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November

Fighting for

EACH OTHER

LOVE STORY, P. 189

ACTORS RUTH NEGGA (IN MARC JACOBS) AND JOEL EDGERTON (IN A THEORY SHIRT AND HICKEY FREEMAN PANTS). PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARIO TESTINO.

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EDITOR’S LETTER

LIVES After witnessing genocide and sexual enslavement by ISIS in 2014, a group of Yazidi women has formed a battalion to fight back. Janine di Giovanni reports

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ENDORSEMENT

64, 66

MASTHEAD

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UP FRONT When Liesl Schillinger struck up a friendship with a woman half her age, she found herself inspired to let go of old habits and chase new dreams

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EXCERPT A book out this month looks back at the work of Phyllis Posnick, Vogue’s Executive Fashion Editor for nearly three decades

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NOSTALGIA Brigitte Bardot recalls her past as an insouciant style icon. By Leslie Camhi

Talking Fashion 106

ALL EYES ON The fashion world is unanimous about getting out the vote this season

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WHAM GLAM Brandon Maxwell, once an East Texas dreamer, is now a red-carpet-ready master of unabashed opulence

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COME UNDONE Classic men’s shirting gets retooled, tucked, and tailored

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EARNING HIS STRIPES Thom Browne flies the flag with a collection for Moncler

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HEIRESS AND GRACES Eddie Borgo introduces his fine-jewelry line for Tiffany & Co.

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PARADISE FOUND Tropical prints signal a seasonless optimism

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TNT Elisabeth TNT navigates the go-go New York collections with breathless verve

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THE HAMISH FILES

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WOMEN: NEW PORTRAITS By Annie Leibovitz

Beauty & Health 159

FULLY STACKED Diamond bracelets set the tone for fall

FLECKS APPEAL Can glitter transcend its craft-party past? By Jessica Kerwin Jenkins

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CHANGE AGENTS Rachel Chandler and Walter Pearce launch the Midland agency

SEE CHANGE Hubble aims to revolutionize the way we get contact lenses CONTINUED>56

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November So HAPPY

Together BUILDING A DREAM, P. 228 PLUM SYKES (IN OSCAR DE LA RENTA) WITH HER HUSBAND, TOBY ROWLAND, AT THEIR HOME IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE. PHOTOGRAPHED BY FRANÇOIS HALARD.

about an interracial couple’s fıght for their right to marry. By Danzy Senna

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WHAT TO WEAR WHERE Cozy up to wild, playful knits

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BRINGING UP BÉBÉ How did your child’s skin-care products get even chicer than yours?

LIFT OFF Climbing takes Meaghen Brown to new heights of fitness

DANCE Pharrell Williams arrives at BAM with “Rules of the Game” MOVIES A pair of films offer close encounters

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TRAVEL A Miami moment

People Are Talkıng About 182 THEATER 174

TALENT Matt Smith returns to the small screen in Netflix’s lush series The Crown

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ART Michael Rosenfeld Gallery presents “Benny Andrews: The Bicentennial Series”

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UP NEXT Alia Shawkat stars in Search Party

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DESIGN Carolina Irving debuts a line of velvets

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Nia Vardalos gives advice in Tiny Beautiful Things

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BOOKS Zadie Smith tells a sprawling story of friendship and ambition

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TELEVISION Characters follow their hearts in two new shows

Fashion & Features 189

LOVE STORY Ruth Negga and Joel Edgerton star in Loving,

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BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS The 2016 CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund finalists (plus Gigi Hadid).

Index 258

FOLK TALES Breathe some whimsy into your Thanksgiving celebrations

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IN THIS ISSUE

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LAST LOOK

Cover Look FUNNY FACE

SCHOOL OF LIFE Ben Platt heralds the next generation of Broadway talent. By Adam Green

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UNDER PRESSURE Why has anxiety become so common among the young? By Rob Haskell

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BUILDING A DREAM Plum Sykes invented her perfect farmhouse, complete with old-world charm and modern comfort

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MAN OF THE WORLD Can Anthony Bourdain bring an ambitious food hall to Manhattan? By Oliver Strand

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CHOP TO IT Lena Dunham reflects on home-cut hair

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MOMENT OF THE MONTH Power puff

Emma Stone wears a Michael Kors Collection sweater. To get this look, try: Infallible Pro-Glow Foundation in Classic Ivory, Colour Riche Pocket Palette in French Biscuit, Brow Stylist Definer in Brunette, Voluminous Feline Mascara in Black, Voluminous Liner Noir. All by L’Oréal Paris. Hair, Shay Ashual; makeup, Aaron de Mey. Details, see In This Issue. Photographers: Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.

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S IT T I N G S ED I TOR : M IRA NDA B RO O KS. HA I R, BRA D LEY D E EM I N G; MA K EU P, CA ROLYN GALLYER .

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ON WITH THE SHOW Emma Stone sings and dances her way through an old-fashioned movie musical. By Jason Gay

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Endorsement

For all the chaos and unpredictability and the sometimes appalling spectacle of this election season, the question of which candidate actually deserves to be president has never been a difficult one. Vogue has no history of political endorsements. Editors in chief have made their opinions known from time to time, but the magazine has never spoken in an election with a single voice. Given the profound stakes of this one, and the history that stands to be made, we feel that should change. Vogue endorses Hillary Clinton for president of the United States. Perhaps that sentence won’t come as a surprise. Vogue has enthusiastically covered Hillary Clinton’s career, her rise from Yale law student to governor’s wife to First Lady to senator to Secretary of State. She has been profiled by the magazine six times. (For the record, we have also featured Donald Trump—or, more particularly, his family members Ivana, Marla, Melania, and Ivanka—multiple times in our pages.) We understand that Clinton has not always been a perfect candidate, yet her fierce intelligence and considerable experience are reflected in policies and positions that are clear, sound, and hopeful. She supports comprehensive immigration reform, including a path to citizenship. She speaks up for racial justice, for reforming policing and sentencing laws. Her years as Secretary of State have shown that she understands how to strengthen alliances abroad, respond to global crises, and continue American leadership in the world. She is forceful in her support for LGBTQ rights, including an end to discrimination against transgender people. She knows the challenges working women face. Her tax proposals and commitment to infrastructure investment will be a boon to the middle class. She will continue the important work on healthcare reform begun by President Obama. She is a sane voice on guns. Can Clinton unify a deeply divided America? Heal the wounds of this unbearably fraught political season? Our divisions are real, and it will take more than one intensely qualified leader to heal them. And yet two words give us hope: Madam President. Women won the vote in 1920. It has taken nearly a century to bring us to the brink of a woman leading our country for the first time. Let’s put this election behind us and become the America we want to be: optimistic, forward-looking, and modern. Let’s head to the polls on Tuesday, November 8, and vote.

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COU RT ESY OF HI LL A RY FOR A M ERI CA

AND AT LAST—IT’S TIME TO VOTE.


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

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Director of Special Events EADDY KIERNAN Editorial Business Director MIRA ILIE Associate Director, Operations XAVIER GONZALEZ Contracts Manager ALEXA ELAM Editorial Business Coordinator JESSECA JONES Executive Director of Communications HILDY KURYK Director of Brand Marketing NEGAR MOHAMMADI Communications and Marketing Manager DANIK A OWSLEY Executive Assistant to the Editor in Chief GRACE HUNT Assistants to the Editor in Chief CORINNE PIERRE-LOUIS, REBECCA UNGER European Editor FIONA DARIN European Fashion Associates CAMILA HENNESSY, ANTHONY KLEIN West Coast Director LISA LOVE West Coast Associate CAMERON BIRD Managing Editor JON GLUCK Executive Director, Editorial and Special Projects CHRISTIANE MACK CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

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

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Letter from the Editor

LOVING FEELING RUTH NEGGA (IN GUCCI) AND JOEL EDGERTON, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARIO TESTINO.

ALL IN

G

iven that we have one of the most momentous and contentious elections in our country’s history—if not the most— looming this November, it would be impossible for us not to touch on politics in this issue. Vogue has, for the first time in its 124-year history, come out in support of one candidate, Secretary Clinton. One thing should be clear to us all these days: We live in an era where progressive values and attitudes have never been more important. That’s not just the preserve of those we vote into power but something we can all support and act on in our daily lives. This struck me when, over the summer, I and several of Vogue’s editors saw a screening of the Jeff Nichols– directed Loving, starring Ruth Negga and Joel Edgerton, who play Mildred Jeter and Richard Loving, a couple in 1950s rural Virginia who had to fight to be allowed to

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marry—the state forbade it simply because she was African-American and he was Caucasian. Of course, there was absolutely nothing simple about it: They were combating decades upon decades of entrenched and institutionalized racism that profoundly affected how they lived and loved. There wasn’t a single one of us who attended that screening who wasn’t in awe of Ruth’s and Joel’s performances, or how this very moving film tackled its subject matter. I’ve heard some question whether the film is violent enough— whether it carries enough of the threat of danger that the couple faced. To me, those criticisms miss the point of this jewel of a film. It’s certainly true that Loving is a very different cinematic experience from the searingly brutal 12 Years a Slave or The Birth of a Nation, but then so is Mildred and Richard’s story, which subtly yet no less powerfully captures the insidious effects and painful impact of segregation. There are no histrionics, no melodrama; just the story of a couple in love in a world intent on denying them that right. And in a campaign season that has, quite rightly, put issues of racial injustice E D I T O R ’ S L E T T E R >7 3 VOGUE.COM


Letter from the Editor HOLLYWOOD MOMENT EMMA STONE, IN A GUCCI DRESS, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MERT ALAS AND MARCUS PIGGOTT.

and intolerance at its forefront, Loving is a quietly potent reminder of what’s really crucial. Elsewhere in this issue we have another example of how an important matter can be tackled in a manner that allows entertainment to provide enlightenment. Adam Green meets the young actor Ben Platt, who stars in the Benj Pasek and Justin Paul musical Dear Evan Hansen, which is transferring to Broadway from its run at Manhattan’s Second Stage Theatre. It’s a terrific piece of theater, intelligent and sympathetic, with a superb performance from Ben, yet it also touches a nerve: The show’s story revolves around the anxieties afflicting our teenage population—anxieties that are now, all too sadly, on the rise. Just how much so you can read in Rob Haskell’s companion piece to Adam’s overview of the play. The desperation of the young people Rob discusses is something I’m all too aware of; for some time now, I’ve been a supporter of NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital’s Youth Anxiety Center, and Rob’s excellent story is required reading. Last, our cover girl, the smart and everlikable Emma Stone. Emma’s cover began a little like our Loving story, in a nondescript screening room not far from our office. Director Damien Chazelle, who gave us the brilliant Whiplash, offered us a very early

C O N T I N U E D F R O M PAG E 6 8

THROW A FILTER ON IT BEN PLATT, PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANTON CORBIJN.

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preview of his new movie La La Land, a musical love story in contemporary Los Angeles starring an all-singing, alldancing, all-gorgeous Emma and Ryan Gosling. As Jason Gay points out in his profile, it’s the kind of movie that Hollywood no longer makes. After you see La La Land, the only question you’ll ask is: Why not? It’s joyous and life-affirming, precisely what we need when the world—and some of the campaigning in this election—has taken a terribly dark and cynical turn. Coincidentally, the film’s sunny brightness found an echo in the New York spring 2017 collections we’ve just finished seeing, where the best clothes were an exercise in positivity and optimism. It’s wonderful that we have that to look forward to next year—but we also have the choice to be positive and optimistic come November 8.

VOGUE NOVEMBER 2016

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Up Front

TAKE TWO NADJA LEONHARDHOOPER, NEAR RIGHT, WITH THE AUTHOR, FAR RIGHT.

When LIESL SCHILLINGER struck up a friendship with a woman half her age, she found herself inspired to let go of old habits and chase new dreams.

I

met her on a Tuesday, at the laundromat on my block in the East Village. We were pulling clean clothes from opposite dryers, and she was wearing a fantastic amaretto suede skirt. She was tall, slender, and fresh-faced—an utter gamine—and looked like she wouldn’t take a compliment amiss, so I praised the skirt, and she grinned, thanked me, then unleashed a torrent of cheery, animated talk, telling me she had just graduated from Vassar and moved to the neighborhood. She was writing a play, assistant-directing a show at an experimental theater nearby, and was also working for a young woman playwright, whom she named. I was a writer and sometime theater critic, I explained, and had reviewed the first New York show of the playwright she was working for. Pleased by the coincidences, we exchanged names and kept talking. I had the rapturous, vertiginous sensation of having fallen back in time, into a conversation in the 1980s with my high school best friend. That was crazy because that friend and I were the same age; whereas Nadja had just turned 22, she told me, and I was 48— more than old enough to be her mother. Doing the math, I realized Nadja hadn’t even been born in the 1980s. Since the aughts, I have shared a summerhouse on Fire Island with young writers and editors, mostly millennials, whose enthusiasm for pretty much everything—except irony—fascinates me. But Nadja was a decade younger than any of them. She was practically Generation Z—like my niece and nephews, who aren’t even twelve.

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Being straight, I am not in the habit of picking up women. I had no idea then that, over the next months, this vivacious stranger would become a hugely important part of my daily life and conversation, a sharer of alfresco lunches in East Village cafés, a corunner of errands, a fitness coach (she textherds me to do laps at the pool when I’m tempted to skive), and a fashion guru (dragging me to chic vintage boutiques despite my protests that they smell like dead people). If this is my midlife crisis, I’ll take it. Nadja was born in 1993: five years after I’d graduated from Yale and started working at The New Yorker; two years after I had moved into the apartment, two doors west of the laundromat, where I still live; and a year after I’d got married—not that that had lasted. But she did not act as though I were a member of an antique generation; she treated me as if I were her age or, really, no age at all. When I was 22, I was shy with older people. I interacted with them from a deferential remove. I had no interest in taking up with an older man, as so many of my friends were doing, for fear of being slotted into an already fully formed life, where I would gather dust. Anyone older I regarded as a teacher or parent, someone I was supposed to assist and obey, not to befriend, certainly not to date. As Nadja and I talked at the laundromat that day, making each other laugh, nimbly guessing which subject might most interest the other, it struck me that I hadn’t had a conversation so free of baggage in decades. I am highly social, and I immensely value the friendships I’ve made in U P F R O N T>7 8 VOGUE.COM

D RI U CRI LLY A N D T I AG O MA RT EL . S I T TI NG S E D I TO R: KAT I E BU RN E TT. ON LEONH AR D -H OOPER : CR EATUR ES OF COMFORT TURTLENECK A N D TOPS HO P S KI RT. O N SCH IL LI N G ER : D I A NE VO N FU RST E NB ERG D RESS A N D TACOR I EAR R INGS. H AIR , NEIL GRUPP; MAKEUP, CHRISTINE CHERBONNIER. PHOTOGRAPHED AT J.J. CLEANERS LAUNDROMAT CORP., NYC. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

My Millennial Friend


Up Front

The New Girl

my 28 years in New York. But time has encrusted our original personalities with habits, histories, and complications. The selves we first brought to our friendships have been filigreed with marriages and children, divorces and breakups, career changes, deaths and illnesses, or, just as deforming, triumphs and successes. Each time I meet with one of my close old friends, each of us chooses a different time-scuffed self to bring to the fore—the bitter, ironic, or plucky self greets the single or divorced friend; the somber, workaholic self shares grievances with the friend who’s a slave to her desk; the consoling self soothes the friend whose marriage is in trouble; the resourceful self bucks up the friend who’s afraid of a new career move; the humble self praises the lucky friend.

A

fter a while, it’s hard to sort through the heap of accumulated personae and retrieve the buried, essential you. Talking with Nadja, I felt as though I’d cast off all those external selves and reclaimed my core self; she still was her core. When I headed home with my laundry, I didn’t necessarily think I’d see her again. It was a joyful and reviving encounter, and that was that. I lined up a Tinder date (with a 50-year-old “artist”— I would soon learn “artist” was code for “underemployed, crankily perfectionist, and incredibly touchy”) and put away my clothes. But then my email pinged. Two days later, around 9:00 a.m., I was setting two glasses of iced coffee (with bendy straws) on a tray, and glancing anxiously at my iPhone, which I’d stuck into the middle of a bag of rice, hoping to dry it out (it had fallen into the tub), when my young friend rang my bell. Opening the door, greeting her, I ushered her into the garden on a wave of conversation and began telling her about my drowned phone and Tinder. She was on OkCupid!, she exulted as we sipped our coffees in the sunshine. She was on the rebound from a messy breakup with a compelling but difficult Vassar boyfriend, she said, and was going on 50 Internet dates in 50 days, trying to keep busy so she wouldn’t recidivize with her ex, hoping to meet someone better, and hoping to write a play about it all afterward. We discussed her latest dates (a 35-year-old and a 40-year-old), and my latest dates (a charming 25-year-old and a menacing 30-year-old), laughing at the age disparity—mine so much younger, hers so much older. She kept insisting that I should give the 25-year-old a chance, and I kept trying to explain why I shouldn’t. The 25-year-old man shared many of Nadja’s qualities— originality, confidence, wit, charm, and, above all, that electric lack of disappointment that suggests that nothing in them has yet dimmed, and perhaps nothing ever will. In the presence of such a force field, the backup generators of your own energy switch suddenly on, sending surges of possibility through your psyche. I suspect it is this sensation, even more than youth and beauty, that has always drawn men to younger women. Nadja began to email and text more and more often, and to drop by; whenever she did, I felt elated. I’d make her something to eat if she let me, and she would play with my cat, Skazka (the name means “fairy tale” in Russian), and we would catch up on our dating adventures, talk about our work, and hang out—just as my friends and I had done in our school

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days. When her mother flew to New York, Nadja brought her by my place, and I tried to persuade her to join Tinder. When I had a business trip overseas, Nadja catsat for Skazka (friends in their 20s are precious for their catsitting potential alone); in November, when I went to Virginia for Thanksgiving, Nadja’s dad came to town from Minnesota, and he catsat. In December, when Nadja told me she’d been back in touch with her ex-boyfriend, I distracted her (wanting to keep her from sinking back into the black hole of that relationship) by inviting her to come get a Christmas tree with me. We found a big one, then dragged it back to my apartment, picking up Chinese takeout on the way. Later that month, I was writing an article about Russian folktales and gave her some of my favorites to read. Over Christmas, both Nadja and I went out of state to our respective parents’ houses, and when I returned to New York, I

We would hang out and catch up on our dating adventures— just as my friends and I had done in our school days learned that during the holiday, she had written an absurdist play inspired by my Russian stories, which involved a cat circus in Yaroslavl and starred a magical cat called Skazka. This news had a powerful effect on me. It made me feel I was leaving behind a creative imprint on the world. I don’t have children, but I could see that, in a few months’ time, my casual conversation with this girl had been transformed into art. I didn’t see much of Nadja for the next weeks; she was a stagehand for an Off-Off-Broadway show, acting in a film, and staying up all hours rewriting her play. Once she texted me that she was exhausted. “You should get some Ritalin,” I texted back. “I don’t want Ritalin,” she responded. “I want to be a superhero.” Reading her texts and seeing her in person was like continually being confronted with an image of my younger, surer, more idealistic self, the self who believed creative expression was my duty and my destiny. After college, I’d gone into journalism, taking a magazine job and moonlighting as a critic and columnist, but it had taken me nearly 20 years to summon the courage to quit my day job and devote all my time to writing. I’d taken that jump in 2005; but upon meeting Nadja, I realized that a decade on, I was not making full use of my freedom. I still clung to my day-job mentality, treating freelance assignments as if they were side dishes for a main course that would be arriving soon. Only I wasn’t preparing that main course; I wasn’t writing a novel, a memoir, or a play. Observing Nadja, I noticed, despite the gulf in our ages, we were in strangely similar circumstances. We both were writing, dating, and self-inventing with no limit to what we might create, apart from those we ourselves imposed, and with no clear objective beyond fulfillment. This was both liberating and petrifying. Nadja’s productivity showed me that the first requirement of being a superhero U P F R O N T> 8 2 VOGUE.COM


Up Front

The New Girl

was to believe you could fly. The second was to take to the air. I spent the rest of January writing fiction. The following month, I joined the Y, and soon after, Nadja joined too. She could swim two laps in the time I swam one, and she liked to play water tag with a muscular lifeguard we nicknamed Aquaman, tapping him on the heel as she raced him. In February, a local theater accepted Nadja’s play, and she quickly assembled a theater troupe (friends from Vassar), which included a cast of six, a director, a composer, a choreographer, and a dramaturge (me).

Nadja’s productivity showed me that the first requirement of being a superhero was to believe you could fly. The second was to take to the air Before long, they were all meeting in my apartment, with me coaching them in fake Russian accents and suggesting songs for the score. The show played the weekend after Easter to a sold-out audience at Dixon Place and immediately was signed up for a longer run in the fall. With the play over (for the moment) and summer approaching, Nadja started to flounder a bit, and I worried for her. I’d forgotten how daunting it is to establish yourself as an adult in New York when you don’t come from here, even if you’re brave, even if you’re sociable, even if you went to college on the East Coast. I remembered how, when I was her age and new to the city, I had pathetically created a card labeled Amici (Italian for “friends”) on my office Rolodex, on which I listed the name and number of everyone I met whom I hoped might become a friend. I used the foreign word in the hope that if my colleagues accidentally saw my Rolodex opened to this card, they wouldn’t pity me. But at least I had a built-in network of colleagues; as an artist, Nadja had context and colleagues only when she had a gig.

O

ne late-spring day, when Nadja showed up at my window, wanting me to join her for a walk, it occurred to me that she now had time on her hands, and I should have invited her to a party I was going to that night. Before then, something protective in me—of her and of myself— had kept me from integrating Nadja too deeply into my social life; I hadn’t invited her to gatherings with my other friends, nor had I mixed much with her Vassar crowd, apart from the cat-play get-togethers. I hadn’t wanted to mess with her autonomy by merging her into my preexisting set; nor did I want to become overdependent on a friend who might pick up and move to Berlin, or Minnesota, at any moment. Why shouldn’t I include her in my wider social plans? I realized I was still being reflexively ageist. Nadja was young, it was true, but she was already distinct, indelible. I wondered if the same had been true of me, at 22, when I was so wary of influence, so fearful of erasure by an older man. But I had stood vigil over my outline then, and afterward; which was why, at

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this moment, on a sun-soaked 70-degree afternoon, so late in my life, I was free to clatter down the stairs to the sidewalk and join Nadja for a ramble to the river, while my friends my own age, more permeable once, and more securely ensconced in adulthood now, were toiling at desks, or rushing to pick up children from school. I recently gave up on Tinder (too many “artists”), and since then I’ve gone on several dates with Real World (not Internet) men in a judgment-free way, leaving birth date out of the equation. One man was 60, another was 50, another was 40, another was 30. I’m no longer telling myself that dating someone older will cause me to lose my self-definition. From Nadja, I’ve seen that age differences can strengthen, not weaken a friendship. As for what they can do in a romantic relationship, I’m willing to find out. I went on second dates with the 30-year-old and the 40-year-old. And if the 60-year-old calls? I say: Better late than never. Nadja is now in a relationship with the 40-year-old she met when she was in the middle of her 50-dates-in-50-days project. She brought him to a giant party in my garden—a party I had thrown largely with her in mind. When I was a girl, my mother entertained constantly, enlisting my help; she had imparted to me her zeal for cooking, decorating, and whipping up enthusiasm in others. For decades, on my own in Manhattan, I had entertained frequently at home, but in the last few years, I’d stopped. I felt as if I’d passed the age of festivity. But Nadja made me realize I had needlessly deprived myself of a joy: My hosting skills had not vanished, and I could pass them along to her. The party came together beautifully, riotously. Two filmmaker neighbors carried my Parsons bench, rattan folding chairs, and a spare Istanbul rug downstairs to the garden, creating an outdoor living-room niche, beside the bartender’s table, under the apricot tree. Nadja brought over globe lanterns left from her cat-play set, and she and I both wore silver faux-fur wraps, caught up in a Titanic vibe. One hundred fifty people came, and by one in the morning, a couple dozen of us had migrated upstairs to my apartment, where we danced to Bowie, Prince, and Duke Ellington. By the speakers in the study, I glimpsed Nadja and her boyfriend, apart from the others in the dim light, a glowing island of coupledom. They kissed. Seeing them I felt shy, lowered my eyes, and moved to more crowded rooms. As I danced with a trio of friends in the living room, I understood: I had met Nadja in the splendid, gleaming, protean Act One of her life, when all things are possible and none are resolved. But she would graduate to a molten, golden, lasting Act Two: She would move on to have a partner, and a child, and a brownstone in Brooklyn; or—if she made it big on stage and screen, as I felt sure she would—a bungalow in Malibu. And I wanted all this for her, so badly; I wanted her to have more than I had wanted for myself. People say that having a child is like having your heart walking around outside of your body. For me, being friends with Nadja is like seeing my hopes walking around outside of my body, visible, palpable. It makes me want to defend them, to nurture them, to honor them. Her vitality, her futurity, have filled me with new optimism: for myself, for her, for everyone—old and young alike.  VOGUE.COM


Excerpt

R A DICA L CHIC

Phyllis Posnick, Vogue’s Executive Fashion Editor for nearly three decades, has long been a photographer’s secret weapon, bringing acuity, style, and wit to her work as sittings editor for such photographic legends as the late, great Irving Penn and Helmut Newton. Her beauty images and portraits have one thing in common: Positioned between multipage fashion editorials, they must be arresting at all costs. If the reader doesn’t pause at the page, it’s over. Hence Stoppers (the word was coined by Alexander Liberman), out this month from Abrams, in which she shares some of her favorite moments with Penn, Newton, Annie Leibovitz, Steven Klein, and Anton Corbijn. You’ll never think of bee-stung lips in quite the same way again. PATRICK DEMARCHELIER’S GUIDO PALAU WIGS FOR THE COSTUME INSTITUTE’S “PUNK: CHAOS TO COUTURE,” MAY 2013.

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TOP: MARIO TESTINO, MERMAID, TRANCOSO, BRAZIL, JULY 2012. LEFT: IRVING PENN, BEE (A), NEW YORK, 1995.

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BOTTOM: © THE IRVING PENN FOUNDATION

Excerpt


Excerpt

C

ate Blanchett’s film Elizabeth: The Golden Age was due to open, and we were hoping that Penn would do a portrait of her as Queen Elizabeth I. He rarely agreed to photograph actors because he believed that they would present the face they wanted the world to see, rather than let him penetrate their inner self. Asking him to photograph her in one of the extravagant costumes from the film would eliminate the issue of an actor acting for a portrait. We met at the studio to talk about the sitting. Penn sat across the table from me, carefully studied film stills of Cate, sat back in his chair, sighed, and said that he wanted to photograph her

but the costumes just weren’t good enough. I realized that an entirely new costume had to be created. But who could design it? One person instantly came to mind: the brilliant Nicolas Ghesquière, then designer of Balenciaga. He sent a drawing and Penn loved what he saw. All good so far. Then Nicolas called to say that he was having difficulty finding fabric that he liked for the ruff, but paper doilies were exactly the look he was after. Did I think Penn would mind the change? Penn loved it! Nicolas recently told me that when Cate’s “costume” arrived in New York, Penn called and said that it was “even better than anything he was dreaming of.” E X C E R P T> 9 0

PENN’S PORTRAIT OF CATE BLANCHETT AS QUEEN ELIZABETH I, NEW YORK, 2007.

