiety disorders—or PMADs.) experience,” she says. “Now I feel like myself.” She smiles beWhat complicates the issue is that, like Blanchard, many moms who have symptoms of PPA don’t even know it; they fore backtracking. “No—an improved version. I’m a better just assume that they’re failing to adjust to motherhood. All mother and a better doctor. I tell patients that support is out new parents are plagued by fretful thoughts—for first-timthere—and taking care of yourself is a gift to your child.” ers in particular, every sniffle sends them scurrying to the phone. Even the most together mother is already more susceptible to scrambled nerves due to hormonal ricocheting and a hallucinatory lack of sleep, which, of course, make anxiety worse. And if women sense something is amiss, they still may be too ashamed to seek help, according to a recent North Carolina State University study, which found that 21 percent of those experiencing postpartum mood disorders, such as anxiety, don’t confide in their doctors. JAZZ AGE A history of anxiety can contribART LEFT: MANHATTAN’S ute to PPA, but cultural factors play THREE DEUCES. RIGHT: REVELERS AT a part as well. Leading the way is the HARLEM’S SAVOY BALLROOM. enormous pressure new mothers face for this to be the most blissful time of their lives; the ability to self-diagnose “Jazz has always been a barometer for where and how the country will medical problems on Google (ramshift,” says pianist and artist Jason Moran. “Out of oppression came a form of music that shows people’s collective voice.” Spurred by the history of pant use of which can result in a real such storied clubs as Manhattan’s Lenox Lounge, which recently closed— affliction known as cyberchondria); “Right at the center of Harlem!” he exclaims, incredulous—his first museum and a relentless news feed of the many show, at Minneapolis’s Walker Art Center this month, presents sculptures of mishaps that can befall your child. The the stages of famous venues recreated from the study of old photographs, condition is treatable, however, says along with pre-recorded music. Forty-three-year-old Moran, who oversees Jonathan S. Abramowitz, Ph.D., projazz programming at Washington, D.C.’s, Kennedy Center, believes in fessor of psychology and neuroscience collective voices: Previous collaborators include Ava at the University of North Carolina DuVernay, Alonzo King, and Adam at Chapel Hill. “This is not the kind Pendleton. “Jazz needs to help the of thing where there’s a problem with theater, the choreographer, the your brain or your neurotransmitters,” poet,” he says. “It won’t be able to he says. “It’s not a biological illness. It’s find these answers on its own.” a psychological problem.” If you suspect you have PPA, it’s eas—JESSICA FLINT ier to look for stark changes in your behavior and activities than try to analyze THE RIGHT NOTE MORAN’S SCULPTURE OF THE THREE your moods, which are more ephemerDEUCES STAGE, WHICH HE DEBUTED al. One question Birndorf often asks AT THE VENICE BIENNALE, 2015.
LIVE OUT LOUD
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TA L E N T
Out of Character
She sends shivers down viewers’ spines in The Handmaid’s Tale—but it’s hard not to fall for Yvonne Strahovski.
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hope people aren’t frightened of me,” says Yvonne Strahovski with a laugh. “On the street, they approach with a bit of caution.” You can hardly blame them. The 35-year-old actress has become world-famous as the ironically named Serena Joy, one of the most frightening characters on Hulu’s awards-devouring series The Handmaid’s Tale. Bringing a coiled intensity to her troubled, joyless character, Strahovski plays a former antifeminist pundit living in a theocratic dystopia called Gilead. Bedecked in chilly blue outfits and severe hair, she is shockingly callous to the heroine, Offred (Elisabeth Moss), a prisoner forced to be a surrogate mother. It’s an image-altering showcase for Strahovski, who made her name on TV as the spy/romantic interest in Chuck and the hero’s teasingly sociopathic lover on Dexter. “With Serena Joy,” she says, “I tried to put aside all the labels—she’s unlikable, she’s a bitch, she’s an extremist—and show the bleeding woman alone on her own island.” In person, the physically vibrant fivefoot-ten Australian exudes the upbeat charm of her native land. Born in Sydney to Eastern European immigrants—Polish was actually her first language—she describes herself as “a young ham as a child” who shot “ridiculous made-up stories on a big, clunky JVC camera” and started studying acting at age twelve. Although not an overnight success, she clearly had that magical something: Three days after flying to Los Angeles for auditions in 2007, she landed the female lead in Chuck and has been on a roll ever since. She lives in Malibu and last summer married her longtime boyfriend, actor-producer Tim Loden, who shares her passion for the outdoors. (They recently visited the polar bears in subarctic Canada.) “Yvonne’s relaxed and friendly and fun—so incredibly different from Serena,” says Moss, adding that the two of them lighten the mood on set. “There are a lot of inappropriate jokes and Taylor Swift being sung,” she says. “Yvonne knows the words to every song on her album Reputation.” Strahovski’s own reputation is sure to keep growing, with a starring part in The Predator, a forthcoming action thriller so secret she’s not even permitted to say who she’s playing. A classics lover, she’d like to be cast in an adaptation of Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice. Until then, she’s busy with The Handmaid’s Tale, whose second season (available April 25) spotlights her talents as a painfully human villain even more. “Yvonne has done something I thought was impossible,” says the show’s creator, Bruce Miller. “She makes me feel sympathy for Serena Joy.”—JOHN POWERS
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V L IFE BEAUTY
Weekend Warriors Followers isn’t the only term for a combined socialmedia audience that tops one million. Think focus group. That’s what Marianna Hewitt (known for her beauty tutorials on Life with Me) and Lauren Gores Ireland (of the lifestyle-and-motherhood site You & Lu) realized when the responses came flooding in every time they engaged with their readers on skin care. Those exchanges planted a seed in the minds of the Los Angeles–based friends, who set about formulating a facial range to their personal (and crowd-sourced) specifications. Called Summer Fridays—an homage to the East Coast tradition of clocking out early to get a jump on weekend travel— the line of masks in eco-friendly metal tubes was destined for social success. Still, Summer Fridays’ recent rollout runs counter to click-worthy trends. The debut Jet Lag Mask, a creamy complexion booster designed for instant gratification, has an impressively considered roster of clean ingredients, including brightening vitamin C, exfoliating chestnut extract, and calming green tea. At a time when influencer-led beauty launches are sweeping the market via viral, limited-run, tap-to-buy campaigns, Hewitt and Gores Ireland’s decision to partner with Sephora (where a suite of new masks will hit shelves over the coming months) signals something else noteworthy: a desire for longevity over mere likes.—JENNA RENNERT
FLY GIRLS THE NEW JET LAG MASK DELIVERS A POST–RED EYE GLOW; MODELS LINEISY MONTERO AND GRACE ELIZABETH, PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOSH OLINS, VOGUE, 2017.
Femme Fatal YOU COULD BE forgiven for rolling your eyes at the announcement of another—yes, another—serial killer– centered prestige television series. And yet Killing Eve, created by Fleabag’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge and airing this month on BBC America, is subversive, darkly funny, and wholly unpredictable. The show, based on Luke Jennings’s
Villanelle novellas, stars the well-cast Grey’s Anatomy veteran Sandra Oh as Eve, a whip-smart MI5 officer relegated to desk work, and the fetching Jodie Comer as the Pre-Raphaelite beauty who is also a mercurial, merciless (OK, sociopathic), and somehow impossibly elegant killer. As we’ve come to expect from Waller-Bridge, Killing Eve is clever, it’s never condescending, and most important, it has women at the wheel— and at the center. It’s set to be the next big thing that everyone can’t stop talking about.—ALESSANDRA CODINHA CATCH ME IF YOU CAN FAR LEFT: KILLING EVE CREATOR PHOEBE WALLER-BRIDGE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MIKAEL JANSSON, VOGUE, 2017. NEAR LEFT: ACTOR KIM BODNIA ON SET WITH ACTRESS JODIE COMER.
STILL LIFE: COURTESY OF © 2017 SUMMER FRIDAYS. TV: BBC AMERICA.
In the cat-and-mouse thriller Killing Eve, a murderess chases her hunter.
V L IFE TELEVISION
Connecting the Dots THE FAMOUS MERCHANT IVORY film adaptation of Howards End, released in 1992, seemed to say more about the era in which it was made than that in which it was set (Helena Bonham Carter’s hair was much more 1980s than 1900s, and one might say the same about Emma Thompson’s blouses). Likewise the new four-part BBC version, with its naturalistic, Kenneth Lonergan–scripted dialogue and its World of Interiors living rooms, barely feels like a period drama at all. It will air in the U.S. in April, exactly 100 years after British women were first granted the right to vote—yet it is almost chillingly a story for our times. Television producer Colin Callender read E. M. Forster’s novel at university but says that when he reread it as the father of two teenage daughters, “it really struck me that the sisters Margaret and Helen Schlegel—independent-minded, smart women trying to find their way in a man’s world—are every bit as relevant today as they were then.” And, he adds, “who knew that in the course of making this, the whole dynamic of men and women in society today would be front-page news?” As Margaret, the older sister, actress Hayley Atwell is very good at being well disposed toward others, as well as articulate and acute. “Hayley has a wonderful intellectual and emotional clarity,” says Lonergan. “You can see her thinking her way through the different situations she’s in.” Her counterpart Philippa Coulthard, meanwhile, is relaxed and swift as Helen, with a great deal of subtly shifting weather in her face. I catch up with the pair one afternoon at Simpson’s in the Strand, a famous nineteenth-century restaurant in London that provides the setting for a key scene in the story. 126
Thirty-five-year-old Atwell, dressed in a black jacket and jeans, is half-British, half-American, and speaks with eloquent English precision. A versatile actress, her roles have spanned notable stage performances in everything from Jacobean drama to Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge, and a screen incarnation of the Marvel character Agent Carter. Coulthard, in a sweater and a denim miniskirt, is ten years younger and Australian; this is her first major role outside her native country. The novel pointedly explores the social nuance and sexual politics of its day, and revolves around three families, each positioned differently on the economic spectrum. For women, at least, social mobility might be possible through romance; yet Margaret ends up marrying the wealthy Henry Wilcox, who is, if not morally bankrupt, then at least ethically poor. What questions does that raise? Lonergan’s adaptation weights the emphasis toward emotional, rather than political, resonance; there’s no doubt that the strongest bond is between the sisters, and not with any of the men. “I found it refreshing to have the central relationship be between two women who are not pitted against each other,” Atwell observes. “There’s a generosity of spirit within that relationship that I think is underrepresented in stories.” Coulthard agrees: “That was such a nice thing to play—it wasn’t a romance that spearheaded the story.” Of course, the Schlegels are not perfect. As Lonergan points out, because of the historical moment in which they live, “they’re given lots of freedom to think and speak as they want, but they’re not quite sure whether they’re engaging with what’s real in the world.” The sisters’ interference in the lives of C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 2 6
S ET D ES IG N , A ND R EA CE LLE RI N O
Twenty-ﬁve years after Howards End won three Academy Awards, E. M. Forster’s novel gets a reboot ﬁt for television. Gaby Wood reports.
TAKING THE LEAD HAYLEY ATWELL, FAR LEFT, AND PHILIPPA COULTHARD PLAY SISTERS MARGARET AND HELEN SCHLEGEL. COSTUME DESIGN, SHEENA NAPIER; HAIR AND MAKEUP, RACHEL BUXTON AND JESS O’SHEA. PHOTOGRAPHED BY PAUL WETHERELL AT SIMPSON’S IN THE STRAND, LONDON. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE. SITTINGS EDITOR: PHYLLIS POSNICK.
TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET IN SAINT LAURENT BY ANTHONY VACCARELLO.
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Gilty Pleasures LAST DECEMBER, Robin Standefer and Stephen Alesch of the interior-design studio Roman and Williams opened the Guild—their first home-goods store and concept shop, situated on a buzzy downtown Manhattan street corner. The 7,000-squarefoot space instantly became a SoHo hangout and a fully shoppable design mecca—down to the linens that adorn the rustic tables at the in-store eatery La Mercerie. On offer are one-of-a-kind, multipurpose objects by an international rank of artisans, including this hand-built, gold-embellished vase by ceramist Ruan Hoffmann—one of eight originally created for an exhibition at Ireland’s National Design & Craft Gallery. “I was inspired by the concept of a contemplative object,” explains Hoffmann. “I would like the viewer to see it as a catalyst for a daydream and not just a receptacle for flowers.”—NOOR BRARA INTO THE BLUE RUAN HOFFMANN’S GENTLE MYSTIC VASE IS ONE OF THE MANY ARTIST-MADE DESIGN OBJECTS AVAILABLE AT THE GUILD.
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Past Is Present
THE TITLE POEM OF Tracy K. Smith’s new collection, Wade in the Water, takes place in Geechee country, Georgia, in a ring shout—a religious ritual in which black Christians dance and shuffle in a circle, forming a rhythm and working into an ecstatic state of grace. It’s a common form of worship among the Geechee, a community along the Georgia coast descended from slaves, who maintain their own African-influenced culture and dialect. Smith writes, “One of the women greeted me./I love you, she said. She didn’t/Know me, but I believed her,/And a terrible new ache/ Rolled over in my chest,/Like in a room where the drapes/ Have been swept back.” “I needed that,” Smith says of her encounter in the ring shout. She’d traveled to Georgia to research the Civil War– era history that gives Wade in the Water its uncanny power. “It was such a beautiful gesture in a place where so much history remains unmarked. I had stood that same afternoon on a bridge where slave auctions had taken place. There was nothing there. A picnic table. Then, that night, to have somebody say, ‘Here is this living force that I want to give you.’ I think it just woke me up.” 130
Smith’s poetry is an awakening itself. Her three previous collections, The Body’s Question, Duende, Life on Mars (for which she won a Pulitzer Prize), and her 2015 memoir Ordinary Light explore the concepts of faith, dystopia, Afrofuturism, deep space, and David Bowie—an eclectic mix of references that reflect her upbringing in a family deeply connected to the black church and a father who worked as an electronics engineer on the Hubble Space Telescope. In all of her work, there is an exploration of loss, fueled by the death of her parents—her mother to cancer in 1994, as Smith was finishing college, and her father unexpectedly as she was working on Life on Mars. For all of her versatility and range, the 45-year-old poet, who directs the creative-writing program at Princeton University, had resisted exploring America’s tormented racial history. With Wade in the Water, she’s doing so from a powerful, and highly public platform: Last spring the Library of P O E T R Y >1 3 2 A PUBLIC VOICE SMITH, PHOTOGRAPHED AT PRINCETON UNIVERSITY BY THIBAULT MONTAMAT. MAX MARA COAT AND SKIRT. THE ROW SWEATER. CHRISTIAN LOUBOUTIN BOOTS. HAIR, EDRIS NICHOLS; MAKEUP, COURTNEY PERKINS. SITTINGS EDITOR: PHYLLIS POSNICK.
D ETA I LS, S EE I N T HI S I SSUE
With her powerful and timely new collection, poet laureate Tracy K. Smith addresses America’s troubled racial history. By Kaitlyn Greenidge.
V L IFE Congress appointed her poet laureate. “I had to say to myself, ‘I haven’t written enough about blackness, yet it’s part of my consciousness and my lived experience,’ ” she says. “I had to get over that anxiety of ‘I haven’t done this before.’ ” Her office at Princeton is neat, decorated with a few family photos—Smith and her husband, Raphael Allison, a poetry scholar who also teaches at Princeton, live on campus with their eight-year-old daughter and twin boys, age four. “I see these families walking in public,” Smith says, “and it’s just a serene little thing. When we do that, it’s a tornado.” Her natural hair is pinned up in a bun, and she has bright, steady eyes and the open, interested face of a born listener. Poetry, she tells me, has been a way for her to “bring voice to the unsayable, the untranslatable.” And it has served that purpose since she was a girl. She was raised in Fairfield, California, the youngest of five siblings, and studied poetry as an undergraduate at Harvard under the late Seamus Heaney. It was there that she fell in with a group of young black poets called the Dark Room Collective, among them Natasha Trethewey, Major Jackson, John Keene, Janice Lowe, Carl Phillips, Kevin Young. “That community was crucial to me,” she says. “It created a sense of possibility and continuity and, of course, a set of voices that I was imitating and trying to learn from.” Young remembers those years well: “It was kind of an advanced education, being in Dark Room. It was like being in James Brown’s band. You got to keep up and get your sound right. If you had someone like Tracy or Natasha Trethewey or Major Jackson reading right after you, you gotta up your game. It made you on point.”
Smith found herself writing about the Civil War after accepting an invitation from Washington, D.C.’s, National Portrait Gallery to contribute a poem on the 150th anniversary of the conflict. “I decided what I wanted to know was what black soldiers were experiencing,” she says, which led her to scholarly archives of soldiers’ letters to their families and to President Abraham Lincoln, some of which she repurposed as found poems. “Reading those sources moved me so much,” Smith says. “I thought, I don’t need to put my voice into this. I just want to listen and invite other people to listen to this really poignant chorus. Why? It’s because they seemed to have so much faith in the institution of democracy despite everything.” Wade in the Water has already won acclaim from writers like Roxane Gay and Young, who describes this book as “very much about belief, staying the course. It’s also thinking of poetry as not only the carrier of our past, but also of our future.” Smith is now at work on an opera libretto, with the composer Gregory Spears, about the legacy of black land ownership in our current era of relentless development, and she’s thinking about what it means to be a public poet in a highly charged political moment. “My hope is to create spaces where people of all stripes can come together and speak at a lower decibel level,” she says. “We make more sense that way. We sound more like our real selves that way. We are struggling to understand each other, and that’s work we need to settle into for the long haul. We all belong in the mess here together, and we can determine whether and how it gets sorted out.”
Poetry has been a way for Smith to “bring voice to the unsayable, the untranslatable”
“I can completely relax only in nature and by the piano,” says Sigrid, the mononymous Norwegian singersongwriter—full name Sigrid Solbakk Raabe—who broke onto the world stage last year with her debut EP, “Don’t Kill My Vibe,” and has her first album coming out this spring. Fresh-faced and button-nosed, she looks younger than her 21 years. In her videos, she often wears high-waisted jeans and primary-color tees, and sings angelically to the camera—until she curls her mouth into a lopsided snarl. “My whole family has been like: What is this?” she says, contrasting her current love of the spotlight with a story about a kindergarten choir concert where she burst into tears
due to stage fright. “I’ve always been the shy one.” Despite her professed reticence, Sigrid is best known for the song bearing the same name as her EP; its feisty lyrics are about a male producer who tried to steamroll her. The anthem is tailor-made for a moment in which we’re particularly eager to hear young women take on the patriarchy. “I do write heartbreakingly embarrassing love tunes,” she says. “I’m not always superaggressive. I’m just very”—she lets out a deep sigh—”very 21 years old, you know? It’s a lot of emotions.”—JULIA FELSENTHAL LIKE A CANARY THE ARTIST’S FIRST ALBUM IS OUT THIS SPRING.
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V L IFE
A Place to Call Home “There are two stories you need to know about your characters: the one they tell themselves, and the one they actually inhabit,” says Elaine Castillo, author of the autobiographically charged America Is Not the Heart (Viking). Castillo’s debut novel moves from the Philippines to northern California to follow one family in America, including Paz; her husband, Pol; and their daughter, Roni. When Pol’s niece Hero, a former revolutionary, comes to live with them, their roots in both countries are tested. Castillo grew up in the Bay Area (like Roni) reading Zadie Smith and Manuel Puig. After studying classics and literature at University of California, Berkeley, she moved to London and later pursued a master’s degree. During a period of mourning following her father’s death, she brought together a long-gestating set of characters, resulting in a saga rich with origin myths, national and personal. Castillo is part of a younger generation of American writers instilling literature with a layered sense of identity. “I initially thought that by writing fiction I was imagining my way into all of these stories and experiences,” she says. “The more I wrote, I began to realize: The truth is probably even wilder.” —MEGAN O’GRADY
GIGI HADID IN VIVIENNE WESTWOOD.
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KAIA GERBER IN O-MIGHTY.
RITA ORA IN ESTEBAN CORTAZAR.
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HAILEY BALDWIN IN TOMMY HILFIGER.
V L IFE
GREEN SPIRIT THE LINE’S POTENT BOTANICALS ARE DESIGNED TO HELP SKIN FEND FOR ITSELF. PHOTOGRAPHED BY HANNA TVEITE.
Combining ancient wisdom, performance-based ingredients, and futuristic textures, Orveda is out to spark a self-healing skin-care revolution. WHEN SUE NABI LEFT L’ORÉAL in 2013 after 20 years, during which she logged time as the president of Lancôme, her body promptly began breaking down. “I realized I had spent my entire life on planes or jet-lagged, and my back felt constantly painful,” she explains. Desperate for relief, she immersed herself in the healing practices of Taoism and Ayurveda, exploring traditional medicine and meditation. Eventually, as her pain disappeared, she regained her energy—and her ambition. Nabi wrote down three ideas for a “new path,” and one of them stuck: to create a beauty company that works with your skin, not against it. Orveda, Nabi’s debut solo project of nineteen luxury vegan products, is set to arrive in the U.S. next month, tapping into her experience—professional and personal—with a focus on strengthening the skin’s barrier function. To help self-regulate moisture levels and nurture good bacteria—crucial for maintaining a clear, balanced complexion—active botanicals, such as firming oat proteins, and fermented molecules, like the gentle, purifying yeast extract in her Cleansing Bamboo & Enzymatic Water, are delivered in doses ten to 50 times more
concentrated than those found in other skin-care ranges. More impressive is that Nabi achieved this level of efficacy without sacrificing the kind of morphing, enveloping textures that rival even the most experimental K-beauty lab. Her Healing Sap—a thin serum that contains a soothing blend of marine enzyme and a natural prebiotic derived from beetroot sugar—is just one example of that successful balance. Alber Elbaz is particularly obsessed with the tonic, which has already sold out four times in the U.K., where the line (free of chemical fillers, reactive essential oils, harsh acids, and irritating retinol) launched last year at Harvey Nichols. “It’s literally like a daily glow shot with a visible tightening effect,” says the former Lanvin designer, a longtime friend of Nabi’s. Elbaz is also partial to the Overnight Skin Recovery Masque—a powerful leave-on remedy that replaces the need for night creams, which are “just oily day creams,” says Nabi in something of a bold statement. Here’s another one: Orveda is nearly
plastic-free, utilizing ombré green glass bottles to preserve the precious materials inside. If there is one brand that ticks off every of-the-moment skin-care box, Orveda, quite possibly, is it; fittingly, it will be a cornerstone of Saks Fifth Avenue’s revamped beauty floor in New York, where glass jars will also house hand-poured bespoke samples. “It’s like having a prescription made for you,” says Nabi of the counter service, highlighting her new Prebiotic Emulsion—a 3-in-1 formula developed with French cosmetic surgeon Patrick Bui, M.D., that works as a serum, moisturizer, and weekly treatment to speed healing, especially following in-office treatments. Packaged with a reusable silicone mask to help boost ingredient penetration, it’s part of Nabi’s plan to disrupt yet another beauty benchmark: disposable sheet masks. They’re wasteful and inefficient, she says. Those are fighting words in some circles, but Nabi seems more than prepared to back them up.—KARI MOLVAR
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V L IFE PHOTOGRAPHED BY GEORDIE WOOD FOR VOGUE.COM BEFORE THE 67TH ANNUAL TONY AWARDS, 2013.
IN DIANE VON FURSTENBERG.
IN ANDREAS KRONTHALER FOR VIVIENNE WESTWOOD.
ALL EYES ON
“IT’S SPIRITUAL,” says three-time Tony nominee Condola Rashad of her latest project, a limited run of George Bernard Shaw’s classic Saint Joan, opening this month at Manhattan Theatre Club. “You can’t mask the energy of live theater and having people in the room with you as you tell a story.” It’s that energy that entrances viewers of Rashad’s other projects out this month—a Netflix film, Come Sunday, and Billions, the hit Showtime series now entering its third season. Both roles saw Rashad push herself as an actress: Sunday required a sustained examination of faith, while Billions demands that she move and shake in a modern Machiavellian legal setting. Her cool confidence in both, meanwhile, is reflected in her distinctive and polished approach to dress. “It’s like a sophisticated fairy,” says Rashad of the graphic pieces and bold palette peppering both her off-duty and red-carpet wardrobes. “I like color; I’m not afraid of pattern.” She cites Preen and Stella Jean as favorites. Like the strong female characters she plays, though, Rashad prefers to be defined first and foremost on her own terms. “My life,” she says, “is my statement.”—EDWARD BARSAMIAN 140
IN KYEMAH MCENTYRE.
IN JUAN CARLOS OBANDO.
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V L IFE
FAS H I O N
“INSTAGRAM IS MY QVC!” The statement—delivered with brio by a glossy Dallas blonde at the table next to mine at a recent breakfast—may as well serve as 2018’s shopping mantra. Like more and more serious shoppers, Nancy (as I soon came to know her) is changing her approach. Along with private shopping hours at prestigious department stores and countless trunks, immediacy, it seems, is the new luxury. And as consumers become more accustomed to not just looking at and liking but actually buying from their phones—retail analysts at McKinsey & Company project that U.S. mobile transactions alone will reach $930 billion annually by the end of the year— fashion companies are developing features to make shopand-pay easier and simpler. 142
One company in particular is at the forefront of all of this. “The future of commerce at any level is convenience—and there is nothing more convenient than your phone,” says Sophie Hill, 35, the founder of London-based Threads Styling, the first fashion concierge service to harness the potential of tech in fashion by using live messaging apps such as WhatsApp, WeChat, and Snapchat. The immaculate blonde entrepreneur proffers an iPhone from her oversize Céline sweater, which is neatly tucked into her black Vetements jeans. (“My work uniform,” Hill says.) “We don’t ask clients to download our app, and we don’t ask them to visit our website.” Instead, clients—at the moment, FA S H I O N >1 4 4 SALONE DEL MOBILE HERMÈS HANDBAG; HERMÈS BOUTIQUES.
COU RT ESY OF HE RMÈS
Would you buy a bag with a ﬁve-ﬁgure price tag via social media? Threads Styling already knows you would.
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“The future of commerce is convenience,” says Threads founder Sophie Hill
Spice World In case the uptick in calming, cannabis-laced lip balms has somehow slipped past your social feed, marijuana is having a bit of a moment. The pungent plant’s associated benefits— from easing menstrual cramps to tackling depression—have helped it become the fastest-growing industry in the U.S. (legal sales rang in at nearly $10 billion in 2017). But it may also be possible to eat your way to a health high without infringing on the crop’s complicated relationship with state legislators. Enter the endocannabinoid system (ECS). First discovered in 1988, the ECS is fast becoming one of the most important systems in the body for its ability to regulate a range of vital processes, from appetite and mood to sexual function. “Balancing the ECS with dietary cannabinoids is proving to be an essential component in treating patients with weight problems and blood-sugar issues,” notes Charles Passler, D.C. The New York–based nutritionist, whose client roster includes Bella Hadid and Naomi Watts, is just one early wellness adapter who is looking to common pantry ingredients such as black pepper, cinnamon, turmeric, and bay leaf to trigger the system’s wide-reaching anti-inflammatory benefits. Thanks to new research that leverages cannabis’s pain- and anxiety-reducing beta-caryophyllene in a range of other plants and herbs, including rosemary and basil, kick-starting the body’s natural stabilizing response no longer requires a trip to the dispensary. “If you’re constantly eating these foods, it could help have a positive anti-stress effect as well,” says Jürg Gertsch, Ph.D., a leading researcher in the field of cannabinoids and a professor at Switzerland’s University of Bern, who warns that ingredient potency can depend on regional cultivation. Should you be more concerned about spiking stress levels while scrutinizing the ideal origins of your pepper (India) or your cinnamon (Sri Lanka), San Diego–based Emerald Health Bioceuticals’ new line of ECS-promoting supplements, formulated with betacaryophyllene-rich clove flower bud oil and echinacea powder, minimizes the guesswork.—REBECCA WILLA DAVIS SEASONING GREETINGS CERTAIN FOODS CAN TAP INTO THE BODY’S ENDOCANNABINOID SYSTEM WITHOUT THE HIGH, INCLUDING (FROM LEFT) CACAO AND CARDAMOM.
THE LU ESTHER T. MERTZ LIBRARY, NYBG/ART RESOURCE, NY.
they span across 100 countries, with 70 percent of them under the age of 35—browse photos on Threads’ own social media account or screengrab images from elsewhere and are then paired with a personal shopper. The sweep of brands working with Threads includes runway stalwarts, newer labels (Johanna Ortiz, Gabriela Hearst), and fine, exceedingly expensive jewelry (Jacquie Aiche, Carbon & Hyde, Spinelli Kilcollin, Established), along with denim basics like Re/Done. Currently trending: Adidas Yeezy Calabasas track pants and Balenciaga Triple S trainers. After a brief career as a buyer at retail giant Arcadia (which owns Topshop), Hill quit her job in 2009 at the age of 27 to launch her startup. Threads Styling was initially a straight-ahead fashion-concierge site, but Hill’s eureka moment came on a 2012 trip to the Middle East, when she noticed how clients were embracing Instagram. Her quickly-deployed social approach soon became a daringly early landmark of third-wave retail, and as her community grew, investment followed. (Hill has now completed two rounds of fund-raising.) “Our audience is mainly time-poor millennials,” Hill says from her glass-pod workspace, which feels more Silicon Valley than London’s East End and houses 60 employees—also mainly millennials, who speak 15 different languages among them. “Who has time to sit down and shop?” Shirley Chen, a 29-year-old New Yorker and CEO of the artificial intelligence company Narrativ, asks. “Threads is already so integrated into my social routine.” (Threads can also source Holy Grail–level fashion pieces—the red mink heart Saint Laurent fur coat from Hedi Slimane’s farewell collection; matching Yeezy ensembles for a family of four; a vintage Chanel surfboard.) Burgeoning demand from customers in the Middle East—including 27-year-old Kuwaiti Princess Shahad Jaber AlSabah, who discovered Threads via Instagram—has helped drive net sales to $20 million last year. “Once my stylist found this gorgeous Oscar de la Renta gown for a friend’s wedding—but then I learned a week before that her sister was going to be wearing the same dress,” AlSabah says. “Threads came to the rescue by not only finding a more beautiful dress, but by also getting the team at Oscar de la Renta to alter the colors for me.” (AlSabah’s two siblings are now also clients.) The company’s fastest-growing category is the most aspirational—fine jewelry —which suggests that their night is yet young. Yet for all the innovation and all the technology, the way that Hill and her team celebrate big sales is straight out of Dickens: They ring an ancient school bell. And the office grows louder by the day.—emma elwick-bates
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V L IFE FLASH
Spray It On Stephen Sprouse–inspired graffiti is fashion’s latest artistic statement.
ZENDAYA IN BURBERRY.
BELLA HADID IN ADAPTATION.
CHEAT SHEETS THERE’S A NEW WAY TO TAME FLYAWAYS. PHOTOGRAPHED BY PATRICK DEMARCHELIER, VOGUE, 2009.
Swipe Right Frizz-fighting and oil-absorbing, hair sheets are the on-the-go beauty fix you’ve been waiting for. 146
Consider the humble dryer sheet: With their fabric-softening and anti-cling benefits, the wispy polyester squares have been laundry-room staples for years. But it’s their off-label use that has long appealed to beauty hackers looking to minimize static between strands. “They were the original,” hairstylist Jennifer Yepez says of the domestic aid turned stealth styling tool, which, thanks to a few viral online tutorials, has sparked demand for a proper quick fix to prolong blowouts and manage frizz. Take it from Kim Kardashian West, who credits her trademark sleekness to Ouai’s new flyaway-taming hair sheets. Oily scalps, too, can now find solace in IGK’s individually packaged dry-shampoo wipes woven with grease-absorbing charcoal powder, while Kérastase’s easy-to-carry tissues claim a dual purpose: A lightweight wax smooths and fights humidity in one swipe, replacing the need for heavier hair sprays, serums, and climate-control mists. Their slim-line design is also a selling point, says Yepez, an ambassador for the brand, who stocks the credit card–size boxes in her kit, whether she’s heading to Paris Fashion Week or to the Cannes Film Festival with regular clients, such as Emily Ratajkowski and Salma Hayek. “Now, when they ask what they can keep in their clutch for touch-ups throughout the night, I hand them these.”—ZOE RUFFNER
A DWOA : DAV I D X P RU T T IN G/ B FA / REX /SH UT T ERSTO CK . B EL LA : JOS I A HW/ BACKG RID. Z ENDAYA: PH IL OH .
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What makes you feel beautiful
With our updated assortment of new items and premium brands alongside your trusted favorites, you’re sure to bring home a look you love—whatever your style and whatever the occasion. Because we know when you feel beautiful, you look beautiful too. Find your look at Walgreens and walgreens.com/beauty
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N O S TA L G I A
After a divorce and remarriage, the writer Lily Tuck wrestled with her role as a first—and second—wife.
he couple posing in the Helmut Newton photo on this page looks both jubilant and mocking. The woman standing next to them, her fist clenched against her hip, is clearly irritated. Has she just lost her lover? And why are the two women dressed in such flamboyant shades of red? I associate the color with passion and rage. Will the woman with the clenched fist throw her glass of wine in the other woman’s face? If she did, I would hardly blame her. But hers was not my experience. I was very young when I married my first husband—let’s call him Jim—and very much in love, as I assume he was. Clear as day I can recall our picture-perfect wedding—my
white lace dress, my bouquet, the three-tier cake—and how certain I was that the marriage would last forever. Immediately after the reception, we flew to Madrid, then to Rome, still later to Bangkok, continuing on to points farther and farther away. Without a plan for our future, we led a nomadic existence. Jim wanted to be a painter, I a writer. But in the first heady years of our married life, adventures intervened. To please Jim, I reinvented myself from a quiet, bookish girl to an intrepid sportswoman: I learned to fish, shoot a gun, pluck ducks. At first I was happy to N O S TA L G I A >1 5 0 IN THE SHADOW RIVALS, ALLIES, FRIENDS—FIRST AND SECOND WIVES CAN BE MANY THINGS. A FASHION SHOOT BY HELMUT NEWTON, VOGUE, 1974.
V L IFE
Second Wives’ Club
do so. Sleep in a Thai jungle hammock while being eaten alive by mosquitoes? Fine. Never any hot water to wash my hair? Who cares? But after a few years of this itinerant life, I grew impatient and less obliging. I read books again and began to write. “Where is your spirit of adventure?” Jim complained. Had I become boring and fat? I didn’t care. Then, too, there were babies. The promiscuous, irresponsible sixties also played their part, and slowly but surely, we fell out of love with each other, and Jim fell in love with—let’s call her Mary. After seven years of marriage, Jim and I divorced. Soon after, I flew to Nevada. I was 31 years old, and I had never been out West. Right away, I fell in love with the high desert, the thinner air, the tumbleweed. Of course I resented Mary. On account of the children, however—by then there were three—I had to remain civil. I had to negotiate visits and vacation schedules with her. I also kept my ear to the ground for any infraction on her part. The children were not forthcoming. “Yeah, she’s OK” or “Yeah, we had a nice time” was the extent of the information I could glean from them. Proud, I tried not to canvass mutual friends for opinions, but sometimes it was hard to resist. “Do they seem happy to you?” I asked. Or “Have you noticed how old she looks now?” In time, the meanness stopped—almost miraculously. Jim and Mary had a baby, a boy. I don’t recall why, but I invited Mary to come to my house and have tea (by then I was a second wife myself, and perhaps I felt more kindly toward her). She came and brought her son, who was just a few weeks old. Her baby looked exactly like one of my babies. I wanted to snatch him from her. He could have been mine.
to be a benign presence. Mostly I wanted to be liked—no, loved. I distinctly remember a scene at dinner where one of my stepchildren kept kicking under the table after I had repeatedly asked him to stop. My patience exhausted, I sent him upstairs to his room. Instead, he left the house and went to his mother’s. Their mother, my second husband’s first wife—let’s call her Ann—was a formidable presence. Not particularly friendly, she showed no interest in me (although to be clear, I had nothing to do with her divorce, since I met Jules years later). At school graduations, and later at weddings, she avoided me, but I was always aware of her presence. She was like a ghost in the marriage. Had Jules been happier with her? Had he loved her more? Was she better in bed? All these questions tended to haunt me—especially in the early days. I tried to be discreet and not pry. I avoided asking my stepchildren about her, hiding my curiosity—or was it my jealousy? There were old albums filled with photos of Jules and Ann at christenings, birthdays, Christmases; on cruises in Greece, on skiing trips in Switzerland. In private I studied these, trying to discern whether she looked happy. It was hard to tell. She rarely smiled. My husband, Jules, too, was not forthcoming about Ann. He rarely spoke of her, or if he did, his remarks were neutral. I did learn that she was artistic and highly intelligent, and I found myself sometimes fantasizing that, had the circumstances been different, we might have been friends. There is no simple way to characterize my role as a second wife. But, older, I was more thoughtful, more self-aware than I had been in my previous marriage. And, more important, I deeply loved and admired my second husband, emotions very different from those I felt for my first. Jim and I were opposites, and I was drawn to his notions of romance and adventure. Jules and I had more in common; we were steadier. Time passed. The children, mine and his, are now grown up, and they all get along and genuinely like one another. Every few years, we have a large and happy family reunion. The years have dulled many emotional sharp edges. Whenever I see Mary, my first husband’s second wife, at a family occasion, we greet each other cordially and talk easily. I am particularly fond of her son, who I once thought could be mine. As for Ann, my second husband’s first wife, whose children I love, I regret that we never became friends. One of my favorite lines is from a Jack Gilbert poem: “We must risk delight,” he admonishes, before cautioning us not to dwell on injustice. My latest novel, Sisters, explored a second wife’s obsession with the first wife, and in it she aspires to just that. The book is not autobiographical, yet some personal details always manage to slip in. For instance, in one of the novel’s scenes, I have the first wife wear my own elegant Jil Sander gray silk suit. I gave it to her as a so-tospeak gift. I wanted her to look good.