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Excerpt

“I’ve always wanted to photograph a chicken wearing high heels.” This was Helmut’s response when I told him we needed a photo for an article about fried chicken. I was already planning a shoot with him in Monaco three days later, so there wasn’t much time to find stilettos for a chicken. No luck in New York. Within two days, our Paris editor, Fiona DaRin, found four pairs at the Doll Museum in Paris and had them overnighted to Monte Carlo. Helmut liked two of them, but he wanted to be sure I had the right shoes for the right chicken. Was he serious? The minute I arrived, Helmut’s assistant walked me up the hill to the local butcher to do a fitting. There was a long line. When I finally got to the counter, the dour round man with a mustache and rosy cheeks wearing a bloodstained apron asked in French, “Can I help you?” Oui. S’il vous plaît. I took the little shoes out of my bag. “Helmut Newton is doing a photograph, and I hope you will help me try these shoes on your chickens. I need to see which are the best fit,” I said in English, as Helmut’s assistant translated. Silence. Without a smile and without saying a word, the butcher carefully tried the shoes on every chicken in the case. I bought the two birds with perfect legs.  From the book Stoppers: Photographs from My Life at Vogue, by Phyllis Posnick, © 2016. Published by Abrams.

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BOTTOM: © THE HELMUT NEWTON ESTATE/MACONOCHIE PHOTOGRAPHY

LEFT: STEVEN KLEIN, SUBURBIA #11, NEW JERSEY, DECEMBER 2007. BELOW: HELMUT NEWTON, PRAISE THE LARD, OCTOBER 2003.


Lives

Brave Hearts

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even hours’ bumpy drive from Erbil, the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan, stands an abandoned schoolhouse that recently served as an Islamic State headquarters. By the time we reach it, traveling past open fields of burning oil rigs, the harsh Iraqi sun has dropped, the sky is softening, and it’s getting late. Inside the schoolhouse, a group of mostly teenage Yazidi women are beginning their bedtime ritual. They have survived genocide and witnessed their fathers, brothers, cousins, and loved ones being slaughtered by ISIS militants. But for now, they’re in loose pajamas and bare feet, untying chignons and brushing waist-length hair. In

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the morning they’ll be up at six for military drills. It’s a little like being at a boarding school, except that these women are trained fighters. “Our history is dark,” says Khatoon Khider, the stocky, 36-year-old commander of the Force of the Sun Ladies Brigade. We’re sitting in her office, trying to cool down from the oppressive heat. Khider is used to roughing it. For the past two years, since August 2014, when some 5,000 Yazidis were killed and a further 6,000 captured and enslaved by ISIS, she has devoted her life to protecting her people. “What happened to us,” she says somberly, “was unthinkable.” Images reached the West of survivors stranded on Mount Sinjar. Many who escaped their ruined villages—later heavily mined by ISIS so they could not return—now live in settlements for the displaced. But the full picture of what they experienced is only now clearly emerging. LIVES>96 MOVING FORWARD CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: THERAPEUTIC DRAWINGS BY RAPE VICTIMS; MORNING PREPARATIONS; A BATTALION FILLS UP SANDBAGS; BEFORE DAWN, SOLDIERS SLEEP ON THE ROOF OF THEIR BASE; YAZIDI SUN LADIES PRACTICE DRILLS; 20-YEAR-OLD SOLDIER AZIZA.

VOGUE.COM

N I COLE TU N G

After witnessing a sweeping genocide and sexual enslavement by ISIS in 2014, a group of Yazidi women has formed a battalion—the Sun Ladies—to fight back. JANINE DI GIOVANNI reports.


Lives Battling ISIS Last December, Nadia Murad, 23, who lost eighteen members of her extended family and was held captive and brutally gang-raped by ISIS fighters, bravely described her ordeal to the UN Security Council at its first session on human trafficking. “The Islamic State did not just come to kill us, women and girls, but to take us as war booty and merchandise to be sold in markets,” she said. Murad was back at the UN in September for its General Assembly, where she was named a Goodwill Ambassador. She was accompanied by her lawyer, Amal Clooney, who is helping to bring a spotlight to the Yazidis’ plight. “Calling it genocide is not enought,” says Clooney. “Evidence needs to be gathered and the ISIS militants who committed these atrocities must be brought to court. It’s ambitious,” she says, “but when you look in these girls’ eyes you realize it must be done.”

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he Yazidis—whom I first met when I lived with them back in the days of Saddam Hussein—are a religiously and ethnically independent Kurdishspeaking sect. Unlike the Kurds, who are famous for their Peshmerga fighters (translation: “those who face death”), the Yazidis are not epic warriors by nature. Theirs is a fiercely patriarchal society, where women’s lives traditionally revolve around farming, cooking, and raising children. It has remained a closed community for centuries. The Sun Ladies, born out of the 2014 genocide, have not yet entered combat or fought on front lines. But they are prepared to do so, and they talk in the gritty manner of soldiers willing to give up their lives if they have to. With just a 45-day intensive military training by the Peshmerga, many of these women are driven by a desire to take back the territory and rights that were seized from them. It’s also a way of honoring the dead. “Can I wash out your T-shirt?” asks the deputy commander, picking up a bar of soap to scrub it by hand. Twentysix years old and the only one in the group on patrol who is married, she brushes off my protests and tells me about her day. She’s been manning checkpoints since early morning— ISIS forces are still about 30 km away—in the 108-degree heat. Her duties are not yet over—she has paperwork with the commander to finish. I ask her if she misses her husband, whom she sees every six weeks. She sighs and looks down at her simple wedding ring. Her hands are roughened from handling guns. “This is more important, somehow.” She’s not yet thinking of having children, which is unusual for a Yazidi woman. Her attitude demonstrates how this genocide is changing their ancient society. On the roof of the school, where we drag cotton mattresses to sleep, watched over by giggling armed guards who take turns at the top of the stairs, the women lay their rifles at the head of their makeshift beds and begin comparing cellphone photos. An older woman—the cook, who acts like the headmistress—orders everyone to turn the phones off. “The light draws in fire from ISIS,” she says. “Do you want to get shot in your sleep?” I ask a young woman with a long braid running down her back who has bedded down near me if she is ever scared. “We’ve trained, we can use automatic weapons, we can

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launch mortars,” she says. “If ISIS killed your men and raped your sisters and your mothers and your friends, you would do the same.” Is she afraid to begin fighting on a front line if it comes to that? “Not at all.” Even without the phones, there’s a lot of talking and laughing before bed, and the subjects are not so different from those discussed by young women anywhere: how they got tattoos (using traditional Yazidi recipes of breast milk mixed with ash and set with a needle); how boring it is to get up early; how they miss their families. It’s too hot for me to sleep, and as I sense the fighters are dropping off, I go and find the commander. She’s in her office, sitting behind her desk. She orders some of the staff—who stamp their feet, military style, when they see her—to bring fresh peaches and a box of dusty chocolates. Khider looks fierce in her fatigues and military boots, but when she shows me a photograph of herself with her hair down at the Cannes Film Festival last May, wearing a long dress embellished with the Kurdish flag, she appears younger and less robust. “That was the first time I left the mountain, really,” she says, flashing a rare smile. She traveled with the Kurdish Peshmerga Ministry to attend the red-carpet screening of Bernard-Henri Lévy’s film Peshmerga, about the fighters bat-

“Our religion forbids killing,” says Khider, so the decision to become a soldier was not taken lightly. “We want justice. We want the men who did this to go to court” tling ISIS, and the irony of it all does not escape her. She pulls up a photo of herself in a gown, sitting in front of the actress Arielle Dombasle, Lévy’s wife. The juxtaposition of her remote world with their glamorous one must have been surreal. Khider, formerly a renowned wedding and ceremonial singer, started the battalion after watching her village destroyed, and existing for eleven days on Mount Sinjar with terrified people trying to flee without food and water. “Our religion forbids killing,” she says, so the decision to become a soldier was not taken lightly. Khider was granted special permission from the authorities to form the battalion. “We want justice. We want the men who did this to go to court.” She has not let herself sing for two years. Everyone I met in Kurdistan could recount her exact memory from August 3, 2014, when ISIS fighters invaded the southern part of Mount Sinjar: how villages were attacked; men killed; boys over the age of puberty driven away, forced to convert to Islam, or made to lie down and be fired on; women becoming sabaya, or slaves. “Some of these women were sold to seventeen different ISIS ‘husbands,’ ” says Dr. Nagham Nawzat Hasan, a Yazidi gynecologist who works with the victims and was recently presented with an International Women L I V E S > 9 9 VOGUE.COM


Lives Battling ISIS

M.STA N RE AV ES/ RE X/SH UT T ERSTO CK

of Courage Award by Secretary of State John Kerry for her work. Amina (names of the abductees in this story have been changed for security reasons), a 22-year-old under her care, describes her experience. “I did not know what they wanted, why they were doing this to me,” she says. “All I understood was they wanted to change my religion.” She and other women were taken from village to village and separated into groups: virgins and married women. “At first they just took the virgins,” Amina says. “Then they took married women.” One of her “husbands” was an American ISIS fighter. “They called him Al-Amriki,” she says. “When he came to rape me, he would pray first. Then he would beat me with a cable.” He told her he was a Christian and a former teacher who had converted to Islam and joined ISIS. Sometimes after he raped her, he would go and Skype his wife in the U.S. “She knew all about me,” Amina says. “Once he showed me a picture of his family in America. His wife had short hair, like a boy, and they had two little children, a boy and a girl. I wondered how an American could do this to me.” What were her days like? “He would rape me, pray, and sleep,” she says. During the day, he locked her in the house. Eventually she was sold to another “husband” before being rescued. Were her “husbands” ever kind to her? “There was never tenderness,” she says. “While the American raped me, he seemed unconscious, like he was taking drugs or drinking alcohol.” Another escapee, 26-year-old Noor, is now in Sharia Camp outside the city of Dohuk, where more than 18,000 people live in 4,000 tents. She is here with what remains of her family. “Two were taken,” she says, her eyes filling. “My son and my twelve-year-old girl.” She does not know if they are alive or dead. Noor sits on the floor of the tent as her smallest children— aged eighteen months to six—crawl over her. “When they came to rape me,” she says, “I put the children in another room and locked the door.” Unlike other Yazidi women I spoke to, she did not have to spend the night with her captor. “I was his wife, officially, but after we had sex, I went and slept with the children, but I never really slept. I was afraid something would happen in the night. We knew ISIS was killing children.”

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number of women have been freed by Yazidi men pursuing risky rescue operations. Yet some 2,000 are still being held—and sold. One afternoon in Dohuk, I watch a rescuer, posing as an ISIS buyer, bargain electronically for a thirteen-year-old Yazidi girl wearing full makeup, a push-up bra, a seductive smile, and high heels—for $7,000. “She’s available today,” her seller says. “Come to Raqqa and get her.” To witness these casual transactions being discussed in real time is devastating. As I watch, other Yazidis come up for sale—a weeping nine-year-old girl, also dressed up to look VOGUE.COM

CAPTION TKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTK SPEAKING UP NADIA MURAD (RIGHT), NEWLY NAMED UN GOODWILL AMBASSADOR FOR THE DIGNITY OF SURVIVORS OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING, AT THE UN IN SEPTEMBER WITH LAWYER AMAL CLOONEY.

sexy; a terrified-looking mother and her three children; a young boy; and another prepubescent girl, arching her back in faux sexuality, who is described as being “easy during sex.” In a village outside Dohuk, one of the rescuers introduces me to 29-year-old Nival, recently released, who was enslaved for eight months with her three small children. They had been transported to Mosul, Palmyra, finally Raqqa. “Every place we went got bombed, bombed all the time. It was terrible for the children—they were so frightened. Then I would be taken by my ISIS ‘husbands’—I never knew if they would kill my children after they raped me.” She was made a cook and prepared meals for about 100 ISIS fighters a day in Raqqa. “I was a married woman, so I was not as valuable. What they wanted was Yazidi virgins. I saw them rape a thirteen-year-old before my eyes.” The rescuer, a 41-year-old man, describes the reward for his dangerous work as “the joy on those girls’ faces when they finally get home; it is worth every bit of the risk.” Before the war, he was a beekeeper. “I learned justice from the bees,” he said. “After the bees mate, the female does away with the male. Maybe there is something in this.” ISIS’s brutal and systematic targeting of the Yazidis is thought to have been in part geographically strategic, but also a response to their pre-Islamic religious beliefs. To ISIS, they are kuffar, nonbelievers, a lower form of life even than Christians or Jews (who according to the Quran are considered “People of the Book” and given limited protection). “It has been a complete attempt to eradicate the Yazidi community,” says Eivor Lægreid, a Norwegian therapist working for Yazda, an NGO in Dohuk and Texas that also represents Nadia Murad. “It is an effort to delete them.” This effort has left the Yazidis terrorized and decimated. “You have to understand—some of the women I met had never seen a television,” says Suzn Fahmi, a facilitator at Jinda, another center helping Yazidi women in Dohuk. “Some had never been inside a car. Suddenly they are taken out of this life, captured by ISIS, and sold C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 0 VOGUE NOVEMBER 2016

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Nostalgia

Being Bardot

In a rare interview, 82-year-old legend Brigitte Bardot recalls her past as an insouciant—and enduring—style icon. By LESLIE CAMHI.

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he kneels at her dressing table with her back to us, her torso wrapped in a towel, her head turned slightly in profile, tiger cub’s nose and Cupid’s-bow pout peeking out from beneath a luxuriant blonde mane. With one manicured hand, she holds up a little mirror into which she gazes, transfixed by her own image, like Venus in an old-master painting—yet bathed in the light of modern celebrity. Vogue ran William Klein’s photograph of 24-year-old Brigitte Bardot on a full page in March 1958, alongside a brief article mentioning the French star’s “maximum of animal magnetism” and her four films playing simultaneously in “intellectual movie-art theaters” in New York. It is not a fashion photograph—its subject is shown après bain or just before the towel drops, when we might, at least in imagination, possess her. The Summer of Love is still almost a decade away. Yet despite her babyish features and seemingly tender flesh, Bardot represents, all on her own, a one-woman sexual revolution. “I never was fashionable, so I never went out of fashion,” she says, giving a rare interview from La Madrague, the villa in St.-Tropez, its high walls covered in bougainvillea, that has been her refuge for more than half a century. Though she is 82, in somewhat fragile health, and notoriously reclusive, her deep, rich voice—colored, perhaps, by years of smoking—still conveys an astonishing vitality. Bardot’s charm,

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like that of a child, is her intense allegiance to the present, her absolute lack of vanity, and her directness. “I mean, I never followed fashion; I did it my own way. I was ahead of my time,” she says simply. “And when you are right too early, you are always wrong.” Nothing in her very proper bourgeois childhood could have predicted the iconoclast to come. Born in 1934, Bardot grew up the elder of two daughters in a conservative Parisian family. “My parents were elegant and serious people who preferred the company of sophisticated society,” she recalls. “They were not the least bit bohemian.” She studied ballet from age six until fourteen, winning admission to the prestigious Paris Conservatoire. (The future Hollywood star Leslie Caron was a fellow student.) “I had no interest in clothes,” she says, though she began modeling as an adolescent, initially for a milliner friend of her mother’s, and appeared on the cover of French Elle in 1949 wearing a pink pleated taffeta gown by couturier Jacques Heim. She was spotted and plucked for the movies, eventually making . . . And God Created Woman with the man she married at eighteen, director Roger Vadim. A memoir in photographs, Brigitte Bardot: My Life in Fashion, published this month by Flammarion, reprises the images and looks that made her—despite her professed indifference—an avatar of style. The top couturiers of the day, including Pierre Balmain, Christian Dior, and Dior’s successor, the young Yves Saint Laurent, dressed N O S TA L G I A >1 0 2 VOGUE.COM

JACK GA RO FA LO/PA RI S M ATCH /G E TT Y I MAGES

CHECK MATE THE ACTRESS—IN A GINGHAM DRESS—AT HER WEDDING TO THE ACTOR JACQUES CHARRIER, 1959.


Nostalgia

The Natural

through Claudia Schiffer, Alexander the starlet for grand occasions. But Wang muse Anna Ewers, Gigi Hadin Vadim’s movie she wore her own id, and the shapely model du jour clothes—simple shirtdresses, formIrina Shayk, were inseparable from fitting shifts, a dancer’s leotard—or a persona that appeared to obey no nothing at all for her role as Juliette, law but her own pleasure, and not to a disarmingly free-spirited and lustwork very hard at fame, beauty, or ful teenage orphan, who sunbathes anything else. naked and sows erotic mayhem She wanted something light and around St.-Tropez. (The little fishsupple, like her old ballet slippers, to ing village, frequented by artists and walk around in, for example. “I told a handful of cognoscenti, was not the Maison Repetto,” she says—stoyet a favorite playground of the jet ried supplier to the world’s prima set.) Censors on both sides of the ballerinas—“and they found the idea Atlantic were appalled. amusing.” The “ballerina flat,” first Her loose, golden hair was like a created for her in 1956, has been a banner waving in defense of the new staple of chic wardrobes ever since. hedonism and against a prior generShe chose a pink gingham dress for ation of “ladylike” French stars, with her second marriage, in 1959, to actor their corsets and stays, their careful MIRROR IMAGE BARDOT PLAYS MUSE, PHOTOGRAPHED Jacques Charrier. “Gingham, back coiffures, furs, and pearls. “I always BY WILLIAM KLEIN FOR VOGUE, 1958. then, was used for kitchen curtains— tried to dress in a way that made me it wasn’t at all fashionable,” she remembers. “But I thought feel good,” Bardot says, “at ease in my own skin, comfortit was pretty!” The picture of the wedding ceremony, with able in my clothing—and naked, too.” (Bardot could get Bardot in the dress by couturier Jacques Esterel, unleashed “copyright credit,” her French biographer Marie-Dominique a gingham tidal wave. Lelièvre writes, “every time a girl in the street today fixes her The famously appealing off-the-shoulder “Bardot top,” so hair by running her fingers through it.”) ubiquitous on runways and in street style last spring? “They photographed me in my nightgown!” Bardot says, laughing, er great liberty on-screen was “natural,” Bardot and the trend took flight. says now. “I was just being me.” So natural, in And her signature low beehive, nicknamed the choucroute fact, that having kissed her costar in the film, (translation: “sauerkraut”) for its many curling tendrils, was actor Jean-Louis Trintignant, she promptly fell in reality “a failed chignon,” she claims. “Though it was a in love with him, leaving husband Vadim for failure, I managed to make it look pretty.” The late singer the first in a series of high-profile, often short-lived romances. Amy Winehouse embraced the look, revived most recently “In the game of love, she is as much a hunter as she is a in Jeremy Scott’s spring-summer 2016 collection. prey,” Simone de Beauvoir proclaimed in the pages of Esquire, A picture of Bardot in 1967 shows her leaving a reception championing her as an unlikely feminist icon. (The men in her at the Élysée Palace hosted by President Charles de Gaulle. life—legendarily louche French pop star Serge Gainsbourg, Her outfit—a Sgt. Pepper–style jacket decorated with for example, a disheveled dandy who, distraught in the wake trompe l’oeil gold brocade, worn with pants, kohl-rimmed of their brief affair, penned the ballad “Initials B.B.” in homeyes, and her long hair loose around her shoulders—made age to her—had no influence on the way she dressed, she says. headlines. “Women at the time weren’t allowed to wear “Serge,” she purrs, “was really a very reserved and modest pants to the Élysée, much less with a military-style jacket,” boy, and we loved each other madly.”) For the avant-garde, she admits. (Protocol also called for a neat chignon.) But her untamable allure was a welcome form of anarchy. French “my encounter with le Général, whom I admire profoundly, New Wave director Jean-Luc Godard made it the centerpiece left a lovely memory.” of his masterpiece Contempt (1963), and cultural heavyweights Another captures her exiting Maxim’s, the soigné Parisian Marguerite Duras and Françoise Sagan devoted, respectively, nightspot, the same year, with her third husband, German an essay and a book to her. photographer and playboy millionaire Gunter Sachs, who “She wasn’t ashamed of herself, she didn’t apologize for wooed her by dropping hundreds of roses via helicopter her absolute triumph, whereas so many others apologized for into her St.-Tropez garden. (Though they were married for their half-victories,” Sagan wrote after Bardot’s 1973 retirejust three years, beginning in 1966, several of the obituarment from the screen, though still beautiful and eminently ies following his death in 2011 identified him as “Bardot’s desirable, to devote her life to her animal rights charity (a cause she still fervently champions). “And this is why she ex-husband.”) He’s wearing black tie; she’s in a striped silk caftan and barefoot. scandalized everyone.” From her brief but dazzling fifteen years in the public She’s still barefoot, Bardot tells me on the phone from La Madrague, where her everyday uniform now consists of eye, Bardot has proved a remarkably enduring icon—and black Bermuda shorts and a black T-shirt. “I love going withthis despite her shocking, late-in-life conversion to far-right French politics. The fashions she launched, later channeled out shoes,” she says. “And anyway, I have very pretty feet.” 

H

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VOGUE.COM


Talking Fashion EDITORS: MARK HOLGATE & MARK GUIDUCCI AT ATTENTION JOAN SMALLS (NEAR RIGHT) AND KENDALL JENNER ARE READY TO ROLL COME NOVEMBER 8.

Making HISTORY

The fashion world is unanimous about one thing this season: getting out the vote.

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alling as it did mere weeks before the most urgent election in a generation, the most recent New York Fashion Week was underscored by the all-important (and all-American) date of November 8. Rather than wallowing in apprehension—or worse, ignoring the situation— designers and models sprang to the occasion, registering to vote and motivating others to do the same. Universal suffrage is a power that unites all of us—whichever candidate you punch the ballot for. We at Vogue know where we stand (page 62). Do you?  TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 0 8

MODEL CITIZENS CAROLYN MURPHY (FAR LEFT) WITH TAYLOR HILL, WHO WILL BE VOTING FOR THE FIRST TIME.

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S EA N T HO MAS. FASHI O N ED I TO R: JO RD E N B IC KH A M. HA I R , ROLA N D O B EAUC H A MP; MAKEUP, YUMI MOR I.

All Eyes On


Wham

GLAM

Brandon Maxwell, once an East Texas dreamer, is now a red-carpet-ready master of unabashed opulence.

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here is one lonely gay kid in every small town in America glued to the Tony Awards while everyone else is tossing around a football or smoking pot behind McDonald’s. In Longview, Texas, in the 1990s, that boy was Brandon Maxwell, who grew up to be a designer of sinuous confections worthy of the red carpets he once worshipped from afar. Maxwell, 32, first came to national attention when he put Lady Gaga in the satin gowns to which she graduated after her notorious meat dress. (For the record, Maxwell says that he loves both aspects of her persona—and anyway, he was working for Gaga stylist Nicola Formichetti at the time and actually assisted on that sartorial slabfest.) The two are

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in fact now such close friends that Maxwell relishes talking to her while she soaks in the bathtub. Gaga is hardly alone in her affection for Maxwell’s classic vision. The designer’s most recent show, held at the Russian Tea Room (the kind of historic venue he adores), was a major hit of New York Fashion Week—maybe because the clothes, unapologetically lovely with no irony or subtext, spoke loud and clear to young women eager to don something frankly glamorous. Suddenly there seems to be a collective desire to dump the hipster high jinks and slip into the types of silhouettes that TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 1 0 SITTING PRETTY NIEVES ZUBERBÜHLER, IN BRANDON MAXWELL, WITH THE DESIGNER AT THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM, NYC.

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MAT T HEW KRI STA LL. S I T TI N G S E DI TOR : KATI E BU RN ET T. HA I R , K AYLA MI CHE LE; MAKEUP, GEORGI SAND EV. PRODUCED BY LIEBLING PRODUCTIONS. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE .

Talking Fashion


Talking Fashion FOLLOW THE LEADER FIRST LADY MICHELLE OBAMA, IN MAXWELL’S DESIGN, WITH PRESIDENT OBAMA, 2016.

The designer has always been politically active. “I’m a young gay guy from a small town—any sort of women’s, racial, LGBTQ issue matters to me. I think those of us in fashion should do our part in our way.” He insists that his clothes are intended to embody everything that he is not—rather poignantly, he lists “all the things I don’t inherently feel: confident, sexy, strong, powerful, classy, chic.” Nevertheless, this shy mouse who confesses that he cries before his shows—“I don’t want to let my family down, my friends down!”—managed to pepper the front row at his latest show with his pals Gaga, Campbell, and Steven Klein, bouncing his baby on his knee. The music was buoyant, the models a fabulous mix of shapes and ethnicities, and the clothes—sophisticated halters and pencil skirts, sleek sheaths and sexy jumpsuits—had an unmistakable youthful exuberance. “A lot has changed in such a short time,” Maxwell muses. “A year ago, I was going around with my little rack of samples.” Still, no matter how successful he becomes (and he wants to do it all—shoes! bags!), he insists he will remain true to his inclusive vision. “I never want to be the one who says, ‘You can’t sit with us’—regardless of age, income, color, size.” In a sense, he is doing it all for those young souls stuck in the middle of nowhere, mesmerized by glittering stars on the red carpet. “There is some kid out there,” Maxwell declares. “I want him to know that was me, too! It’s possible!”—LYNN YAEGER TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 1 2

Come

UNDONE

HEDVIG OPSHAUG IN A JAEHA SHIRT.

RACHAEL WANG IN MARQUES’ALMEIDA.

MICA ARGANARAZ IN ALEN BUENOS AIRES.

PERNILLE TEISBAEK IN CARVEN.

Classic men’s shirting gets retooled, tucked, and tailored.

OBAMA: Z ACH GIBSON/AFP/GETTY IMAGES. COME UND ONE: SAND RA SEMBU RG.

have flattered women for decades: perfectly cut slim skirts and tailored trousers, cropped camisoles, and dramatic organza ball dresses. Maxwell arrived in New York in 2009, photography degree in hand, to find work as a stylist—after all, hadn’t he been styling since those Longview days, when he bought clothes at the Goodwill, refashioned them, took hair and makeup into his own young hands, and then shot the results on his sisters? Didn’t he spend countless after-school hours at Riff’s, the local boutique where his grandma worked, watching the women of his hometown transform themselves into East Texas glamour-pusses? He sold his car, lived in what he describes as a spare closet in Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn, sent out thousands of résumés, and was pretty much down to his last roll of quarters when stylist Deborah Afshani took a chance on him. She gave him words to live by: “Come early and stay late!” she said. “Be nice to people.” At his second job—he was third assistant stylist—he worked with Pat McGrath, Naomi Campbell, and Steven Meisel for Russian Vogue. “This is what I want life to be like,” he remembers thinking. Things moved fast: If once he could only dream of dressing women like his heroines Lady Di and Jackie O, now his ivory crepe frock was gracing Michelle Obama at a state dinner. When he saw the First Lady in that dress, Maxwell was a total puddle. “She really is the embodiment of the women that I love and adore and create for,” he says. His client Nieves Zuberbühler (Maxwell is creating the dress—it’s top secret for obvious reasons—for the 60 Minutes producer’s upcoming wedding to Colombian brewery heir Julio Mario Santo Domingo) puts it more simply: “Every time I wear his clothes, I feel fabulous. What I love about him is his lack of egocentricity—he’s extremely talented, and I trust him blindly.”


Talking Fashion

PATRIOT ACT JACKET FROM THE SPECIAL MONCLER COLLECTION BY THOM BROWNE, $2,815; MONCLER, NYC.

Earning His Stripes

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hom Browne wears many hats: In addition to running his own fiercely experimental label, he’s also in charge of Gamme Bleu, the high-concept line from Moncler, the Milan-based winterwear specialist. And it’s with Moncler that Browne is now introducing a brand-new capsule collection of puffer jackets, cashmere sweaters, and chilly-day accessories. “With the election happening, it was the perfect thing to do—how better to represent America than with the flag itself ?” Browne says, referring to the star-spangled motif splashed across not only puffers but cardigans, turtleneck sweaters, gloves, scarves, and more. That the designer saw Old Glory as an inspiration for the project speaks to his focused métier: Browne has become famous for creating a sort of fashion democracy that continually swerves the codes of national dress. (Recent namesake collections have sprung

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from sources ranging from a Slim Aarons portrait of C. Z. Guest poolside in Palm Beach to photo clippings from midcentury-era Time magazines.) The directness of his interpretation here, though, reflects a new level of patriotism. The collection’s launch coincides with the opening of Moncler’s first flagship store in the U.S.—a 6,000-square-foot vault on Manhattan’s Upper East Side that will sell each of Moncler’s ranges—there’s also a supersporty component dubbed Grenoble, and Gamme Rouge, designed by Giambattista Valli. (Browne’s new capsule will be available online as well.) The designer, who grew up skiing outside Allentown, Pennsylvania, longs to visit more mountains. Even Hector, his wirehaired dachshund, enjoys the cold. “He discovered snow at the Point, the old Rockefeller camp turned hotel in the Adirondacks,” says Browne with a laugh. “He loves it.”—NICK REMSEN TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 1 4 VOGUE.COM

LI A M G O OD M A N

Thom Browne flies the flag with an all-American-inspired collection for Moncler.