My second husband’s first wife was a formidable presence. I was always aware of her. She was like a ghost in my marriage
ooking back on my experience as a first wife, I think I had a feeling of entitlement: I was there first. Perhaps, like Henry VIII’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon, I never wanted to completely relinquish the throne. And, after all, if we were British and Jim was king of England, my children would succeed him. Jim went on to divorce Mary and marry yet again, and I have to admit to a certain Schadenfreude, since none of his marriages lasted. His failed relationships put to rest the slight gnawing doubt I always felt that perhaps I had not been an entirely adequate wife. But still, to this day, if ever I am asked to describe the pecking order of Jim’s wives, I like to joke that I was the tallest. As a second wife, married to, let’s call him Jules, I brought three children to the marriage, and since Jules had three of his own, we had our own Brady Bunch. Ours, however, was not a family comedy. It was an ongoing drama. The children fought among themselves and eyed their new stepparents with various degrees of antagonism or, worse, indifference. Overwhelmed, I sought the help of a therapist, who prescribed Valium. As a stepmother, I tried
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Architectural, punkish, or alluringly glamorous, the cat eye is back in the spotlight for spring. IN MATTERS OF BEAUTY, there are genetic gifts, and then there are slick amplifications: tricks to subtly sculpt a cheekbone, telegraph a just-bitten lip, or even amplify the lash line to mesmerizing effect, which has helped make the cat eye a century-spanning phenomenon. Ancient Egyptians cemented the wide-rule kohl gaze for the
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ages; by the time Elizabeth Taylor took on Cleopatra in 1963, the invention of liquid liner had launched a full-blown feline movement. A purring Brigitte Bardot underscored her sex appeal with flirtatious flicks and bombshell hair; across the pond, black liner met double-dose mascara on a doe-eyed Twiggy. Fast-forward to this season’s runways, and the look has proved to have nine lives and then some: Fendi went futurist Fellini with crisp teal strokes; at Rochas, an almondine outline subverted the more traditional wing; and Miu Miu mixed graphic
artist the next. True classics, after all, are ripe for reinvention. 156
OSCAR DE LA RENTA.
1995 PHOTOGRAPHED BY ARTHUR ELGORT, VOGUE.
ABOVE: BACKSTAGE LOOKS AT THE SEASON’S EYE-WIDENING WINGS. LEFT: L’ORÉAL PARIS INFALLIBLE PROLAST WATERPROOF PENCIL EYELINER IN BLACK. BELOW: BOBBI BROWN LONG-WEAR GEL EYELINER IN CAVIAR INK.
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1995 PHOTOGRAPHED BY ARTHUR ELGORT, VOGUE.
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Dare to Dream THIS MONTH WE COME IN PRAISE OF DREAMS. For some time now, too many of us seem to have forgotten this realm of fashion; we’ve sidelined the idea that our clothes can be a headlong rush into the fantastic, the audacious, the surreal, and the spectacular. We’d all fallen head over heels for a new generation of brilliant young upstarts whose attitude-positive designs were perfect for the charged and challenged times we find ourselves living through—designers who were more interested in speaking the globe-spanning language of the street than communing with our need for fanciful, impossible, and otherworldly beauty. Implicit in all this was a political dimension: To dream is usually to be asleep—how can you be woke if you’re not awake? Of course, what we need in our lives now is both. We cannot live by XXXL-size hoodies—or superembellished shimmer and shine—alone. (But we’re free to express our individualism in both—or neither.) Nor is this another revisiting of the minimalismversus-maximalism chestnut, which has at long last played itself out. We’re living in a time when what we choose to buy has to mean something—it has to find a foothold in our lives for longer than it takes to flicker our eyes open in the morning. Which brings us to the looks you’ll see on the following pages. None were picked with the concept of being quote-unquote wearable, and yet . . . and yet . . . and yet: From the Belle et la Bête fantasy of ornate flowers and lace worked into ravishing Technicolor visions to sparkle- and spangle-strewn bags that could quite happily sit in your hand or on a table at home to equal admiration (try saying that about a backpack) to desire-inducing, heart-palpitating efforts from eight of our favorite dreamer-designers, they’ll find a place in your lives for years and years to come.
ALEXANDER McQUEEN While the work of Sarah Burton still retains the Gothic theater of McQueenâ€™s, it is humanizedâ€”extreme dreams brought to a lower burn while retaining their extraordinary intricacy. Alexander McQueen dress and boots. Cartier ring. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.
Flights of Fancy Seven designers weave the dream of fashion at its frothy, frilly, flashy, flowery, glittery, and colorsaturated best. Kendall Jenner soaks up the revelry. Photographed by Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott.
RODARTE From redwood rings to Van Gogh sunflowers and baby’s-breath, flora— “the ultimate imaginary dreamscape,” Laura Mulleavy says—has especially informed her and sister Kate’s m.o. Their spring collection whirls this fantasy into living romance. Rodarte dress, pants, and scarf. Floral headpiece by Rebel Rebel.
VALENTINO “A dream doesn’t have to be the starting point,” says Valentino’s Pierpaolo Piccioli of his creative process. “Maybe it is something that walks with it.” As his spring couture collection shows, that dream can also mirror the fluidity, flexibility, and constant motion of modern life. “I am not interested in escapism,” he says. Clothes and accessories by Valentino Haute Couture.
DOLCE & GABBANA While the Italian label has always conjured a lustrous, almost mythical vision of their enchanting, enthralling, sometimes heartbreaking home turf, Domenico Dolce says that “we’ve always thought of our process as a way to materialize the things we dream.” Dolce & Gabbana dress and accessories. Jewelry by Dolce & Gabbana Fine Jewelry. Photographed at Annabel’s, London.
Jenner stables her horses at an unpretentious show barn called Huntover. It sits in an achingly romantic little spot tucked away in the gated community of Bell Canyon, California, about five miles from where she grew up in Calabasas. Huntover is owned by a genial, middle-aged gay man, Mark Bone, whom Kendall has known since she was thirteen, when she used to ride and train with him at a bigger facility not far from here. “This is my little baaarn!” shouts Kendall, looking impossibly cool in skintight black riding breeches as she strides through a dramatic, Mission-style archway toward where Mark and I are standing, just outside her two stalls. Her horses, Belle and Dylan—both European warmblood mares trained as jumpers—sway their heads and whinny at the sound of their owner’s voice. Kendall feeds them treats from the palm of her hand and zips into a pair of black leather half chaps as she and Mark chitchat about horse people, including Bella and Gigi Hadid, who are also accomplished riders. “Where are you off to this time?” he soon asks, drolly teasing the highest-paid model in the world. “New York,” she says. “It’s Fashion . . . Month.” She rolls her eyes. “But I’m only doing a week.” This is one of the reasons Kendall has been able to start seriously riding again: After a few years of nonstop work, she has pulled back a bit from the grind of being at the top of the modeling world. It’s a warm February morning, and the fog is just burning off. Kendall is here to ride Dyl, as she calls her, a horse she’s had for only two weeks. As Kendall makes her way over to the mounting block, Dyl is spooked by a couple of dogs sitting under a tree. “Oh, you’re afraid of the dogs,” coos Kendall. The relationship between rider and horse is a very particular thing—there is chemistry and courtship involved, a period of getting used to each other’s idiosyncrasies. Horse people have an expression about getting a new one: buying a friend. For someone who suffered from severe acne as a kid and had trouble making friends, Kendall’s connection to such sensitive creatures was not just formative; it was crucial. “I’m still learning her,” says Kendall. “It’s gonna take a couple months. It’s like with any person: You fall in love and then you feel each other out.” What do you know so far? “She’s a really good girl. She listens. She’s smart.” Kendall heads into the ring and takes Dyl through some easy paces. She got her first pony when she was ten, and
The world’s highestpaid model is riding high, riding horses— and reevaluating her life and career. By Jonathan Van Meter.
as a young teenager she helped out a woman who owned several horses. “I rode with this lady from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., rode all her horses for her every day.” And then in ninth grade Kendall came out of her shell: She got a boyfriend and became a cheerleader. When she started modeling, not long after that, the riding stopped altogether. “Worst thing I ever did,” she says. Belle came along about a year ago, right around the time that Kendall was feeling burned-out. She hadn’t had a real break in three and a half years and was suffering from debilitating anxiety and mysterious, intense neck pain. She began to dread getting on planes. “I made it a point at the beginning of 2017 to consciously slow down, take more time for myself, be more selective and not just do whatever my agents tell me to do.” All of which brought her back to the barn. “I did this my whole life—it was my life. I didn’t care for anything else, I didn’t care about boys. This is what makes me really happy.” She has since realized that she wants to go to shows—to jump again. “That’s why I got Dyl.” (It’s also why she’s committed herself to Transcendental Meditation. “I had a lot of people in the industry say to me, ‘I know you have a busy schedule—what do you do to stay calm, cool, and collected?’ I was like, ‘Um, nothing?’ And then one day, when I was having a freak-out—I was having multiple freak-outs—I was like, OK, I’m going to try this. So I found this lady, she’s awesome, she taught me TM, and I love it.”) A few minutes later, Mark is at the center of the ring as Kendall canters in loops around him. She rides up to where I am standing at the fence. “We’re trying to think of an alias for me for when I go to shows, because I want to be under the radar,” she says. “What’s your middle name?” I ask. “Nicole,” says Kendall. “What about Nicole Dylan?” “That actually kind of works,” Mark says. I throw out the idea of using initials, like the writer A. M. Homes, so that when she registers they won’t know if she is a man or a woman. “Oooh,” says Kendall. “I could be a boy.” Kendall Jenner—a tomboy who collects vintage cars, prefers sneaks and jeans and a hoodie, and rolls with a squad of mostly guys—is not gay. Indeed, she is dating Blake Griffin, the Detroit Pistons power forward. She refuses to confirm this fact, but one of the reasons we can be fairly certain is that
DOLCE & GABBANA The label’s enchanting spring Secret Show featured nonmodels walking in pieces laden with flowers and filigree that also boasted couture-like precision. “This collection was specifically conceived to make people dream,” says Stefano Gabbana. Dolce & Gabbana dress.
CHANEL Though Karl Lagerfeld says of his spring couture collection, with typical brevity, “I wanted French fantasy—and French lightness,” behind that sentiment turn a million wheels. Chanel Haute Couture jumpsuit and boots. Jewelry by Chanel Fine Jewelry.
ALEXANDER McQUEEN It is creative director Sarah Burton’s gift to be able to take the harder edges of her predecessor’s wild imagination and decipher them into softer but just as persuasive results. “I love the rapport between romance—which may be escapist—and rebellion,” she says. Alexander McQueen dress and jewelry.
the day after Valentine’s Day she calls me from Michigan, and when I ask why she’s there she says coyly, “I’m visiting a friend.” When I ask point-blank if she has a boyfriend, she says, “I like my private life.” Pause. “Yeah . . . no. I’m happy. He’s very nice. I have someone being very nice to me.” We are now in her Range Rover heading back to Beverly Hills for lunch. Why, I wonder, does the internet seem to think you’re gay? She laughs. “I think it’s because I’m not like all my other sisters, who are like, ‘Here’s me and my boyfriend!’ So it was a thing for a minute because no one ever saw me with a guy. I would always go that extra mile to be low-key with guys, sneaking around all the time. You don’t want to, like, look crazy.” She pulls onto the freeway, and within seconds we’re going 90 mph. Kendall goes on: “I don’t think I have a bisexual or gay bone in my body, but I don’t know! Who knows?! I’m all down for experience—not against it whatsoever—but I’ve never been there before.” She ponders it for a moment. “Also, I know I have kind of a . . . male energy? But I don’t want to say that wrong, because I’m not transgender or anything. But I have a tough energy. I move differently. But to answer your question: I’m not gay. I have literally nothing to hide.” She lets out a mordant chuckle. “I would never hide something like that.” She realizes that it’s only 11:00 a.m.—too early for lunch— so she gets off the freeway and heads toward Kardashistan: Hidden Hills, where she grew up and where her mother still lives and where Kylie and Kimye also now have homes. The Kardashian/Jenners may have started out as just another option on the reality-entertainment on-demand menu, but have since penetrated the culture so completely that you can hate on them, but good luck trying to ignore them. (“It’s almost, like, trendy to hate on my family,” she says. “It’s not so much that people actually believe that we suck, but it became a thing: If you hate on us, it’s cool or something.”) We stop at the security booth at the entrance to the gated community, the driver’s-side window glides down, and Kendall says to the guard, perhaps for the millionth time, Hi, Kendall, going to my mom’s. A little less than two years ago, when I had dinner with Kendall at her mother’s house for a piece for this magazine, Kris Jenner cooked an elaborate feast for us and mostly left us alone in the dining room to talk. Later, though, she joined in for a bit, and when Kendall took a phone call, Kris and I went outside to tour the pool area. What a lovely person, I said. “My little human?” said Kris. “She’s a good girl. She has a good heart. She is definitely getting the most out of every day. Her life with her friends makes me smile, because in high school she had a few friends, but then she was homeschooled because we were filming Keeping Up. . . . It was just she and her sisters. So when she started modeling, she made all these great new friends, and I think it’s so cool that she has this wonderful life now.” It’s less than a week since Kendall’s younger sister, Kylie, gave birth to her Super Secret Baby. (The ten children in the family now have thirteen children among them.) Kylie all but made her family sign nondisclosure agreements. When I ask
Kendall about it, she first expresses exasperated relief that she’s finally allowed to talk about it. “It’s not that it’s more exciting than any other births in the family—it’s different exciting, because she’s my baby sister who I grew up with. We all grew up in twos: Kourtney and Kim grew up together; Rob and Khloé; Brandon and Brody; Burton and Casey, and then Kylie and I. So to see my best friend growing up have a baby? It’s already made us even closer.” Kendall’s friends all talk about how maternal she is. Her self-described best friend, Taco Bennett, a 23-year-old DJ and member of the hip-hop collective Odd Future, says, “She’s like my second mom—she’s my club mom. Whenever I get drunk she takes care of me.” Says Kendall: “My friends make fun of me and call me Mama Ken because I literally take control of every situation. I guess I’m a control freak. Do you know how many times I’ve taken care of my drunk friends?” Do you want to have kids? “I am ready to wait,” she says. “I want to have kids, but at, like, 28 or 29.” She also might want to get herself situated first. When I first met Kendall two years ago, I picked her up at her relatively new condo in Westwood, which was being packed up because she was selling it and moving into a house in the Hollywood Hills. Now, as we are driving around, she announces, “I bought a new house.” Another one? “Yes—I had so many problems with my last one. I got robbed. I had stalkers that literally broke in while I was home. It happened one too many times, and I just felt trapped.” Her new house is, natch, in a gated community, way up in the hills off Mulholland. “It has a yard! And a big pool! It’s a whole . . . situation. I can go on walks. I can get a dog—and I can take the dog for a walk.” Just then we pull up and stop in front of her old house. “OK, so this was where they first started filming Keeping Up . . . but now it’s a completely different house because they tore it down, but the yard still looks the same, and they kept the front driveway, and . . . oh, my God! They kept our dollhouse! That was our little dollhouse!” And indeed, under a stand of trees in the corner of the enormous front yard is an elaborate little structure, kind of like a tree house relocated to the ground. The gestalt of the Kardashian enterprise—the thing that makes it somehow feel universal—may very well be the simple idea of girls playing house. And right here, sitting just 50 feet away, is something like the Kardashians’ Mount Vernon, but in miniature. What did you girls do in there? I ask. “Go inside and play and stuff,” Kendall says, still wistfully on the verge of tears. “It’s crazy.” We sit there for a minute, and then Kendall says, “But they remodeled it,” and she steps on the gas and roars away.
“I am just a normal-ass kid who likes to hang out with her friends and likes pizza. But I need to be more present and pay more attention”
We finally make our way to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Kendall avoids the porte cochere (and therefore the lobby) and heads down a ramp into a private underground garage where, as it happens, her latest purchase is parked: a purple, mint-condition 1960 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz. Two years ago, she drove me around Los Angeles in her 1956 robin’s-egg
blue Corvette convertible. I remind her that she described it as “not the most discreet form of transportation,” and she lets out a honking laugh and says, “This one’s even worse—it’s flashier, and it’s a boat.” We head upstairs to the Polo Lounge and are seated at an enormous corner booth, and within minutes are approached by an oddly appealing young French couple on their honeymoon, hoping for a photograph. “She’s a huge fan,” says the man. “Oh, nice,” says Kendall. “Do you want to sit down?” It takes me a minute to realize that it’s simply less awkward in a busy restaurant for the stranger to sit for the photo than for the star to stand up. When they leave, Kendall says, “They were both, like, so pretty—both, like, tan, with spooky blue eyes.” I am struck by not only how polite she is, but how graceful. She seems to be effortlessly in tune with how people in different situations want to—and should—be treated. Virgil Abloh, the Off-White designer, says that Kendall is his muse not because of her looks but because of her personality. “She exemplifies exactly what inspired me to design women’s clothes: She’s independent, strong, self-assured. It comes from a place of selfconfidence, but with no air of arrogance, which is rare.” He thinks Kendall transcends fashion: “In 30 years, I wouldn’t be surprised if people have forgotten that she was one of the top models of the time and know her for something else.” Kendall met Taco Bennett on Twitter seven years ago. “She’s cool as fuck!” says Bennett, who describes Kendall as a “lone wolf ”—someone who “hides in plain sight better than anyone.” Other than going that extra mile to avoid the prying eyes of the paparazzi, Kendall does not strain against being one of the most famous and beautiful women in the world. Indeed, she is appalled by some of the behavior she sees in the rarefied worlds she now travels through. “I have friends who have gotten sucked up in something that is so not real, and that is what I never want to do. My whole goal in life is to stay as humble and grounded as I can be, doing things that I love.”
to participate in anything. I’ve had days lately where I just want to sit in my bed and do nothing. It makes you scared to go out. It’s a complete nightmare. And I wish I had the power to fix it all.” I bring up the endless stream of news about sexual harassment and assault, most recently in the fashion world. “Luckily, I haven’t been put into a situation like that ever in my life,” she says. “I’ve heard about it for so long, I get it. I can try and understand it. “But that being said, I think that it’s so powerful that, in a time that’s so . . . shitty, for lack of a better word . . . it’s just really cool and empowering to see a bunch of women come together and say we’re not going to stand for this—we’re not taking it lightly; we are going full force. That’s what I find so inspiring.” But 2017 was a difficult year for Kendall in other, more personal ways as well. Every time she turned around, it seemed, she was accused of being clueless and tone-deaf in one cultural appropriation controversy after another: being photographed, as a non-Indian, for the cover of a tenth-anniversary issue of Vogue India, for example, but most notably, appearing in a now-notorious Pepsi ad that was taken off the air in 24 hours after a howl of outrage rang out across the land. A multicultural misfire, it depicted a faux protest rally, complete with cops and barricades, with Kendall cast as a model who walks out of her photo shoot to see what all the fuss is about, joins the rally, and crosses the barricades to hand a white cop a Pepsi—and then high-fives her new protest friends. “Obviously, my intention was not to hurt anyone,” she says. “Honestly, I just hid out. It hurt me that I hurt other people.” She thinks for a minute. “I’ve been yelled at before, stepped in controversy before, but nothing to that extent. You can never really prepare for something like that.” I ask her if—as someone with so many close black friends and family members—anyone talked to her about it. “No,” she says. “Nobody came to me to explain it to where I was like, Oh, I get it. But I’m not an idiot. I can see it for myself.” One of the more fascinating things about the Kardashians is that they seem so comfortably integrated as a family. In a country where, studies show, 90 percent of white people have no close black friends, I think that makes them good role models in one respect. When I run this notion by Kendall, she says, simply, “But that’s how I’ve grown up.” She pauses for a moment. “I didn’t think of the ad as controversial for exactly this reason. When it was physically happening—the high five? Isn’t that what everyone was freaking out over?—I just didn’t think of it like that.” One of the big lessons she took away from the whole complicated rigmarole is to be more involved in every single thing she does. “I was always really nervous on any job,” Kendall says. “I am a huge people pleaser, and that is what my job has always been: You come to set and you do what you’re told. I don’t think of myself as anything special most days—I am just a normal-ass kid who likes to hang out with her friends and likes pizza. My family, my agent, my friends all make fun of me for it: Girl, you need to give yourself some credit. But that’s what I took out of it: I need to be more present and pay more attention.” C O N T I N U E D O N PAG E 2 2 6
“I have friends who have gotten sucked up in something that is so not real, and that is what I never want to do”
’ll be honest: I did not expect to be having conversations with Kendall Jenner about net neutrality or water shortages in Africa, but those things come up. When I ask her if she does any charity work, she says, “My mom always taught me—and I think there’s something in the Bible about this—when you do good works for others, you’re not supposed to talk about it.” She allows that she is involved with a nonprofit that helps provide clean water to people who need it most, and she regularly visits with and brings gifts to kids at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. At one point I ask, When people think of you, what would you like them to think of—what do you stand for? “That’s a good question,” she says, and ponders it for a moment. “I’m only 22. I am still trying to find my path—in life, not work-wise.” We talk a bit about the year or so since the last election. “It’s very unmotivating,” she says. “There are things happening that are just so . . . horrible . . . that it makes you not want
S ET D ES IG N, EM M A ROACH. P RO DUCE D BY ACROSS M ED I A P RODUCTION.
GUCCI No one else has mixed flora and fauna with disco-bright rainbows, oddball media references, and Anglo or Italianate or Grecian accenting to such frenzied (and chic) effect as Alessandro Michele. “For me,” Michele says, “the best way to give space to reality is by surfing between the real and the surreal.” Clothes and accessories by Gucci. Photographed at Annabel’s, London.
MAISON MARGIELA John Galliano’s Artisanal collection incorporated prismatic, technologically advanced fabrics—he calls them “illusionary”—that popped with polychrome dazzle when struck by camera flashes to reflect our lightningpaced moment. “The idea of dressing in haste—a fast change in a hotel room or at the airport lounge, pulling your look together in the back of a taxi—is very relevant today,” Galliano says. Maison Margiela Artisanal designed by John Galliano dress and sneakers. Alexander McQueen earrings. In this story: hair, Paul Hanlon; makeup, Lauren Parsons. Florist, Phil Perry. Details, see In This Issue.
LONDON’S LEGENDARY nightCLUB—HOST TO princess diana, THE ROLLING STONES, AND EVERYONE WHO WAS ANYONE—COMES ROARING BACK IN AN EXTRAVAGANT NEW SPACE. By Plum Sykes.
VIVA Annabel’s! photograpHed by pascal chevallier “I’M GETTING BRIBED!” GASPS Alexander SpencerChurchill. “Hampers! Baby clothes!” This well-connected, socially adept 34-year old, whose dapper style generally consists of a sharp Douglas Davis suit and pale-blue silk tie and pocket square, is incredulous at people’s attempts to become a Legacy member of the new Annabel’s club. “It’s like The X Factor,” he says, propping himself languorously against the marble fireplace just inside 46 Berkeley Square, the Georgian mansion that houses the club in London’s Mayfair. “Everyone needs to be approved by the committee.” The magnificent hall hints at extravagance within: The walls are lined in pleated pistachio silk; bunches of fruitand-flowers plasterwork tumble from the ceiling; glimmering crystal girandoles stand sentry beside the fireplace. “When you go into most members’ clubs you don’t see a Picasso hanging on the wall,” adds Ali, as he’s known to friends. Ali’s job, right now, is right-hand man, confidant, and arbiter of all things chic to London restaurateur Richard Caring, who is in the throes of reinventing Annabel’s. He points at a space on the wall in front of me where Picasso’s Girl with a Red Beret and Pompom will soon be installed in time for the opening. “No membership cards needed,” he says. “A roaring fire. Old-school style.” The late Mark Birley opened the original Annabel’s nightclub in 1963, naming it after his then wife, Lady Annabel Vane Tempest-Stewart, who later married James Goldsmith. Situated in the old coal cellar at 44 Berkeley Square beneath the Clermont Club, a gambling den famously frequented by Lord Lucan, Annabel’s was funded by 500 of Birley’s friends, who stumped up five guineas a year to become life members. (Sixty-nine are still alive. “It’s costing us more money to collect the £5 off them than the £5 they owe!” quips Spencer-Churchill.) Birley’s exquisite taste lured a louche, glamorous set, and Annabel’s, from the sixties to the eighties, became the spot— the most fun place to go after dinner for a late-night boogie, or for cocktails and cigarettes in the atmospheric Buddha Room. Its opening coincided with the moment when the old aristocratic order was breaking down and British society was starting to embrace the creative and bohemian set—you were as likely to see an earl or a duke at Annabel’s as Vidal Sassoon, 172
Mick Jagger, or Diana Ross. The decor was akin to that of a cozily chic English house: Birley’s collection of horse and dog paintings and prints covered the walls top to toe; flickering candle lamps lit the tables while guests ate dinner seated on banquettes upholstered in red velvet; the cramped dance floor, almost an afterthought, was hidden at the back of the club and boasted only a couple of disco lights; the waitstaff wore white tuxedos and bow ties and knew everyone’s name. Guests felt more like they were at a party in someone’s fabulous drawing room than in a London nightclub. When Birley sold Annabel’s to Caring in 2007, some in London society were alarmed. Caring planned to reopen the nightspot in the basement of the building immediately next door to the original and turn the rest of the house into a day-to-night members club. Many diehard members, worried that Caring’s cash would bring too much flash to their beloved Annabel’s, fled to 5 Hertford Street, with its nightclub Loulou’s (named for Loulou de la Falaise), started by Mark’s son Robin Birley in 2012. Still, there is a palpable excitement around the reopening of Annabel’s: Last summer, a handpicked few were invited to preview parties, and, says one new member, stylist Olivia Buckingham, “we all had to wear our bespoke Annabel’s builders’ jackets and hard hats. We had dinner in the courtyard, with a band playing and surrounded by scaffolding—it was fabulous.” Meanwhile, says 36-year-old Nasiba Adilova, the Dallas-based creator of the ecommerce children’sclothing site The Tot, “it’s always been the club. I feel like nowhere else can compare.” When the chic mother of five Claudia Rothermere threw a birthday drinks party in December for her husband, Jonathan, in the nearly finished space, to which everyone from director Guy Ritchie to the Duke of Beaufort was invited, it was a final stamp of approval. “I’m so excited that the new club has been reborn into the most ravishing building in Berkeley Square,” she says. With Charlotte Tilbury advising on the beauty side (there will be a spa in the mews behind the courtyard garden) and Hikari Yokoyama as contemporary-art director, it feels as though the cool crowd is invading Annabel’s once more. As a former fond Annabel’s-goer, I can safely say that Caring’s Annabel’s is flash—very. But somehow it works. For a tiny elite, this is the London aesthetic of now—out-and-out
ROSE-COLORED EVERYTHING The Garden Room, with murals by Gary Myatt and tulip chandeliers and iris wall sconces made by Sogni di Cristallo in Murano, Venice. Sittings Editor: Plum Sykes.
FIT FOR A PRINCESS LEFT: Elizabeth Taylor meets Marie Antoinette in the opulent pink-onpink ladies’ Powder Room. BELOW: The basement nightclub is lit by brass and glass palm trees. The wallpaper is by de Gournay.
Annabel’s is Flash—Very. BUt Somehow, it works. This is London’s aesthetic of now— out-and-out gilt-trimmed maximalism
gilt-trimmed maximalism. “I wanted to create the idea of a home within a town house that was fresh for the greatest party of the season,” says interior designer Martin Brudnizki, who has designed numerous restaurant and hotel interiors, including the Beekman in New York and Caring’s The Ivy and Sexy Fish in London. “You can wear all your jewelry, your evening bag, your fur stole . . . it’s party time when you walk in.” As Ali and I explore the building, it’s apparent that a Birleyinspired joie de vivre has exploded into the decor. The various bars throughout are lavishly finished: One is covered in hand-painted de Gournay wallpaper depicting scenes of elephants and maharajas; in another, jungle scenes are extravagantly rendered. One private room, paneled in glass, with an extraordinary verdigris marble floor, is intended for Legacy members—100 people (about a quarter of them are Americans) who have bought lifetime memberships, which can be inherited by their children. The Garden Room is a glitzy but chic restaurant with mirrored panels, a gilded ceiling, and trellises of roses painted by muralist Gary Myatt. French doors open into a courtyard garden scented by springtime fig and orange trees. “The roof retracts in two minutes,” Ali tells me, pointing at the glass ceiling. “Just like the one at Wimbledon.” Promising one final moment of excitement, SpencerChurchill leads me to the top-floor Powder Room. I am not disappointed: The washbasins are pink onyx carved in the shape of oyster shells; the taps, gold swans; the ceiling, a carpet of silk roses in pale pinks; the feeling, Liz Taylor meets Marie Antoinette. “One person asked me if they could do a dinner here!” exclaims Spencer-Churchill. “In the loo!” There’s nothing more glamorous than supper in the loo, I muse to myself, if the loo looks like this one. 174
SUNNY SIDE UP LEFT: The garden courtyard sits between the main house and the mews behind. Breakfast is laid with mismatched silver pieces and chinaware in bright colors, stamped with an Annabel’s crest. ABOVE: The club’s Picasso, Girl with a Red Beret and Pompom. RIGHT: Diana, Princess of Wales, leaving Annabel’s in 1987.
PEOPLE WATCHING ABOVE: Zendaya and Naomi Campbell strike a pose at a British Vogue–hosted bash. RIGHT: Elle Fanning at the nightclub.
DON’T LEAVE ME THIS WAY Sienna Miller describes Bailey as “staggeringly grounded and adaptive. There’s an intense loyalty to him that is really representative of what he has created at Burberry.” Idris Elba, meanwhile, says that “he has used national pride in the right way—a positive way.” Miller wears a Burberry February Collection dress and sneakers; burberry.com. Elba wears Burberry tuxedo pants and shoes. OPPOSITE: Bailey (LEFT) with his husband, actor Simon Woods, and their daughters, Nell (LEFT) and Iris. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.
Out of the Trenches
After seventeen brilliant years at the helm of Burberry, Christopher Bailey signs off with a little help from his friendsâ€” and his family. Photographed by Paul Wetherell.
SHE’S A RAINBOW Who better to fly Burberry’s LGBTQ+ rainbow? Models Adwoa Aboah (NEAR LEFT) and Cara Delevingne—both of them known for their searing honesty and millennial activism—respectively opened and closed Bailey’s final show. Delevingne wears a Burberry February Collection vest ($1,350) and T-shirt ($210). Aboah wears a Burberry February Collection hoodie ($3,290) and skirt ($1,590). All at burberry.com.
ATLAS SHRUGGED “Christopher has had so much responsibility on his shoulders,” says actor Domhnall Gleeson, here with actress Naomie Harris, “but it looks like he’s not carrying it at all.” Harris wears a Burberry February Collection dress and sneakers; burberry.com. Gleeson wears a Burberry coat and sweater.
CHRISTOPHER BAILEY— t h e outgoing architect of the Burberry universe—may be the only public figure for whom the clichéd leave-taking expression “looking forward to spending more time with his family” really and truly applies. The happy picture on the previous spread—Christopher and husband Simon Woods and their daughters, Iris, three, and Nell, two—is a telling landmark of his achievements in leading and reflecting the changing times, even beyond fashion. “Seventeen years ago, I don’t think I could have ever imagined that I would be a married man with two children,” he says, beaming. “But as complex and chaotic as the world is, there are positive things happening.” Bailey has good reason to feel that way: Same-sex marriage was still illegal in Britain when he became Burberry’s design director in 2001, at the age of 29. Bailey and Woods married in a civil ceremony (gay marriage only became legal in England, Wales, and Scotland in 2014). Their daughters came in quick succession. “Suddenly your whole priority is protecting and looking after these two little things,” Bailey says. Nearly 70 runway collections and a million-zillion spins on the trench coat later, Bailey is relishing the notion of getting into everything he couldn’t while transforming Burberry into a global powerhouse. Still only 46, Bailey stands on the threshold of a vast and thrilling new private freedom. “I’m definitely not going to pretend it was all a bed of roses,” he says. “I had to make some decisions to let go of some things, and some of those happened to be time with family and friends. With the girls, I’m just so desperate to spend time with them, seeing them grow up so fast.” The spinning fashion world, then, shouldn’t wait for any imminent new announcement. “There are so many opportunities, but I don’t feel I’m in that frame of mind,” he says. “And really, I’m trying to figure out how I can unlearn what I’ve learned.” Now there can be more of the luxury of just being—say, at their farmhouse in Umbria, where both sides of the extended family had a riotous last summer. The Bailey-Woods clan also recently moved into a new house in Hampstead, and Bailey, the son of a carpenter and a Marks & Spencer window dresser, is poised to rediscover his inner handyman. “Painting, decorating—we’re talking shelves! Get me in the DIY superstore! My latest purchase is a power drill.” He roars with laughter. (Woods, meanwhile, is poised to have his turn in the spotlight as he makes a transition from actor to playwright. “Simon’s
from a very different background from me—Wetherby; Eton; Magdalen College, Oxford,” Bailey says, laughing. “He’s clever.”) Bailey’s final Burberry show in February, which featured an abundance of rainbows and a hefty donation to three LGBTQ+ youth charities, was both a momentous personal statement and a marker of the equal-rights triumphs that have come along during his lifetime. When, in 2014, Bailey stepped up to head the entire corporation, he become the first openly gay CEO of a FTSE 100 company. That tag in itself is a reflection of the hidebound prejudice at the top of the business world, yet suddenly even the most heteronormative institutions took notice of the power of this Yorkshireman leading Burberry into the digital age—and crashing through whatever barriers were in front of him to make his global vision of fashion for everyone come true.—SARAH MOWER 179
HOME, JAMES Actress Lily James has had two Cinderella moments: one after being cast in the film of the same name, the other with a “mad phone call” from her agent telling her that Bailey wanted to meet her for a Burberry perfume campaign. “I think what he’s done has been so groundbreaking— he just captures that kind of British spirit of getting on with things.” Burberry February Collection dress; burberry.com.
Seventy runway collections after starting out, Bailey is relishing his new freedom. “Painting, decorating . . . my latest purchase is a power drill,” he says, roaring with laughter
CROWN PRINCE “What Bailey’s done at Burberry is a bit like what Oasis did with their albums in the nineties,” says James’s partner, actor Matt Smith. “Both define a moment in time and make it part of the fabric of our culture. I’m utterly intrigued to see what he does next.” Burberry suit, shirt, and tie.
S ET D ES I G N, A LI C E KI R KPATR I CK. P RODUCED BY ROSCO PRODUCTION.
OXFORD RULES “Christopher is so genuine in his warmth and kindness,” says Chelsea Clinton, whose closest friend during their Oxford years together was Woods, Bailey’s now-husband. “Yet he’s also so fierce in his love and loyalty to his family, to his friends, and to his community that he has built—that’s such a special combination.” Burberry February Collection trench coat, $2,590; burberry.com.
“Seventeen years ago, I don’t think I could have imagined that I would be married with two children,” Bailey says. “But as complex and chaotic as the world is, there are positive things happening.”
ANOTHER LOVE Indie singer-songwriter Tom Odell first performed for Bailey at Burberry Prorsum’s fall 2013 show, where he was backed by a chorus in black trench coats. Model Jean Campbell, meanwhile, has starred in four of Bailey’s campaigns. Campbell wears a Burberry February Collection sweater ($1,350), dress, leggings, and sneakers; burberry.com. Odell wears a Burberry February Collection blazer, sweater, and pants. In this story: hair, Recine for Rodin; makeup, Susie Sobol. Menswear Editor: Michael Philouze. Details, see In This issue.
GardenVariety Dark floralsâ€”exquisite, moody, and many-splendoredâ€” sprouted all over the spring runways. Actress Mia Goth blossoms in the very best. Photographed by Steven Klein.
Even structured outerwear is imbued with heavy romance this season. Goth wears a Proenza Schouler coat and pants ($1,990); Proenza Schouler, NYC. Louis Vuitton sneakers. Fashion Editor: Grace Coddington.
STOMPING GROUNDS Gather no moss in a boldly printed ball skirt and matching sweater. Itâ€™s part Summer of Love, part Op Artâ€”and all elegance. Undercover top ($1,120) and skirt ($2,675); Dover Street Market New York, NYC. Jordan Brand sneakers.
FIRST BLUSH “To linger in a garden fair/What more has earth to give?” Goth is clearly heeding the words of the great poet Hafiz as she lingers amid a sea of poppies in a rosy-hued, regal gown. Alexander McQueen dress and boots; Alexander McQueen, NYC.
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST The detailing in this embroidered blouse is stitched to posy perfectionâ€”and a secret admirer seems to be taking notice. Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello blouse and shorts ($2,290); Saint Laurent, NYC.
IN FULL FLOWER How does your garden grow? It depends on whether you’re asking about the room, the dress—or the accompanying jeweled leather gloves. Erdem dress and gloves. Dress at Neiman Marcus stores. BEAUTY NOTE
Give red lips a patentleather shine. Lancôme L’Absolu Gloss in Caprice locks in bold color for a refreshingly brilliant finish.
LOVE ME TENDER Mythical creature meets organic wonderland as Goth plays hard to get in a circle-skirted cutout-lace dress. Miu Miu dress, tank top ($290), shirt ($835), belt, socks, and shoes; miumiu.com.
HOME GROWN Feminine florals—and a budding romance—are offset with textured black-and-white organza dresses. Chanel cape, dresses, and shoes; select Chanel boutiques. Wolford tights. In this story: hair and creature design, Julien d’Ys; makeup, Diane Kendal. Set design, Mary Howard. Floral design, Putnam & Putnam. Details, see In This Issue.