Heiress and GRACES Eddie Borgo introduces his fine-jewelry line for Tiffany & Co.

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opular folklore assures us that nothing bad can happen at Tiffany’s—only wonderfully surprising things (and, more recently, incontrovertibly cool things). The storied brand’s design director, Francesca Amfitheatrof, seemingly following this script, was thinking out of the blue box when she set Eddie Borgo a time-traveling challenge: to create a capsule collection fit for the turn-of-the-century sculptor and art patron Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney—an aristocrat, artist,

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and woman whose haute bohemian sensibility was ahead of her time. For Amfitheatrof, Borgo’s urban luster was equally suited to letting Vanderbilt Whitney’s legacy shine and to bringing new artistic energy to Tiffany. For Borgo, it’s his first foray into fine jewelry, with the TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 2 0 PEARLS OF WISDOM MODEL LILY STEWART WEARS A TIFFANY X EDDIE BORGO GOLD BRACELET, RING ($3,250), EARRINGS ($1,900), AND NECKLACE; TIFFANY.COM. CÉLINE DRESS.

VOGUE.COM

V I CK I K I NG. FASHI O N E D I TO R: A LE X HA RR I N GTO N. HA I R, I LKE R A KYO L; M A KEU P, J EN MYLES. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Talking Fashion


Talking Fashion

Pieces range from fin de siècle finesse to resolutely of-the-moment 1931 in Washington, D.C.). The illusion of fluidity and softness that master sculptors achieve with marble, Borgo achieves with structured 18K yellow gold and delicate drops of cultured freshwater pearls. “She collected pearls and adorned herself with them for frequent—and notoriously outrageous—costume parties,” says Borgo, referencing the Vanderbilt family’s outlandish masquerades, which the youthful Gertrude relished. The pearl bar pin, meanwhile, is the height of fin de siècle finesse—but would also look perfectly easy pinned to a drop-shouldered Balenciaga denim jacket. Other pieces—an ear cuff and a pinkie ring among them—are more resolutely of-the-moment. “I love wearing the ring,” says Amfitheatrof. “It’s such an unusual piece—classic, with street edge.” After lunch, as Borgo and I make a pilgrimage to Vanderbilt Whitney’s cavernous Eighth Street studio (where the space is still used as she intended, to host art classes and critiques), Borgo makes an important distinction: With only 80 numbered pieces in this very limited collection, the wearer of Tiffany x Eddie Borgo —from the UES or the LES and from NoHo to Dumbo—will be carrying precious cargo. “It’s less about Tiffany going downtown,” the designer says, “than Eddie Borgo moving uptown.” —EMMA ELWICK-BATES TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 2 4

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Fully STACKED In a moment of deconstructed denim and upscale hoodies, the most covetable accessory is also the most counterintuitive: It’s a big ol’ diamond bracelet, beaming with personality and presence. This ultimate arm candy “nods to the opulence of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century society balls,” says Dior’s fine-jewelry creative director, Victoire de Castellane, who likes to wrap her wrists in several for special effect. The look has a timeless appeal that resurfaced most recently in the couture collections and has since become a kind of shorthand for sophisticated, nonchalant cool. Luckily, you can get the sparkle without shelling out your savings: Costume crystals share an uncanny resemblance to the real thing. Old or new, fine or fake, the designs hit graphic high notes with huge stones and complement your everyday favorites. What makes Dior’s Salon de Mercure diamond-ribbon bracelet (ABOVE) so appealing is how it begs to be worn in a very unprecious way—with jeans and an elevated sweatshirt.—RACHEL WALDMAN GIRLS’ BEST FRIENDS FROM TOP: BULGARI BRACELET; (800) BVLGARI. MONIQUE PÉAN BRACELET; MONIQUEPEAN.COM. DIOR FINE JEWELRY BRACELET; (800) 929-DIOR. EVA FEHREN CUFF; BARNEYS NEW YORK, NYC. STEPHEN RUSSELL BANGLE; (212) 570-6900. CHANEL FINE JEWELRY BRACELET; CHANEL FINE JEWELRY BOUTIQUES.

COU RT ESY OF BRA N DS. D ETA I LS, SE E I N TH IS I SSU E .

pieces handmade in the prestigious workshop above the Tiffany flagship on Fifth Avenue—a coup for the designer, who considers himself “an American through and through.” “What a fascinating New York story—now I walk into the Whitney [Museum] and understand how it came into existence thanks to Gertrude,” says Borgo over lunch in SoHo, heaving a rare biography with yellowed leaves onto the table. Borgo lost himself in the heiress’s family history on a recent trip to Cuba. “She was such a global young girl,” he says. “Traveling by ship, buying her clothes from Paris, absorbing the modern art of the time before setting up her own downtown studio.” (Vanderbilt Whitney’s move to the carriage house that would become her creative bolt-hole was highly scandalous at the time: daughter of cornelius vanderbilt will live in dingy new york alley, read one headline.) A disruptive spirit is felt in the collection. The draped-collar necklace and bracelet play to Borgo’s punky sensibility as much as to Whitney’s obsession with the classical muse (one of her most prominent works is the Titanic Memorial, dedicated in

VOGUE.COM


Change

AGENTS

Rachel Chandler and Walter Pearce champion models’ individuality, one fashion world at a time.

W

hen it comes to fashion storytelling, the right lineup of models (and nonmodels) can make a brand feel like an intimate family. Rachel Chandler, 29, and Walter Pearce, 21, are two of the strongest storytellers on the New York runways, working on casting for Eckhaus Latta and Maryam Nassir Zadeh (Chandler) and Hood By Air and Telfar (Pearce) for the

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spring-summer 2017 shows. Now they’re joining forces to cofound Midland, a new casting-agency hybrid. Though they keep opposite sleep schedules (Pearce is nocturnal), both are photographers who have also been widely photographed themselves; they seem to know TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 3 0 CAST OF CHARACTERS WALTER PEARCE (IN A HOOD BY AIR SWEATER AND ACNE STUDIOS JEANS) AND RACHEL CHANDLER (IN PROENZA SCHOULER).

VOGUE.COM

D RI U CRI LLY A N D T I AG O MA RT EL . S I T TI NG S E D I TO R: E MMA MO RR I SO N . H A I R, IL KER AKYOL; MAKEUP, J OH N MCKAY. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Talking Fashion


everyone in the room, but keep enough distance to look at people with a knowing eye. “Instead of finding the model who looks like the girl, we will get you the actual girl,” Chandler says. Actual is the perfect word to describe their aesthetic: Their models manage to look like no one else—not even other models. Many of them are striking women in their 30s with careers as artists, including sculptor Olympia Scarry, painter Whitney Claflin, and Zumi Rosow, a jewelry designer who had the fashion world talking when she unexpectedly walked Balenciaga and Vetements last spring. “It’s exciting to feel supported by people who are looking for something that is other,” Rosow says. “We’re trying to build a family,” Pearce adds. Pearce and Chandler got to know each other two years ago while casting for Hood By Air. “I appreciated the fact that Rachel was showing me women who were not cute, ‘major’ girls,” says designer Shayne Oliver. “They were women who spoke effectively without being spoken to.” Pearce soon began working for Oliver as a casting assistant, plucking young men from Instagram and from the street. “It wasn’t him checking boxes based on the Rolodex in front of him,” Oliver says. “It was him being aware of attitudes and finding them through the models.” (This fall, German photographer Wolfgang Tillmans walked Hood By Air in what was regarded as a NYFW coup.) Both Hood By Air and Eckhaus Latta started out by casting their friends; as they’ve grown, they’ve developed a more elevated—but still extremely specific— ethos. “The main question is ‘How do we keep the Eckhaus Latta friends-and-family structure, but at the same time refine it in a way that is exciting and new?’ ” says Mike Eckhaus. “It’s important for us to find people who have life to them.” “We are a casting agency, but community is really important to us and to the brands we work with,” Chandler says. It’s a good strategy as brands gravitate toward a specific energy—something almost beyond definition, though less gendered, less overtly “beautiful”; something beyond words. As Oliver puts it: “Cool means nothing.” —KATHERINE BERNARD

A FENDI DRESS AND LOEWE BAG.

AMY ADAMS IN EMILIO PUCCI.

A MARC JACOBS PRINT.

Paradise

FOUND Cheerful tropical prints and hula motifs signal a seasonless optimism. NAOMI WATTS IN ROKSANDA.

TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 3 4

RUN, DON’T WALK OLYMPIC TRACK STAR TORI BOWIE WALKS IN TELFAR SPRING 2017 SHOW, WHICH WAS CAST BY PEARCE.

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A SUNNY PALM PRINT. FO R FA S H I O N NEWS AND F E AT U R E S , G O T O VO G U E . C O M

BOWIE: MARCUS TONDO/VOGUERUNWAY.COM. ADAMS: ERNESTO RUSCIO/GE T T Y IMAG ES. JACO BS : COU RT ESY O F MARC JACO BS. WAT TS : STEFANIA D’ALESSAN D RO/G E T T Y IMAG ES . ALL OT HE RS : PHIL O H.

Talking Fashion


Talking Fashion

TNT

Elisabeth TNT navigates the go-go New York collections with breathless verve.

HERO WORSHIP ABOVE: WE STOPPED FOR A CLASSIC NEW YORK PHOTO OP EN ROUTE TO THE MARCHESA SHOW.

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ew York Fashion Week is the alpha dog of the season’s calendar. I remember rushing about like a headless chicken my first year at Vogue, overwhelmed by the street photographers, the September heat (was it not meant to be fall?), the traffic, the sheer number of events—and hitching a ride with a senior Vogue editor who showed me her diary, which made mine seem like a quiet day at the beach. She confided with a big smile that her assistant warned her that morning that her day was “physically impossible” to accomplish. I still find it overwhelming (we all do), but somehow— maybe it’s New York’s je ne sais quoi—the week just works. Take Marc Jacobs: always a spectacle and the only show that starts sharply on time. Or Michael Kors: the season’s happy pill. I sit there front row with a silly smile while the industry’s fairest beauties strut past—Carolyn Murphy, Jamie Bochert, Kendall Jenner, Bella Hadid, Taylor Hill. I always love the

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energy at Proenza Schouler. Those boys have the coolest front row: Dan Colen, Jen Brill, Lauren Santo Domingo, Alexa Chung, Natasha Lyonne, the Traina sisters. And did I mention Rodarte? Who doesn’t love bobbing to the Velvet Underground, surrounded by neon lighting and woodland decor? Thakoon had us near the Brooklyn Bridge on a balmy night, the sun slowly setting, the sparkling city bathed in a golden glow. Magical. Eckhaus Latta staged its show in a park on the Lower East Side on a makeshift runway, casting mostly non-model models, friends, artists, and cool kids. And the Hood By Air show was undeniably a conversation starter, with sharp slogans, an original cast, strange music, a punk attitude, and a voice of its own. As for nightly pleasures, my standout was an intimate gathering at Adam Lippes’s home. The likes of Hayley Bloomingdale, Sarah Hoover, and Elettra Wiedemann mingled in his exquisitely decorated Greenwich Village apartment. Grilled steaks and veggies were served along two tables dressed in floral porcelain by Costanza Paravicini of Laboratorio Paravicini in Milan. The chicest detail of all: linen napkins embroidered in India and monogrammed by hand by his studio here in New York. No photographers, no crowds—everyone was there for Adam and not to see and be seen. 

WANT MORE OF THE UNEXPECTED? FOLLOW TNT’S ADVENTURES AT VOGUE .COM/TNT. BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE 2017 CHEVROLET MALIBU.

FI RE TRUC K: COU RT ESY O F E MM A E LW I CK- BAT ES. P LAT ES : A DA M LI P P ES/ © I N STAG RA M. BRO OK LYN B RI D G E: E LI SA BE TH TN T/ © I N STAG RA M.

IN LIVING COLOR ABOVE: ADAM LIPPES’S DINNER FEATURED STUNNING HAND-PAINTED PORCELAIN PLATES. LEFT: THE VIEW AT THAKOON’S SHOW ALMOST RIVALED THE CLOTHES.


MATERIAL GIRLS LOOKS FROM DESIGNERS IN F.I.T.’S “BLACK FASHION DESIGNERS” SHOW. LEFT: MADONNA AT HOME IN A DRESS BY PATRICK KELLY, VOGUE, 1989. ABOVE: STEPHEN BURROWS AND HIS MODEL SUPPORTERS, VOGUE, 1977.

On with

the SHOWS

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’m looking ahead to a slew of fabulous fashionthemed exhibitions in the coming months. At the Anna Wintour Costume Center at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, “Masterworks: Unpacking Fashion” celebrates recent acquisitions and design resonances across the decades—from a wasp-waisted Jean-Philippe Worth gown from the 1890s, decorated with a flock of butterflies, to Sarah Burton’s own miraculous 2011 butterflyswarmed minidress for McQueen.

The Chicago History Museum honors its city’s great native couturier Mainbocher, a former French Vogue editor whose Paris and Manhattan establishments dressed the Duchess of Windsor and fellow immaculates for decades, while the Phoenix Art Museum showcases innovative eighties fashion in “Emphatics.” Meanwhile, Paris’s Les Arts Décoratifs explores what has constituted scandale in dress in “Quand le Vêtement Fait Scandale,” and London’s Barbican investigates the changing notions of what constitutes “The Vulgar.” At Manhattan’s Museum at F.I.T., meanwhile, you can catch “Proust’s Muse” (the fabled Comtesse Greffulhe) and “Black Fashion Designers,” which applauds the thrilling diversity (and sometimes unsung contributions) represented in the museum’s collections, from the New Yorker Ann Lowe, who made the romantic wedding dress for Jacqueline Kennedy, to today’s Duro Olowu and Hood By Air’s Shayne Oliver—via disco divas Scott Barrie and Stephen Burrows, the antic eighties’ Patrick Kelly and Andre Walker, and Harlem’s hip-hop-king couturier Dapper Dan. —HAMISH BOWLES

Television’s NEW LOOK

I have been amusing myself no end with BBC Worldwide’s The Collection, a tale of derring-do set in a Parisian couture house in the years immediately following the Second World War, starring Tom Riley, Richard Coyle, Mamie Gummer, newcomer Jenna Thiam, and Frances de la Tour as the bloodhound matriarch. The production design evokes the dusty glamour of that post-Occupation period, while the costumes by Chattoune + Fab—a.k.a. Françoise Bourrec and Fabien Esnard-Lascombe, who dressed Anna Mouglalis in Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky and collaborated with Karl Lagerfeld and Jean Paul Gaultier—bring to life the world of Pierre Balmain, Jacques Fath, Robert Piguet, and Marcel Rochas. The show takes me back to my student internship at Lachasse in London, then under the direction of Peter Lewis Crown (who, at Saint Martin’s, also taught John Galliano and me how to pad-stitch a jacket’s revers). Many of the clients (and perhaps a model or two) had been with the house since the era in which The Collection is set. I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more.—H.B. SKIRTING AROUND DESIGNERS CHATTOUNE + FAB’S DIOR-INSPIRED CREATION FOR JENNA THIAM.

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MA DO N NA : PAT RI C K D E MA RCH ELI ER/CON D É N AST A RCH I V E. BU RROWS: O LI V I E RO TOSCANI/COND É NAST ARCH IVE. SKIRTING AROUND : NICK BR IGGS/LOOKOUT POINT 20 16.

The Hamish Files


WOMEN: NEW PORTRAITS ANNIE LEIBOVITZ Over four and a half decades, Annie Leibovitz has refined the art of portraiture in images that are profound, provocative, and revelatory of the times we live in. Her photographs for American Vogue and Vanity Fair, and for books and exhibitions, have brought us an extraordinary range of subjects from the most celebrated to the most humble. In “Women,” an exhibition that opened at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., sixteen years ago, Leibovitz’s lens captured female Supreme Court justices, senators, artists, athletes, maids, mothers, businesswomen, comedians, actors, architects, and soldiers. Amplifying that phenomenal body of work, Leibovitz, with exclusive commissioning partner and leading global wealth manager UBS, is presenting the traveling exhibition “WOMEN: New Portraits.” Ten cities—London, Tokyo, San Francisco, Singapore, Hong Kong, Mexico City, Milan, Frankfurt, New York, and Zurich—are hosts to the photographer’s response to changes in the roles of women. Images from the original project are presented alongside recent subjects, all of whom touch our lives today.

“WOMEN: New Portraits” Bayview Correctional Facility, the future home of the Women’s Building 550 West Twentieth Street, New York, New York 10011 November 18–December 11, 2016 www.ubs.com/annieleibovitz #WOMENxUBS by #AnnieLeibovitz

The former women’s prison is being transformed by the NoVo Foundation and the Lela Goren Group into a global hub for the girls’ and women’s rights movement.

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Patti Smith, musician, writer, artist, Far Rockaway, Queens, New York, 2016 She has been making music and art since the early 1970s, when she stood in front of her band in skinny jeans and a ripped T-shirt, giving ecstatic, charismatic, profane performances that merged poetry and rock ’n’ roll. Downtown New York clubs were her natural milieu, but in 1975 she made an album for a major record label. This was Horses, which is now pretty unanimously considered one of the greatest rock albums of all time. In the cover photograph, taken by her friend Robert Mapplethorpe, she gazes out insolently, her black jacket tossed over the shoulder of a white man’s shirt. She has had only one Top 40 hit—“Because the Night”— in a long career, but her influence has been significant, on fashion as well as music. She has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and won the 2010 National Book Award for Just Kids, a memoir of her relationship with Mapplethorpe. For the fortieth anniversary of Horses, she and the band performed live versions around the world.


Denise and Linamandla Manong, pediatric-AIDS health-care worker and her daughter, Khayelitsha township, Western Cape, South Africa, 2014 A grassroots, Africanbased organization called mothers2mothers is having great success reducing the number of babies born HIV positive. Denise is living with HIV, but her children are not. When she became pregnant and discovered that she was infected with the virus, she was put on a drugtreatment regimen that kept her healthy and prevented the transmission of HIV to her baby. A Mentor Mother, a local woman who was also HIV positive and who was employed and trained by mothers2mothers, supplied the support and advice that overburdened health-care facilities could not. After the birth of her daughter, Denise herself became one of more than 1,000 Mentor Mothers in sub-Saharan Africa who have helped to virtually eliminate HIV in babies born in the mothers2mothers program.


Andrea Medina Rosas, women’s rights lawyer, Chimalhuacán, Mexico, 2016 Her mother is a feminist who founded a women’s rights organization when Andrea was a teenager. The first woman who came to them for help was a victim of domestic violence. That was the beginning of Andrea’s involvement in the defense of victims of sexual violence and also the protection of their defenders. The watershed event for Mexican feminists of Andrea’s generation was the recognition, starting in the early 1990s, that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young women in and near Ciudad Juárez, across the border from El Paso, were being abducted, tortured, and murdered. Andrea was a member of the litigating team in what became known as the Campo Algodonero case, which was brought before the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in 2007. Campo Algodonero is an abandoned cotton field in Ciudad Juárez where the bodies of eight young women were found. The case was brought against the government of Mexico for violating its human rights obligations to investigate, prosecute, and prevent crimes against women and girls. In 2009, the plaintiffs won. The Mexican state was required to comply with a broad set of remedial measures, including reopening investigations into disappearances, providing reparations to the families of victims, and developing a clear set of procedures for assuring human rights for women. Andrea was photographed in the municipality of Chimalhuacán, which is part of the greater Mexico City urban area. She is standing near a spot where pink crosses are erected to memorialize the murdered women whose bodies have been found there.


Alexandra Fuller, writer, Kelly, Wyoming, 2016 She grew up in what was then Rhodesia—later Zimbabwe—in the 1970s, during the brutal civil war that ended in the defeat of the white government. Fuller’s parents were British farmers who stayed in Africa after they lost their land. When she was in her early 20s, she married an American who was working as a river guide on the Zambezi River. They moved to Wyoming, where she raised three children and began writing. Her books, which include the memoirs Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight (2001) and Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness (2011), take a precise and personal approach to issues such as racism and segregation. She is an uninhibited witness, both wry and poetic in her account of a childhood in which spitting cobras in the pantry, malaria, alcoholism, and land mines were taken for granted, along with the fierce beauty of the country and the complex passions of her eccentric mother and father.


James Franco, actor, director, producer, artist, writer, and Marina Abramović, performance artist, New York City, 2016 The body is Marina Abramović’s subject. Her work inflicts all kinds of ordeals and mortifications on her own flesh. She has ingested antipsychotic drugs that caused temporary catatonia, hurled herself at walls, passed out and nearly died in a ring of flames, cut a five-pointed star into her abdomen with a razor blade, and let an audience do anything they wanted to her for six hours, including possibly shooting her. In 1997 she won the Golden Lion at the Venice Biennale for a performance in which for four days she scrubbed bloody and maggot-infested cow bones in a basement. For 77 days in 2010, she sat immobile for eight to ten hours in the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, gazing at spectators, one at a time, who waited in line to be able to sit across from her. Hundreds of thousands of people lined up, some of them overnight, to get a chance to participate. She has just written a memoir, Walk Through Walls. This photograph is a work in progress.


Beauty ST I LL LI FE : LUCAS V I SS ER. BAC KG ROUND : MEH RON PARAD ISE GLITTER IN PASTEL SKY BLUE. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Flecks

EDITOR: CELIA ELLENBERG

Appeal

i

It shimmers, it shines,but can a new wave of grown-up glitter transcend its craft-party past? Jessica Kerwin Jenkins gets a sparkle in her eye.

’d been living in our hand-built, ten-by-twelve-foot cabin in Maine for more than six weeks when the box arrived. As with all such packages, its smallness belied the power of its contents—a dozen shining pots of cosmetic glitter that tumbled onto the cedar deck. And there they lay, utterly foreign in this leafy place, and perfectly fascinating. The idea of exploring the abundance of glitter that has breezed its way onto the

runway in recent months may never have landed so strange. But as sophisticated applications (patted onto mouths) and unconventional placements (traced just beneath brows) have elevated these shimmering flecks beyond the teen realm, they have also lured a born-again minimalist like me, who left more complicated makeup behind when I bade farewell to life in Paris nine years ago. New riffs, like makeup B E A U T Y >1 6 2

FLASH FORWARD MODEL GRACE ELIZABETH, IN A BALENCIAGA SWEATER, PHOTOGRAPHED BY BEN HASSETT. MAKEUP, PAT MCGRATH LABS; HAIR, ILKER AKYOL. FASHION EDITOR: JASMINE HASSETT.


Makeup

artist Pat McGrath’s stunning spin on crimson lips at Atelier Versace, sparkling like a pair of ruby slippers, were hard to resist—and I was certainly not alone. In August, when Pat McGrath Labs launched Lust 004—four limited-edition kits inspired by the look—the traffic crashed her e-commerce site. Back in the day, I did glitter, donning it as eye shadow in the early eighties to match my roller-disco outfits; in the midnineties, when I was a fashion assistant and weekend raver, it accessorized my vinyl platform boots and psychedelic thrifted minis. With McGrath’s innovation in mind, perhaps it was time to circle back. Before rushing off to a cocktail party—just a few people in a neighbor’s garden—I applied a favorite red Nars lipstick as a base, then carefully uncapped a vial of NYX’s scarlet scales, remembering a friend whose DJ neighbor used to send glitter drifting down the hall each time he shut his door. I loved the depth and the electric starkness of the look, but my mouth felt coated with frosting and crumbs. Only later would I learn, at McGrath’s suggestion, that a top layer of lip gloss will keep glitter sealed in. She also counsels restraint: “You don’t have to do the real [runway] encrust. Just use a tiny bit.” Fundamentally, glitter requires delicate decisiveness. It’s sticky, and it gets everywhere. Days after my first experiment, I found microscopic pieces twinkling on my kids, on the tops of my shoes, on my computer’s keyboard, somehow on a neighbor’s cat—like a pretty contagion. Despite adhesives like MAC’s Mixing Medium pomade or eyelash glue,

which can give it a longer life on skin, glitter’s temporariness is what makes it so well suited to fashion shows—those twelve-minute surges of creativity—and less so, perhaps, to a late-summer barbecue. “What’s interesting is that it is so ephemeral,” a painter friend remarked when, undeterred, I pulled out the sparkles again. “Glitter is the Snapchat of makeup,” she declared. It brought to mind a beloved glitter moment from years past, when Björk, elfin and waifish, appeared on the cover of her 1993 Debut album with a faux teardrop shining under each lower lash line. The glint held something primal, mysterious, and spacey. And here is where I found my glitter spirit animal. Not in the glam-rock lids makeup artist Aaron de Mey fabricated at Hedi Slimane’s final menswear show for Saint Laurent earlier this year, but in the savvy, modern way Wendy Rowe created Burberry’s fall beauty look. “You need to wear glitter differently than how you wear eye shadow for it to be cool,” Rowe explains of the mingled flecks of copper and navy that dusted cheekbones and pooled under models’ eyes. “It’s important to keep the application organic and random.” Encouraged by that nonchalance, I skimmed a thin line of glue from my brow bone to my temple and coated it with gold glitter. Decisive. Delicate. And kind of gorgeous. My daughters were awestruck as I set up lunch outside. It felt both playfully daring and surprisingly appropriate to lounge on our picnic blanket, glistening in the midday sun.  B E A U T Y >1 6 4

“What’s interesting is that it is so ephemeral. Glitter is the Snapchat of makeup”

Health

SEE Change

Ever since Warby Parker put the direct-to-consumer model on the map in 2010, the eyewear start-up’s disruptive approach has been applied to everything from V-necks (Everlane) to razors (Harry’s) to mattresses (Casper). This month, vision comes back into focus with a cheery new subscription service called Hubble, which aims to revolutionize the way we procure our contact lenses. Twenty-somethings Jesse Horwitz and Ben Cogan—founders, friends, and comrades in nearsightedness— unwittingly started their research years ago, “paying out the nose for contacts,” says Cogan, whose curiosity was piqued when his usual order drastically spiked in cost. What he learned—that four large companies control the lion’s share of the American market, with wildly inflated prices to match—led to a business plan and, soon, a trip to Taiwan, where he and Horwitz found a top-notch (and FDA-approved) factory to help them shake up the lens landscape. Hubble’s daily-use contacts come at a relative bargain ($30 per month, or $264 for a year’s supply) and in zippy, colorful packaging by the Brooklyn design firm Athletics. What good is a contact-lens reboot if it’s not easy on the eyes?—LAURA REGENSDORF

COU RT ESY OF HU BB LE

Beauty


Beauty Skin Care Bringing Up

Bébé

How did your child’s skin-care products get even chicer than yours?

SPECIAL DELIVERY ABOVE: MODEL SASHA PIVOVAROVA WITH HER DAUGHTER, MIA ISIS, PHOTOGRAPHED BY BOO GEORGE, VOGUE, 2013.

NATURE AND NURTURE THE NEW ORGANIC BABY RANGE BY CHANTECAILLE USES CALMING INGREDIENTS, INCLUDING CORNFLOWER, (ABOVE) AND CHAMOMILE.

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P RODUCTS : LUCAS V I SS ER. CO RN FLOW E RS : B LA NCA SA N C HE Z/G E TT Y IM AG ES.