P RO DUC ED BY CA RO LI N E ST RI D FE LDT FO R LO LA P RO DUCT I O N. P ROJECT I O N SCR EE N P ROV I D E D BY OXYG EN . F U RNI T U RE P ROV I DE D BY HO O KP ROPS.CO M A N D W YE T H F U RNI T U RE , NYC.
IT’S A COLD JANUARY NIGHT IN D.C., and I’m at the Hart Senate Office Building, trailing U.S. Senator Kamala Harris into a conference room. Inside, a group of young Latino congressional staffers has gathered to meet the Democratic star from California. When she enters, flanked by aides, and dressed in a navy suit, matching ruffled blouse, black pearls, and stilettos that give her petite five-feet-four frame a few extra inches of height, the staffers immediately rise from their chairs. Harris has an air of celebrity that, under normal circumstances, a freshman senator wouldn’t have had time to acquire. But this year has been anything but normal. She greets the 20-somethings as though they’re relatives at a family reunion: “Hi, everybody! Hi, guys!” Then she notices that one of the staffers is still seated, and her voice drops a full octave: “Stand up, man!” The startled staffer springs to his feet. “Kevin,” he says, extending a hand. “What’s your last name?” demands Harris. “Figueroa.” “Thank you!” She shakes his hand. “Kamala Harris.” (That’s pronounced “comma-la,” by the way, and you’d better get it right.) Harris is a courtroom litigator. This means that, although she is warm and funny, she is also comfortable with confrontation—at home with it, even—and a casual conversation can become a rapid-fire deposition without warning. But exchanges like this one are also tutorials. In Figueroa’s case: Here is how you greet an elected official. He’s going to need to know this, you see, if he runs for office, or applies to law school, or makes any of the life choices Harris expects of him.
Dreaming Big After a year in Washington, Kamala Harris has proved she doesn’t back down from a fight. How far can the star senator go? Abby Aguirre reports. Photographed by Zoe Ghertner.
She settles into a chair and tells the group—they are all policy fellows with the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute—that, in her sophomore year of college at Howard University, she worked as an intern for the senior senator from California at the time, Alan Cranston. “So you’re looking at your future,” Harris says. “He was succeeded by Barbara Boxer, and I succeeded Barbara Boxer. So you neva know!” 198
P RODUCE D BY CO NN ECT T HE DOTS. M U RA L BY A L EX K I ZO A N D CA RLOS M U Ñ OZ.
JOYFUL WARRIOR Harris in Los Angeles with beneficiaries of the DREAM Act—which the senator has made a priority to protect. Hair, Nikki Providence; makeup, Fara Homidi. Details, see In This Issue. Sittings Editor: Jason Rider.
Harris has become a force due to her authority on the very issues President Trump warps for his own gain: crime and immigration
Harris’s political career—seven years as district attorney in San Francisco and then another six as attorney general of California—amounts to an extraordinary run of firsts. She was the first woman and the first person of color to be elected to both positions, and she is now America’s first Indian-American senator and California’s first black senator. In 2012, Harris spoke in prime time at the Democratic National Convention. More Americans learned her name the 200
following year, when President Obama apologized for saying Harris was not only “brilliant,” “dedicated,” and “tough,” but that she “also happens to be, by far, the best-looking attorney general in the country.” And yet in the seventeen months since Donald Trump was elected president, Harris has been propelled into an altogether different stratum of political celebrity—one that raises certain questions about her future. (Questions she is well practiced at deflecting. “I honestly am focused on 2018,” she tells me when I ask her for her thoughts about a presidential run. But you haven’t ruled it out, I say. “I’m not focused on it,” she repeats.) It’s not just that she’s outspoken on social media, which she is, or that she holds an all too rare demographic appeal, which she does. Rather, Harris has become a force due to her authority on the very issues Trump warps for his own gain: crime and immigration. A robust body of research has established that immigrants are less likely than native-born citizens to commit crimes, including violent ones. As the state’s former top cop, Harris knows this better than anyone. From the moment President Trump delivered his
inaugural address, linking immigration to crime in a macabre vision of “American carnage,” Harris was—to put it bluntly—uniquely poised to call bullshit. “It’s fearmongering,” she tells me. “Let’s be realistic. It’s easier to sow hate and division than it is to offer people a meaningful, sustaining solution.” Harris says that she feels a particular duty to protect DACA recipients. “The DACA population was given something that this president arbitrarily took away,” she says. “September 5, he decided to rescind DACA. Arbitrarily put in the date of March 5 if it’s not done.” She begins to speak in a methodically persuasive manner, eyebrows raised and eyes locked on mine, that I can only assume she developed while delivering closing arguments to a jury. “This is a population of people we’re not talking about giving some new right to,” she says. “They had to qualify for their status. They didn’t just say ‘I want JUST KIDS ABOVE, FROM LEFT: Harris with her late mother, Shyamala Gopalan Harris, who emigrated from India to study at Berkeley in the ’60s; with her younger sister, Maya, now a legal analyst, in California.
COU RT ESY OF KA M A LA HA RRI S
Tonight is the State of the Union. In two hours, at the Capitol Building, President Trump will address the fate of DACA—the legal protections that the Obama administration granted to some 700,000 undocumented immigrants, and which Trump rescinded in September. Harris reads the room. “You guys are living in a pivotal moment in the history of our country, and you’re witnessing something we’ve never seen before.” The group nods solemnly. Harris says she’s resolved to leave anger behind. “At the end of the year, I thought back to 2017, and I was like, ‘Bye, Felisha.’ ” The Friday reference draws big laughs. “This year, I’m just gonna be a joyful warrior.” Harris calls on the staffers to say what they’re working on. It’s a heavy list: deported veterans, bail reform, Puerto Rico relief, affordable housing. One staffer from Arizona reports that she is investigating the dangers posed to pregnant women in immigration detention centers. “Arpaio—is he running?” Harris asks, referring to Joe Arpaio, the former sheriff of Maricopa County known for vigilante-style roundups. Yes, the staffer responds, Arpaio has announced his campaign for Senate. “Another reason to be a joyful warrior!” Harris exclaims. The meeting ends. Before Harris heads to the Capitol, she must first stop by her office to welcome the date she’s bringing along, a DACA recipient named Denea Joseph, who emigrated from Belize at the age of seven and grew up in South Los Angeles. (She cofounded a Facebook group called “Slay, Kamala, Slay.”) At Harris’s office, Joseph is waiting on a beige couch, wearing a graphic-print blouse, black slacks, and heels. Harris settles down next to her while an aide runs through Joseph’s lineup of media interviews. “It’s about you, but it’s not about you,” Harris says to calm her nerves. “Think of all the people who are counting on you to deliver your message.” Before they leave, Joseph asks to take a selfie with the senator. I pretend not to be listening as Joseph, fumbling with her phone, tells Harris: “You’re my Beyoncé.”
it’ and they got it. They had to be vetted.” Harris pauses. “They come to my office every day panicked. These DACA kids don’t know what tomorrow will bring, except that it will require them to leave the only place they’ve ever known to go somewhere they have no recollection of ever being.” Plenty of national politicians wax poetic about Dreamers. Few can defend them with Harris’s command. “She’s the strongest ally we have in the fight,” says Eric Garcetti, the two-term mayor of Los Angeles, the city with the most Dreamers in it. At the same time, Harris has signaled that she won’t support a fix that comes with hard-line anti-immigration measures. For months, she has been pushing for a “clean” Dream Act—legislation that would offer DACA beneficiaries a path to citizenship, but would do so without being tied to other policies, in particular funding for Trump’s border wall. This stance has been applauded by some progressives and immigrant rights groups. It’s unclear how it’s going over with her colleagues. In February, when Harris voted against a bipartisan compromise bill that would have put Dreamers on a path toward citizenship and provided $25 billion for Trump’s border wall, her “no” drew audible gasps on the Senate floor. (Some news outlets pointed out that Harris withheld her vote until it was clear that the bill wouldn’t pass.) “There is clear bipartisan support to protect Dreamers from deportation, but this White House has repeatedly stood in the way,” Harris says in an email. “Let’s not forget, the White House created this crisis when they callously ended DACA and it has worked at every turn to sabotage Congress’s efforts to resolve it.”
TO M W I LL IA MS/G E TT Y IM AG ES
arris was born to two Berkeley graduate students in the fall of 1964. Both were immigrants—her mother, Shyamala Gopalan Harris, a nutrition and endocrinology student from southern India, and her father, Donald Harris, an economics scholar from Jamaica—and they met “in the movement,” says Harris; they often took Kamala and her younger sister, Maya, to civil rights marches. They divorced when Kamala was seven, and though the sisters made regular visits to Palo Alto, where Donald lived as a Stanford professor, it was Shyamala who became the guiding force in Harris’s life. Shyamala set “incredibly high expectations,” Maya says. The Harris girls sang in an Oakland church choir, mastered Indian cooking, and cleaned test tubes in their mother’s lab. They were allowed to watch cartoons only if they simultaneously did something productive, like needlepoint or knitting. “I have no idea how many blankets Kamala must have crocheted,” Maya tells me. “She was the mad crocheter.” Harris describes her mother, who died in 2009, as “a force of nature—all five feet of her,” she says. “She had a code.” I
glimpse some of the same intensity in Harris when I ask if her urge to protect the vulnerable comes from being raised by a single mom. “I don’t play a violin about my childhood,” she says firmly. The sisters traveled regularly to Jamaica and India, and Harris can recall sitting on the porch of her grandmother’s house in Jamaica for hours, chewing on sugarcane and listening to her father and uncles talk politics. In India, the girls stayed in Chennai with their grandfather, a government diplomat, and their grandmother, who in the 1940s was known for driving through small Indian villages in a Volkswagen Bug, brandishing a bullhorn, and informing women about how to get birth control. “She was the purest form of the Harris women,” Harris says. “We’re all diluted versions of my grandmother.” Right after Harris was first elected district attorney, she traveled to India and found that her grandmother had organized a party and press conference. One by one, people came to pay homage. “It was like a scene out of The Godfather,” Harris says with a laugh. In 1982 Kamala enrolled at Howard University, where she ran for student council, pledged a sorority, and served as chair of the economics society. This was the Reagan era, and the war on drugs and anti-apartheid movement dominated campus politics. Her college friend Sonya Lockett describes their Howard years as formative. “You saw these false narratives being shaped around poor people, African-Americans, drug users,” Lockett says. “It did affect you.” Lockett remembers Harris as a charismatic member of the debate team—with a fun side. One day, they were sitting on the campus yard with other students. “Parliament-Funkadelic came on. All of a sudden she jumps up and just starts dancing,” Lockett says. “Nothing we had to say mattered. It was just like: ‘I’m sorry, Parliament’s on. Why are we talking?’ ” Harris settled in Oakland as a prosecutor, and later joined the San Francisco D.A.’s office. By the time she decided to run for district attorney, she had a reputation for fearlessness. Entering the race meant running against her former boss, Terence Hallinan. It also meant weathering press scrutiny over a public relationship C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 2 6
On election night, she spoke off-the-cuff from a stage in L.A.: “When our fundamental ideals are being attacked, do we retreat or do we fight? I say we fight”
NEW ARRIVAL Harris, Vice President Joseph Biden, and Harris’s aunt Sarala Gopalan at the senator’s swearing-in, January 2017. Harris’s husband, Douglas Emhoff, is at right.
wild about HARRY
out over your broom,” their teacher tells them, “and say, ‘Up!’ ” Suddenly, upon their command, the brooms rise into their hands. Though it’s a simple trick, the moment is startling and miraculous, With the feverishly anticipated hinting at the more impossible-seeming moments of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, enchantment that await. the latest—and perhaps final— J.K. Rowling first introduced her bespectacled boy chapter of the story comes to wizard and his fantastical, Broadway. By Adam Green. morally complex universe Photographed by Annie Leibovitz. with 1998’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Twenty years, seven books (selling ON A WINTRY MORNING, I find mymore than 500 million copies), and self in an airplane hangar–size soundeight films (with a combined gross stage in Astoria, Queens. It’s one of of more than $7.7 billion) later, the the few spaces in New York City vast thirst for anything Potter-related reenough to accommodate the behindthe-scenes technical magic involved in mains unslaked, making the arrival of rehearsing the frantically awaited HarCursed Child on Broadway a very big ry Potter and the Cursed Child, which deal indeed. In London, the play—the appears on Broadway this month fresh eighth and perhaps final installment in from a sold-out (and ongoing) run in the Potter canon—drew flocks of fans London. With its brick walls, garage in witch hats and wizard capes from doors, and catwalks, it feels more like all over the world while earning critical a site for a gangland execution than raves, breaking box-office records, and a boarding school for young wizards. winning nine Olivier Awards. When On a raised platform, a multieththe script was published as a book, it sold more than five million copies in nic group of young actors in sweatNorth America. pants, T-shirts, and capes is rehearsing For years, Rowling turned down ofa scene that involves a flying lesson. Behind them are a series of ornately fers to adapt her books for the theater, carved arched doorways on rollers and including one from Michael Jackson, a wooden rack from which each of the who wanted to turn them into musicals. fledgling witches and wizards takes a But when the producers Sonia Friedbroomstick and then lines up with it at man and Colin Callender approached his or her feet. “Stick out your hands her with the idea of creating a new
BOY WONDERS Harry and his son Albus Severus Potter, played by actors Jamie Parker (FAR LEFT) and Sam Clemmett, both in costume. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
Thorne comes to the project as a stage and screen writer with a precise, empathetic gift for capturing youthful alienation (he collaborated with Tiffany on the sensational stage adaptation of the preteen vampire thriller Let the Right One In). He’s also a wide-eyed, obsessive fan of Rowling’s books. As the story took shape, Thorne and his collaborators found themselves focusing on two main themes: “How you survive childhood, and how you survive adulthood when you’ve had a childhood that’s problematic.” Thorne, whose work on the show was informed both by “That first preview was like a rock his memories of unhappy school days and concert,” Paul Thornley says. his newfound role as a “It was like nothing else I’ve ever father, continues, “We wanted to tell a story experienced as an actor” about kids who, unlike Harry and his friends, that the play begins where Harry Potter weren’t comfortable at Hogwarts. And and the Deathly Hallows left off, with we also wanted to look at what it’s like Harry (Jamie Parker), now Head of the when you’re a parent reflecting on your Department of Magical Law Enforceown childhood and what that childment at the Ministry of Magic, and hood made you into. Harry is at that his wife, Ginny (Poppy Miller), dropage where he has to come to terms with things that he has never sorted out.” ping off their son Albus Severus Potter (Sam Clemmett) to catch the Hogwarts Express to his parents’ alma mater for iffany burst on the scene his first year of magical studies. Herin 2006 as the associate director of the National mione Granger (Noma Dumezweni), Theatre of Scotland with who has become Minister for Magic, the thrilling Black Watch, and Ron Weasley (Paul Thornley), who which featured a startling runs a joke shop, are there, too, seeing moment in which a slain off their daughter Rose (Susan Heysoldier pushes his way up through the ward). I can also say that the moody, felt of a pool table, bringing ghosts of disaffected Albus, weighed down by the Iraq War to life in a Scottish pub. the Potter legacy, has a troubled relaHe went on to use his signature brand tionship with Harry, who is discovering of visual poetry to dazzling effect in that being a good father is trickier than the Tony-winning musical adaptation casting an invisibility spell. At school, of Once, his abstractly lyrical revival Albus and Scorpius, an endearingly of The Glass Menagerie, and Let The awkward loner, strike up an unlikely Right One In, all of which featured friendship that gets tested when they moments of stagecraft with visual embark on a magical time-traveling echoes in Cursed Child. (During my adventure and find themselves in over visit to rehearsals for the show, I haptheir heads. The trio of Harry, Herpened to walk past an empty couch mione, and Ron shake off the dust of just at the moment that an actor the years since their student days and emerged headfirst from its cushions, reunite to battle the existential threat of and I thought: Of course.) newly resurgent dark forces, along the While Tiffany and his collaborators way reencountering some familiar facwere devising the story for the play, he es—beloved and less so. Like Rowling’s insisted that they give their imaginabooks, the play is filled with shocking plot twists and powered by a narrative tions free rein, never stopping to quesdrive that will have you in its thrall for tion the practicality of putting their all five-and-a-half hours of the two flights of fancy onstage. “It all happarts’ combined running time. pens in the dreaming of what a story Potter story expressly for the stage, she realized that she had more to say and spent the next eighteen months collaborating with the director John Tiffany and playwright Jack Thorne to plot a new adventure for The Boy Who Lived—now a man on the cusp of middle age—and Co., retaining final say over the story line but otherwise giving her collaborators plenty of room to create something purely theatrical. Though the internet is littered with spoilers, I have been sworn to not give away much about the plot. I can say
could be, especially a story of magic and wizards and witches and strange creatures,” he says. “You’ve got to be able to take that to its full conclusion.” With his crackerjack creative team— which includes his longtime collaborator, the movement director Steven Hoggett; Christine Jones (set designer); Katrina Lindsay (costume designer); Neil Austin (lighting designer); Imogen Heap (composer and arranger); and Jamie Harrison (illusions and magic)— Tiffany has brought Rowling’s world to vivid theatrical life. It’s a dark, mysterious, broodingly Victorian world that, as is Tiffany’s specialty, seems to exist in a liminal space between the past and the present, the enchanted and the ordinary. Scenes change with the swish of a black cape; a train station becomes a forest; stairways, bookcases, and luggage come to life; smoke shoots out of boys’ ears, young wizards fly, owls swoop down to deliver messages; characters change shape and transform into each other; and marching soldiers of a dark army appear out of the blackness. This isn’t the CGI-laden spectacle of the movies, but rather what Tiffany calls the “rough magic” of theater. Cursed Child has a cast of 40, but fans were most urgently concerned with who would play the three leads— iconic roles that remain indelibly associated with Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint, whom the world watched grow up on-screen. In a nod to the Who’s Who of British acting royalty—from Michael Gambon to Maggie Smith—that played the grown-ups in the films, Tiffany turned to what he calls “real Shakespearean actors” to bring the trio of best friends into adulthood. With quintessentially English looks, Jamie Parker has starred in both Henry V and Hamlet, but he first came to attention as a public-school lad in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys, which feels like good preparation for playing Harry Potter in midlife in a performance that earned him an Olivier for Best Actor. The South African–born Noma Dumezweni comes to the role of Hermione with a long list of Shakespearean credits and an Olivier for her performance in A Raisin in the Sun, and though the casting of a black actress caused some controversy in Potter-fan circles, Rowling tweeted her enthusiasm (“White skin was never specified.
S ET D ES IG N , MA RY HOWA RD
COMMAND PERFORMANCE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Actors Alex Price, Noma Dumezweni, Paul Thornley, Susan Heyward, Jamie Parker, Poppy Miller, Sam Clemmett, and Anthony Boyle. In this story: hair, wigs, and makeup, Carole Hancock. Costume design, Katrina Lindsay.