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o all the gear and gadgets parents pack when traveling with small children, you can now add a bulging infant cosmetics bag. We’ve become used to parsing babies’ foods for additives, and as the products we put on young skin and hair are likewise coming under greater scrutiny, beauty companies are jumping in to fill the void. When Olivia Chantecaille gave birth to her daughter, Delphina, close to three years ago, the creative director of Chantecaille—the New York–based luxury skin-care brand—wasn’t willing to compromise when it came to the soaps and salves she used at bath time. “Everything seemed to contain fragrance, or the texture wasn’t quite right,” Chantecaille says. So she set out creating this month’s Chantecaille Bébé, a new collection of organic baby beauty essentials that has been rigorously formulated to meet Europe’s stringent Cosmetic Organic Standard (COSMOS). The rumblings of a baby boom have extended to other established natural-beauty players, like London’s Pai Skincare and the L.A.–bred Beautycounter—both of which have recently added products specially formulated for infants and toddlers. “Kids have a much bigger body-surface area compared with their body weight than adults,” explains Katherine Püttgen, M.D., the division chief of pediatric dermatology at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. That ratio leads to an increased rate of absorption, meaning that children “have a higher chance of having side effects from medications and other products.” As mothers discover these sensitivities, they’re seeking out pure, plant-based formulations that can be multitasking—and multigenerational. Chantecaille’s new three-piece line contains an anti-inflammatory base of organic cornflower, chamomile, and lime-tree floral waters that also goes a long way toward soothing women’s postpartum complexions, which may be stressed from hormones and lack of sleep. She has already added next month’s apricot-and-tamanu-spiked body oil to her own daily regimen—a boon to consolidation efforts. It’s so blissfully effective, you may find yourself traveling with only one bottle: to share.—ESTHER ADAMS ACHARA B E A U T Y >1 7 0


Beauty

Fitness

Lift

Off

A conversion to climbing takes Meaghen Brown to new heights of fıtness.

ON THE ROCKS AMONG CLIMBING’S MANY BENEFITS ARE TONED LEGS AND A STRONGER CORE. MODEL CAROLINE TRENTINI, PHOTOGRAPHED BY STEVEN KLEIN FOR VOGUE, 2008.

L

et me tell you about my back. Or, more to the point, the deltoid muscles that jut from my shoulders like a pair of superfine arrowheads. And then there are my triceps. I’m still nowhere near the realm of Michelle Obama (who is?), but it’s hard to summon the desire to hide my newly toned arms in any of this fall’s oversize cashmere sweaters. I owe it all to my sudden love of indoor climbing. Until not long ago, I’d been happy with a daily combination of yoga and trail running, a one-two punch that kept my mood and body in check. In Santa Fe, where I live, climbing is a way of life, and everybody seems to be supplementing days at the crag with visits to the climbing gym. I’d read enough Jon Krakauer to know that an activity designed to mimic suffering atop an icy peak was not my thing. After a long campaign, my boyfriend, Matthew, finally got me to join him

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at the gym when his belay partner (the person on the ground at the other end of a climbing rope) was sidelined with a broken finger. “Just this one time,” I agreed. Once practiced largely by spunky children in need of an outlet for their energy, indoor climbing is catching on with people old enough to have SoulCycle accounts. A slew of new devotees have discovered the discipline’s physical benefits and find it to be a more interesting way to tone up than a regular gym routine. Dedicated climbing walls are sprouting up in every hipster enclave (for example, there are three in Brooklyn, with a fourth on the way), and the sport will make its Olympic debut in Tokyo in 2020. Models Jasmine Tookes and Stella Maxwell are scaling walls, and actors Ansel Elgort and Daniel Radcliffe both have been spotted at Brooklyn Boulders. Shona Jones, a former member of the Maison Margiela design team (and an occasional on the Vetements catwalk), visited her first climbing wall three years ago, in B E A U T Y >1 7 2

FO R B E AU T Y N E W S A N D F E AT U R E S , G O TO VO G U E . C O M


Beauty

Fitness

London. This past summer she moved to Los Angeles to focus on art and to teach climbing. “It’s visceral—you feel really free,” the 29-year-old London native tells me. “You’re able to let go of everything that normally troubles you. You can’t think about what’s for dinner when you’re holding on for dear life.” On my first trip to the climbing gym, the atmosphere was less mountain man than industrial fun house, with the Rolling Stones at full blast and bodies crawling up—and dangling off— the walls’ colorful constellations of plastic holds. Most of the women wore the unofficial uniform of leggings and cropped Tshirts paired with climbing shoes, which look like soccer cleats’ pointy-toed cousins and are the only special gear required. Many climbing gyms have areas dedicated to bouldering, where climbers navigate shorter walls without the aid of partners or equipment. The taller, less undulating walls are designated for sport climbing, which involves ropes and a partner. With the gym-issued harness snugly fastened around my waist and Matthew standing below, holding the rope taut, I was grateful that I could pause midair without immediately falling off the wall. There was nothing like the endorphin rush of swinging high aboveground as I reached for the ceiling. It’s easy to become addicted to anything that triggers a forgotten love of shimmying across the monkey bars as a young girl. The activity is a lot like dancing—it requires a combination of technique and strength that looks effortless and feels punishing. “There are over 30 muscles in the hand, wrist, and fingers alone,” explains Jared Vagy, a Los Angeles–based

physical therapist who specializes in climbers. “These are essential to grip onto smaller holds.” For all my devotion to keeping fit, I discovered as soon as I was a regular at the wall that I’d neglected these muscles, as well as dozens of others, including one in my big toe that is necessary for balancing on pebble-size footholds. Climbing builds the sort of lithe, lean figure that so many of us aspire to, Scott Johnston, a climbing trainer in Mazama, Washington, tells me. A difficult hour-long session can burn upwards of 500 calories. “You don’t see a lot of overweight rock climbers,” says Chris Martell, senior instructor at Chelsea Piers in Manhattan. “People think it’s primarily about your upper-body strength, but you need to engage your core to keep your body close to the wall so you don’t fall.” Practicing my newfound passion, little by little I became fitter. My abs started to look more defined, my legs were firmer, and when friends invited us to Capriccio at the Santa Fe Opera one night, I said yes, if only to have an excuse to wear an open-back dress. Six months after that maiden day at the gym, Matthew and I traveled to Wyoming’s snowpatched Teton mountains for my first big outdoor ascent. The wind was high as we carried our harnesses, helmets, and packs up to the pitches we’d come to climb. Translating my new moves 6,000 feet above the valley floor was wildly thrilling. I balanced on tiny grooves and reached for higher holds. Breathless with pleasure, not fear, I didn’t once think about the cold. 

HIGHER Education Learn the ropes at these climbing gyms.

Hollywood Boulders, Los Angeles Climbers of all skill levels can find their boulder problems— there are some 200—at this West Coast mecca, located in an 11,000-squarefoot former prop lot.

The Cliffs at LIC, New York City Wall Street warriors and the fifteen-yearold pro climber Ashima Shiraishi come to Long Island City to train at this light-filled, 20,000square-foot gym.

Earth Treks, Crystal City, VA Inside the Capital Beltway stands one of the country’s biggest gyms, with 400 cleverly named routes (“The Protagonist,” “The Marriage of Figaro”).

First Ascent, Chicago New to the up-andcoming Logan Square neighborhood, this climbing gym is Chicago’s largest. The crowd includes pro climber Michaela Kiersch.

Inspire Rock, Houston Train on the 43foot-high climbing arches and stay post-climb for a snack. The café’s burger was recently named Best in Texas.

touchstoneclimbing.com

thecliffsclimbing.com

earthtreksclimbing.com

firstascentclimbing.com

—ROSE COURTEAU

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inspirerock.com

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COU RT ESY OF T HE C LI FFS AT LI C

OVER THE RAINBOW THE CLIFFS, LOCATED IN A FORMER WAREHOUSE NEAR THE EAST RIVER, COVERS ITS 45-FOOT-HIGH WALLS IN SUNNY COLORS.


People AreTalking About

Talent

d

Fit to be KING

Fresh off the London stage, Matt Smith returns to the small screen as Prince Philip in Netflix’s lush new series The Crown.

ressed in floppy navy sweatpants, sweatshirt, sneakers, giant headphones, and a back-tofront baseball cap, the British actor Matt Smith, 33, strolls incognito into Colbert, a French brasserie in London’s Sloane Square. Damp from the downpour outside, he is relaxed and smiling despite the fact that he is due to go onstage in around an hour at the Royal

Court Theatre next door, starring as an egomaniacal film director in Anthony Neilson’s improvised comedy Unreachable. Having started his career as one of the most exciting stage actors of his generation—he shone in The History Boys at the National Theatre and as Patrick Bateman in the London production of American Psycho—Smith has become something of a national treasure in Britain, P ATA >1 7 6

THE ACTOR IN A RALPH LAUREN BLAZER AND TROUSERS AND AN ORLEY POLO.

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RON A N M C KE NZ I E. SI TT I N G S E DI TOR : GA RTH SP E NC ER. HA I R, A LE XA N D ER SOLT ER MANN; MAKEUP, MEGUMI MATSUNO. PRODUCED BY CA LU M WA LS H AT ROSCO PRODUCTION. PHOTOGRAPHED AT DALSTON HEIGHTS, LONDON. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

EDITOR: VALERIE STEIKER


People Are Talking About especially since playing the iconic Doctor Who from 2010 to 2014. Today, sitting in a corner banquette, he attracts more than his fair share of longing looks from the swishy-haired, Sloaney girls having tea at the neighboring tables. (Sorry, he’s taken—his girlfriend is the actress Lily James, with whom he starred in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.) Raised in the English countryside, Smith is the son of a businessman father and a mother who “did a million dif-

SMITH AND COSTAR CLAIRE FOY BRING TO LIFE A YOUNG ROYAL COUPLE IN TRANSITION.

ferent jobs.” An outstanding footballer, he was all set to go professional but, at sixteen, had to quit because of a back injury. At a schoolteacher’s suggestion, he joined a production of Twelve Angry Men. “He was convinced I could be an actor,” Smith says. “I thought acting was a bit silly, but I did that play, and I suddenly felt quite enthusiastic about it.” He joined the National Youth Theatre and went on to study creative writing and drama at the University of East Anglia.

Art

Shared HISTORY Born the second of ten children in Morgan County, Georgia, Benny Andrews (1930–2006) was shaped as an artist by his sharecropper roots, his engagement with politics, and his belief that Surrealism was the truest expression of the AfricanAmerican experience. Timed to the election, Chelsea’s Michael Rosenfeld Gallery brings together “Benny Andrews: The Bicentennial Series,” a monumental group of works he began in 1969, combining Thomas Hart Benton’s figurative Regionalism with dreamlike elements drawn from African-American tradition. “Benny understood that if you don’t provide access to your own story,” says Pellom McDaniels III, a curator at Emory University, “it will not be told.”—LESLIE CAMHI ANDREWS’S SOUTHERN LANDSCAPE, 1965.

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Charming, affable, and clever, Smith was an easy fit for his latest role: the young, glamorous Prince Philip in Netflix’s new show The Crown. Created by Peter Morgan (Frost/ Nixon, The Queen) and codirected by Stephen Daldry (Billy Elliot, The Hours), The Crown also stars Claire Foy as the young Elizabeth, Jared Harris in a standout performance as King George VI, John Lithgow as Winston Churchill, and Eileen Atkins as Queen Mary. “The moment I saw Matt in the room, lanky and dangerous and confident and a little wild, I thought he was our Philip,” says Morgan. For anyone suffering costume-drama withdrawal after the end of Downton Abbey, this series offers castles and palaces, twinsets and tweeds, and sailor-suited children galore. Underplayed and understated, and shot in gloomy English light as if under a veil of postwar austerity, The Crown feels like an authentic representation of royal life. “When Elizabeth became queen, the dynamic between her and Philip shifted. I think they both struggled,” says Foy. “Smith somehow makes Philip conflicted, loving, charming, strong, and exciting . . . and he looks really good in a blond wig!” The show opens in 1947, just five years before Princess Elizabeth becomes queen. We watch as Philip gives up his birthright (he was born Prince Philip of Greece and Denmark) for his Duke of Edinburgh title. “He was a young man who had a great career in the making, and all that was stripped away from him,” observes Smith, who read biographies, watched archive film, and listened to recordings to try to capture that very particular “royal” accent. “I didn’t want to do a caricature.” On set, fiction did occasionally tip over into reality. He and Foy would “laugh at the absurdity of it,” he says, “because you stand there and people start to treat you like the prince and princess. We’d hear the crew saying, ‘Philip and the queen have arrived.’ ”—PLUM SYKES P ATA >1 7 8

TA LEN T: A L EX BA I LEY/N ET FL IX . A RT: BE NN Y A N D REWS. SOU TH ER N L AN DSCAPE , 1965. OIL ON CANVAS, 33" X 40". MO RR IS MUSEUM O F A RT, AUGUSTA , G EO RG IA . BRI D G E MA N IM AG ES. © ESTATE O F BENNY AND R EWS/LICENSED BY VAGA, NEW YOR K, NY.

Talent

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People Are Talking About Up Next growing obsession with a college classmate gone missing. “Alia has the ability to seem genuinely unconventional,” observes executive producer Michael Showalter, “while also being someone everyone can relate to.” Meeting me for lunch at her favorite bakery in Venice, California, she bikes up in checked shorts and a sun hat, her face a bouquet of freckles, and recommends the smokedfish sandwich (“You like labneh?”). The daughter of Palm Springs nightclub owners (her father was born in Baghdad; her mom’s the daughter of TV star Paul Burke), Shawkat says that she was instantly drawn

THE ACTRESS IN A MISSONI SWEATER, A VERSACE TOP, AND ELLERY JEANS.

to Search Party’s vivid portrait of a brainy, not always likable young woman struggling to figure out who she really is. “Everybody in our

Dance

ince playing the scheming Maeby Fünke on Arrested Development, 27-year-old Alia Shawkat has flashed her rapier timing in comedies from Broad City to Getting On (don’t miss her turn later this month as Alexander Hamilton in Drunk History). Her work achieves a new depth in TBS’s offbeat comic mystery series Search Party, which joins Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag and Issa Rae’s Insecure in moving deeper into territory first claimed by Girls. Shawkat brings an air of watchful decency to Dory, a dazed Brooklynite who has a lousy job, self-absorbed friends, and a

Design

Pattern PLAY “My dream would be to see the walls of a room upholstered in it,” says Carolina Irving of her debut line of velvets: traditional ikat embroideries from southern India and Indonesia reimagined in rich hues of amethyst and amber. “It’s much more romantic to me,” the Paris-based textile designer says of the collection’s antique feel. “I don’t like things that are too new or too bright.”—SAMANTHA REES

generation wants to comment on how we don’t know what we want.” She gives a big smile. “It’s a very verbal generation.” —JOHN POWERS P ATA >1 8 0

TEAM Spirit The late Merce Cunningham introduced choreographer Jonah Bokaer and visual artist Daniel Arsham more than a decade ago; the duo have been collaborating ever since. Now Pharrell Williams is joining the party. Arriving at BAM this month, “Rules of the Game” is a performance set to an original score by Williams and arranged by David Campbell; it features dusty-pink costumes by CVFF finalist Stampd, a projection of ceramic basketballs shattering in slow motion (recalling both Jeff Koons and Ai Weiwei’s famous protest), and music that fluctuates between classical composition and contemporary electronica. “It was an educational process for me,” says Williams, who calls his partners “true masters at work.”—MARK GUIDUCCI

VOGUE.COM

U P N EXT: CO LU M BI N E G O LDS MI T H. S IT T I N G S ED I TO R: M A R P E ID RO. HA I R, TE RRI WALKER FOR OR IBE; MA KEU P, SA N D RA GA NZ ER. P RO DUCE D BY CON N ECT TH E D OTS IN C. D ES I G N : LUCAS VISSER . D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

s

That GIRL


People Are Talking About

Movies Otto Bell’s Oscar nomination–bound documentary The Eagle Huntress features the year’s most dazzling young heroine: Aisholpan, a thirteen-year-old Mongolian girl who hopes to become that rare thing, a female eagle hunter. And so she climbs deadly rock faces and trains a huge, sharp-taloned golden eagle to land–smack!–right on her arm. With her lovely, apple-cheeked smile, boundless courage, and loving rapport with these magnificent birds, Aisholpan is a portrait of inspiring determination. You get close encounters of an equally thrilling kind in Arrival, based on an acclaimed story by Ted Chiang. In a moving, deeply felt performance, Amy Adams stars as Dr. Louise Banks, a linguistics professor who gets called in by the government after twelve huge alien spaceships begin hovering over the Earth. Her mission? To communicate with the E.T.s and discover why they’ve come. She does just that, and in the process, Denis Villeneuve’s immaculately made film becomes a mind-bending exploration of time, cultural openness, and how we give life meaning.—J.P. AISHOLPAN SETS OFF TO BECOME A MASTER EAGLE HUNTRESS.

Travel

MIAMI Rhapsody “It’s like watching a great movie where everything looks like it belongs,” says hotelier Michael Satsky of the Art Deco mise-en-scène at the Plymouth Hotel in Miami Beach’s Collins Park district. The storied 1940 property (which housed GIs in the Second World War) reopens this month after a scrupulous restoration. With the pool relocated to its original spot, the 110-room boutique hotel, designed by Chateau Marmont’s Fernando Santangelo, is full of vintage pieces and retro charm, along with modern updates like a Blue Ribbon Sushi outpost and staff dressed by Rag & Bone. Less than two miles up the beach, another landmark hotel, the 1955 Miami Modern–style Eden Roc, has been (partly) reincarnated as the 206-room Nobu Hotel—a hotel within a hotel opening this month, just in time for Art Basel Miami Beach. Along with Zen-like interiors featuring cherry-blossom wall coverings and cerused-wood furnishings, the property will feature two restaurants: Nobu, of course, and the buzzy West Coast import Malibu Farm. “It’s exciting to take a historic property and make it new again,” says chef Nobu Matsuhisa.—LILAH RAMZI P ATA >1 8 2 TWO ICONIC BEACHSIDE HOTELS GET A REMAKE.

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Talk to ME


People Are Talking About

Theater

YOURS Truly Nia Vardalos stars in Tiny Beautiful Things, based on Cheryl Strayed’s best-selling book of advice columns.

THE ACTRESS IN A DOLCE & GABBANA DRESS.

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DA N I BRUBA K ER. S I T TI N G S E DI TOR : DJ UN A BE L. HA I R, M A KI KO N A RA ; MA KEUP, SAND RA GANZ ER . D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

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hree years ago, the director Thomas Kail read Tiny Beautiful Things, a collection of Cheryl Strayed’s beloved “Dear Sugar” advice columns, and immediately saw its theatrical potential. “It was her ability to be a ballast for these people who had reached out to her with such incredible honesty and humanity, and her desire to meet them right where they were,” he says. He gave a copy to his friend the writer and actress Nia Vardalos, who sobbed her way through it during a flight to L.A. Now Kail (who directed Hamilton) is bringing Tiny Beautiful Things, adapted by and starring Vardalos, to the Public Theater. The result is a series of dramatic encounters between Sugar and the letter writers (played by three actors), who appear in her kitchen and won’t leave until she addresses their questions— about grappling with whether to leave a spouse, coping with the death of a son. As she reaches back to funny and painful moments from her own past, her answers become a journey of selfdiscovery. “Sugar is a person who reveals and embraces her flaws,” Vardalos says. “She sees them as stretch marks of personal growth.” Though best known for her winsome Cinderella turn in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the 54-year-old Greek-Canadian got her start on the stage, studying Shakespearean acting in college before joining the Toronto company of Second City. Last on the boards in a 2014 Toronto concert version of Sondheim’s Company, Vardalos feels connected to Tiny Beautiful Things on many levels, both personal (“Reading it, I found myself grieving situations that I thought I had long put away”) and as the author of Instant Mom, her searchingly honest account of the infertility treatments and miscarriages on the road to her and her husband’s adoption of a three-year-old girl. Writing it, she thought, “What am I on this Earth for, other than to say, Yes, this thing happened, and it hurt, and it sucked, and I came out of it a better person. That’s what Cheryl’s doing in the letters, and that’s what we’re all supposed to be doing—revealing our wounds and our scars to help each other out.”—ADAM GREEN P ATA >1 8 6


People Are Talking About THE AUTHOR, PHOTOGRAPHED BY INEZ AND VINOODH, VOGUE, 2016.

Books

TWO toTango Through a pair of dance-obsessed girls in northwest London, Zadie Smith tells a sprawling story of friendship and ambition.

Television

The HEART of Things

In TNT’s wild-and-woolly new series Good Behavior, Michelle Dockery, best known as Lady Mary Crawley, plays Letty Dobesh, a North Carolina con woman who dreams of a decent life. So when she overhears a man arranging his wife’s murder, she decides to stop it. Before long she’s dating the hit man, Javier (Juan Diego Botto). Adapted by Wayward Pines’s Blake Crouch and Chad Hodge, the show offers a startling image makeover for its star, who, sporting an American accent, captures the contradictions of a resourceful yet reckless heroine. Like any good noir hero, the divorcing San Francisco forensic neuropsychiatrist Dr. Eldon Chance (Hugh Laurie, superb) falls for the wrong woman—lovely, wounded Jaclyn Blackstone (Gretchen Mol)—in Hulu’s terrific new series Chance. Directed by Room’s Lenny Abrahamson from Kem Nunn’s novel, this moody thriller is all about a sharp-eyed shrink who’s blinded to danger by loneliness and desire.—J.P.

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very once in a while, a novel reminds us of why we still need them. Building upon the promise of White Teeth, written almost two decades ago, Zadie Smith’s Swing Time (Penguin Press) boldly reimagines the classically English preoccupation with class and status for a new era—in which race, gender, and the strange distortions of contemporary celebrity meet on a global stage. It’s 1982, and a pair of seven-year-old girls meet in dance class in northwest London (where Smith was raised and now lives with her family part of the year): “Our shade of brown was exactly the same—as if one piece of tan material had

been cut to make us both.” They bond over Top Hat and Thriller; they make up dance routines and stories. But while Tracey possesses a pink Barbie car bed, feet like “two hummingbirds in flight,” and a virtuoso instinct for provocation, the unnamed narrator has an austerely beautiful, Jamaicanborn intellectual mother who disdains frivolity: “Doesn’t matter if you’ve got flat feet, doesn’t matter, because you’re clever and you know where you came from and where you’re going.” My Brilliant Friend–style, the book contrasts the girls’ diverging fates: Tracey wins dance prizes, attracts boys and drama, and dreams of a stage career, while the college-educated narrator survives a goth period (can any author top Smith on the symbolic power of clothes?) before interning at a musicvideo network and becoming the personal assistant to a pop star named Aimee, whose fortune is larger than the GDP of the West African country in which she builds a girls’ school. It’s in Africa that the novel announces its ambitions, with unsettling scenes of power and powerlessness in close proximity, such as when Aimee procures “a baby as easily as she might order a limited-edition handbag from Japan.” The novel swings back and forth in time to reveal that the stories we tell as children are not so different from the identities we choreograph as adults. On the way, Smith revisits a history of insidious Hollywood racism: Astaire in blackface as Bojangles; the circumscribed career of African-American MGM dancer Jeni LeGon, who is surely due for a biopic. As the narrator glides through life on private jets, increasingly distant from her family or any other connection, she begins to resemble the ideal dancer of her youth, someone “from nowhere, without parents or siblings, without a nation or people, without obligations of any kind.” Swing Time asks the big questions: As the old hierarchies fall away, how do we forge our allegiances? What do we owe those left behind? The anxieties that fueled Smith’s last novel, NW, here acquire amplitude and complexity, as well as, perhaps, the added depth charge of a parent’s empathy (the novel is dedicated to the author’s mother, Yvonne). No detail feels extraneous, least of all the book’s resonant motif, the sankofa bird, with its backward-arching neck—suggestive less of a dancer than of an author, looking to her origins to understand the path ahead.—MEGAN O’GRADY


Lo v e November 2016

S T O R Y Meet Ruth Negga and Joel Edgerton, the brilliant stars of Loving, Jeff Nichols’s sweeping portrait of an interracial couple fıghting for their right to marry in 1950sVırginia. By Danzy Senna. Photographed by Mario Testino. CLOSE TO YOU Negga and Edgerton play Mildred and Richard Loving, the real-life couple whose case changed history. Céline linen jumpsuit, $2,650; Céline, NYC. Alexander McQueen earrings and cuff. On Edgerton: Slowear-Glanshirt shirt. Levi’s 511 jeans. Stetson hat. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.


COUNTRY LIFE Born in Ethiopia and raised in Ireland, Negga connected to her character’s rural upbringing. “Virginia isn’t that different from Ireland,” she says. Marc Jacobs blouse ($1,800) and wrap skirt ($2,200); select Marc Jacobs stores. On Edgerton: Theory shirt. Hickey Freeman pants. Details, see In This Issue.


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enter the story in 1958, in rural Virginia. A woman and a man stand in an open field of grass; she is telling him she is pregnant. There is a hint of worry in her luminous dark eyes, but the man assures her that they will get married and build a home together. The opening scene of Loving, Jeff Nichols’s quietly devastating new film, feels less like a beginning and more like a happily-ever-after ending. But because this is 1950s Virginia, and the woman is black and the man is white, the story does not unfold in the way of fairy tales. For Mildred Jeter and Richard Loving—a real-life couple played in the film by Ruth Negga and Joel Edgerton—the seemingly straightforward act of getting married becomes a dangerous and transgressive act. With its lush cinematography, Loving is a visual paean to the 1950s, but it is also a fierce interrogation of the hypocrisies of that era. It traces the arc of the Lovings’ struggle to live as husband and wife at a time not so long ago when it was illegal in sixteen states to marry someone of a different race. As the Lovings are forced to leave their tight-knit, working-class community and live in Washington, D.C., around them swirls language that evokes the present debate on gay marriage. “It’s God’s law,” the sheriff tells the couple after their harrowing middle-of-the-night arrest. “A robin’s a robin, a sparrow is a sparrow.” As Edgerton says, “That’s the double beauty of the film. It’s a racial period piece, but it also echoes very loudly today.” Negga gives a radiant and haunting performance as Mildred, transforming from a country girl everyone calls Stringbean into an accidental activist—an unwitting righter of history’s wrongs. “Her quiet evolution was so touching to me,” says the actress, who was born in Addis Ababa to an Ethiopian father and an Irish mother. “To have that kind of hope in an atmosphere of threat and fear.” Audiences will recognize the actress for her supporting role in the sci-fi feature Warcraft and her starring role as Tulip O’Hare on AMC’s Preacher, which has just been greenlighted for another season. But with Loving, and the early Oscar buzz around her performance, she is on the cusp of

a whole other level of stardom. For her, the subject of the movie was highly personal. When she was around four, she moved with her family from Ethiopia to Ireland. County Limerick was more pastoral than suburban then, and Negga says she deeply identifies with Mildred’s sense of connection to a place. “Virginia isn’t that different from Ireland,” she says. “Land and home and community are superimportant. When I was playing her, I tried to imagine I couldn’t go home again because of whom I married. It must have drained the lifeblood from her.” She also related to Mildred’s dawning racial awareness. “When I was a kid in Ireland, there were not very many black people. I was very much like the strange brown thing, intriguing and cute. I didn’t experience racism there. The first time I did was in London. It was that moment that you realize you’re black. A kind of lifting of the veil.” Edgerton, who has made a career of playing tough, lonely antiheroes, finds pathos in the role of Richard, who is as guarded as he is devoted to his wife. To capture the taciturn construction worker, the 42-year-old Australian actor bleached his hair, adopted a receding hairline, and wore prosthetic teeth. “I was thinking the whole time how he must have felt as a man, that he had led the woman he loved into trouble,” he says. The real Richard was uncomfortable in the role of activist, but he was never ambivalent about the woman he’d chosen to marry. “How easy the door out of that marriage would have been,” Edgerton says. “It was a door he never thought to go through.” Loving is Nichols’s fifth feature. He’s a Southern white man taking on race and history—in a year when these themes have embroiled the nation. “The last thing I want to be is defensive,” Nichols says on a hot August afternoon in his modest studio in Austin, Texas, not far from the home he shares with his wife, Missy, and their six-year-old, Sam. “Germany has spent a long time coming to terms with its horrors—but in America we’ve never really faced the horrors of slavery and everything that came in its wake. It’s like a wound. Sunlight has to get in there for it to heal.” A youthful, sandy-haired 37, Nichols is preppily dressed in khakis, a navy polo, and loafers without socks. His previous films include the coming-of-age story Mud, starring Matthew McConaughey, and Midnight Special, a sci-fi thriller that also starred Edgerton. “All of my films have been written and imagined in the South,” he says with a slight Arkansas twang. “I wanted to portray the Southerners I recognized from growing up. I didn’t want to portray them in this horrifying, cartoonish way.” His studio is stripped down—a desk, a computer, posters of John Carpenter’s Starman and Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams. Hanging beside his desk is a gift from McConaughey—a framed photograph of a boat perched in a tree from the set of Mud, with a plaque that says, well, you wrote it. Nichols grew up in Little Rock—his father owned a furniture store; his mother was a homemaker—and remains close to his two older brothers (their initials are tattooed on his forearm around a clover). He went to the same Little Rock

“That’s the double beauty of the film,” says Edgerton. “It’s a racial period piece, but it also echoes very loudly today”

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WALK WITH ME The actors capture the romance of two people who are meant to be together. Calvin Klein Collection dress; Calvin Klein Collection, NYC. On Edgerton: Salvatore Ferragamo suit and shirt. Details, see In This Issue.