Rowling loves black Hermione”), and Dumezweni went on to win her second Olivier in the part. (With Ava DuVernay’s recent film adaptation of A Wrinkle in Time, we may be seeing a trend in heroines of color saving the world.) As Ron Weasley, Paul Thornley also brings an impressive résumé of Shakespeare plays, most of them comedies, showing a clown’s gift that’s just right for this character. Whatever misgivings the three had about the responsibility of taking on their roles were quickly dispersed as soon as they took the stage in front of an audience in London. “That first preview was like a rock concert,” Thornley says. “It was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced as an actor.” As parents in their late 30s and 40s, the actors relate to the struggles of their characters’ adult selves, but they found their way into the roles by turning to
their own childhoods. “When I was eleven, I got on a train and went up to a boarding school in the middle of Scotland, and I wore little round glasses,” Parker recalls. “It didn’t have anything to do with wands and spells, but it’s familiar. I know this guy.” “Hermione is a little outside of the box, not quite fitting in, but then she finds these other members of her tribe,” Dumezweni explains. “I was this immigrant girl who arrived in this country from Africa when I was eight, and my world changed overnight.” Suddenly, she says, “you’re the other, the different one. You’re good at what you do, but you’ve got to find your way, your tribe. My tribe was youth theater.” A large part of the power of Rowling’s books comes from the way that, like most of the great works of fantasy, they return us to our own childhoods. Who doesn’t remember longing for
friendship, adventure, and the power to control the world around us? Harry Potter and the Cursed Child taps into that same wellspring by showing us a new generation of wizards finding their way and an older generation reconnecting with who they once were. One of its central themes is how the past continues to exert its pull. It’s a story that flourishes on the stage, a medium that, more than any other, allows us to bring our own pasts into the present. And that, according to Tiffany, is the source of its enchantment. “It happens in the audience’s collective imagination and between the human beings in the room—the people in the audience and the group of actors onstage,” he says. “With a film, you’re very much a witness, and with a book, it’s just you. But in the theater, you’re having a shared experience—and it’s very close to utter magic.” 205
GROUND LEVEL Outside the fifteenth-century country house, a gravel path meanders through low spreading plants, creating a lush tapestry of silvers and greens. Sittings Editor: Miranda Brooks.
In his native Italy, garden designer Luciano Giubbilei has created a verdant oasis that grows under the Tuscan sun. By Marella Caracciolo Chia. Photographed by Andrew Montgomery.
Luciano Giubbilei Tuscany garden location one mode a temik dant labor et dolore are manaltes denim ad min veniar amis text a tacionask Photographed by Firstname Lasthere
GOLDEN HOUR The simplicity and the sculptural quality of the courtyard—with its umbrella pine, box hedges, and water trough—allow light and shadow to animate the space.
EARTHLY DELIGHTS FROM LEFT: Cypress trees rise above the flowering stachys and thyme. Quince ripen along the slope toward the swimming pool. Giubbilei, who has won three gold medals and Best in Show at the Chelsea Flower Show, enjoys the panoramic Tuscan views.
s a teenager, Luciano Giubbilei wo rke d a f t e r school as a delivery boy for a florist in his native city of Siena, Italy. He also baked bread at a local bakery, repaired the city’s rooftops, and, as soon as he got his driver’s permit, worked as a truck driver zooming all over Tuscany, his camera always at hand to record what caught his eye: the winding roads flanked by cypress trees, the lunar hills of the Crete Senesi, the wild vegetation along the autoroutes. Fast-forward three decades and Giubbilei, now 46, is an acclaimed garden designer based in London with projects that have sprung up all over England, Europe, the U.S., and Morocco. Nothing has seemed out of his reach except, ironically, being hired to design a garden in his own country, Italy. Then, three years ago, that elusive dream finally materialized. “This landscape is in my bones,” says Giubbilei, who has the classical features and shy charm of a Ghirlandaio portrait. Val d’Orcia, in southern Tuscany, is the setting for a roughly four-acre garden commissioned by a pair of new-minted wine producers. Over a cup of oolong tea beneath the shade of a majestic oak tree in the garden’s vast central courtyard, Giubbilei traces his love of landscape back to his childhood. When his mother, a hairdresser, and his father, a driver, moved to the outskirts of town with his older sister, they left Luciano, age four, in the care of his grandmother, a seamstress who lived in the city center. “It was strange, not living with my parents, but I was happy,” he says. Growing up, he played soccer, but he says he didn’t “fit in” at school. “I couldn’t sit still in class and had no discipline.” Always a daydreamer, he would regularly ditch classes and wander off into the Siena countryside. “Surrounded by nature, I felt protected,” he recalls. His path to becoming a gardener was filled with coups de foudre. “My life changed thanks to a love story,” he muses. He was eighteen when he met a young Englishwoman studying art history in Siena. Together they moved into a house outside town that was cheap to rent and where he could grow their own food. Luciano
spent his spare time assisting Silvano Ghirelli, head gardener at the historic Villa Gamberaia in Settignano, near Florence. “One day, Silvano showed me a book of black-and-white photographs by Balthazar Korab that was a catalyst for the way I make gardens,” Giubbilei says. “ ‘You have to study,’ Silvano told me, ‘otherwise you will end up spending your life inside a single garden, and never find out what the world has to offer!’ ” At 21, Luciano moved with his girlfriend to London and enrolled at Belgravia’s Inchbald School of Design, where he graduated as Student of the Year. The love story eventually ended, but he stayed on and took a job with a florist. Clients were so enchanted by his imaginative bouquets that they commissioned him to redesign their terraces and city gardens. In 1997 he founded his own landscape-design studio. Giubbilei has developed a line of outdoor tables and seating with the sculptor and furniture-maker Nathalie de Leval, and is passionate about ceramics. He recently bought a former ceramist’s house in Majorca and plans to make it available for artists in residence. To those familiar with the starkly architectural style of Giubbilei’s early projects, his Italian garden will come as a surprise—or rather, a succession of surprises, since it is planned as a series of “rooms.” The first is a grandly conceived vegetable garden enclosed by hornbeam hedges. Entered through a small iron gate, its patchwork of spaces brim with a controlled abundance of Tuscan vegetables interspersed with English roses, peonies, and delphinium. A steel basin filled with running water reflects the light and creates the timeless sound of abundance. Paved pathways in hand-cut stone lead to a central pergola covered with white wisteria and more roses. Though Giubbilei says he took inspiration from the English vegetable-garden tradition, there are evocations here of the medieval enclosed garden, or hortus conclusus, that plays an important symbolic role in Renaissance painting and poetry. The courtyard, punctuated by pots of hydrangea and the rotund shapes of clipped boxwood, separates the vegetable garden from the facade of the property, a large fifteenth-century stone building that once served as an 209
ironmongery. “When I first came here,” says Giubbilei, seemingly oblivious to the house’s large white Maremma sheepdog nibbling a piece of apricot crostata from his plate, “I spent days exploring every corner, struggling to get a sense of the place. Finally, at sunset, a golden light fell on the trunk of this oak tree and on the stone wall next to it. That moment of splendor was my gateway to the project.” Dominating the yard are two evergreen oak hedges planted at a slant to evoke a theatrical backdrop. The controlled drama pays homage to Pietro Porcinai, the twentieth-century Florentine gardener whom Giubbilei acknowledges as a major inspiration. A third outdoor room at the east of the house is filled with Mediterranean aromatics and a free-spirited mix of flowers, including salmon-colored hollyhocks, irises, and pink cistus. Witness to Giubbilei’s education in the English floral tradition, the planting came out of a personal crisis in 2011, when he was at the peak of his success. “I had lost my direction. Despite all the work, traveling from one project to another, I felt stuck,” Giubbilei recalls. 210
GREEN DAYS ABOVE: Box hedges in a small vegetable garden trap scents of lemon blossoms and herbs. OPPOSITE: A wisteria-covered pergola soars over the path bisecting the vegetable garden.
“What I missed most were the dayto-day challenges of being immersed in nature.” For guidance, he turned to Fergus Garrett, head gardener at Great Dixter, a medieval manor house restored and augmented by Edwin Lutyens in the early twentieth century. Thanks to the dedication of the plantsman Christopher Lloyd, who inherited part of Great Dixter, it is a place of pilgrimage for horticulturists. Garrett, who understood Giubbilei’s quest to get back to basics, gave him an area to experiment with. He paired him with talented gardener James Horner, who has since become one of Giubbilei’s closest collaborators. “I moved away from a more formal approach to gardening and began to appreciate the seasons’ mutations. In other words, I learned the one fundamental virtue for a gardener: patience.” One of the perks of the Tuscan project, for Giubbilei, was becoming reacquainted with the familiar places of his childhood. One was La Foce, the estate
of the author Iris Origo, now owned by her daughter, Benedetta. Its garden, started in 1925 by Iris and the English designer and architect Cecil Pinsent, is a source of continuing inspiration for Giubbilei. “He comes to visit regularly,” says Benedetta, “One evening he sat alone at the end of the garden and observed every detail as it became dark, trying to conjure how Pinsent had seen it. Only an artist thinks like that.” Giubbilei’s Italian garden is still a work in progress. He is planning a possible collaboration with James Hitchmough, professor of horticultural ecology at the University of Sheffield, to include a wildflower meadow and sowing seeds in situ using low-nutrient, sand-based soils that require minimum maintenance. He is anticipating a spectacular blossoming next spring. Many other new wonders, Giubbilei assures me, are in store. “If you don’t like surprises,” he observes, “you’d better keep away from gardens.”
Western promises Chinese-born, English-educated Chloé Zhao has done more than upend expectations. Her film The Rider reinvents a genre. By John Powers. Photographed by Philip-Lorca diCorcia.
WESTERNS ARE TO AMERICA what Homer is to Greece or Shakespeare to Britain—a wellspring of our national mythology that has shaped how we think about everything from justice and violence to independence, freedom, and wide-open spaces. Problem is, we’ve been doing this for so long that it’s become nearly impossible to make a modern Western that doesn’t feel a bit old hat. That’s part of the marvel of The Rider, a moving, strikingly original portrait of a Native American cowboy that’s far more memorable than most of the recent Oscar contenders. Weaving together documentary and fiction to tell a quintessentially American tale, filmmaker Chloé Zhao pulls off something nearly impossible: She reinvents our sense of the Western. “I have an obsession with the old West,” Zhao tells me one unseasonably warm L.A. afternoon as we explore the Autry Museum of the American West in Griffith Park. In person, the filmmaker, who has the sinewy fitness of one who spends her spare time hiking and camping, is easygoing, dressed in a knockabout blue sweater, torn jeans, and moccasins, and toting a water jug large enough to keep an entire family hydrated for a week. She admires handsomely decorated pistol handles and tells me about the weight of buckskin coats. Amused and familiar—she’s a big hugger—Zhao seems a far cry from the filmmaker who’d make such a rigorous, pointedly unironic film. But I keep remembering what one of her NYU film professors, Gail Segal, admiringly told me about her ex-student. “Chloé,” she said, “has a very warm heart but an extremely cold eye.” You get both in her film, which stars real-life cowboy Brady Jandreau (“He’s got such a great face,” Zhao says) as the thinly fictionalized Brady Blackburn, a Lower Brule Sioux who is something of a horse whisperer: He takes seemingly intransigent and untamable animals and trains them for the rodeo or ranching. When we first meet him, Brady is recovering from a crushed skull—the result of an ill-fated bronco-riding competition. We can count the staples holding his head together. (Jandreau himself endured precisely such a near-fatal injury.) Warned that it would be suicide to get back in the saddle, he tries to abstain—hanging with his cowboy friends, looking after his sister, Lilly, and visiting a friend, Lane, who clings to the manly code C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 2 8 212
HORSE SENSE “I’ve always had a feeling for plains,” says Zhao (in Stella McCartney). Hair, Ramona Eschbach; makeup, Sandy Ganzer. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Alex Harrington.
P RODUC ED BY FOX A ND LEOPA RD P RO DUCTI ON S. P HOTO G RA P HE D I N BU RBA N K, CA .
Smoke Signals They’re quickly becoming popular accessories backstage and in the front rows. But how safe is your vape? asks Julia Felsenthal.
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ON A RECENT VISIT to Vape Town, a purveyor of e-cigarettes in Manhattan’s West Village, I find a culture in flux. The store is equal parts Game of Thrones and The Matrix. One display features slender white boxes, so minimally branded they could easily house an eco-chic skin-care elixir; another is lined with squat little apothecary bottles boasting lurid labels of demonic warlords and filled with tinctures of liquid nicotine in flavors like Unicorn Milk and Ménage à Trois. If I were just seeking any old vape shop, there’d be no need to leave my Brooklyn neighborhood. Rare is the five-borough block where one can’t be found these days. But Vape Town distinguishes itself as the site of New York City’s first Juul Workbench. The Genius Bar–like destination promises to repair your Juul, the best-selling vape on the market—and it’s currently unattended. Deep into a reconnaissance mission, I gesture toward the ponytailed clerk at the cash register for service. Vape in one hand, iPhone blaring YouTube videos in the other, he shrugs; not his problem. Created by a pair of Stanford design students, the Juul is an e-cigarette that looks a lot like a USB drive—and not much like many other nicotine vapes, which tend to be robotic simulacra of a cigarette, or outlandishly steampunk “tiny spaceships”—how fashion writer Anna Gray, an enthusiastic Juuler, describes them to me. (Leonardo DiCaprio, Hollywood’s most notorious vaper, has been known to wield the latter at awards shows.) I’ve become aware of low-key Juuling incidents in my own life ever since I watched Dave Chappelle’s 2017 Netflix special, Equanimity, in which the comedian intermittently puffs on one throughout his set. At a recent Brooklyn apartment-warming, the type of party at which lighting a cigarette might be an eviction-level offense, a journalist I admire casually brandished her Juul, taking drags of crème brûlée– flavored e-liquid as we discussed the #MeToo movement. The writer Nadja Spiegelman has been Juuling—and not smoking—for a year now, she tells me, and even carries a second device for curious friends who want to bum hits. This BLING RINGS Offering a more streamlined, albeit largely unregulated, way to metaphorically light up, nicotine vapes are causing controversy in the health community. Model Grace Hartzel (who does not vape) in a Valentino dress. Hair, Shon; makeup, Jen Myles. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Alex Harrington.
is part of the appeal of the Juul and similar gadgets, I quickly learn. Designed to heat up flavored nicotine to create an inhalable aerosol, they produce neither the smoke nor the tar that a cigarette does when tobacco is burned. Vapes can also be helpful for weaning yourself off a more insidious smoking habit, as most e-liquids come in different strengths, allowing users to titrate down. (While Juul Labs, the company behind the Juul, is working on offering lower concentrations, its nicotine pods are currently available only as 5 percent solutions—roughly equivalent to one pack of cigarettes). But adults are drawn to the Juul for many of the same reasons as teenagers, who have started sneaking them into classrooms, sparking a national debate. It’s sleek, techie, tidy, and can be discreetly used in places where smoking is banned. The concern among parents and legislators is that it could also hook a new generation on nicotine, providing a gateway back to cigarettes and mucking up teen-smoking rates, which have been on the decline since the nineties. In the U.S., cigarettes are still responsible for 480,000 deaths a year, and with proven links to lung cancer, stroke, emphysema, and heart disease, efforts to vilify them are based on cold, hard facts. The data around e-cigarettes are murkier, however, and remain contested even among doctors and researchers. “There’s just so little you can do that’s worse than smoking,” says Nancy Rigotti, M.D., director of the Tobacco Research and Treatment Center at Massachusetts General Hospital. Rigotti is one of several authors of a major National Academies report on vaping released in January. Among its conclusions: “Across a wide range of studies and outcomes, e-cigarettes appear to pose less risk to an individual than combustible tobacco cigarettes.” So they’re potentially healthier, but are they healthy? Neal Benowitz, M.D., chief of the division of clinical pharmacology at the University of California, San Francisco, has concerns about what’s actually in the e-liquid—solvents like propylene glycol and glycerin, and certain flavoring agents that are safe to eat but may be problematic when heated and inhaled—and what metals are coming off a device’s heating coils (researchers at Johns Hopkins, for example, recently found significant levels of lead and arsenic in the aerosol of a variety of C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 2 9
Photographed by Gregory Harris.
Fava beans are a historical curiosity, a cult ingredient among chefs, and—best of all—a harbinger of spring. By Rob Haskell. Photographed by Grant Cornett.
THE GREENEST THERE IS NO GREENER green than the green of the fava bean. Like certain sunset purples and marine blues, it’s one of those colors in which nature seems to be gloating. It’s a color I pine for in the monochrome months of late winter, when food is beige and stodgy and sometimes closer to consolation than to pleasure. For many chefs, the fava—pulled from its long shell, slipped from its skin, and gently nudged to life on the stove—retains something like cult status in the kitchen. More interesting than the English pea, rarer than the asparagus stem, more vibrant than the globe artichoke or the wild ramp, it is first among the new season’s equals, the most splendid totem of spring. “For us who cook seasonally, the arrival of favas is a real signal, a celebratory moment,” says Clare de Boer, the chef, along with Jess Shadbolt, at King, which opened on the western edge of New York’s SoHo in 2016. They seize the fleeting weeks of March and early April when favas can be eaten raw and in their skins and serve them just as they are, hugged by a chunk of Pecorino, in the Roman style.
Few American home cooks have been willing to take on the spring fava bean—a surprise considering its primacy in many of the great cuisines of the world. It’s true that to the uninitiated, favas look like nothing special. The large, flabby pods, splayed out on farmers’-market tables, scarcely hint at the jewels hidden beneath their fuzzy walls. The yield is maddeningly low: A pound of favas, once shucked, produces maybe a cup of beans. And even then the bulk of the labor still awaits, since the shelled beans must now be removed from their bitter skins. Here is the most common method: Boil them for 30 to 60 seconds, shock them in ice water, and then brace yourself for a task that, depending on your perspective, is either the ultimate in kitchen tedium or a sublime, rhythmic act of Zen calm. Each bean’s tough yellow skin, slackened from the heat, must be sliced open with a thumbnail, the bean itself pinched out in an oddly satisfying act of emancipation. At Berkeley’s Chez Panisse, folks have been known to shuck them during spring staff meetings the way certain Upper East Side psychoanalysts
knit while they listen. In some restaurant kitchens, the skinning of favas is meted out as a punishment, but elsewhere the group project of popping the beans out of their sleeves becomes an annual rite, awaited with eagerness. “We look at it as a fantastic communal moment in our restaurant,” says de Boer. “Or at home. There’s nothing better than having a group of friends over with buckets of favas and bottles of wine. I’ve started many a lunch or dinner that way.” “Favas are an ingredient that was forgotten a bit and then rediscovered,” says Daniele Uditi, the chef at Pizzana in Brentwood, a nightly mob scene since it opened last April. This spring Uditi plans to serve a pizza that pays homage to his mother, whose favorite snack at their home in Caserta, in southern Italy, was a slice of bread with prosciutto and fava beans. He swirls a fava-based pesto over fior di latte, a drier cousin of mozzarella brought in from Naples, layers it with prosciutto, and crowns the pie with a salad of whole favas, mint, and lemon zest. In the American consciousness, favas enjoy C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 3 0
SHELL GAME Young favas do well raw, with salami, ham, or a chunk of Pecorino—or sauté and then blend them, with plenty of good olive oil, into a vibrant puree. Prop stylist, Noemi Bonazzi. Food stylist, Victoria Granof.