NATURAL AFFINITY “Joel and Ruth liked each other,” says director Jeff Nichols of his leads. Prada embroidered dress; select Prada boutiques. Alexander McQueen necklace. Marc Jacobs espadrilles.


EMBRACEABLE YOU The film premiered at Cannes to rave reviews. Gucci cashmereand-wool sweater ($1,650) and duchesse-silk skirt ($3,700); select Gucci boutiques. New York Vintage scarf (in hair). Fendi bag. Tory Burch espadrilles. On Edgerton: A.P.C. denim shirt and jeans. Details, see In This Issue.


SET PIECE “How easy the door out of that marriage would have been,” Edgerton says. “It was a door he never thought to go through.” Oscar de la Renta dress; oscardelarenta.com. Alexander McQueen corset and belt. On Edgerton: A.P.C. jacket. Ermenegildo Zegna polo shirt. The Frye Company boots. Details, see In This Issue.


STEP IN TIME The actors watched a documentary about the Lovings to steep themselves in the story. Valentino dress; select Valentino boutiques. New York Vintage scarf. Carole Tanenbaum Vintage Collection earrings. Prada corset.


SOFT TOUCH “She spoke in Mildred’s voice,” says Nichols of Negga, who transformed her Irish brogue into a gentle Southern drawl. Bottega Veneta dress, $2,650; (800) 845-6790. Details, see In This Issue.


SIDE BY SIDE The Lovings grew up in the same tight-knit rural community. Giambattista Valli dress, $3,010; Saks Fifth Avenue, NYC.


STRENGTH OF CHARACTER “Her quiet evolution was so touching to me,” says Negga. Dior dress; select Dior boutiques. Early Halloween scarf. Details, see In This Issue.

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high school that was notorious for race riots during the 1950s school-integration efforts. The mythology of the civil rights movement, he says, “was invoked in every school assembly.” Still, when a producer sent him the 2011 HBO documentary The Loving Story, directed by Nancy Buirski, he had never heard of the case. It’s already lore that his wife told him, “If you don’t make this movie, I’m going to divorce you.” But Nichols’s way in was through his maternal grandparents, rural people in whom he recognized the same stoicism as he saw in the Lovings. Nichols never went to film school. “I couldn’t afford it—and I was young and antsy and wanted to make films out of the gate.” As an undergraduate at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts, he found his coterie, the same small group with whom he still collaborates. Raymond Carver and William Faulkner were as much influences on him as the movies he saw with his father at the Dome Theatre in Little Rock: Lawrence of Arabia, Jaws, Fletch. When asked about his favorite cinematic era, he says, “If I was being honest, the eighties. If I was trying to sound smart, the seventies. If I really thought about it, the sixties.” Nichols’s expansive visual storytelling feels more in sync with Spielberg than with the grungier digital aesthetic of his indie-filmmaking peers.

“I wasn’t looking for star power,” says Nichols.“I was looking for great actors” Loving, the director says, is his most “precise” film to date. “I wanted to get everything right. If I needed to do four more takes, I would do four more takes.” He did a huge amount of research. “Jeff created one of the best gelled-together worlds I’ve seen—like a window into time,” says Edgerton. “Jeff saw this as the most beautiful love story in the world that’s never been told,” says Negga, who was the first person Nichols auditioned. At first he thought she was too petite. But then, he says, “she spoke in Mildred’s voice. She held her mouth like Mildred.” He didn’t even know she was Irish until he talked to her afterward. “I wasn’t looking for star power,” he says. “I was looking for great actors.” Negga and Edgerton movingly capture the ordinary tenderness between a husband and wife. When asked about their chemistry, Nichols says, “Joel and Ruth liked each other.” Nichols was intent on verisimilitude: “I didn’t feel comfortable making things up with this story—the jail was the same jail they stayed in. The front shot of the courthouse was the same courthouse.” The couple’s younger son, Donald, and their baby were played by relatives of the real Mildred. He also brought on the Lovings’ only surviving child, Peggy, as a consultant. “Peggy was tough. She was there, watching the scene where they were passing around plates of food over dinner. She said, straight-faced, ‘Well, you got that wrong.’ Then she started laughing. She had an interesting sense of humor.” The climactic scene in Loving could have taken place solely in the courtroom, but for one thing—the Lovings weren’t there. Nichols used their C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 0 202


S ET D ES IG N , JAC K FLA NAGA N FO R T HE M AG N ET AG EN CY. P RO DUC ED BY: MA R I OT EST I NO + .

FIELD OF DREAMS “Jeff saw this as the most beautiful love story in the world that’s never been told,” says Negga. Erdem organza top and skirt; mytheresa .com. In this story: hair, Marc Lopez; makeup, Stéphane Marais. Menswear Editor: Michael Philouze. Details, see In This Issue.


What to Wear Where NEW WAVE This wiggly sweater manages the trick of not taking itself too seriously while still coming off as seriously chic. Pull it on for a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute’s exhibition of recent acquisitions, “Masterworks: Unpacking Fashion.” Model Andreea Diaconu wears a Marni sweater ($1,050) and skirt ($1,730). Sweater at modaoperandi.com. Skirt at Marni boutiques. The Row shirt, $1,090; The Row, NYC. Fashion Editor: Sara Moonves.


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GRAY LADY These are not your grandmother’s pearls—pair them with a woolly skirt and farout monk straps for a stay at Chicago’s new Robey hotel. Model Grace Hartzel wears a Dries Van Noten embellished sweater, $1,420; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Bally blouse, $1,595; Bally, Beverly Hills. Bottega Veneta skirt, $2,400; (800) 845-6790. Marc Jacobs shoes. Details, see In This Issue.


What to Wear Where LIGHT ON YOUR FEET Floaty and knit don’t normally find themselves uttered in the same breath—but this Alexander McQueen sweater ($945) and skirt ($885) combination manages to be both cozy and gossamer. It’s a perfect pairing for the English National Ballet’s debut of Akram Khan’s Giselle at Sadler’s Wells in London. Sweater and skirt at Alexander McQueen, NYC. BEAUTY NOTE

Warm up dewy skin with a dose of incandescent color. Chanel’s Joues Contraste powder blush in Evening Beige imparts a russet flush with a shimmering finish.


FLOWER OF THE FLOCK The pretty petals on both the sweater and the skirt get a kicky lift from embellished creepers. Take your blooms to the Shaw Bijou, Top Chef alum Kwame Onwuachi’s new tasting-menu spot in Washington, D.C. On Diaconu: Bally cashmere sweater, $1,795; Bally, Beverly Hills. Brooks Brothers Red Fleece shirt, $58; select Brooks Brothers stores. Christopher Kane skirt, $1,145; christopherkane.com. Alexander McQueen shoes. Details, see In This Issue.


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CHECKED OUT Turns out sequined sweater sets can be punk. This glittering combination is the perfect supporting act for taking in Animal Collective at Manhattan’s Terminal 5. On Hartzel: Marc Jacobs cashmere cardigan ($1,200), sleeveless sweater ($895), and wrap skirt ($2,800); select Marc Jacobs stores.


DOG DAY AFTERNOON Hot hues, pink pansies, and a pair of puppies? Something with this masterly level of whimsy is ideal for a viewing of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, starring Eddie Redmayne and Katherine Waterston. On Diaconu: Gucci wool sweater ($3,000), lace-trimmed shirt ($1,600), and wool kilt ($1,980); select Gucci boutiques. Details, see In This Issue.


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IN THE SWIM OF THINGS Dozens of elegant alabaster swans and a ruffled bib give this Stella McCartney sweater ($865) a dose of delightful. It’s a sweet look for a visit to the New York Botanical Garden’s holiday show. Sweater at net-a-porter.com. Coach 1941 shirt, $495; coach.com. Victoria Beckham skirt, $2,160; victoriabeckham.com.


BEST IN BLOOMS Flowers and lace will always lend a romantic touch to even the simplest sweater silhouette. Layer your cardigans for even more flounce at Les Liaisons Dangereuses on Broadway, starring Liev Schreiber and Janet McTeer. Oscar de la Renta embroidered cardigan ($2,390), white cardigan ($2,290), and tweed skirt ($1,590). Embroidered cardigan at select Oscar de la Renta boutiques. White cardigan and skirt at oscardelarenta.com. In this story: hair, Rudi Lewis; makeup, Sally Branka. Details, see In This Issue.


LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION! The actress, wearing a Bottega Veneta cardigan, skirt, and bag, on a studio lot in Burbank, California, where parts of La La Land were shot. Ray-Ban sunglasses. Jaeger-LeCoultre watch. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.


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S how She’s gone from Hollywood unknown to Oscar nominee—but can Emma Stone sing and dance her way through an old-fashioned movie musical? Get ready for La La Land, the biggest leap of Stone’s high-flying career. Jason Gay reports. Photographed by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott.


efore Emma Stone became, you know, Emma Stone, she was Emily Stone, a teenage would-be actress from Scottsdale, Arizona, who moved to Hollywood with her mom and lived in a two-bedroom apartment right near the Farmers’ Market. She kept a John Lennon poster on her wall, burned incense (“I was sixteen,” she protests), drove a red Volkswagen Beetle to auditions, and, in an oft-recited but irresistible biographical detail, worked behind the counter at Three Dog Bakery—mm-hmm, a bakery selling dog treats. Stone was one of thousands of young fresh faces who arrive every year in Los Angeles carrying the hopeful but brutally difficult dream of Making It in Show Business, and you can find all that collected ambition inspiring or melancholic or a little bit of both. I should point out that none of this is ancient history to Stone, who turns 28 in November and can still tick off the Three Dog Bakery’s top sellers. “Pup Tarts,” she says. “Pop Tarts, but for dogs. And Pupcakes. Then there was a kind of dog Oreo made with carob and honey. A mom would come in and buy them for her kid because she thought dog Oreos were healthier.” The reason Hollywood is Hollywood is that it’s a town where someone can go from selling dog Oreos to seeing his or her face on a billboard over Sunset Boulevard. This is pretty much what happened to Emma Stone. It’s the sort of timeless dream that lifts every showbiz striver and serves as the engine for a romantic and rather brilliant musical movie that Stone stars in this December. Called La La Land and directed by the Whiplash wunderkind, Damien Chazelle, the film tells the story of an aspiring actress named Mia (Stone) and a would-be jazz-club owner named Sebastian (Ryan Gosling) as they try to navigate their respective careers in a sunny but cruel town. Big, sweeping, and refreshingly uncynical, La La Land is the sort of movie that studios used to make all the time but don’t anymore. Stone and Gosling sing. They dance. They fly—literally,

in a breathtaking scene among the stars inside the Griffith Observatory—and fall in love. In an age of thumping and frantically edited franchise flicks, La La Land is both retro (there are nods to the MGM-musical heyday and the French New Wave director Jacques Demy) and utterly radical. When it opened the Venice Film Festival in late August, the audience burst into applause barely ten minutes in (Stone would go on to win the festival’s Best Actress award). Similar praise and accolades followed in Telluride and Toronto, as the early Oscar buzz for Stone and the entire production intensified and Tom Hanks said after catching a screening, “If the audience doesn’t go and embrace something as wonderful as this, then we are all doomed.” For Stone, it is another leap in a career in which she has moved swiftly from newcomer to an Oscar nominee known for her vast comedic and dramatic talents—and yet also for being a vulnerable, relatable, self-deprecating human being. “Makes fun of herself with ease,” says her friend Brie Larson.“Just authentically her,” says Martha MacIsaac, who met Stone at a table read for 2007’s Superbad and shortly afterward became her L.A. roommate. “A doll and a badass,” says Sarah Silverman, who costars with Stone in the upcoming Battle of the Sexes. At this point, even Stone’s tiniest cameo can click into a cultural moment. She’s practically an honorary cast member of Saturday Night Live (she’s hosted twice, dropped in other times, and was brought on to do an homage to the late and beloved Gilda Radner for the show’s fortieth anniversary). In the summer, she and Maya Rudolph did a sketch on Rudolph’s NBC variety show in which they sang Robyn’s “Call Your Girlfriend” while tapping out the rhythm with plastic butter tubs, and the clip melted the Internets, as they say. (“Emma’s one of those people you think can do everything,” says Rudolph.) Meanwhile, if you saw Stone on The Tonight Show move effortlessly from Blues Traveler’s “Hook” to DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win” during a lip-sync battle with Jimmy Fallon, you know that she is probably Our Greatest Living Karaoke Star. She also once played backup tambourine for Prince while nursing a bleeding foot. More on that in a minute. As a gravity-bound resident of Planet Earth, I am here to tell you that despite Stone’s remarkable liftoff, she has not gone Hollywood on us. During our time together in Los Angeles, she did not use the word entourage in a sentence, refer to Robert De Niro as “Bobby,” or wear a wig or prosthetic nose to throw off paparazzi (this being an election season, however, she did wear a cool T-shirt that read give a damn, and announced her unequivocal support for Hillary Clinton). If Stone owns a personal helicopter or a collection of rare dinosaur skulls, she did not brag about it. The actress still pretty much finds everything that’s happened to her in Hollywood as nutty as the rest of us do. She remains the sort of person who can get nervous about a formal gala, who finds the ritual of posing on the red carpet more than a little strange, and who continues to sound like an outsider when she recalls the night a

“Emma just has that presence,”says Damien Chazelle, the director of La La Land. “She’s a great comedienne and also can be tremendously moving. She can play every single register”

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GUY AND DOLL La La Land is the kind of movie Hollywood doesn’t make anymore: so retro it feels radical. Stone (with dancer Matthew Aylward) wears a Gucci dress. Dior scarf. Leo Dancewear tap shoes. Details, see In This Issue.


PRETTY IN PINK She “makes fun of herself with ease,” says Stone’s friend the actress Brie Larson. Gucci dress. David Yurman ring. Coach 1941 shoes.


DARK ROMANCE Her performance in 2014’s Birdman brought Stone her first Oscar nomination. “My mom and I got to sit in the front row.” Prabal Gurung dress. Fox & Bond earrings. Turner & Tatler by Cindy Chaplin brooch. Details, see In This Issue.


From the beginning, Chazelle wanted La La Land’s musical numbers—composed by his former Harvard classmate Justin Hurwitz, with lyrics by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul— to be filmed “head to toe,” using fifties-style, wide-screen CinemaScope, and performed in a single take, like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire used to. This would require loads of practice and technical expertise and more than a little old-fashioned “Let’s put on a show!” moxie. “Tons of prep, tons of training, tons of rehearsal,” says Chazelle. “The camera had to be just as choreographed as the dancers.” It helped that Stone and Gosling were old friends who’d already made two films together— Crazy, Stupid, Love in 2011 and 2013’s Gangster Squad. “It was nice to be friends with the person you’re doing all this crazy stuff with—learning to ballroom dance or sing duets live,” Stone says. Says La La Land’s choreographer Mandy Moore (not the singer, different Mandy Moore): “The chemistry was already there.” If La La Land has a signature moment, it occurs roughly a quarter of the way into the film, when Stone’s Mia and Gosling’s Sebastian run into each other at a party in the hills and get lost trying to find Stone’s parked car (this is not a spoiler; calm down). It’s dusk, and the L.A. sky is a vivid purple. A song—“A Lovely Night”—ensues. Gosling and Stone tap dance, then twirl together. It’s the first time a romance seems possible. (OK, that’s a mild SHOP GIRL spoiler; don’t hate me.) Attempted over two Stone still remembers her Hollywood roots: working behind the nights at magic hour in Griffith Park, the scene counter at a local dog-treats bakery. Michael Kors Collection dress. lasts around six minutes and required intense planning and more than a bit of luck. When Gosling and Stone finally nailed it, “everybody just exseventeen-year-old Emily Stone found herself, of all places, ploded,” Stone says. at a party at Paris Hilton’s house. It goes without saying that Stone very much remembers “I saw someone puking in a closet,” she says. “I don’t when she herself was a Mia, an unrecognizable stranger at remember who it was, but I was like, ‘Do you think that’s a Paris Hilton’s party who several times a week was in that bathroom? Or is the line too long?’ ” red Beetle shuttling to and from unsuccessful and someShe laughs. It is midsummer, and we are sitting in a times soul-crushing auditions. She recalls the time a woman booth at Little Dom’s restaurant in Los Feliz, which will screamed at her on camera for not properly memorizing a soon be crammed with diners hungry for the $18 prix-fixe monologue. “That was more bizarre than anything,” she says. Monday supper. Stone orders rice balls with marinara and It’s the actor’s predicament that even the successful ones a glass of white wine. Or maybe rosé? (Give me a break, it worry that they could be right back there again. Stone is no was 85 degrees outside; I know she didn’t order a Scotch.) different. Sure, it’s good now—she acknowledges that her While we’re discussing meals: It was a little less than two mentality has shifted from “What can I get?” to “What do I years ago that Stone met Chazelle at Brooklyn Diner in New want?”—but there’s always a fear that after a few missteps, York, ordered the chicken potpie, and listened to the director she could be right back behind the dog-cookie counter. outline his vision for La La Land. Soon Stone found herself “You always feel a little bit like that,” she says. “That you in voice and dance rehearsals back in Los Angeles, on the could again be an outsider, that something could make verge of undertaking what is probably the biggest gamble of people never want to hire you again.” her career to date. “The reason I wanted to do it was because Point taken, but let’s be real. Do any of us think this is goDamien was so passionate,” she says, taking a sip from her ing to be an issue for Emma Stone? glass. “But I think I freaked out 40 times.” “Obviously it was a big swing to do an original musical The first time I met Stone, it was early winter of 2014, and where she’d have to sing and dance and the whole gamut we built a bear. (No, really, we made bears at a Build-A-Bear on-screen,” says Chazelle. “But Emma just has that presence. in the mall, and my kids still have the bear, a grizzly cub who She’s a great comedienne and also can be tremendously movwears sneakers and says, “Go to sleep!” in Emma Stone’s ing. She can play every single register.” 218


actual recorded voice, a fact lost on my toddler children, who part of that SNL fortieth, for which there was, naturally, a only care about movies with talking garbage trucks.) historic after-party, at the Plaza Hotel near Central Park. At the time, Stone couldn’t hide being a little bummed This brings us back to the time she played tambourine for about a missed career opportunity: playing Sally Bowles in Prince—with a bleeding foot. Cabaret, which was on its way to Broadway again, codirected “I’d taken off my shoes to dance because I am one of those by Sam Mendes and Rob Marshall, and once more with people who dance at parties,” Stone begins. “And I stepped Alan Cumming as the Emcee. Stone had seen the production in broken glass. It was embedded into my heel. I walked off as a teenager and called it one of the things that made her and was bleeding all over the place.” want to be an actress. She’d traveled to London and audiSomeone from the Plaza, Stone says, “grabbed a knife and took the glass out of my foot. I swear to God. And then tioned for Mendes, winning the part, but the deal unraveled 60 seconds later, one of the SNL people was like, ‘Prince is because of her commitments to The Amazing Spider-Man 2. onstage. Do you want to go on and play the tambourine?’ ” Michelle Williams wound up taking the role. And that is how Emma Stone wound up on a stage after “Michelle Williams is going to be incredible,” Stone said midnight, surrounded by people like Rudolph, Fallon, Margraciously then. As for her own chances of playing Sally, “it still remains. Someday.” tin Short, and the Haim sisters, playing backup tambourine “Someday” wound up happening sooner rather than later. for the one and only, and now dearly departed, Prince. Williams did seven and a half months in Cabaret, but in NoNext year, Stone will arrive in Battle of the Sexes, which vember of that year, Stone, free of Spidey’s web, made her chronicles Billie Jean King’s legendary rise from tennis star Broadway debut as Sally at the Studio 54 theater. Though to gender-equality crusader, culminating in her famous 1973 she wrestled with the flu during the run, the experience was Astrodome exhibition match versus Bobby Riggs, who is everything she’d hoped for, and the notices were excellent. The played in the film by Steve Carell. The movie is directed by New York Times’s Ben Brantley called Stone’s Sally “a shot of the husband-wife duo Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, heart-revving adrenaline”; the New York Post called her “fanand required Stone to hit the weights and physically transtastically confident”; the Daily News praised her as “sublime.” form herself. C O N T I N U E D O N PAG E 2 6 0 “She brought a sparkle,” says Cumming. “She’s got this really good quality of sparkling and being vulnerable at the same time.” Marshall calls her Sally FROM THE TOP “a marvel! Infectious, brave, funny, and tragic.” “The reason I wanted to do it was because Damien was so passionate,” “It completely reinvigorated my love for evStone says of La La Land, and its director, Damien Chazelle, pictured erything,” Stone says of Cabaret. “The whole here. Dior sleeveless jacket and shorts. Details, see In This Issue. thing was just a really special time.” It was during her Cabaret run that she began talking seriously with Chazelle about La La Land. The show gave her confidence. “I felt more prepared than I ever would have before,” Stone says. Another project she and I talked about the first time we met—well, we didn’t really talk about it, because it was one of those movies wrapped in a veil of secrecy—was a new film from Alejandro G. Iñárritu. That turned out to be Birdman, of course, a wildly innovative smash about the behind-the-scenes makings of a Broadway show, which wound up winning the 2015 Academy Award for Best Picture. Stone, who played Sam, the tormented daughter of Michael Keaton’s almost-washed-up actor Riggan Thomson, was nominated for Best Supporting Actress, her first Oscar nod. To the ceremony Stone wore a beaded green Elie Saab gown, took her mom, Krista, as her date, and actually enjoyed herself because she figured that Patricia Arquette, a prohibitive favorite for Boyhood, was going to win the category (and did). “There was no pressure,” Stone says. “My mom and I got to sit in the front row, and my mom sat next to Michael Keaton. It was the year of The LEGO Movie, so I got a LEGO Oscar.” It was a whirlwind month. A week before the Oscars, back in New York, Stone had been


S ET D ES IG N , A ND R EA STA N L EY FO R ST RE ET ERS. P RO DUC ED BY SH OTSI E KRA M ER FOR FIRST SH OT PRODUCTIONS.

GREEN MIND Stone’s other upcoming film, Battle of the Sexes, takes on Billie Jean King’s historic tennis match against Bobby Riggs. Coach 1941 jacket, sweater, and skirt.

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THAT’S ALL, FOLKS Oscar de la Renta dress. Beladora earrings. Larkspur & Hawk bracelet. Nicholas Kirkwood shoes. In this story: hair, Shay Ashual; makeup, Aaron de Mey. Details, see In This Issue.


MARK MY WORDS Platt, in a starmaking turn, plays Evan Hansen, a high school student crippled by anxiety and social awkwardness. A loner acquaintance named Connor signs Hansen’s cast, then commits suicide, forever linking the two misfits. Grooming, Losi. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


School of

L I F E Ben Platt, the 23-year-old star of the gripping, psychological Dear Evan Hansen, heralds the arrival of a new generation of Broadway talent. He’s been ready for it almost since the day he was born. By Adam Green. Photographed by Anton Corbijn.