BIJOU BIJOUX These teeny bags—so round, so firm, so fully packed—bring an outsize amount of razzle-dazzle. THIS PAGE: Mulberry mini bucket bag, $1,595; mulberry.com. OPPOSITE: Jimmy Choo gemmed shoulder bag, $1,995; jimmychoo.com. Model Jean Campbell wears a Cartier ring. FAR LEFT: Balmain pouch, $2,400; balmain.com. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.
The newest handbags—all spangles and sequins and pearls, oh my!—resemble tricked-out treasure chests. Artist Raúl de Nieves’s psychedelic, supersaturated humanoids take them for a highly embellished whirl. Photographed by Jamie Hawkesworth.
ARM CANDY This spectacularly embellished minaudière seems to have met its soul mate in de Nieves’s spectacularly ornamented mannequins. Alexander McQueen box bag, $2,990; alexandermcqueen.com.
HEAD CASE Hand clutch or hard hat? When youâ€™re tripping the light this fantastically, getting bogged down in details is beside the point. Roger Vivier bag, $3,495; Roger Vivier, NYC.
THE BIG BLING Double up on petite Chanel clutches with playful doses of artistryâ€”and sequins in spades. Chanel bags, $2,900 each; select Chanel boutiques.
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GO BOLD OR GO HOME A strong pattern holds its own against similar shapes. Oscar de la Renta clutch, $1,990; Oscar de la Renta boutiques. In this story: hair, Jimmy Paul for Bumble and Bumble; makeup, Dick Page. Details, see In This Issue.
MOD EL R IANNE VAN ROMPAEY: JAMIE H AWKESWORTH, VOGUE, 2017.
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2: CATH Y CRAWFOR D. 4: J OSEPH INE SCH IELE. 9 (FLOWE RS ): RYAS ICK/G E T T Y IMAG ES. 1 2 : JASO N SAVAGE. ALL OTH ERS: COURTESY OF BRANDS/WEBS IT ES. D E TAILS, S E E IN T HIS ISSU E .
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Leonard Bast and his wife, acquaintances who are poorer than they are, becomes fatal. And yet, as Coulthard puts it, “you forgive them everything because they’re constantly assessing their hypocrisies.” The series aired in the U.K. last fall to wildly enthusiastic reviews. Most remarked-on, besides the striking central performances, were the spontaneous-sounding script and the fact that characters of color appeared in it. This last was Callender’s idea—he is one of the producers behind London’s Harry Potter stage play, in which the black actress Noma Dumezweni was cast as Hermione Granger. “We did our homework,” he tells me, “and it was historically appropriate.” In fact, Forster specifically mentions “Anglo-Indian” characters, which makes it all the more shocking that we should have come to associate such period dramas with whiteness. As for Lonergan’s dialogue, it was mostly taken directly from Forster, whom he sought to “transcribe” rather than adapt. What’s different is the fact that people talk over each other and pause lengthily over their thoughts—a signature Lonergan style familiar from films he has written and directed, such as Manchester by the Sea. (“I assume people spoke over each other at the time,” he says laconically.) This, combined with Forster’s lovely phrases and the early twentieth century’s relative formality of speech, leads to a rare sense of immediacy and vividness. Director Hettie MacDonald insisted that there be no “period-drama acting,” Atwell says, referring to “anything that feels dead behind the eyes and rather stiff ”—any acting according to the idea, she says, “that there was no humor back then.” As a result, the women move—they run through the streets, stride through their homes, stretch their arms up, and put their hands behind their heads. Sheena Napier, who designed the costumes, was determined that they should be socioeconomically plausible—you see the same skirt with different blouses, and the clothes are never unduly fussy. Yet they indicate character tellingly: Helen wears floorlength skirts in jewel tones or loose bohemian dresses; Margaret’s wardrobe becomes increasingly somber as her 226
responsibilities encroach. Production designer Luke Hull’s sets tell a story too: The London home the Schlegels are forced, through lack of funds, to give up is seen in more glory as its lease is due to expire. The curved, turquoise-walled parlor and Liberty-print upholstery and the pink Japoniste panels in the living room indicate that their vibrant lives are visibly under threat. Forster’s plot hinges on an intercepted inheritance: The house called Howards End has been left by the late Ruth Wilcox to Margaret, but Mrs. Wilcox’s surviving relatives tear up her penciled legacy and keep Howards End for themselves. The broader question posed—and one that could hardly be more relevant than it is in Brexit Britain—is who will inherit the country? The novelist Philip Hensher suggested recently that British society was more unequal than it was in Forster’s time, and that Leonard Bast would be worse off than he is in the book. Atwell, who grew up in social housing in West London and went to school with a survivor of the Grenfell Tower fire, thinks class distinctions have simply become more subtle and therefore harder to see. Both actresses have interpreted their characters in terms of Brexit. Helen, Coulthard says, is a Remainer. Atwell has Margaret pegged as a Remainer married to a Brexiteer. And this bridging idea is key. If the book’s most famous line is “Only connect,” then this adaptation explores, even more than gender parity, equality of emotion: “the attempt,” as Atwell puts it, “to connect with another human being despite the vast abyss of differences between them.”
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As our lunch comes to an end, I realize that Kendall is that rare person whose cool comes not just from her ease with the vernacular of hip-hop and fashion or her not-trying-too-hard style, but also because of her utterly unself-conscious earnestness and genuine interest in others. She’s emotional and vulnerable and open and easy to talk to. She isn’t judgmental or bitchy or glib. There’s no, like, whatever. I tell her about my first impression from two years ago: that she’d clearly been spending a lot of time around middle-aged gay men and overtraveled hair and makeup artists
on photo shoots and had picked up their faux-jaded, world-weary lingo. To which she slyly replies: “Or you guys are picking it up from us.” Touché. For someone so young, Kendall has the mind-set of someone much older. “At the end of our life,” she says, “you’re not going to care that you worked every day and you made this much money. You’re going to care about the relationships that you’ve built and the bonds that you have and the love that you’ve created. That’s what you’re going to care about. That’s my whole thing: what you leave behind.”
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she’d had with San Francisco’s mayor, Willie Brown, a decade earlier, when he was California Assembly Speaker. (Brown was married.) Harris rebuffed questions about Brown with typical forcefulness. “I refuse to design my campaign around criticizing Willie Brown,” she told a local reporter. “I have no doubt that I am independent of him— and that he would probably right now express some fright about the fact that he cannot control me.” Harris won. As D.A., Harris quickly drew criticism for not pursuing the death penalty on a case involving the shooting of a police officer. (Senator Dianne Feinstein criticized her decision at the officer’s funeral.) She became better known for her rehabilitation program for low-level offenders, Back on Track, even as she pushed for harsher sentencing for other crimes, such as gun possession. (She has been a long-standing advocate for what she calls “smart” gun-safety laws—including an assault-weapons ban and tightening background checks.) Gregory Barge, an attorney who worked for her in San Francisco, remembers the dressing-down he received for failing to pursue a stiff sentence in one such gun case. “She got about four inches from my nose and said, ‘We talked about this before. Do we have to talk about it again?’ I was taken to the woodshed real fast,” Barge says. “She has a strong moral compass. It’s not B.S.” Harris won reelection in 2007. Three years later, despite a scandal on her watch at the San Francisco crime lab involving a technician found to have been stealing drug evidence, which led to some 700 cases getting dismissed, she narrowly won her race for attorney general.
When Harris attracts criticism now, it is usually from people who say that she did not do enough to reform the criminal justice system as attorney general. She has been faulted for not taking a stronger stance on efforts to reduce California’s prison population and for not doing more about prosecutorial misconduct. Her supporters point to her work after the financial crisis. Under political pressure from homeowners to accept a $4 billion settlement from the country’s five largest mortgage servicers, Harris refused. Californians eventually got $20 billion instead. “It’s not just about how much money was in the settlement,” says Senator Elizabeth Warren. “It’s how aggressively Kamala and her team stayed after the banks to make sure they followed through.” Halfway through her tenure as attorney general, Harris was set up on a blind date with Douglas Emhoff, a prominent entertainment and intellectual-property lawyer in Los Angeles. They married the following year (Maya officiated), and Harris moved in with Emhoff in Brentwood. Harris grew close with his two children, who call her their “S-Mamala.” (The elder, Cole, graduated from Colorado College last May and is working as an assistant at William Morris Endeavor. The younger, Ella, is a freshman at Parsons School of Design.) When they weren’t working, Emhoff played golf and maintained his fantasy football team, named Nirvana (yes, after the band), and Harris planned elaborate meals to cook for the extended family on weekends, which she still does. “She spends days thinking about the menu, grinding her own pepper, driving all over town just to find that one ingredient that we need,” Emhoff says. “I’ve gotten pretty handy in the kitchen as her sous-chef.” When a Senate seat opened up in California for the first time in nearly a quarter of a century, Harris decided to run. The election-night party should have been doubly sweet: Maya had spent two years working as a senior campaign adviser for Hillary Clinton, and was texting with her sister from the Javits Center. Harris won 54 out of 58 counties but scrapped her prepared speech when the national electoral map turned red. From the stage in L.A. she spoke off the cuff: “When our ideals and fundamental values are being attacked, do we retreat or do we fight? I say we fight.” Later that night, Harris says, at home
in Brentwood, she turned to her “goto stress food,” a jumbo bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos: “I sat on our couch. I didn’t share one chip with anyone. I was just like: This. Can’t. Be. Happening.” It is easy now to forget how fast things did happen. “The Muslim ban came down in January, and my phone started burning up,” Harris remembers. “Lawyers calling me from the airports saying, ‘Come. We’re here.’ Lawyers I know saying, ‘We’re at the airport, and they will not let us talk to the families.’ ” That night Harris phoned then–Secretary of Homeland Security John Kelly. “His first response was ‘Why are you calling me at home with this?’ ” Harris says, pausing to register her disbelief. And so it went for months. “In reflection, it was just rapid-fire, and almost everything was unpredictable. There was no preparing for it in any way, strategically or mentally or emotionally.” Harris’s first piece of legislation was aimed at guaranteeing access to legal counsel for anyone detained entering the U.S. Later, she cosponsored with Senator Bernie Sanders the Medicare for All bill—but she’s teamed up with Republicans as well, notably Senator Rand Paul on a bipartisan bill to reform the cash bail system. She also joined Senator Kirsten Gillibrand in calling for Senator Al Franken to resign amid allegations of sexual misconduct. “Listen, I was reluctant,” Harris says now about that decision. “I felt a bit conflicted about it. But ultimately I think the issue is something that has to be addressed wherever it occurs.” Harris rejects the notion that the #MeToo movement is merely a women’s issue. In fact, she questions what that category even means: “People come up to me, ‘Oh, what’s it like being the first woman blah blah blah?’ And I’m like, ‘I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve always been a woman.’ Or even at the Women’s March. People come up to me, ‘Oh, talk to us about women’s issues.’ And I look at them and I’m like, ‘You know what? I’m so glad you want to talk about the economy.’ ” Without question, it has been her role in the Senate Intelligence Committee hearings that has brought Harris the most attention. In June, she pummeled Attorney General Jeff Sessions with questions about his contacts with Russians during the Trump campaign. “I’m not able to be rushed this fast,” he
complained. “It makes me nervous.” When she didn’t let up, Senators John McCain and Richard Burr interrupted and admonished Harris. At the time she thought nothing of it. “I was just looking at the clock like, ‘I only have so many more minutes to keep asking these questions,’ ” she says. Others saw the moment differently. “Boo-hoo,” says Senator Warren of Sessions’s “nervous” comment. “This was a tough woman doing her job. Period.” The exchange also resonated with Gillibrand. “They were trying to silence her the way that President Trump tried to silence me in his nasty tweets,” Gillibrand says. “That was an effort by the committee chairman to keep her quiet because her questioning was so good and so effective.” Later, Harris watched the video clips and understood the furor they caused. “I certainly saw how it appeared, and completely appreciated how everyone responded,” she says. When I ask Emhoff about the Sessions hearing, he jokes, “Welcome to Tuesday night at my house.” It’s an indication of how dysfunctional Washington has become that not one but two of my interviews with Harris have to be moved at the last minute because of government shutdowns. I catch up with her again on a bright Sunday morning in L.A., at a charter school in Boyle Heights co-run by Homeboy Industries, the gang-intervention organization founded by Father Gregory Boyle. Harris has known Boyle, a revered figure in L.A., since her D.A. days, and Homeboy Industries later became a primary partner in her effort to bring Back on Track to other cities. Today she is here to meet with a group of Dreamers and to be photographed for this profile. Among the people milling around are Harris’s campaign manager, Juan Rodriguez, and her State of the Union date, Denea Joseph. Shortly after eleven, everyone gathers in the parking lot, in front of a large mural that says, jobs not jails. Though she is running on two hours of sleep, Harris is visibly energized by the Dreamers. She is wearing a black U.S. Olympic team jacket, dark jeans, and sneakers. Someone puts on music—a Spotify list Harris released last summer that begins with A Tribe Called Quest’s 1991 classic “Check the Rhime.” W h e n i t C O N T I N U E D O N PAG E 2 2 8 227
becomes clear that some of the younger Dreamers don’t know who A Tribe Called Quest is, Harris delivers an impromptu treatise—then another one on Biggie Smalls. I am beginning to appreciate what Henry R. Muñoz III, the finance chairman of the Democratic National Committee, describes as the “aura of respect” that Harris commands. “Let’s call it the Phenomenon of Kamala Harris,” Muñoz says, recalling the first time he met her, at a fund-raising event in San Francisco: “She walks into a room with gravitas.” The Phenomenon of Kamala Harris has become something of a rainmaker for the Democratic Party. In the past year alone, the DNC has sent her to Virginia, Florida, Ohio, Rhode Island, Georgia, and Texas to help raise money for other Democrats. In all, Harris has been responsible for bringing in more than $2 million for Democratic candidates since November 2016. But her value extends beyond fund-raising. “Almost 100 years after women fought for the right to vote, the country—and for sure the Democratic Party—is looking to the leadership of people like Kamala Harris,” says Muñoz. “It’s not only to raise money, and not just to lean in, but to reach out and bring other women and minorities and people of color to the table—to register, to vote, and to run.” He adds, “You know that old saying, ‘You can’t be what you can’t see’? Well, now you can see it.” Which again raises the question: Might this new symbol be preparing for a presidential run in 2020? Despite her reticence on the subject, she is on every short list, and there is already voluminous speculation over whether she could win the support of Bernie Sanders progressives. In February, after the Parkland, Florida, shooting she spoke forcefully about gun control and took repeatedly to Twitter (“We cannot . . . live in a country with pride when our babies are being slaughtered” and “I am not going to be silenced by attacks from the NRA or anyone else”). Meanwhile, the gun-lobby head Wayne LaPierre attacked her by name from the podium at the Conservative Political Action Conference, a sure sign that the right sees her as a threat. I check in with FiveThirtyEight, and a researcher reports that her Trump Score, which measures how many times a member of 228
Congress has voted with the president, is among the lowest of Democratic senators. Her score on a voting-record scale called the DW-Nominate ranks Harris as the second-most-liberal senator, behind only Elizabeth Warren. Most of the names who appear on the short list alongside Harris decline to discuss 2020 with me, with the notable exception of Senator Cory Booker. “If she did run, what a gift to the country that would be,” he says. “When have you seen someone with her qualifications, her competency, her natural gifts as a leader—and who happens to be a black, Asian, biracial woman?” He adds, “I told her this before she got here: Should she choose to become a senator, she would immediately be on the short list for president or vice president for the next 20 years.”
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of Western heroism after being rendered immobile by an even worse rodeo accident. In need of money, Brady takes a job at a grocery store, where local kids ask him to pose for photos in between his shelf-restocking duties. Yet despite the doctor’s warning, Brady can’t keep himself away from horses. Indeed, what drives Zhao’s film forward is a question of identity: If he can’t ride—if he’s been stripped of the work that provides a sense of purpose and dignity to his life—who is he? The Rider isn’t merely about cowboys or the West, but about manhood in America. It’s also one of those rare movies that boast a compelling story on both sides of the camera. This Western tale of horses and men was made by, of all people, a Chinese woman, educated at a U.K. boarding school. She was born Zhao Ting in the pre-boom Beijing of 1983, the daughter of a steel-company manager and a hospital-worker mom who was in a performance troupe for the People’s Liberation Army. She was a rebellious teen, lazy at school; she drew manga, wrote fan fiction, and went to movies, falling in love with Wong Kar Wai’s Happy Together, a life-changing film that she invariably rewatches before shooting her own films. Feeling constricted by “an ancient culture where I was expected to be a certain way,” she found herself drawn to the West: “I wanted to be where Michael Jackson
was,” she says, only half-kidding. “A lot of people did.” At fifteen, knowing almost no English, Zhao was sent by her parents to “one of those Hogwarts boarding schools” in England. But she dreamed of living in the U.S. and eventually enrolled at Mount Holyoke, where she studied politics with lackluster enthusiasm before winding up in New York. After a few years of treading water—she was a party promoter, dabbled in real estate, tended bar—she decided to apply to NYU’s graduate film school, where, Professor Segal tells me, she was something of a dark horse. It was only later that Zhao’s tenacity and self-challenging ambition truly revealed themselves. “I wanted to strip away all the identities I’d built up,” she tells me, “to go somewhere where nobody knew who I was so I could figure out who I am. When you get carried away by life in China or New York, you stop being sure whether you’re living the life you want to live or just the life you stumbled into.” And so, to make her first feature, she headed to South Dakota’s Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. “I’ve always had a feeling for plains,” she says. “I remember visiting Inner Mongolia as a kid and feeling something that I didn’t feel in Beijing.” Though foreign directors are notorious for their drive-by romanticism about the American West—even geniuses like Antonioni fell into exoticism— Zhao spent long months in the barren, weather-ravaged countryside. And while researching her story, she met Joshua James Richards, a cinematographer and NYU film student two years her junior. Raised in England by an ex-preacher father and a social-worker mother, Richards also harbored a fascination with the American West and ended up both dating Zhao and shooting her film— which, at that point, had gone through 30 screenplay drafts and assorted financial disasters. With no budget and a skeleton crew, the production proved to be an ordeal. Yet the film itself—Songs My Brothers Taught Me, about a rebellious Lakota teenager trying to decide whether to leave his family and the reservation for L.A.—was a striking debut, selected for both Sundance and Cannes. Even so, Zhao felt that there were things that she had yet to capture, and while she and Richards moved in together in Denver, she kept returning to Pine Ridge, where she found her next
subject in Jandreau, a Sioux cowboy who possessed both a cinematic look and an aura of poetic sweetness. She filmed him to learn the best way to capture his intricate horse-breaking work, but she struggled to think of a good, dramatic story to put him in. Then, on April 1, 2016, what Jandreau calls a “dirty bronc” crushed his skull, leaving a wound more than three inches wide and more than one inch deep—an event that became the starting point of the largely scripted fiction that is The Rider, in which Brady has to give up riding. “I saw it as being like a superhero who’d lost his power,” Zhao says. The production was tricky. Zhao’s cast, made up entirely of nonactors, included strong-willed guys (including her leading man) who didn’t always like being told what to do. “She was working with cowboys who may or may not show up, or who could be belligerent,” recalls Richards. Instead of feeling any of this struggle on-screen, though, you feel the intimacy of the long months that Zhao spent living with her actors. (The Pine Ridge locals came to call her Auntie Chloé.) “I’m a horse trainer and she’s an actor trainer,” Jandreau jokes, then grows more serious. “The fact that Chloé was willing to open herself up to our world,” he says, “made us willing to open us up to hers.” At once hard-edged and life-affirming, the film’s almost mythic story of love and loss could easily have become painfully corny. Zhao’s version is heartbreaking and true because, for all the film’s stylistic grace, she resists easy drama and sentiment. “When things become too conventional,” she says, “they don’t ring true to me.” The Rider won critical raves and grabbed a host of international awards, including top prize at the Directors’ Fortnight of independent films, which runs in parallel to the Cannes festival, and was quickly snapped up by Sony Pictures Classics. Zhao, meanwhile— who took the rare step of arranging for her cast to get part of the profits—now lives with Richards in hip-rustic Ojai, closer to ground zero of the film industry yet still country enough for their two wild cattle dogs, Taco and Rooster. She has several projects in the works, including a historical Western about Bass Reeves, a real-life nineteenthcentury African American marshal in the Indian Territory; and, more
surprising, a science-fiction picture set in northwestern China. Yet even as Zhao plans to work in her native land, she seems happiest talking about what she learned in Pine Ridge: “At a time like this, there’s a need to see that there’s good in America,” she says. “We’re always being told that we have to win all the time. But that’s not real life. Our film’s message isn’t the typical Hollywood ending. Brady has lost something, but he doesn’t give up. He never would.” She takes a big sip of water. “I would never want to make a film without hope.”
SMOKE SIGNALS CONTINUED FROM PAGE 215
refillable tank-style vapes). Benowitz concedes that e-cigarettes are likely less carcinogenic and heart hazardous than cigarettes, but the effects of longterm use on the lungs remain an open question. Stanton Glantz, Ph.D., one of Benowitz’s UCSF colleagues and a longtime anti-tobacco crusader, takes a dimmer view. “Most people just think about the e-cigarette as kind of like a cigarette, except it doesn’t have as much bad stuff in it. But when you heat it up, you just get a whole different mixture of toxic chemicals.” This hasn’t stopped the fashion flock from creating a new culture around these devices. In an industry where, for decades, cigarettes have persisted as a symbol of cool way past their expiration date—even the French are now considering a move to ban depictions of smoking in movies—vaping offers both a way to curb lingering bad habits and, in some cases, a new opportunity to accessorize. At her spring show last September, the British designer Molly Goddard sent model Edie Campbell down the runway with a glass of wine in one hand and a very realistic e-cigarette—a “cigalike”—in the other, while Marc Jacobs, who once called smoking and sleeping the “two best things in the world,” often documents his extravagant vape exhalations on Instagram. He’s what you’d call a “cloud chaser” in industry parlance. “All the fashion kids are addicted to them,” stylist Kate Young confirms when I reach out after seeing a Roger Vivier bag on her social feed with a Juul tucked away in its secret cigarette compartment. Is it your vape, I ask? “I would never do such an unhealthy
thing,” she demurs via email, adding a wink emoji. Coyness—or, more commonly, an insistence on anonymity—when going on the record about vaping is something I encounter again and again, from models, designers, and fashion civilians alike. “Everyone does it, but no one will talk about it,” agrees a prominent jewelry designer, who will speak only on the condition of not having her name in print. Such skittishness could easily be interpreted as tacit acknowledgment of the inherent tackiness of vaping, which has long been associated with a certain kind of flat-brim-hat-wearing bro. But in an age of wireless earbuds, fitness trackers, smartphones, and wellness-as-gospel, it’s likely truer that people are afraid to evangelize for a practice that is still so untested. “You don’t want to be in this position of being like, ‘Oh, of course it’s healthier,’ then in six months there’s an article like, ‘Death to vapers!’ ” says restaurateur Kyle Hotchkiss Carone, a smoker turned Juuler who is a partner in New York City’s Cafe Clover and adjacent health-conscious Clover Grocery. “What I say to patients is ‘These are new products; there’s a lot we don’t know,’ ” admits Rigotti, who adds that it’s better to wean yourself off a cigarette habit with “treatments that we know are safe and effective”—such as the patch or the gum or the inhaler, which deposit a steady flow of therapeutic nicotine into the body to relieve cravings and ease the symptoms of withdrawal. “If you want to quit, try these first until we know more about e-cigarettes, which are completely unregulated at this point.” The issue of regulating the vaping industry, which came under FDA authority in August 2016, is only adding to the confusion. The agency first announced that manufacturers that entered the market before that date would have to submit product applications by 2018 to stay in business. Then, last summer, incoming commissioner Scott Gottlieb, M.D., pushed that deadline to 2022. The delay is troubling in light of the Trump administration’s cavalier attitude toward deregulation and its impacts on public health. Four years may tell us more about vape safety and offer a temporary reprieve to small e-cigarette outfits for whom application costs are prohibitive, but it’s also easy to imagine a future in C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 3 0 229
which Big Tobacco–funded vapes exist in a monopolized marketplace, sold to smokers as harm-reduction tools, posing a major conundrum for the (rightfully wary) tobacco-control community. And yet, intrigue persists. Having smoked one cigarette in my entire lifetime (it was a decade and a half ago, in college; I still remember the headache the morning after), I am more surprised than anyone when I ask to try my companion’s Juul at the aforementioned apartment-warming. As I take a hit, my mind searches for a rationale: Perhaps it’s that I admire her, and she makes it look cool, like a latter-day, bookish James Dean. Or maybe I’m drawn in by the novelty and the idea that everyone should try most things at least once. Weeks later, sitting in an Upper East Side coffee shop attempting to organize my thoughts on the subject, I overhear a mother in a pale-blue chinchilla fur loudly grousing into her phone about her teenage son’s burgeoning vaping habit. Like me, she felt the need
to see what all the fuss was about. “I tried it yesterday,” she tells her friend, stealing the words from my mouth: “It was disgusting.”
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a notoriety that Nancy Silverton, the Los Angeles chef and baker, stumbled onto in the early days of her first restaurant, Campanile. Silverton was among the only chefs who went to the Wednesday farmers’ market in Santa Monica in the early 1990s, when favas were a little-known vegetable. “One day a customer saw me come back with a bushel of favas,” she recalls. “She was sitting with Anthony Hopkins. She introduced us, and then she said, ‘Nancy, what are you excited about at the market?’ I said the first-of-the-season fava beans. And Anthony gave me the craziest look—the kind of look you only get when you’ve said the wrong thing to the wrong person.” At the time, Silverton wasn’t familiar with popular culture’s most iconic
In This Issue Table of contents 38: On Aboah: Sweatshirt ($3,290) and skirt ($1,590). On Delevingne: Vest ($1,350), T-shirt ($210), dress, worn under vest ($8,900), and sneakers ($680). All at burberry.com. 56: Dress ($6,500) and shoes ($845); Calvin Klein, NYC. Cover look: Dress, price upon request: (800) 5500005. Ring, price upon request; select Chanel Fine Jewelry boutiques. Manicure, Lorraine Griffin. Tailor, Della George. Editor’s letter 60: Michele: Jamie Hawkesworth, Vogue, 2015. Lagerfeld: Patrick Kovarik/AFP/Getty Images. Mulleavys: Ed Templeton, Vogue, 2017. Piccioli: Maciek Kobielski, Vogue, 2013. Dolce and Gabbana: Todd Eberle. Burton: Mikael Jansson, Vogue, 2017. Bailey:
Annie Leibovitz, Vogue, 2016. Galliano: Ragnar Kjartansson, John Galliano listening to “The Gilded Palace of Sin,” Vogue, 2015. V Life 104: Dress, $1,875; Neiman Marcus stores. 108: On Blue: Blazer ($1,105), shirt ($675), and pants ($725). On Attal: Blazer ($1,075) and jeans ($585). Manolo Blahnik shoes, price upon request; similar styles at Manolo Blahnik, NYC. On Xel: Turtleneck ($570) and pants ($725). On Rossellini: Shirt ($675) and pants ($725). 112: Shoes; $395; josephfashion.com. 120: Blouse ($1,395), bodysuit ($795), and skirt ($1,295); prabalgurung .com. Earring, $250 per pair; Barneys New York, NYC. 126–127: Costume supervisor, Louise Cassettari. Costume-maker,
Maggie Cooke. Hair and makeup designer, Catherine Scoble. 130: Coat ($4,450) and skirt ($665); Max Mara, NYC. Sweater, $450; The Row, NYC. SAMA earrings, $250–$265 per pair; oroborostore.com. Jill Platner bracelet, $2,700; jillplatner .com. Annie Costello Brown cuff, $240; anniecostellobrown .com. Sophie Buhai cuff, $1,100; sophiebuhai .com. Falke socks, $24; falke.com. Boots, $995; Christian Louboutin, NYC. Tailor, Cha Cha Zuctic. 144: Handbag, $30,000.
FLIGHTS OF FANCY 160: Dress ($8,650) and boots ($1,490); Alexander McQueen, NYC. Cactus de Cartier ring, $21,000; Cartier boutiques. 161: Dress, pants, and scarf, priced upon request; Opening Ceremony, NYC. 162: Long crepe cardigan, dress, pants, hat, and sandals, priced upon request; (212) 355-5811.
reference to the fava—a famous line in The Silence of the Lambs in which Hannibal Lecter, recalling an encounter with a tiresome census taker, describes eating his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. At her restaurant Chi Spacca, Silverton deep-fries the very tiniest pods, which can be eaten whole. At Osteria Mozza, she serves the beans with gnocchi or in a salad with English peas and sliced raw asparagus. (Meanwhile, the Food Network star Giada De Laurentiis, whose grandfather Dino produced four Hannibal Lecter films, has decided to revisit the fava’s darkest hour. She offers a not entirely macabre recipe for spaghetti with fava beans and Chianti in her cookbook Giada’s Italy, out this month.) While the fava is fairly new in the United States, it is a foundational bean in Europe and Asia and among the most ancient of all cultivated plants. Also called the broad bean, it was really Europe’s only legume until Columbus
163: Dress (price upon request), headpiece, bracelets ($9,950– $14,950), necklace ($19,500), and shoes ($1,695); select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. 165: Dress, price upon request; select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. 166: Jumpsuit and boots, priced upon request; select Chanel boutiques. Bracelet, earrings, necklace, and rings, priced upon request; select Chanel Fine Jewelry boutiques. 167: Dress (price upon request), earrings ($1,195), necklace ($1,650), ring (price upon request), and sandals ($1,690); Alexander McQueen, NYC. 170: Bustier ($5,900), dress ($12,500), hand jewel ($10, 690), socks ($250), and sandals ($850); gucci.com. 171: Dress and sneakers, priced upon request; (212) 9897612. Earrings, $1,495; Alexander McQueen, NYC. In this story: Manicure, Lorraine Griffin. Tailor, Della George.
VIVA ANNABEL’S! 174–175: Diana: Alan Davidson/Silverhub/ REX/Shutterstock. Campbell and Zendaya: Kevin Tachman. Fanning: Darren Gerrish/ James D. Kelly. OUT OF THE TRENCHES 176: On Miller: Dress ($13,900) and sneakers ($680). On Elba: Tuxedo pants ($495) and shoes ($575); burberry.com. 178: On Delevingne: Dress, worn under vest ($8,900). 179: On Harris: Dress ($8,900) and sneakers ($680). On Gleeson: Coat ($2,895) and sweater ($450); burberry.com. 180: Dress, $8,900. 181: Suit ($1,995), shirt ($325), and tie ($195); burberry .com. 182: Trench coat, $2,590. 183: On Campbell: Sweater ($1,350), dress ($7,900), leggings ($450), and sneakers ($680). On Odell: Blazer ($1,750), sweater ($790), and pants ($650); burberry .com. In this story:
sailed home from the New World with limas and pintos and other beans of the vast Phaseolus family. With such a long history, the fava, inevitably, is steeped in lore. Egyptian priests, according to Herodotus, were forbidden to look at favas, while early Romans believed that the beans could house the souls of the dead. Until recently, favomancy, a mode of divination in which the beans are tossed on the ground and their patterns interpreted, was a frequent practice in Russia and central Asia. One common explanation for the fava’s symbolic stature is that the bean itself, for reasons better seen than described, bears some resemblance to both male and female reproductive parts. It has long been regarded as a natural aphrodisiac—though favas are not performanceenhancing, or even salutary, for everyone. A genetic disorder called G6PD deficiency, or favism, affects some 400 million people worldwide; sufferers can experience a severe form of anemia if they consume favas.
A WORD ABOUT DISCOUNTERS W HI LE VOGU E TH OROUG HLY RESE A RCH ES T HE CO MPANIES 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.
Manicure, Trish Lomax. Tailors, Della George and Ian Hundley.
GARDEN VARIETY 184–185: Coat, price upon request. Sneakers, $1,090; select Louis Vuitton stores. 186–187: Sneakers, $130; jordan. com. 188–189: Dress (price upon request) and boots ($1,680). 190–191: Blouse, price upon request. 192–193: Dress ($8,775) and gloves ($760). Gloves at Erdem, London. 194– 195: Dress (price upon request), belt ($630), socks ($230), and shoes ($690). 196–197: Cape ($24,600), black dress ($35,250), white dress
Once you have pushed through the grunt work of shucking, blanching, shocking, and skinning, your favas are ready to be put to myriad uses. Served on their own, they are hearty enough: “no need for meat or apologies,” wrote the English food authority Jane Grigson in her beloved 1978 Vegetable Book. Favas are no less wonderful stirred into a risotto, along with artichoke hearts and other spring harbingers. But with their bittersweet, grassy flavor, favas pair especially well with rich meat. The French toss them in bacon drippings, and Italians stew them with guanciale, the cured pork jowl that fuels a proper carbonara. A mound of favas tossed in butter and mint under a slice of grilled lamb is spring on a plate. But for the home cook, there may be no better point of entry than a fava puree. Here is a forgiving dish that can be varied endlessly. Sauté the prepared beans for a few minutes with rosemary leaves and abundant olive oil, then pulse them in the food processor until
($14,300), and shoes ($2,200). Tights, $49; wolford.com. In this story: Manicure, Honey. Tailor, Lucy Falke.
WESTERN PROMISES 212–213: Shirt ($725) and jeans ($695). Shirt at nordstrom.com. Jeans at Stella McCartney, NYC. Marteau Vintage turquoise ring, $115; marteau.co. Annie Costello Brown sterling-silver ring, $196; anniecostellobrown.com. SMOKE SIGNALS 214–215: Dress, $11,500; Valentino, NYC. In this story: Manicure, Rieko Okusa.
SPARKLES FLY 218: The Witches Sabbath of abominations, 2018. Mannequin, acrylic yarn, wool, glue, plastic pearls, millinery trims, cardboard, vintage navy flight suit. 219: The longer i slip into a crack, the shorter my nose becomes, 2016. Thread, glue, plastic beads, cardboard, vintage millinery trims; Ceremonial Alien of Metal Exits I and Ceremonial Alien of Metal Exits II, 2017. Vintage sequin appliqués, thread, glue, plastic beads, plastic dolls, ribbons, cardboard, silk, metal
they become a brilliant emerald mass, chunky or silken, as you wish. Combine them with mint, lemon, and Pecorino, as the Ligurians do in their famous neon salsa maro. Stud the puree with chili flakes or introduce a little lake of honey. Mound it onto grilled bread brushed with olive oil and swiped with a sliced garlic clove—a spring crostino without equal—or drag trimmed radishes and fennel slices through it. Or loosen it with melted butter and cream and blend it with dill to make it a pedestal for the first wild salmon of the season. “A puree is kind of Fava 101 because there is so much room for error,” says Joshua McFadden, the chef-owner at Ava Gene’s in Portland, Oregon, and the author of the recent book Six Seasons. He also likes to pile them whole over soft-scrambled eggs or fold them into a grain salad with their traditional companions, cheese and salami. “They make you wait for them,” he says, “but after a long winter, nothing is more welcome.”
bells, chains, mannequin. 221: Without end, without illusion, without greed, without sin, without desire, 2018. Treads, plastic pearls, glass pearls, cultured pearls, cardboard, millinery trims, vintage navy flight suit. 222: Celebration, 2007–2018. Tape, foam, beads, toys, vintage jewelry, Mardi Gras beads, semiprecious stones, cardboard, studio dust, glitter, glue, rocks, dirt, offerings. 223: Mirror Mic Knife, 2014. Thread, glue, cardboard, vintage millinery trims, plastic beads. All works: Raúl de Nieves. Courtesy of
Company Gallery, New York. 219: Ring, price upon request; select Cartier boutiques. In this story: Manicure, Yuko Tsuchihashi.
INDEX 224–225: 5. Coat, $2,100. 6. Watch, price upon request. 10. Chanel bag, underneath bag cover, $3,700; select Chanel boutiques. LAST LOOK 234: High Jewelry Panthère de Cartier watch, price upon request; 800-CARTIER. ALL PRICES APPROXIMATE
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A RT WOR K: E LI ZA B ET H KN OW LES. COURT ESY OF CH ERYL MCGINNIS PROJ ECTS. D ETAILS, SEE IN TTH IS ISSUE.
Cartier watch Cartier’s panther mascot makes a subtle appearance in the jewelry house’s latest timepiece. Animalistic spots rendered in inky onyx stones and brilliant-cut diamonds adorn the perimeter of the face, which is flanked by a set of luminous emeralds that flash like a pair of cat eyes. And the bracelet— an Art Deco–style gradation of baguette-cut diamonds—will slink around your wrist in a feline manner. It all makes for a rather chic moment, no matter when—or where—you’re on the prowl. P H OTO G RA P H E D BY E R I C B O M A N
B A R N E Y S N E W YO R K X M A RT H A G R A H A M D A N C E C O M PA N Y P R E S E N T A T H EO STA N L E Y F I L M
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T H E R O W, P R A B A L G U R U N G , R I C K O W E N S , L O E W E , A N D C R A I G G R E E N C H O R E O G R A P H E D BY C Y N T H I A STA N L E Y
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PREMIERE S MARCH 6TH I N STO R E A N D O N B A R N E Y S.CO M
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F O R I N S I D E R FA S H I O N A C C E S S : T H E W I N D O W. B A R N E Y S . C O M
SAN FR ANCISCO
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