P RODUC ED BY LOLA P RO DUCT I O N

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of us struggle for years trying to figure out what we want to do with our lives, but for Ben Platt that was never a question. “From day one,” the baby-faced actor says, “musical theater was my bread and butter.” When he was sixteen, Platt, who had made his stage debut ten years earlier as the Prince in an all-kids Cinderella, auditioned for the director Michael Greif to star in the touring company of the musical Next to Normal but ended up withdrawing to finish high school. A year later, he tried out for the Off-Broadway musical adaptation of Dogfight, for which he was deemed too young—but not before catching the eye of the show’s young songwriters, Benj Pasek and Justin Paul. Pasek promised that he would be in touch about another project down the line. “I thought, That’s very kind,” says Platt, “but things like that never really come to fruition.” Except, of course, when they do. Platt is about to open in Pasek and Paul’s terrific, heartfelt musical Dear Evan Hansen (impeccably directed, for good measure, by Greif), which comes to Broadway after a sold-out run last season at Second Stage Theatre. Playing a high school outcast debilitated by self-consciousness and social anxiety who finds himself thrust into sudden popularity and trapped in a lie, Platt gives a star-making performance of almost unbearable precision and transparency. “I think he’s incredibly sensitive and has kind of an artistic soul buried inside him,” Platt says of his character. “But he’s crippled by his inability to let himself be seen in any real way.” Though Platt’s formative years were a far cry from Evan’s (he describes his high school as “almost comically progressive as far as kids who are atypical”), he admits to identifying with his character. “There’s something to be said for any boy growing up among lots of other boys who like to play basketball and football, while all I wanted to do was put on musicals,” he says. “Mentally, I was always in my own world.” As a show-business scion (his father is the producer Marc Platt, whose credits include Wicked), Platt grew up in Los Angeles to a 223


sound track of original cast albums in a family of five kids whose lingua franca was Broadway. He started staging musicals early—he remembers his father videotaping his sister and him in what he calls a “site-specific” Annie in various rooms around the house. There were backyard productions that involved a boom box and family members press-ganged into service. “I had a Cats phase, where I did lots of overturned furniture and trash cans,” he recalls. “I asked for a fog machine for my birthday.” By the time Pasek and Paul contacted him about doing a reading of their new musical, Platt had started to build a reputation playing nervous outsiders—a magic-obsessed, a cappella–singing nerd in the movie Pitch Perfect; the misfit Elder Cunningham in the Chicago and Broadway companies of The Book of Mormon—though the darker, more nuanced role of Evan Hansen represented a huge leap forward. With a gorgeously melodic pop-rock score by Pasek and Paul and a smart and soulful book by the playwright Steven Levenson (The Language of Trees), a sensational young cast, and deft use of social media as a thematic, plot, and visual device (Peter Nigrini’s projections of Facebook and Twitter feeds mesh neatly with David Korins’s clean sets), Dear Evan Hansen feels like a theatrical beachhead planted by (and, partly, for) millennials. The story was inspired by an incident from Pasek’s youth, when, after a kid from his high school died of a drug overdose, people who had never been

getting into a character’s skin. “When you’re with somebody for that long, you’re bound to fall in love with him,” he says. “To be creating a kid who lives in the world that I live in and who deals with things that I do is incredibly rewarding—I love that he makes choices that aren’t very easy for people to get on board with, but that he’s pure and good and understandable enough that you feel you know him, or you feel you are him. That’s a testament to both the time I’ve had to get into the nooks and crannies of him and to how beautifully he’s written.” Platt was also able to tap into his own struggles with anxiety to help find his way into the role. “When I started working on the character, a lightbulb clicked as a way to maybe channel some of that,” he says. “For Evan’s physicality, I would think of little impulses I’d have when I was sitting down on a plane, which is one of the places where I get most anxious—I start biting my nails or curl up into a bit of a ball, or I maybe hunch and hide myself a little more—and I would use those as jumping-off points. And I’ve discovered that my least anxious times are when I’m working on the character or performing the show, because I feel like it serves such a purpose—I can do this to allow other people to see themselves in him, as opposed to just sitting with the anxiety myself and letting it sort of hammer me down slowly.” Platt and the show’s authors say that one of their biggest concerns has been making sure that the audience continues to root for Evan even as he makes some morally dubious

“I think he’s incredibly sensitive and has an artistic soul buried inside him,” Platt says of his character. “But he’s crippled by his inability to let himself be seen in any real way” his friends suddenly began jockeying to claim a connection to him and insert themselves into the tragedy. “We wanted to explore why people are so interested in needing to be noticed and how that’s only amplified with the advent of social media,” Pasek says. Originating a role for the first time, Platt plays the titular seventeen-year-old, who is so anxious that he can’t even order takeout with an app (he’d have to interact with the delivery person), much less tell the truth to his beleaguered single mom (an affecting Rachel Bay Jones) about how he broke his arm or get through a conversation with his crush Zoe (Laura Dreyfuss). The plot is set in motion when Zoe’s older brother Connor (Mike Faist), a brooding loner, signs Evan’s cast and snatches a printout of a pep talk that Evan, at the behest of his shrink, has written to himself. Later, when Connor kills himself and his grieving parents (Jennifer Laura Thompson and Michael Park) find the note, which is addressed “Dear Evan Hansen,” they mistakenly assume that Evan and their son were close. Not wanting to shatter their illusion, Evan plays along, with the situation soon spiraling out of control as he finds himself becoming part of their family, dating Zoe, and turning into a social-media celebrity as online memorials to Connor go viral. Platt, who has been inhabiting Evan since the first reading of the show, nearly three years ago, brings to the role a winning vulnerability, a clarion tenor, and an uncanny talent for 224

choices. Platt says that he trusts the writing; the authors say that they trust their star. “Ben is so incredibly magnetic—so human and so true—in everything he does that he helps us a tremendous amount,” Levenson says, “because you just want him to succeed; you want things to work out for him, even though you know that perhaps part of you shouldn’t.” “We kind of view him like a unicorn,” Pasek adds. “We can’t really believe that he exists, but we sure are lucky that he does.” Both 31, Pasek and Paul have emerged as among the most gifted (and successful) songwriting teams of their generation. (Though Pasek writes most of the lyrics and Paul does most of the musical heavy lifting, they share credit.) They met as students at the University of Michigan’s undergraduate musical-theater program, which they entered with an eye to careers as performers. But after getting cast in what they considered particularly terrible roles in the school musical their sophomore year, they decided to “write our own show and stick it to the man!” Pasek says. The resulting song cycle, Edges, was a hit on campus, and after Pasek and Paul posted video of the show’s first professional production (in Albany) on YouTube, it went viral among young theater geeks, who dubbed themselves Edge-Heads. One of them was Platt, who with some of his fellow high school choir members performed the show’s finale, “Like Breathing,” at senior solo night. “If you had C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 1


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JE A N -M I CH EL BASQU I AT. TH R E E PON TI F I CATORS, 1984. ACRYLIC AND CRAYON ON CANVAS, 60˝ X 60˝. BANQUE D’IMAGES, A DAG P/A RT RESOU RCE , N Y. © T HE ESTATE OF JE A N- M I CHE L BASQU I AT/A DAG P, PAR IS/ARS, NEW YOR K 20 16.

Why has debilitating anxiety become so common among the young? And why is it still so often overlooked? Rob Haskell reports on a health crisis in the making.

HIGH ANXIETY Psychiatrists are concerned that in trying to protect young people from stress, we may be depriving them of important coping mechanisms. ABOVE: Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Three Pontificators, 1984.

In

June, a fifteen-year-old boy who a few days later became my patient rode his bike to Venice Beach, laid it in the sand, and stripped down to his boxer shorts. Then he started to swim and kept swimming, following the sun as it dipped over the horizon, until the busy boardwalk sounds had faded and all he could hear was the rhythm of his gasps. The boy, whom I’ll call Joseph, explained all this to me days later, after he had been rescued, taken to a psychiatric emergency room, and discharged to his parents, Honduran immigrants who spoke little English. “I figured that eventually I would get too tired and then just basically drown,” he told me with a chilling indifference. “But typical me, I can’t even die right.”

Over the next few weeks, I learned that Joseph was beset by worries large and small. Would he ever grow taller than five feet six? Could he ever bring a girl home to see the apartment where he slept with his brother on a foldout sofa in the living room? At school he was timid and craved only invisibility, even though in my office he was unafraid to use big, grim words (schadenfreude, lugubrious) and talk about the Margaret Atwood novel he was reading. His mother took his shyness for defiance and complained of his refusal to run simple errands for her, such as stopping by the butcher on his way home. “And he’s not friendly,” she told me. “He won’t even say hello to his aunts.” But he was soulful and handsome, and I wondered whether in a breakfast club of sophisticated misfits, a teenage tribe he never managed to locate, he might 225


have found the courage to raise his eyes off the floor. Instead, the overwhelming impression he conveyed was of perturbation: a fish out of water, a boy pulled out of the solace of the Pacific Ocean. Joseph was suffering from an anxiety disorder that had pushed him to a dangerous brink. If you have read my articles in Vogue about actors, designers, and chefs, you may be surprised to learn that I am also a psychiatrist. (How I got from fashion to psychiatry and back again is a story for another day, though I’d argue that the professions are not as disparate as they might seem.) There is no mental illness I see more frequently in young people—because there is no mental illness more common in young people—than anxiety. According to some estimates, up to 20 percent of children and adolescents will suffer from anxiety, panic, phobias, or their close cousins: obsessivecompulsive disorder, body dysmorphic disorder, and post-

children is with cognitive-behavior therapy, SSRIs (medications like Zoloft and Prozac), or, better still, both. But laypeople and professionals alike have pointed to something else at play in the anxiety epidemic, or rather a pair of paradoxical factors: We are both putting stress on our children and trying to protect them from the uncomfortable feelings that can be an appropriate response to stress. This sends a confusing message—that the world is dangerous and that kids don’t have the tools to manage those dangers. It is probably worth mentioning here that the most socioeconomically disadvantaged children have always lived with excessive stress: unsafe neighborhoods, inconsistent sources of food and shelter, few routes out of cyclic poverty. In this context, as everywhere else, whether children develop anxiety disorders is determined by an interaction between their genes and their environment (including what they

Anxiety remains among the most easily missed illnesses in all of pediatric medicine; by some estimates, four out of five children with anxiety will never be treated for it traumatic-stress disorder. And yet anxiety remains among the most easily missed illnesses in all of pediatric medicine; by some estimates, four out of five children with anxiety will never be treated for it. Consider that anxiety is a risk factor for school failure, drug addiction, and incarceration, as well as for depression and suicide, and you have something approaching a public-health crisis. So what’s going on? For starters, we have opened our eyes. Child psychiatry has its fashions, like any other profession: In the early part of the last century, research focused on delinquency and psychosis; then came ADHD, depression, OCD, and bipolar disorder. It may be the case that the wealthier and more stable we become as a society, the more easily we turn our attention to what are known in psychiatry as “internalizing” conditions, marked by their quiet symptoms and retreating behavior. “Finally we have the capacity to worry about worry,” says John Walkup, M.D., director of the Division of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medicine and NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital and codirector of the hospital’s Youth Anxiety Center. For a while, anxiety in children was thought to be innocuous, even cute. After all, aren’t most kids afraid of monsters or the dark? Who doesn’t get nervous when reading in front of the class? And yet any parent knows that the opposite is no less true: Kids want attention; they want to be called on; they want to show off. They try and fail, then climb back on the horse and remember how much fun it is to ride. Gradually research emerged that described a child who was unable to separate from his parents without being overcome by fear, who was racked with vague worries about the future, who was terrified of scrutiny or failure, and whose intense and persistent anguish might lead to avoidance, isolation, and a failure to hit the major goalposts of development. In 2008, clear treatment recommendations finally appeared via the CAMS (Child/Adolescent Anxiety Multimodal Study) trial, which taught us that the best way to treat anxiety in 226

learn from Mom and Dad or other early role models). But stress is trickling upward, as anyone who has a child worried about getting into college understands. Fifteen years ago, I laughed when a friend told me that if her two-year-old daughter didn’t get into the Episcopal preschool on the Upper East Side, she could kiss Harvard goodbye. This is a fear bordering on a conviction for many New York parents, and a version of it can be found in families everywhere. Because anxiety is contagious, a generation of children is worried too. And when, as in Joseph’s case, the predicament of the present hangs over them like an impenetrable fog, they are at risk of committing acts of desperation. While the world has never been more competitive, it has also never been safer, despite what politicians and news outlets might have us believe. Often when I explain anxiety to a child—which is an important early component of therapy— I start by describing the conditions under which we might imagine that it evolved. A caveman sees an approaching lion, and anxiety, if he’s got it, spurs him to fight or to flee. Meanwhile, his relaxed cousin gets eaten and fails to pass his anxiety-free DNA to the next generation. Anxiety, then, is an ancient and essential signal. It is a motivator. It can lead to ingenious solutions to menacing problems, and it tends to be accompanied by self-doubt and self-exploration, which give depth to the human experience. Anxiety about a deadline and a paycheck is spurring me as I write this. But how much anxiety is too much? In a pathologically anxious person, threats get miscalculated; normal life experiences are avoided; and over time, a sense of oneself as unable to live in the real world leads to demoralization. A more typical person can cope with a high degree of anxiety, when it comes. A useful example might be Gulf War veterans; 10 percent of them—those in whom traumatic events can be thought of as having interacted with an overly sensitive alarm system—developed PTSD, while 90 percent of them moved forward without debilitating symptoms. Regardless


of whether a child is experiencing a typical or a pathological degree of anxiety, the treatment is the same: repeated, controlled exposure to the threat—whether it’s spiders or school or speaking up—which over time leads to habituation and desensitization. Exposure therapy, the subcategory of cognitive-behavior therapy designed to recalibrate that internal alarm system by helping the patient see for herself that the perceived threat isn’t so threatening after all, has the advantage over medication of being potentially curative. I got over my fear of flying by flying a lot, which was miserable until it wasn’t. Exposure is the way forward, unless, like Aretha Franklin, you own a particularly luxurious bus. And yet the idea of exposing a child to a noxious stimulus undoubtedly chafes at our protective instinct, especially in this era of helicopter parenting, allergy alarmism, and the like. Most psychiatrists I know fear that by sheltering our children or making all sorts of allowances for them, we may be cultivating a generation of hothouse flowers too rare and precious for real-world air. “It’s easy with an anxious kid for parents to accommodate to the anxiety,” Walkup explains. “The kid gets more and more delicate, and sooner or later the family can’t approach him with any task. Parents of anxious kids don’t empower their kids when they do that.” A good deal has been written about the shift toward protecting college students from painful experiences by policing micro-aggressions and by instituting “trigger warnings” that alert students to the presence of potentially distressing content. Many clinicians who treat anxious children with exposure therapy wonder if it is realistic or helpful to try to make of college a distress-less utopia markedly different from the world for which it is meant to prepare its students. Though we may wish to promote sensitivity and respect, learning to tolerate what is frightening or odious is tantamount to building resilience, that buzzword of the moment. As D. W. Winnicott, the influential English pediatrician and psychoanalyst, wrote, “Mothers, if they do their job properly,

at UCLA. “If there was a tragedy, for example, it was placed into context or experienced safely with the family. Now it’s a nonstop dose, and it’s easy for kids to confuse their subjective experience of reality with reality. This can really wear kids down if you think about it from a stress perspective.” The good news is that we have gotten much better at identifying anxiety in children, and we know that early diagnosis significantly improves outcomes. This places the onus on parents—and teachers and coaches and nannies— to get kids through the clinic door. Most anxiety disorders in children arise before age twelve, and any family with a history of anxiety should have heightened suspicion. And yet the persistent, if fading, stigma around mental illness (more pronounced in some cultures than in others) remains a barrier to treatment. Anxiety disorders are also a barrier per se, as anxious kids frequently keep their worries hidden, and they tend to be frightened of medicine and its potential physical side effects while also fretting over the exposure tasks that are essential to therapy. But no barrier may be more alarming than the scarcity of providers. According to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, there is one child psychiatrist for every 1,800 children with mental-health problems in need of treatment. Fortunately, we have also begun targeting anxiety in systemic ways that show real promise, including school curricula that incorporate mindfulness programs and coping-skill development. Children who are attuned to their emotional states and have a skill or two to summon in moments of distress quickly learn that the world is not as rough as it seems. At the start of the school year, I met an eight-year-old girl with braids and patent leather shoes, whose grandmother brought her in when she started having tantrums. Two rowdy male cousins had just moved into the house, and they disrupted her rigid, orderly, and in my judgment anxiety-driven need for rules to be followed to a tee. She was an excellent student and a competitive ice-skater but had

“It’s easy with an anxious kid for parents to accommodate to the anxiety,” Walkup explains. “The kid gets more and more delicate, and sooner or later the family can’t approach him with any task” are the representatives of the hard, demanding world.” Our society has yet to determine whether alma maters ought to serve a similar function. Recently I asked a sixteen-year-old girl—whose socialanxiety disorder had remitted with a course of the SSRI medication Celexa—to look up from her iPhone for a moment and tell me how she felt Instagram and Snapchat had interacted with her illness. “It’s nice to be able to say, ‘Wow, there are people out there who are like me and are into what I’m into,’ ” she said. “But it’s so easy for people to be mean.” Certainly, social media have provided a crucial sense of connectedness to children who may feel isolated, but there are risks that attend not having adult support in interpreting so much unfiltered content. “In the past, information was buffered,” explains John Piacentini, Ph.D., director of the CARES (Child Anxiety Resilience Education and Support) Center

trouble maintaining friendships. She could not leave her bedroom until the part in her hair was perfectly straight, but this never made her late for school. In a matter of minutes I learned that the girl had been born addicted to methamphetamine, and that she had been adopted by her maternal grandmother at age three after a period of severe parental neglect. I admit I was surprised that her grandmother shared all this in the girl’s presence. Eight is young. But her grandmother, who must have read something in my expression, said, “She knows that she’s safe and that she’s loved, so this stuff doesn’t bother her.” I asked the girl what she thought of her unusual life story. “I think it makes me interesting,” she told me. “And sometimes, when I feel frustrated, I remember that I’m really lucky.” I can’t imagine a more auspicious way to start.  227


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GREENER PASTURES The author’s house overlooks a verdant valley in Gloucestershire. Landscapes photographed by Robert Fairer.

WHEN SHE COULDN’T FIND THE PERFECT COUNTRY FARMHOUSE WITH SWEEPING VIEWS AND SCANT NEIGHBORS,PLUM SYKES INVENTED ONE, COMPLETE WITH OLD-WORLD CHARM AND MODERN COMFORT. PHOTOGRAPHED BY FRANÇOIS HALARD.


IMAGINE ME AND YOU Sykes (in an Oscar de la Renta dress) and her husband, Toby Rowland, surrounded by teasels and cow parsley in the couple’s wildflower garden. Details, see In This Issue. Sittings Editor: Miranda Brooks.


HARVEST HOME BELOW: Toby plays the piano while Tess, age six, dances on a Moroccan rug. BOTTOM LEFT: The dining room, its fireplace modeled after a 17th-century piece. BOTTOM RIGHT: Ten-year-old Ursula, in Petit Bateau pajamas, in the farmhouse kitchen.


ost a peacock? call this number, read the sign outside an overgrown cottage close to home. My heart sank and soared in equal measure: I had lost a peacock—in fact I had lost three—so I was thrilled to know that one of them was safe. I also knew that peacocks are virtually impossible to catch. Lost peacocks, missing sheep, late, lamented horses—all these are part of my daily life now. I have finally settled in the English countryside, full time, forever, lock, stock, and family. My husband, Toby, and I and our daughters, Ursula, ten, and Tess, six, live on a remote sheep farm in the Cotswold Hills. It’s one of the prettiest parts of England. Our house perches on the edge of a bucolic valley, its pastures divided by ancient dry-stone walls and hawthorn hedges. There is not a building in sight. Finding a spot this heavenly took years. Long-term weekenders, we’d been renting a cottage in Gloucestershire to balance our London lives, and dreamed of buying a pretty old farmhouse with incredible views, no road noise, and no neighbors. So did everyone else. Which is why we couldn’t find one. Then, one May weekend, we saw an ad for a farm five miles from our rental, more than 100 acres of land with a small house, barns, and stables. We weren’t looking for 100 acres and a small house; we were looking for a decent-size house and 20 acres. But we decided to check it out. The farm was accessed by a stony track, with cow parsley growing high on either side. The fields below, dotted with sheep, looked like a postcard from another time. “We’ve got to live here!” I said to my husband. I was having a Tess of the d’Urbervilles moment. Toby was as smitten as I. The only issue was that the old farm cottage was damp, cramped, and subsiding. The owner hadn’t touched it for years. (His polo ponies, on the other hand, were living in luxury in the stables out in the yard.) “It’s the perfect spot to build a house,” announced the realtor. The idea horrified me. I didn’t have a grand design in me. And, in any case, I wanted to live in an old house, not a new one. The truth was, I was a bit of an old-house snob: Like many English people, I have always attached a great deal of romance and nostalgia to ancient buildings. A childhood spent in a medieval farmhouse, combined with an addiction to such novels as Wuthering Heights, Brideshead Revisited, and Rebecca, had given me the warped view that only old dwellings had atmosphere. But that day, looking at the run-down little farmhouse and its extraordinary location, we realized that if we wanted to live somewhere this beautiful, it wasn’t going to be a simple case of moving into a ready-made home. By the end of September, the property was ours. We had taken a huge gamble and bought the derelict farm (for, once the Tess-tinted glasses had defogged, that was what we now understood it was, complete with thousands of thistles and nettles in those pretty fields). We prayed that we would get planning permission. Right away, I got started on my mood boards, filling scrapbook after scrapbook with pictures of Georgian rectories and cottage gardens. When we began designing the house with our architect, the brief soon became the

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PILLOWS AND PRINTS TOP: William Morris “Willow Boughs” wallpaper adds to the coziness of the Arts and Crafts–inspired drawing room. ABOVE: Sykes’s Chippendale dressing table, a gift from her grandmother.

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not-very-imaginative “fake old Cotswold farmhouse.” We wanted the feeling of a home that had been around for a few centuries, combined with the functionality of a brand-new building. We would keep the old farm cottage, turning it into a boot room, nursery, and utility area, and add a new front. ver many months, the architect proposed various designs, but none were quite right. In the end, Toby and I took him to Abbey Farm in the famously beautiful Slad Valley, immortalized by Laurie Lee in his book Cider with Rosie. It has a charming stone facade—a Jacobean central block and porch, a Georgian wing at one end, and a converted barn at the other. The house is only one-room deep, cottage-size, but it has wonderful proportions. It became our chief inspiration. I won’t bore you with too many details about the part that happens between designing a house and decorating it; two exhausting years were spent contemplating concrete breeze blocks, roof tiles, stone samples, double glazing, plumbing, and drainage. Disasters befell us, as they do all self-builders: Our worst moment was when, after we got the roof on and the house watertight, a huge rainstorm battered it only to reveal that every stone window leaked bucketfuls of water. In tears, I asked the architect to come up with a solution to fix them. He quit the project. The builder was fired. So there we were, halfway through a two-year build with no architect and no builder. We had a leaky shell and a concrete-block interior. But you never know what good can come out of a crisis. A few weeks earlier I had been introduced to a talented architectural designer named Tristan Salazar. Tristan had worked for fifteen years for the famous decorator Robert Kime, whose work conjures up the essence of the bohemian English country house for clients ranging from pop stars to Prince Charles. Tristan, along with a miraculously available team from Robert Kime, rescued our project. I had had the naive idea that you build a house and then decorate it. But inside our beautiful stone-clad construction with wonderful gables, Gothic windows, and old-fashioned Cotswold tiles, the rooms were little more than boxes. Tristan had to design every door frame, windowsill, cornice, and even the look of the plastering (soft and slightly uneven so it would be in keeping with the “period” of the house). When it finally came to decorating, we wanted our home to feel relaxed but glamorous. It was a farmhouse, so it had to be practical, but we also planned to entertain and have weekend guests to stay in comfort. Hand-painted wallpapers and silk carpets were out; squashy sofas, cozy sitting rooms, oak floors, large fireplaces, and excellent water pressure were in. The biggest room in the house is the dining room, laid with wide oak floorboards. We managed to get a local stonemason to copy an exquisite seventeenth-century fireplace from a friend’s house. Tristan had an original piece of late-sixteenthcentury cornice—chunky entwined fruits and leaves—which we used as the model for our own. He created a barely there pale-blue wash for the walls. The huge windows were framed with faded pink linen curtains, edged with vintage lace I’d found in a shop on London’s Portobello Road.

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TO THE MANOR The stone-clad house, with its farm buildings, and original cottage serving as a utility wing.


FAIRY-TALE PRINCESS Ursula in her four-poster bed, sourced from a local auction house.


When we’re not entertaining, Tess uses the room for Rollerblading practice and Ursula tinkles away at her scales on the 100-year-old Steinway piano my grandmother gave me when I was sixteen. On those long, dark evenings that start at four in the afternoon in the English winter, I’ll set the girls’ tea on a tiny table right in front of the huge fireplace as a treat when they get home from school. Many of our decorating ideas were borrowed. A friend has a country drawing room wall covered in William Morris’s classic “Willow Boughs” wallpaper (designed in 1887, it still looks fresh). After many happy visits there, we planned to use it ourselves, and it became the basis for a design by Tristan for an Arts and Crafts–inspired drawing room, using reclaimed carved wooden pilasters and rustic oak beams. The pale-pink silk-velvet curtains add a luxurious, slightly Old Hollywood touch, and the nineteenth-century Ziegler rug, a gift from my mother-in-law, adds just the right dose of English chic. I scoured local auction houses and sales for four-poster beds and vintage linens. A nearby manor house had been wonderfully decorated in the 1960s by an American heiress. When she died, and I heard that all her incredible curtains were going to be ripped out and dumped, I removed every single pair, thick with decades of dust, and kept the best for our house. If I had had my way, I would probably have covered every bedroom in floral-printed wallpaper. (I am a child of the eighties; the influence of Colefax and Fowler, the English decorator, has never quite left me.) “Darling,” Toby would say as I showed him yet another C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 1

WORK TIME, TEATIME TOP: Toby’s study, with a sofa by George Smith and Claremont ikat-print curtains salvaged from a local manor. ABOVE: Sykes, in Erdem, and Tess have tea on the author’s Herend wedding china. In this story: hair, Bradley Deeming; makeup, Carolyn Gallyer. Details, see In This Issue.

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SUPER MARKET Bourdain at the site of his planned food hall at Manhattan’s Pier 57, which is envisioned for 2019. J.Crew jacket and sweater. Photographed by Norman Jean Roy. Grooming, Losi. Details, see In This Issue. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


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W O R L D From bad-boy chef to globe-trotting CNN star, Anthony Bourdain has become a master of reinvention. Now can he bring a hyperambitious food hall to Manhattan’s waterfront? Oliver Strand reports.

Anthony Bourdain is already sitting in a corner booth when I walk into Sakagura, a Japanese bar in the basement of an office building in midtown Manhattan. Bourdain, I will come to learn, turns early arrivals into a competitive sport— no matter how well you plan, he will be there before you. This might seem like compulsively considerate behavior from a notorious hard-liver like Bourdain, a man whose public personality is tied up with late-night benders, foulmouthed frankness, and consuming such a staggering variety of food that he’s something like the Library of Congress of eating. If anybody is allowed to show up late for a night of sake and sashimi, it’s Bourdain. 237


Instead he’s pathologically prompt, which makes more sense when you pull back and take a wider view. Anthony Bourdain, the former head chef of Les Halles, a French steak house in New York that was well liked if not particularly influential, didn’t become Anthony Bourdain—the man who has been played by Bradley Cooper on television, the tastemaker whose name is set to be on a $60 million market hall on a pier in New York City, the CNN personality so broadly respected that President Obama will sit down with him in a fluorescent-lit noodle joint in Hanoi—on one-liners and being able to hold his liquor. Bourdain is indefatigable, and his unlikely rise to the top can be explained, in part, by his ability to marshal the energy and concentration needed to stick to an impossibly busy schedule filled with call times and production meetings and long-haul flights across the date line, and still look fresh when the cameras are rolling. But being one of the hardest-working eaters in show business will get you only so far. What sets Bourdain apart is his honesty. When he finds something he loves, he smiles the toothy grin of an eleven-year-old boy. And when he comes across something he thinks is phony, he destroys his target with a few well-chosen words. “Agree with him or not, everyone knows his opinions come from a real place,” says the director Adam McKay, who gave Bourdain a cameo explaining collateralized debt obligations in his 2015 film, The Big Short. “So he was a perfect choice,” says McKay, for “cutting through mounds of banking bullshit and doublespeak.” At the moment, Bourdain’s star has never been brighter or shone in so many millions of households, mainly thanks to Parts Unknown, which is now into its eighth season and has become one of CNN’s certifiable hits. Bourdain has leveraged his ratings to go to forbidding places: Libya, Iran, the West Bank and Gaza. Memorably, he and his crew took a boat up the Congo River, in a stateless part of the world where even the United Nations treads cautiously. The exercise was more a documentary art project than a see-thesights travel show. “I assumed from the get-go that every minute I was on television was a freakish anomaly that would be over quickly,” Bourdain says. “It came as a sobering and confusing moment when I realized I was still on the air. What the fuck is going on?” Bourdain is nothing if not entertaining, but there is a darkness to him that goes well beyond the manufactured tension you typically see on TV. “Life is complicated. It’s filled with nuance. It’s unsatisfying,” he tells me at Sakagura, a standby from the days before the Internet turned every hidden bar into a puppy pile of selfies: He suggested we go there so that we could eat and drink and disappear. To illustrate the point, he draws my attention to lettering tattooed on his arm. “It’s from the Greek skeptics,” he says. “The translation is ‘I am certain of nothing. I’m not even sure I’m certain of that.’ If I believe in anything, it is doubt. The root cause of all life’s problems is looking for a simple fucking answer.” It is by maintaining his integrity (a word he hates) that Bourdain has found his audience. Not that he cares. “Look,” he says.

“I appreciate my fans, but I don’t feel any obligation to give them what they want or expect. I don’t feel any obligation to live up to anybody’s expectation of me.” Later on, one of those fans walks over and introduces herself. “I love your show,” she says, gushing a little—and I can see from the look on her face that this moment will be the story she tells tomorrow, when she went out for a drink at Sakagura and discovered Anthony Bourdain in a corner booth. “I really appreciate it. I appreciate that it’s not . . . I feel like it’s not about food. It doesn’t seem like it’s really about food.” “Thank you,” he says. “I still don’t know what it’s about.” “I will stay tuned to watch you figure it out.” Born in New York City to a modestly prosperous family, Bourdain moved with his parents to New Jersey when he was young. The family was stable but not conservative. “My parents were pretty adventurous. We would go into New York and eat at a Swedish restaurant or a Japanese restaurant or something,” Bourdain says. “We liked movies with subtitles in my house. That meant something. The ‘other’ wasn’t bad or frightening. It was interesting.” His brother took advantage of the circumstances. “The good one. Finished college at Brown. Entered the financial services: banking, currency. Very smart.” Meanwhile, Bourdain dropped acid at thirteen and started getting into trouble soon after. “I was a monstrous child. Monstrous,” he says. “The nightmare version of the cranky teen.” It wasn’t just delinquency. This was the early 1970s— Nixon, Vietnam—and Bourdain wanted to belong to a subculture. Some of his high school teachers, who “made reading fun and dangerous,” woke something inside him. “My favorite English teachers were clearly closeted gay men who were used to living in repressive times, for whom Tennessee Williams held real power,” Bourdain says. “What they were saying was ‘This is a pretty fucking subversive book you just read.’ They were talking about shit that we weren’t really allowed to talk about.” He devoured books and films, although that didn’t take him far at Vassar. He didn’t come back for junior year. Then he discovered the kitchen. “I found a home in the restaurant business,” Bourdain says. “You know, ‘I found a home in the circus’ or ‘I found a home in the Army’? These were the first people I ever respected, and this was the first place where I went home respecting myself.” He tells that story in Kitchen Confidential, the 2000 best seller that transformed the public’s image of the restaurant chef from a wise figure who guides you through the mysteries of trussing a roast into an antihero whose obsessive, self-destructive nature might be the reason why your dinner tastes so delicious, and why that same person may not be capable of filling out a lease for an apartment. He also discovered heroin. He tells that story in Bone in the Throat, his 1995 noir thriller that draws on his experience as a highly functioning addict. In one memorable scene, the Bourdain character gets a fix in an abandoned building in Alphabet City (remember when the East Village

“I appreciate my fans, but I don’t feel any obligation to give them what they want or expect. I don’t feel any obligation to live up to anybody’s expectation of me”

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of my professional choices. We have a lot of love and respect had abandoned buildings?) that is raided by the police, and for each other and have managed to raise a happy, healthy, he hides inside a wall with another junkie until the cops go self-assured little girl together and we will continue to— away. “That actually happened,” Bourdain says. Bone in the Throat didn’t make much of an impact. Neither together. We are and will remain a family. Maybe not your did Gone Bamboo, a sequel published two years later. Kitchen family, but a family just the same.” Confidential did. That book came out of the New Yorker esThe two met in 2005, when Ottavia was working for the chef Eric Ripert, one of Bourdain’s closest friends. say “Don’t Eat Before Reading This,” which Bourdain origiWhat started as a one-night stand turned into a long-term nally wrote for the New York Press, a now-defunct alternative relationship, and even if the marriage is ending, family life weekly. When the New York Press editor in chief killed the has clearly mellowed Bourdain. When not on the road, he story, Bourdain’s mother told him to submit it to The New plays the role of homemaker here in Manhattan: He shops, Yorker. “I’m like, ‘Yeah, OK, thanks, Mom,’ ” Bourdain says. cooks, tends to his and Ottavia’s nine-year-old, Ariane. But he did mail a typed manuscript to the magazine’s offices, It’s not exactly living life on the edge. “I stopped smoking where it made its way through the slush pile. “Within 48 hours a few years ago,” he says. “I mean, I’ve had more time on of that article coming out I had a book deal,” says Bourdain, this Earth than I probably deserve, and I enjoy cigarettes who now has thirteen books to his credit, including Appetites very much, but now I feel that I owe this child who loves (his new cookbook), Typhoid Mary: An Urban Historical me to at least try to live a little (a nonfiction account of longer, you know?” Ottavia Mary Mallon), Get Jiro! and notes that he can be sweet Get Jiro: Blood and Sushi in private. “Disney cartoons (manga-style graphic novels); make him cry,” she says. “He he writes regularly for Lucky has no problem admitting to Peach; and he has his own terrible things, like drug adimprint at Ecco. In the Cliffs Notes version, Bourdain was diction, crazy escapades, but a chef who wrote a best seller he doesn’t admit his soft side.” and made his way onto televiAnd yet Bourdain is still known for prickly exchanges sion, but if you actually line with others—which can esup the events of his life, he’s a calate into public fights. His literary figure who spent years pithy critique of Alice Wafinding his voice and honing ters that compared her to his craft. Cooking paid the the Khmer Rouge, made rent, but his mornings were years ago, is still in circuladedicated to writing. tion. And his sparring with His breakthrough, accordthe James Beard Award– ing to Karen Rinaldi, who winning writer Alan Richman, published Kitchen Confidenwhich started when Richman tial with Bloomsbury (she is was brutally honest about the now the head of Harper Wave, state of New Orleans restauan imprint of HarperCollins), rants not long after Hurriwas to turn from fiction to cane Katrina devastated the nonfiction. “He’ll probably QUICK EATS city, went several rounds. shoot me for saying this, but Bourdain’s New York market will be dedicated to Bourdain says he and Wathere’s an elegance and a fierce street food, like Vietnamese-style grilled octopus. ters are on good terms, and he intellect behind everything he Food photographs by Grant Cornett. and Richman agree that their does,” Rinaldi says. She conconflict is resolved, although siders him to be a brilliant, each one seems to feel that it’s because he won the fight. thoughtful, and intelligent man who steps into “the per“He’s about the smartest and best-informed nonintellectual sona of being a badass. What can be better?” The world I’ve ever met, and I mean that as a compliment,” Richman is filled with barroom philosophers who wax poetic while tells me. “I don’t think there’s a man on Earth who wouldn’t running out the clock. Bourdain could have been one of enjoy a meal with him.” them. Instead, he took the long way, and now he finds Others aren’t as forgiving. Most chefs won’t say anything himself where he always wanted to be. negative about Bourdain in public—pissing off one of the most powerful players in the restaurant industry isn’t the In September, after the New York Post reports that Bourdain best business move—but he is accused of being tribal, playand his wife of nearly a decade, Ottavia Busia, a mixeding up friends and snubbing those he doesn’t like. It should martial-arts fighter who competes on the jujitsu-tournament be noted that Bourdain isn’t a federal judge and doesn’t circuit, have separated, Bourdain writes me a note: “Ottavia have a mandate to be impartial: He can play favorites. and I have lived mostly separate lives for years. I travel the But some feel, perhaps correctly, that their accomplishworld 250 days a year. She trains seven days a week. I admire ments will never be celebrated by Bourdain in an episode her desire and commitment as I admire anyone who wants of Parts Unknown, or with a book C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 1 to be the best at something, just as she has been supportive 239


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STREET STYLE Malaysian-inspired shaved ice with tapioca, sweet red beans, and dragon fruit.


SMALL WONDERS Steamed dumplings and crispy baby crab. Bourdain is at his happiest holding a takeout container of something delicious.


C H O P With rebellious, home-cut hair influencing the runways, Lena Dunham reflects on her own self-styled history—and the power of picking up the shears. Photographed by David Sims.

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will never forget the first time I cut my own bangs: the power, the adrenaline. I was twelve years old, standing in the fluorescent light of my parents’ bathroom with a pair of orangehandled craft scissors, unaware that I was standing on the precipice of self-definition. The sound of the first chop, thick and harsh, was thrilling. I watched my hair pile up in the sink, then looked into the mirror: I had given myself blunt, successive layers that resembled a staircase headed to nowhere. Nothing about the haircut could have been perceived as skilled, fetching, or even sane. But I had never felt more alive. The reaction at school the next day wasn’t particularly positive, and I wore a bandanna for the rest of the year. But when I’d come home, I liked to remove it and look at myself, Brooklyn’s own Joan of Arc, freed from the tyranny of the Rachel, of chunky blonde highlights, of the invisible contract my friends and I seemed to have signed promising that our hair would reflect some sense of wanting to be wanted. A series of similar experiments followed: my own pixie cut, so oddly shaped it looked like a 1950s Peter Pan wig; Bettie Page bangs blunt at my ears, topped with some drugstore black dye and a pastel clip meant for an infant. Each episode was met with sighs from my parents and confusion from my peers, but I remained committed to the notion that my hair was just for me, another avenue for radical self-reinterpretation. It’s an idea that is gaining traction in current fashion conversations. Just ask Grace Hartzel. “It’s cool to show your personal style,” the St. Louis–born model says of treating her gamine, Jane Birkin locks as a blank canvas. Hartzel used to dye them a shade of “ugly red” before she hacked her own set of bangs with “cheap scissors” from CVS three years ago. “I was feeling really stuck,” the 21-year-old recalls. “My parents were like, ‘Your career is over. You’re done.’ ” Hedi Slimane disagreed, casting Hartzel as his fall 2014 exclusive at Saint Laurent and catapulting her—and the exact bangs that sent her parents into paroxysms—into the modeling stratosphere. After debuting a warm honey hue for Slimane’s final Saint Laurent show earlier this year, Hartzel has embraced the season’s growing DIY hair spirit once again, collaborating with hairstylist Guido Palau on a messy, gender-fluid Duran Duran crop with a Blade Runner aggressiveness for Vogue. There is something appealing about good old-fashioned Breck Girl hair, of course—which I understood briefly when I was sixteen via my best friend at summer camp, Joana. Slim and blonde, she had the perfect glossy mane of an Olsen twin back when they were still making movies about catastrophes in Paris. For the next few years, I worked hard—with a flatiron and Sun-In—to be that blonde, that glossy. Then Joana went to art school. When she arrived in September, she still had her show-pony locks. But by October she had shorn her hair into a C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 2 6 3 CUTTING LOOSE Model Grace Hartzel, whose career skyrocketed after she snipped her own jagged, rock-’n’-roll fringe, collaborated with hairstylist Guido Palau on her latest hair transformation. Alexander Wang dress. Hair, Guido for Redken; makeup, Diane Kendal. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


P OW E R PUFF The Moment Once an outerwear afterthought, the puffer coat has become ubiquitous on the runways—from Demna Gvasalia’s debut at Balenciaga, with exaggerated silhouettes in eye-popping palettes, to Rag & Bone’s military-inspired iteration, replete with fishtail hemlines and lacing up the sides. But beyond the sheer size, there’s a lot to love about the seasonal staple. “It’s the closest thing to leaving the house in a duvet,” says Rag & Bone CEO Marcus Wainwright. As for how to sport the style without looking, well . . . puffy? “If you can’t beat it,” Wainwright says, “own it.” 

The Details On model Sophie Koella (NEAR LEFT): Moncler O coat, $2,270; moncler.com. Paco Rabanne boots. On model Selena Forrest: Rag & Bone coat, $1,295; rag-bone.com. Paco Rabanne boots. On both: Rag & Bone pants, $495; rag-bone.com. Hair, Tina Outen; makeup, Susie Sobol. Details, see In This Issue. Photographed by Theo Wenner. Fashion Editor: Alex Harrington.


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THE 2016 CFDA/VOGUE FASHION FUND FINALISTS—A CUP-RUNNETH-OVER CROP OF EMERGING DESIGNER TALENT—ENLIST GIGI HADID TO SHOW US JUST WHAT THEY’RE CAPABLE OF. PHOTOGRAPHED BY GREGORY HARRIS.

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BROCK COLLEC T ION Breezy and bicoastal, Californian Laura Vassar, 29 (FAR LEFT), and Texan Kristopher Brock, 30 (SECOND FROM LEFT), create their unfussy-yet-elegant floral dresses, undone corsetry, and straight-cut raw jeans betwixt and between Manhattan and Newport Beach, California. Water is central to both their collection and their lives at large. “It has a sense of calmness that you can’t really replicate,” says Vassar. Spring brings paper-thin-striped taffeta pajama tops, short-sleeved shirtdresses, and gauzy Italian knits. Vassar wears a Brock Collection dress ($1,890) and shoes. Dress at Jeffrey, NYC. The couple’s son, Charlie, wears a Brock Collection tunic and pants. Gigi Hadid wears a Brock Collection dress ($2,690) and shoes. Dress at Copious Row, Greenwich, CT. Brock wears a Thom Browne shirt. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Sara Moonves.


CHLOE GOSSEL IN It was cherry-red patent ballerinas that first ignited the Normandy-born Chloe Gosselin’s (LEFT) passion for footwear. “I was obsessed,” she says. “I would always be polishing them!” Currently based in Las Vegas and New York with her fiancé, magician David Copperfield, and their six-year-old daughter, Sky, the 32-year-old shoe designer launched her first curvaceous, almond-toe pump two years ago, at a time when everything was pointy—and followed that up with a Mary Jane with a mink Peter Pan collar. Her ladylike designs are disrupted with exotic bricolage, laced booties, and daring heel heights of up to 125 mm. Look for a red-carpet capsule soon. Gosselin wears Chloe Gosselin suede Mary Janes, $700; Barneys New York, NYC. Rodarte sequined blouse and pants; fwrd.com. Hadid wears Chloe Gosselin water-snake heels, $910; Barneys New York, NYC. Rodarte lace dress; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC.


S TAMPD Behind the laid-back surferisms of L.A.-based streetwear designer Chris Stamp (LEFT)—the descriptive gnarly peppers a tour of his showroom/store/ design studio—lies the heart of a retailer: The May opening of his brick-and-mortar store (along with his shoppable Instagram) was pivotal. “I grew up in a small-business atmosphere,” says Stamp, 32, whose mother was a handbag designer who also owned a luggage company. Stamp attributes the cult status of his longer-line hip-hop basics and distressed crews to “high quality at a good price. We’re carving out a new space in menswear where luxury meets street. I want to be the next Ralph Lauren.” Hadid wears a Stampd jacket and shorts. Stamp wears a Stampd T-shirt and jeans. Rapper Vic Mensa (RIGHT) wears a Stampd bomber jacket and jeans; all at stampd.com. On Hadid: T by Alexander Wang tank top. Details, see In This Issue.


MORGAN L ANE Morgan Curtis, 29, LEFT, grew up immersed in all things fashion—and a sizable collection of vintage negligees—courtesy of her mother, Jill Stuart. It was only a matter of time, then, before she launched Morgan Lane, her signature line of flirty and feminine bloomers, come-hither bras and underwear, and seductively soft silk pajamas. “It’s lingerie that’s meant to be seen,” says Curtis, whose spring selections are bursting with covetable hand-painted patterns of mystical mushrooms, blown-out flowers, and bright butterflies inspired by Roxy Paine, Carsten Höller, and Alex Katz. Hadid wears a Morgan Lane silk pajama top, $350. Model Taylor Hill (BOTTOM) wears a Morgan Lane silk pajama top ($350) and pants ($238). Curtis wears Morgan Lane silk pajama pants, $238. All at morgan-lane.com. On Curtis: Rochambeau top.


NEWBARK “We’re sole sisters,” says Marjan Malakpour, 50 (SECOND FROM LEFT), about her seven-year design partnership with her sister, Maryam, 48 (FAR RIGHT). Taking cues from their Iranian birthplace—along with Moroccan, Japanese, and English footwear—the California-bred stylists created a collection of boots, loafers, slides, and sandals with a rock-’n’-roll sensibility. Hadid wears NewbarK loafers, $545. Libertine lace dress and tights. Dress at Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Marjan wears NewbarK boots, $685. 3.1 Phillip Lim jacket. Frame jeans. Singer Maggie Rogers wears NewbarK python-print boots, $785. Libertine velvet dress; ilovelibertine.com. Albertus Swanepoel headpiece. Marteau Vintage earrings. Maryam wears NewbarK loafers, $525. Proenza Schouler rabbit-fur coat. Juan Carlos Obando tank top and trousers. All shoes at newbark.com. Details, see In This Issue.


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ROCHAMBE AU Rochambeau began thirteen years ago, after two New York City kids, Joshua Cooper, 32 (FAR LEFT), and Laurence Chandler, 32 (RIGHT CENTER, SEATED), bonded over a pair of Nike SB Dunk Highs skateboard shoes. Chandler describes their now-nine-year-old label as “an eclectic mix of luxury loungewear with streetcentric idioms.� What this means: pooling ponchos, draped jerseys, slouchy hoodies, and conceptual windswept shirting in eye-popping palettes equally appropriate for a drinks date or a session at a skate park. What to look for in their spring collection: Moroccan mosaics and camel graphics emblazoned across bombers, silk blouses, and elevated track pants. All clothes (worn by Hadid, Cooper, Chandler, Yung Jake, Tyler Golden, Grear Patterson, and Hak) by Rochambeau; at rochambeau.nyc. On Hadid: Proenza Schouler boots. Details, see In This Issue.


KREWE DU OPTIC “New Orleans is our brand—the people, the culture, that rhythm,” says the cheery Stirling Barrett, 27 (RIGHT), who founded Krewe du optic—his line of fashion-forward eyewear hand-carved from Zyle acetate—in 2013 and is often seen whizzing around his hometown by bike. Now this local champion has not only a sleek concept store on Royal Street (complete with a library curated by local arts bookshop the Stacks) but a highly savvy following of mono-named favorites—Beyoncé, Kendall, Gigi—guiding his vision globally. Hadid wears Krewe sunglasses, $235; krewe.com. Proenza Schouler dress, $1,625; Proenza Schouler, NYC. Barrett wears Krewe sunglasses; krewe.com. David Hart shirt. Actor Justice Smith (LEFT) wears Krewe sunglasses, $215; krewe.com. David Hart shirt.


ADAM SELMAN “Surround yourself with pieces you love, and it all gels harmoniously,” says Adam Selman, 34 (CENTER), of his instinctual approach to designing his three-year-old line. The Texas-raised Selman, now a New Yorker, takes inspiration from Aaronel deRoy Gruber’s Plexiglas work and daydreams in hues of sunrise and sunset. Shake it all about and you get a sampling of candy-colored, pearl-embellished dresses and separates, colorful crocheted styles, and pretty-in-pink pleated cotton-shirting overall dresses. Actress Sarah Snyder wears an Adam Selman dress, $850; adamselman .com. Selman wears a Lee Jeans jacket and Levi’s 505c jeans. Hadid wears an Adam Selman dress, $1,195; adamselman.com. On Snyder and Hadid: The Elder Statesman hat. Adam Selman x Le Specs sunglasses. Adam Selman x Converse espadrille sneakers. Details, see In This Issue.


JI OH “Not all whites are the same,” says the South Korean–born, Central Saint Martins–trained, New York–based designer Ji Oh, 32 (SECOND FROM RIGHT), who set out in 2014 to respin, rework, and generally up the ante of the oxford shirt. Two years later, her opus of minimalism now includes polished and slit-to-the-knee cropped trousers, modern fringed pants, and self-belting shirtdresses. A respect for uniforms and classicism underlies her androgynous vision, while strict, symmetrical military and monastic images adorn her studio wall. Her chic streamlining extends to her target customer: “I don’t even think about what age I’m designing for,” she says, “because these days everyone looks amazing.” All clothes by Ji Oh; at jiohny.com. On Hadid and models Katie Moore (SECOND FROM LEFT) and Fernanda Ly (FAR RIGHT): Dr. Martens boots. On Oh: Alexander Wang boots.


P H OTO G RA P HED AT SI LV ER P O I NT BE ACH C LU B, AT LA NT I C B EAC H, NY. SET D ESIGN BY NICH OLAS D ES JAR D INS FOR M A RY H OWA RD ST U DI O. P RO DUCT I O N BY PAU LA N AVRAT I L FOR P ROD N AT ART + COMMERCE.

AREA For Kentucky-born Beckett Fogg, 28 (FAR LEFT), and Poland native Piotrek Panszczyk, 30 (FAR RIGHT)—the duo that makes up the deliciously decadent brand Area—all things glitz and gloss are fundamental. In the five years since the pair met at Parsons, their work—Dalmatian-printed silk-twill head-to-toe pieces, crocodile-embossed pink-lamé disco dresses, and Swarovski-studded tiger-stripe suiting, to name a few—has become what Fogg calls “a continual study in connotations of identity, femininity, and luxury.” Up next: new experimentations with leotards and Lucite. All clothes (worn by Fogg, Panszczyk, Anwar Hadid, and Gigi Hadid) by Area; at area.nyc. In this story: hair, Tomo Jidai; makeup, Sally Branka. Details, see In This Issue.—EMMA ELWICK-BATES AND RACHEL WALDMAN


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Folk

Breathe some old-school, free-spirited whimsy into your Thanksgiving celebrations.

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1: COURTESY OF PERCOSSI PAPI. 2 & 4: LUCAS VISSER. 3: JOSEPHINE SCHIELE. 5: COURTESY OF ETRO. 6 : COU RT ESY O F NE T-A-P O RT ER. 7 & 9 : COU RT ESY OF 1STD IBS.COM. 8: COURTESY OF FUR LA. 10 : BRUCE WEBER .

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11: LUCAS VISSER. 12: COURTESY OF GUCCI. 13: COURTESY OF NET-A-PORTER. 14 & 16: COURTESY OF MATCHESFASHION.COM. 1 5. DAV I D M A N N I O N FO R CA BA N A M AG A Z I N E . 17: CO U RT ESY O F V I E T T I . 1 8 : CO U RT ESY O F PA N D O RA . 1 9 : CO U RT ESY O F F RA N C ES VA L E N T I N E . 20. C O U RT ESY O F H A P PY M E N O CA L . 2 1 : CO U RT ESY O F C H LO É .

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1. Percossi Papi earrings, $1,050; percossipapistore .com. 2. Wes Gordon blouse, $1,090; fwrd.com. 3. Taartwork pie, $30; taartworkpies.com. 4. Fendi dress; (212) 897-2244. 5. Etro belt, $1,133; Etro, NYC. 6. Sanayi 313 slipper, $1,185; net-a-porter.com. 7. Murano tumblers; 1stdibs.com. 8. Furla bag, $498; furla.com. 9. Moroccan wicker stools; 1stdibs.com. 10. Model Raquel Zimmermann and actress Léa Seydoux (FAR LEFT), Vogue, 2012. 11. Worlds End Farm Queen Anne’s lace; saipua .com. Astier de Villatte plates; abchome.com. Julia B. dinner napkin; juliab.com. Lisa Fine Textiles tablecloth; Hollywood at Home, Los Angeles. 12. Gucci boots; select Gucci boutiques. 13. Rajasthan Style limited edition (Assouline), by Laurie Vernière, $695; net-a-porter .com. 14. Brock Collection blazer, $1,490; matchesfashion .com. 15. Cabana serving platter, $265; 1stdibs.com. 16. Y’s by Yohji Yamamoto skirt, $1,211; matchesfashion.com. 17. Vietti Barbera d’Alba Tre Vigne; vietti.com. 18. Pandora ring, $45; pandora.net. 19. Frances Valentine sandal, $645; francesvalentine.com. 20. Happy Menocal custom stationery; happymenocal .com. 21. Chloé waistcoat; select Chloé boutiques.

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at a market. The shock and trauma to the society have been tremendous.” Murder, exile, and rape—often a way to break women in societies where sex before marriage is taboo, so that they can never marry—have sabotaged the Yazidis’ closeknit relationships. Yet the community has shown a remarkable fortitude. The Yazidis’ spiritual leader, Khurto Hajji Ismail (known as Baba Sheikh), made it clear after the catastrophe that women who had been abducted and raped under ISIS were not to be stigmatized or shamed. This makes sense when I interview survivors, who seem able to discuss the experience in a more open way than other victims of sexual violence in conflict I have met. For most, the tendency is to tell their stories in the third person; to talk about being “touched” or not to talk at all. Many seem broken for life. The Yazidi women, by contrast, appear defiant and strong. “My first goal was not just to escape but to be sure that other people knew what was happening to us, to our people,” says Neda, who is 23. “I wanted them to know so they could go back and save more of the women, and bring them back to normal life.” A wall at the Jinda Center is covered in childlike pencil drawings. “When the women first arrive, they feel ugly,” explains Fahmi. “They have been raped by up to sixteen different men, several times a day. They have been tied to beds. They have been beaten. They have been treated like animals, paraded on stages to be sold to the highest bidder.” Some of the drawings show small women with their hands bound while large, bearded armed men surround them. One shows a woman holding her baby protectively, her arms swung around his body, her mouth agape in fear while a soldier draws his weapon. Another shows a woman surrounded by dead bodies: “My brothers.” Gradually, says Fahmi, after they arrive and get new clothes, begin to sleep and talk with other women who have undergone the same experience, they begin to draw differently: There is also a wall of drawings that say, “I like my eyes” or “I like my hair.” “Slowly they enter the world again,” says Fahmi. Haifa is 21. She sits on a sofa in Jinda wearing a T-shirt that says, never always look see backwards, which she says is an accurate description of her life. Visiting from Germany, where she is receiving psychological treatment for the months she spent as an ISIS slave, she is petite, confident, and poised in skinny jeans and ballet slippers. Her hair is long and spills across her back; her face is fresh. She looks nothing like the photograph that she produces on her cell phone of the dirty and

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crushed-seeming woman dressed in rags who arrived at Jinda. “That was me, the day that I got rescued,” she says, looking at the stranger on her iPhone. “You’re beautiful now,” says Fahmi. “Really?” she asks, laughing. Back at the Sun Ladies’ headquarters, one of the fighters echoes the Yazidis’ impressive resilience. “During the worst moments,” she tells me, “I thought it was the end of my life. When we were running away, I saw an old lady drop down from exhaustion and die in front of me. People were crying and screaming. But I knew we would get through it,” she says. “I don’t know how, but I never lost my heart.” 

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“I had her stand behind me to try and get the rhythm of how I bounce the ball . . . and my slice backhand,” King says. “If you’re going to do me, you’ve got to have a slice backhand.” In the end, the film used Stone for tennis close-ups and pro-level body doubles for rigorous on-court scenes. Getting the look right, Stone says, “means more to me than being a hero and doing crappy tennis.” Of course, Battle of the Sexes is a far bigger story than a tennis match. King’s triumph over Riggs kicked off not only a tennis boom in America but also a broader discussion about equal opportunity and financial fairness in the workplace. To this day, tennis is the only major sport that comes close to equality in prize money; this past September at the U.S. Open, the men’s and women’s singles champions were each paid $3.5 million. At the same time, financial fairness is a topic that has been roiling Hollywood. Stone’s contemporary and friend Jennifer Lawrence has been outspoken about being shortchanged in the past compared with her male costars, and wanting to eliminate the pay gap. I ask Stone if meeting King and making Battle of the Sexes made her think about inequality issues in her own workplace. “Of course,” she says. “We should all be treated fairly and paid fairly,” she continues. “I’ve been lucky enough to have equal pay to my male costars.” She stops herself. “Not ‘lucky.’ I’ve had pay equal to my male costars in the past few films. But our industry ebbs and flows in a way that’s like, ‘How much are you bringing into the box office?’ ‘How much are you the draw or is the other person the draw?’ I felt uncomfortable talking to my agent or lawyer about it because I was like, ‘Do people want to see me as much as they want to see Steve Carell?’ It’s a weird conversation to have because it’s trying to see oneself from the outside. “What are we at [nationally]? Seventynine cents to the dollar?” Stone asks. “It’s insane. There’s no excuse for it anymore.”

“Oh, my God, she got buff!” says King, who turns 73 this month and continues to work nonstop in tennis and social activism. “I’d never played a real person before,” Stone says, “and to play someone who was just totally fully formed and inspiring. . . . Billie Jean is a firecracker. She’s bold and funny and I love her.” “She didn’t want to disappoint me,” King says. “I said, ‘You can’t disappoint me if you give it all you got.’ ” There was the matter of developing Stone into at least a passable tennis player. “I worked my ass off,” she says. She trained with the former pro Vince Spadea as well as with King herself. “When I first met up with her, she threw balls at me because the first thing you need to do is just go where the ball is,” Stone recalls.

Here’s what counts as an Emma Stone scandal in 2016: She is terrible at bowling. I know this because I am also terrible at bowling. The day after our dinner, Stone and I meet at Highland Park Bowl, a meticulously retro-furnished bowling alley and cocktail cave. Stone orders a pizza and beer, and we wind up tying with a score of 71. If you’re into bowling, you know that a 71 is basically a score you’d get if you drank half a bottle of tequila, blindfolded yourself, spun around backward, and rolled the ball between your legs. We did not do those things. Bad bowling completed, we go for a walk around the neighborhood. Later that night, Stone is due for a meeting with the director Cary Fukunaga (True Detective, Beasts of

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absence to his advantage, telling the story of that day from the periphery. The couple spent those hours at home, Mildred sewing and cooking, Richard laying bricks and mowing the lawn. The children are shown playing in the yard out front. Earlier, when the lawyers ask Richard if there is anything he’d like to tell the Supreme Court before their trial, he says simply, “Tell the judge I love my wife.” (It’s Negga’s favorite line in the film.) As the camera moves between their family life and the courtroom, the divide between the powerful and the powerless has rarely been laid out so starkly. Here is the Supreme Court trying to decide whether this couple and their children should exist, while far from the grand white steps of the courthouse, they are busy existing. As Edgerton says, “It is a sad happy ending because they win, but nobody can give them back those years.” Loving v. Virginia once and for all invalidated laws prohibiting interracial marriage in this country. “There was an inevitability to that couple,” says Negga. “They were like the poster couple for the future.” 

ON WITH THE SHOW

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No Nation) about a dark-comedy short-run TV series called Maniac, which she intends to star in with her friend and former Superbad costar Jonah Hill. Also down the road is The Favourite, a take on the eighteenthcentury British reign of Queen Anne from The Lobster director Yorgos Lanthimos, and the live-action Cruella, with Stone playing the 101 Dalmatians villainess Cruella de Vil. Oh, this: Stone is single now. You may or may not have known that. That’s on purpose. For four years, she was in a relationship with the actor Andrew Garfield— “Someone I still love very much,” she says as we sit on a bench—but the pair called it off about a year ago. “I’m really glad you’re sitting down so I can tell you,” she says drily. She and Garfield were very private about their personal lives, and remain so. She’s polite about it, but I can tell you Stone would much rather talk about rolling that 71 in the bowling alley than what it’s like to be single. “It’s been interesting,” she says. “It’s been a good year. And sad. Pros and cons.” It’s early evening, and around us, people are returning from their jobs. A Metro— an actual train in L.A.!—rolls by on the tracks. It’s likely that at least a few of the passengers are coming from auditions for parts they won’t get. Or maybe they will. Stone says that making La La Land made her “re-fall in love with that Hollywood idea of Los Angeles because I wasn’t looking at L.A. that way at all.” Soon Stone will go off on a European vacation with friends, doing short hops in Copenhagen, Stockholm, Paris, and London, where paparazzi will photograph her out for a stroll with Garfield. She will go to the La La Land premieres in Venice, Telluride, and Toronto, where the enthralled reception leaves her emotional. “I cried, like, halfway through at the screening,” she tells me after Venice. “I’d already seen the movie with some people who worked on it, and we were excited, but you never know until it gets out there.” I should have mentioned it before, but during the time we meet, Emma Stone is boxing up her things in Los Angeles and getting ready to move back to New York City. There is something almost perfect about that, very La La Land. Just when you become one of the dreamers in this crazy town who actually have a dream come true, it’s probably time to try someplace else. 

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asked me, in the days of me dreaming about what would happen in the future, who I would want to write my first original musical,” says Platt, “it would hands-down have been Pasek and Paul.” After arriving in New York, the two quickly went on to win a Lortel Award for Dogfight and a Tony nomination for

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their score for A Christmas Story. And though their plate is full—they’ve written the lyrics for the Emma Stone–Ryan Gosling movie musical La La Land (page 212), which just premiered at the Venice Film Festival, and original songs for the upcoming Hugh Jackman vehicle The Greatest Showman, out next December— they are at the moment focused on bringing Evan Hansen to Broadway. So, of course, is its young star. “It’s sort of everything I’ve dreamed of,” he says. “I keep coming back to thinking about myself driving to school listening to Next to Normal, or listening to Book of Mormon, or Gypsy, and then thinking about all these teenagers that are going to be able to listen to me sing on this album and have the first Evan that they hear—their introduction to the character—be me. Whatever does or doesn’t happen with the show, or with my career, that is more than enough.” 

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Brunschwig & Fils pattern covered in sweet peas or daisies, “I don’t want our house to look like a Victorian B and B.” I was allowed to paper one small bedroom in climbing pink roses—a room I love, with its pink curtains lined with tartan and a vintage floral bedspread. For the “dormitory” on the attic floor, used for guests’ children, I found old-fashioned iron-and-brass bedsteads, red tartan blankets, and a wallpaper that is a reproduction of an 1860s lithograph of hunting scenes. Children adore the room—as they fall asleep, they can look at horses leaping hedges and red-coated, tophatted riders toppling off. Inevitably, we moved into the house three years ago with the builders still there. The garden was a symphony in mud—with Miranda Brooks’s help, we landscaped it and planted simple flower beds with beautifully scented roses, pinks, lavender, and wisteria. With the hard work done, we finally started to enjoy living on our farm. During the week, while the girls are at school, I write every morning in my tiny, second-floor, light-filled writing room with its wild valley views. I try to walk the dogs, muck out a stable, garden, or exercise my horse in the afternoons. What’s the point of living in the country, after all, if you don’t get into it every day? I also spend large amounts of time dealing with my various feathered friends. For a while Toby had talked about getting chickens, an idea I resisted. But then, for his last birthday, I bought four Hamburgs— black-and-white dotted bantams whose graphic markings reminded me of the hats from the Ascot scene in My Fair Lady. A strange thing happened: Toby was completely uninterested in the chickens (sheep are his thing), but I adored them. I quickly bought more and soon added ten guinea

fowl that scream like sirens every time a stranger arrives in the yard. I now have more than 30 birds. And then there were the peacocks. A friend, Duran Duran bassist John Taylor, had bred too many at his Wiltshire home. My love of poultry by now well established, I agreed to take delivery of two peacocks and a peahen. So that the birds would “stick” to the farm when they were released, as per John’s instructions, I kept them in a large stable for more than two months. Ursula, infatuated, insisted on sitting on a hay bale, sketching them for hours on end. When I finally let the peacocks out this past May, they strutted around the farmyard nervously for a few hours. They soon flew up to the roof of the house, perching there dramatically and roosted on a high beam in the barn, tooting occasionally. But within a week, they were gone. What would I tell John Taylor? There were local sightings, and I received a furious phone call from a house in the valley: Would I please come and get my peacocks, who were destroying the vegetable patch? By the time we got there, they’d gone. We soon discovered that one of the peacocks was living on the grounds of a manor house a few fields away. I took a cage and bags of peanuts (their favorite food) to try and lure it home—to no avail. Now, when I ride past, I often see it fanning its iridescent tail feathers in the front garden. The chatelaine is so polite that she occasionally drops me a line on her engraved stationery updating me on the renegade’s progress. “The peacock is becoming very tame,” she recently wrote, “and mingles happily with the dog, hens, my Cochin cock, and the cat from up the lane.” But I still live in hope that my peacocks will return. 

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published by his imprint, or in a piece for Lucky Peach, or in one of the dinner conversations where connections are made and deals are struck, because they aren’t cool enough to catch his attention. The truth is that Bourdain has always had a streak of us vs. them running through him. Camaraderie was what drew him to restaurant work in the first place. In Kitchen Confidential, he wrote of the staff at the Provincetown restaurant where he was the dishwasher as “pirates” who “had style and swagger, and they seemed afraid of nothing. They drank everything in sight, stole whatever wasn’t nailed down, and screwed their way through floor staff, bar customers, and casual visitors like nothing I’d ever seen or imagined.” The point of the book, he wrote, was to experience “what it feels like to attain the child’s dream of running one’s own C O N TIN U ED O N PAG E 26 2

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pirate crew—what it feels like, looks like, and smells like in the clatter and hiss of a big-city restaurant kitchen.” These days, his television crew plays a similar role. Some members of his production company, Zero Point Zero, have worked with him since he began filming A Cook’s Tour for the Food Network in 2000. He is fiercely loyal to them and completely at ease in their company. I see this when I join Bourdain in the Zero Point Zero offices, which are in a nondescript prewar building overlooking Herald Square, to watch him read the introduction for the latest episode of Parts Unknown. Bourdain greets his producers and technicians, and they wordlessly pick up where they had left off the day before. In a sound booth, Bourdain puts on a pair of reading glasses that jarringly make him look his age. (He’s 60.) He takes his cue, reads from a script over a montage on a monitor—one take and he’s done. Pier 57 is a hulking postwar structure that juts into the Hudson River at the end of West Fifteenth Street. Built in 1952, it was one of the largest and busiest piers on New York’s waterfront, but the building became obsolete in the seventies, when the shipping industry started to use cargo containers. It was a bus depot for a while, and then a temporary detention center during the 2004 Republican

National Convention. Now empty, the 480,000-square-foot structure is being readied for renovation and eventual occupation by two major tenants. Google has signed on to take over a large section, and 155,000 square feet is due to become a vast food hall called Bourdain Market. I’m scheduled to meet Bourdain at the market one morning, and this time I arrive early. He’s already there, waiting in the back of an SUV, wearing ripped jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, looking more like a rock musician than a successful TV personality or publisher, never mind real estate baron. The deal behind Bourdain Market is complicated, even a bit tenuous, drawing together the Hudson River Park Trust, a public agency that answers to the governor’s and the mayor’s offices, and a pair of developers. The architecture-anddesign firm Roman and Williams is to give the hall its look, and Bourdain will select who will be chosen to set up shop. His role, essentially, is to curate the food. When the market was announced last year, the timetable was ambitious, even by the accelerated standards of New York. Already the opening has been pushed back from 2017 to 2019. Still, when you stand inside this vast concrete structure that smells like seawater and motor oil, it’s hard not to get excited about the possibility of a food hall that ranks among what you find in Tokyo and Barcelona.

In This Issue Cover look 56: Cropped cashmere sweater, $695; select Michael Kors stores. Up front 74: On LeonhardHooper: Turtleneck, $350; creaturesofcomfort.us. Skirt, $55; topshop.com. On Schillinger: Dress, $398; dvf.com. Earrings, $290; tacori.com. Talking fashion 108: On Zuberbühler: Dress, price upon request; brandonmaxwellstudio.com for information. Giuseppe Zanotti Design heels, $650; Giuseppe Zanotti Design, NYC. 114: Bracelet ($7,500) and necklace ($12,500). Dress, $3,550; Céline, NYC. 120: Emerald-and-diamond bracelet, price upon request. Diamond bracelet, $115,640. Diamond-and-ruby bracelet, price upon request. Blackened white gold–and–diamond cuff, $19,975. Diamond bangle, price upon request. 18K white gold– and–diamond bracelet, price upon request. 124: On Pearce: Sweater ($1,200) and boots ($850); hoodbyair.com. Jeans, $220; acnestudios.com. On Chandler: Lace-up top ($2,950) and sleeveless top ($725); Proenza Schouler, NYC. Beauty 159: Metallic-mesh sweater,

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$665; Saks Fifth Avenue, NYC. PATA 174: Cashmere blazer ($3,495) and trousers ($695); select Ralph Lauren stores. Polo shirt, $495; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Alexander McQueen shoes, price upon request; alexandermcqueen.com. 178: On Shawkat: Sweater, $820; (212) 517-9339. Sleeveless top, $675; select Versace boutiques. Jeans, $790; elleryland.com. Carolina Irving Textiles velvet, price upon request; (212) 593-2060. 182: Dress, $3,845; select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques.

LOVE STORY 189: Earrings ($1,695) and cuff ($2,595); Alexander McQueen, NYC. On Edgerton: Shirt, $250; the Slowear Store, NYC. Jeans, $70; levi.com. Hat, $239; stetson .com. 190–191: On Edgerton: Shirt, $175; Theory stores. Pants, $325; Hickey Freeman, NYC. Rag & Bone tie, $125; rag-bone.com. WGACA belt, $128; (212) 3431225. 193: Dress, $5,595. Oscar de la Renta platform sandals, $1,090; personalshopper@odlr .com for information. On Edgerton: Suit ($2,130) and shirt ($420); select Salvatore

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Ferragamo boutiques. Garrett Leight California Optical sunglasses, $315; garrettleight .com. WGACA shoes, $298; (212) 343-1225. 194: Dress, $6,690. Necklace, $2,495; Alexander McQueen, NYC. Espadrilles, $295; select Marc Jacobs stores. 195: Scarf, $72; newyorkvintage .com. Bag ($6,100) and embellished strap ($1,100); (212) 897-2244. Espadrilles, $375; toryburch.com. On Edgerton: Denim shirt ($245) and jeans ($185); A.P.C., NYC. 196–197: Dress, $5,790; oscardelarenta.com. Corset (price upon request) and belt ($1,945); Alexander McQueen, NYC. On Edgerton: Denim jacket, $270; A.P.C.; NYC. Polo shirt, $295; select Ermenegildo Zegna boutiques. Boots, $378; thefryecompany.com. 198: Dress, $8,900. Scarf, $72; newyorkvintage.com. Earrings, $600; caroletanenbaum.com. Corset, $895; select Prada boutiques. 201: Dress, $8,100. Scarf, price upon request; Early Halloween, NYC. 202–203: Top and skirt; priced upon request. In this story: Local production: Evans Productions. Tailor, Camilla Delory.

WHAT TO WEAR WHERE 205: Shoes, price upon request; select Marc Jacobs stores.

It took centuries for Bangkok to develop its market culture; New York could have one of the greatest food halls in the world within a couple of years. If it does, it will be because the creative control is with Bourdain, a man who spends a significant portion of his year traveling the Earth to go to markets and eat what’s good. Street food is essential to Bourdain’s identity. For all of his good living—the paycheckdestroying sushi, the visits to classical French restaurants, the terraces overlooking the Aegean Sea—Bourdain tends to look his happiest when he’s holding a takeout container of something perfect and delicious and entirely of that moment. Bourdain’s task is to try to persuade the shop owners in Tokyo and Barcelona and Bangkok—the families and cooks who actually prepare the food—to move to New York, or maybe spend part of the year here, or send a trusted sister. “You bring the people in who know what they’re doing and you let them do it. You bring in the guy who’s the best chickenand-rice guy in Singapore and just let him do his thing,” Bourdain says, walking through the hall. “Bring in his own signage. I’m not building some arty fucking thing.” It sounds simple, but it isn’t. What about the logistics? Not of getting signage installed or sourcing the right ingredients, but of getting street cooks to move to New York? What about work permits,

207: Shoes, $1,795; Alexander McQueen, NYC. 211: Skirt; personalshopper@odlr.com for information. In this story: Manicure, Megumi Yamamoto. Tailor, Lucy Flack for Christy Rilling Studio. ON WITH THE SHOW 212–213: Cardigan and leather skirt (priced upon request), and bag ($2,700); (800) 845-6790. Sunglasses, $160; ray-ban.com. Jennifer Meyer pendant necklace, $1,800; Barneys New York, NYC. Watch, $7,600; Jaeger-LeCoultre, NYC. 215: Dress, $2,500; select Gucci boutiques. Me&Ro earrings, $1,275; meandrojewelry .com. Scarf, $200; select Dior boutiques. Wolford socks, $25; wolford.com. Tap shoes, $82; leosdancewear.com. 216: Dress, $8,800; select Gucci boutiques. Coach 1941 rose earring ($145) and shoes ($525); coach.com. The Three Graces garnet-anddiamond earring, $2,250 for pair; thethreegraces.com. 18K-gold ring, $3,900; David Yurman, NYC. Cathy Waterman diamond ring and diamond necklace, priced upon request. Ring at Ylang 23, Dallas. Necklace at twistonline .com. Doyle & Doyle diamondand-pearl necklace, $3,950; Doyle & Doyle, NYC. Fox & Bond diamond-and-pearl necklace, $1,950; foxandbond.com.

217: Dress, $1,250; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Diamond earrings, $2,950; foxandbond .com. Brooch, $7,650; turnerandtatler.com. 218: Dress, $1,795; select Michael Kors stores. 219: Jacket with detachable sleeves ($5,200) and shorts ($1,000); select Dior boutiques. 220: Leather jacket ($1,580), sweater ($295), and skirt ($550); coach .com. 221: Dress, $3,690; oscardelarenta.com. Onyx earrings, $1,250; beladora .com. The Three Graces Jewelry earrings, $695; thethreegraces .com. Bracelet, $850; larkspurandhawk.com. Shoes, $850; nicholaskirkwood.com. In this story: Manicure, Emi Kudo for Dior Vernis. Tailor, Hasmik Kourinian for Susie’s Custom Designs, Inc. BUILDING A DREAM 229: On Sykes: Dress, $2,790; personalshopper@odlr.com for information. 230: On Tess: Caramel dress, $126; caramel-shop.co.uk. 235: On Sykes: Dress, price upon request; erdem.com. On Tess: Caramel dress, $144; caramel-shop.co.uk. Cakes, Genevieve Frosch. MAN OF THE WORLD 236–237: Jacket ($198) and sweater ($70); jcrew.com.

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apartments, flights? “We’re on it, man,” Bourdain says. “Housing and visas, that’s day one,” he adds, sounding as if I were getting worked up over what brand of hand dryers to use in the bathroom, and not two of the most daunting challenges an immigrant will face in life. Standing in this echoing, cavernous volume of space surrounded by water, Bourdain doesn’t seem daunted. He looks confident, even cocky. Bourdain Market is an undertaking so audacious it might be hubristic. Still, the timing is good. The United States in general—and New York in particular— is in the middle of a golden age of the food hall. And, more broadly, tastes are changing. “People are lining up for food that would have burned their head clean off their shoulders ten years ago,” Bourdain notes. “People are craving and lining up to eat kimchi, which, you know, they would have bullied a kid for eating ten years earlier if they brought it with their lunch.” Ultimately, the market will be for those people. “I feel in my bones this is a space that New Yorkers should be able to call their own, and I find myself in the ludicrous position of being able to make that happen, apparently. I’m going to fucking make it happen if I can, or fail gloriously.” Bourdain smiles broadly when he says this. He may be a man who claims to be skeptical of certainty, but he’s also seemingly untroubled by self-doubt.

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

James Perse T-shirt, $95; jamesperse.com. CHOP TO IT 242–243: Dress, $695; Alexander Wang, NYC. In this story: Manicure, Megumi Yamamoto. MOMENT OF THE MONTH 244–245: On Koella: Boots, $1,390; pacorabanne.com. On Forrest: Boots, $1,850; pacorabanne.com. In this story: Tailor, Laura Cortese for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Gina Edwards. BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS 246–247: On Vassar: Shoes, $695; Barneys New York, NYC. On Charlie: Tunic and pants, priced upon request; brocknewyork .com. On Brock: Shirt, price upon request; Thom Browne, NYC. On Hadid: Shoes, $695; Barneys

“If it feels like a Todd English product,” he adds, “then we can all just go home and throw a noose over the fucking shower stall.” 

CHOP TO IT CONTINUED FROM PAGE 243

mullet even a drag-racing enthusiast in the deepest South wouldn’t understand. The Rod Stewart mayhem on top made way for a stringy waterfall of over-bleached tendrils creeping down her back. Matched with a new wardrobe of spandex pants and obscure band T-shirts, she was even more of a revelation: powerful, beautiful, a little angry. I, too, dumped a bottle of peroxide on my head shortly thereafter, enlisting Camilla, Oberlin College’s resident stylist, to give me a look that lived somewhere between Lee Krasner and my great-aunt Doad. While traveling in Eastern Europe over winter break, I caught sight of myself in a bookstore window in Kraków and thought, with pride, that I looked like someone for whom beauty was intensely personal. “The idea of a ‘home haircut’ is really about taking control,” confirms Palau, who has mastered the art of the transformational, punk-inflected makeover, adding a certain level of “wrongness” to the cuts he dreams up at needle-moving shows, like Alexander Wang, so it looks as if they were self-administered by someone with a

New York, NYC. 248: On Gosselin: Blouse and pants, priced upon request. Blouse; similar styles at fwrd.com. On Hadid: Dress, price upon request; similar styles at Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. 249: On Hadid: Jacket and shorts, priced upon request. Tank top, $90; alexanderwang .com. On Stamp: T-shirt (price upon request) and jeans ($185). On Mensa: Bomber jacket and jeans, priced upon request. 250: On Curtis: Top, $160; rochambeau.nyc. 251: On Hadid: Dress ($5,500) and tights (price upon request). Tights at ilovelibertine.com. On Marjan: Leather jacket, $1,595; 31philliplim.com. On Rogers: Dress, $5,500; also at info@ ilovelibertine.com for information. Feathered headpiece, $650; (212) 629-1090. Earrings, $725; marteau.co. On Maryam: Coat,

$10, 900; Proenza Schouler, NYC. Tank top ($598) and trousers ($1,595); fwrd.com. 252–253: On Hadid: Dress, $520. Boots, $1,560; Proenza Schouler, NYC. On Cooper: Polo shirt ($200) and pants ($375). Rick Owens Drkshdw hat, $575; rickowens.eu. NikeLab Air Zoom LWP x Kim Jones sneakers, $250; nike.com. On Yung Jake: Jacket ($745), hoodie ($280), and trousers ($275). Vans sneakers, $60; vans.com. On Golden: Plaid shirt ($360) and shorts ($350). On Chandler: Hoodie ($280) and shorts ($255). Nikelab sneakers, $200; nike.com. On Patterson (standing): Jacket ($745) and T-shirt ($160). On Hak: Jacket ($420) and hoodie ($350). Vans sneakers, $60; vans.com. 254: On Barrett: sunglasses, price upon request; krewe.com.

strong vision of her own identity. “I never thought we’d see a resurgence of this kind of haircutting, but we are,” he adds. “I think there’s something really empowering about that.” Now, for every Gigi Hadid with her classically sexy lioness’s mane, every Kendall Jenner with her sleek topknot, there’s a Katie Moore with her magenta–turned– surfer blonde mushroom crop and jagged microfringe; an Adwoa Aboah who keeps her hair as ever-changing as her style. The same woman who looks as though she has whacked at her own bob with a razor is permitted a collaged, floral scarf-print Balenciaga dress. What a world. I still struggle with this dichotomy: I want to feel beautiful in a way people can understand, and yet I want to feel like my own tiny revolution. Every time my hair is blown flat or (God forbid) curled with a small but mighty iron, I lose a piece of myself. It’s taken practice and establishing an almost marital intimacy with my hairstylist Rheanne White for her to understand just the amount of weird I need to feel while also being properly armored for Hollywood’s roughest moments. But I never want to lose that edge, that sense of experimentation that fueled my twelve-year-old boldness (and the baby bangs of a nineties-era Winona I self-trimmed earlier this year). Besides, as Hartzel assures us: “It’ll grow back. It will always grow back.” 

Shirt, $325; davidhartnyc.com. On Smith: Tuxedo shirt, $345; amazon.com. 255: On Selman: Jacket, $69; lee.com. Hanes T-shirt, $29 for three; hanes.com. Jeans, $98; levi.com. Converse sneakers, $80; converse.com. On Snyder and Hadid: Hat, $300; elder-statesman.com. Sunglasses, $119; lespecs.com. 256: On Hadid: Dress ($640) and shirt ($515). On Moore: Top ($370) and skirt ($745). On Oh: Shirt ($348) and pants ($565). Boots, $995; alexanderwang .com. On Ly: Shirt ($390) and skirt ($745). On Hadid, Moore, and Ly: Boots, $150; drmartens .com. 257: On Fogg: Silk track jacket ($1,450) and pants ($1,150). On Panszczyk: T-shirt, $280. On Anwar : Shirt $325. On Gigi: Silk-velvet lamé top ($1,650) and shorts ($1,980). In this story: Manicure, Alicia

Torello. Tailor, Laura Cortese for Christy Rilling Studio. Index 258–259: 4. Dress, $3,850. 7. Tumblers, priced upon request. 9. Stools, priced upon request. 11. Queen Anne’s lace, $10 for fifteen stems. Side plate ($95) and dinner plate ($80). Dinner napkin, $1,280 for set of eight. Tablecloth, $206 per yard. Anthropologie green tumbler ($10) and flatwear ($36 for five-piece setting); anthropologie .com. ABC Carpet & Home floral plate, $30; ABC Carpet & Home, NYC. 12. Boots, $1,850. 17. Wine, price upon request. 20. Stationery, price upon request. 21. Shearling waistcoat, $7,395. Last Look 264: Gold-anddiamond bracelet, price upon request; select Hermès boutiques. ALL PRICES APPROXIMATE.

VOGUE IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF ADVANCE MAGAZINE PUBLISHERS INC. COPYRIGHT © 2016 CONDÉ NAST. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. VOLUME 206, NO. 11. VOGUE (ISSN 00428000) is published monthly by Condé Nast, which is a division of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. PRINCIPAL OFFICE: 1 World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. S. I. Newhouse, Jr., Chairman Emeritus; Charles H. Townsend, Chairman; Robert A. Sauerberg, Jr., President & Chief Executive Officer; David E. Geithner, Chief Financial Officer; Jill Bright, Chief Administrative Officer. Periodicals postage paid at New York, NY, and at additional mailing offices. Canadian Goods and Services Tax Registration No. 123242885-RT0001. POSTMASTER: Send all UAA to CFS (see DMM 507.1.5.2); NON-POSTAL AND MILITARY FACILITIES: Send address corrections to VOGUE, P.O. Box 37720, Boone, IA 50037-0720. FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, ADDRESS CHANGES, ADJUSTMENTS, OR BACK-ISSUE INQUIRIES: Please write to VOGUE, P.O. Box 37720, Boone, IA 50037-0720, call 800-234-2347, or email subscriptions@vogue.com. Please give both new and old addresses as printed on most recent label. Subscribers: If the Post Office alerts us that your magazine is undeliverable, we have no further obligation unless we receive a corrected address within one year. If, during your subscription term or up to one year after the magazine becomes undeliverable, you are ever dissatisfied with your subscription, let us know. You will receive a full refund on all unmailed issues. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within four weeks after receipt of order. Address all editorial, business, and production correspondence to VOGUE Magazine, 1 World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. For reprints, please email reprints@condenast.com or call Wright’s Media 877-652-5295. For reuse permissions, please email contentlicensing@condenast.com or call 800-897-8666. Visit us online at www.vogue.com. To subscribe to other Condé Nast magazines on the World Wide Web, visit www.condenastdigital.com. Occasionally, we make our subscriber list available to carefully screened companies that offer products and services that we believe would interest our readers. If you do not want to receive these offers and/or information, please advise us at P.O. Box 37720, Boone, IA 50037-0720, or call 800-234-2347. VOGUE IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RETURN OR LOSS OF, OR FOR DAMAGE OR ANY OTHER INJURY TO, UNSOLICITED MANUSCRIPTS, UNSOLICITED ART WORK (INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, DRAWINGS, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND TRANSPARENCIES), OR ANY OTHER UNSOLICITED MATERIALS. THOSE SUBMITTING MANUSCRIPTS, PHOTOGRAPHS, ART WORK, OR OTHER MATERIALS FOR CONSIDERATION SHOULD NOT SEND ORIGINALS, UNLESS SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED TO DO SO BY VOGUE IN WRITING. MANUSCRIPTS, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND OTHER MATERIALS SUBMITTED MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY A SELF-ADDRESSED STAMPED ENVELOPE.

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Last Look

Hermès bracelet Leave it to Hermès to take an everyday item—in this case, the humble buckle—and elevate it to the realm of a glittering cocktail piece. But this isn’t a cocktail piece—this is 18K gold laden with 562 diamonds (totaling almost twelve carats), modeled, fittingly, on the brand’s equestrian heritage. By playing with its famous bridle motif, Hermès “pays tribute to the beauty of utility,” says Pierre Hardy, the house’s jewelry designer. The resulting combination of the quotidian and the extraordinary, Hardy says, is a wearable “object of desire”—and what, after all, could be more alluring than a precious accessory with no purpose other than to dazzle?  PHOTOGRAPHED BY ERIC BOMAN

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

EDITOR: VIRGINIA SMITH



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