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OCT

The RIGHT-NOW Revolution RALPH LAUREN’S NEW FRONTIER

Lupita

Director’s CUT

“I want to create opportunities for people of color”

TOM FORD’S THRILLING SCREEN RETURN

Staying STRONG

A FATHER FACES THE LOSS OF HIS WIFE IN THE PARIS ATTACKS

SCORE!

CAM NEWTON’S WINNING STYLE

FALLING IN

LOVE RICHLY ROMANTIC PRINTS, LACE, SHEARLING—AND BOOTS TO LOSE YOUR HEAD OVER


October Elizabeth Edelman at Global Citizen

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BLOOMS WITH A VIEW Sandra Choi’s Englishcountryside home— much like her designs for Jimmy Choo—is brimming with blossoms

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ALL EYES ON Ellie Bamber

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WEDDING Fashion consultant Kate Foley weds Suno’s Max Osterweis

FAS HI ON ED I TOR : SA RA MO O NV ES. ME N SW EA R ED I TO R: M IC HA E L P HI LOUZ E. H A IR , J IMMY PAUL FOR BUMBLE AND BUMBLE; MAKEUP, ROMY SOLEIMANI. S ET D ES IG N , NI C HO LAS D ES JA RD IN S FO R M A RY H OWA RD STU D I O. P RO DUCT I ON BY PROD N AT ART + COMMERCE. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

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FAMILY STYLE Two Brooklyn restaurateurs bring home their vision of the good life with a leather-goods line and a cookbook

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THE NEW BLUES Meet the labels putting out fall’s most covetable denim

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TNT Elisabeth TNT hits the high notes in Germany and Austria

FALL

Forward LIVE AND KICKING, P. 300

KARLIE KLOSS (IN PROENZA SCHOULER) AND CAM NEWTON (IN A RAF SIMONS CARDIGAN AND BALDWIN JEANS). PHOTOGRAPHED BY GREGORY HARRIS.

100, 102 MASTHEAD

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EDITOR’S LETTER

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UP FRONT In his heartbreaking memoir, Antoine Leiris describes searching for

VOGUE.COM

205 his wife after the Paris attacks—and resolving to stay strong for their child

Talking Fashion

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LIVES After Christine Quinn suffered a high-profile defeat in New York City’s mayoral race came a period of deep reflection, she writes— and a renewed passion to help the homeless

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NOSTALGIA Even at its most tumultuous, the love between Kira von Eichel’s unconventional parents held the family in its thrall

ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER A new documentary about Italian Vogue editor Franca Sozzani couldn’t be any more personal—it was directed by her son. Lynn Yaeger goes behind the scenes

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CARTOON COUTURE A generation of artists is redrawing the lines of fashion illustration

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ON THE WORLD STAGE Clicks meet causes for

THE LOOK IS . . . COLOR Beauty gets the kaleidoscopic treatment for fall

Beauty & Health 215

PERFORMANCE PIECE Renegade makeup artist Isamaya Ffrench is changing the beauty conversation

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SEEING SPOTS With adult acne cases on the rise, Kari Molvar goes in search of clear answers CONTINUED>94

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October

Heads

TOGETHER

MOMENT OF THE MONTH, P. 298 MAARTJE VERHOEF (NEAR RIGHT, IN A PATRICIA UNDERWOOD HAT) AND LINEISY MONTERO (IN A LOUIS VUITTON HAT). PHOTOGRAPHED BY PATRICK DEMARCHELIER.

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John Mulaney come to Broadway

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FEAST OR FASHION? Probiotics have been called into question

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EXTENSION SCHOOL Stretch your way to new heights

People Are Talkıng About 232

THEATER Janet McTeer and Liev Schreiber star in Les Liaisons Dangereuses

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DESIGN Anandamayi Arnold fills paper fruits with surprises

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MUSIC Maggie Rogers is harnessing viral fame to go her own way

BOOKS Brit Bennett adds a debut novel to her repertoire

Fashion & Features 245

MY AFRICA In Queen of Katwe, Lupita Nyong’o brings her brilliance to a story from her native East Africa. To celebrate, she takes Vogue—and the most glorious prints of the season—to her family’s village in Kenya. By Elizabeth Rubin

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THE NEW FRONTIER What will you wear to the revolution? Ralph Lauren has plenty of ideas

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ART Alan Shields’s colorful works speak to a new generation

FREE COUNTRY Upstate New York’s Worlds End farm serves as the perfect foil for romance draped in the season’s coziest shearling coats. By Chloe Malle

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TRAVEL A sixties motor lodge gets a sleek update

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UP NEXT Nick Kroll and

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ITALY’S MOMENT Prime Minister Matteo Renzi is charming, combative, pragmatic— and determined to reform his government. Jason Horowitz reports

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HIGH CONTRAST Tom Ford’s dark new thriller, Nocturnal Animals, is a mythic American story about passion and revenge. By John Powers

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ROCK STEADY Rich in restorative minerals, pink salt is finding favor among wellness advocates and spa devotees. By Maya Singer

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IN THIS ISSUE

316

LAST LOOK

Cover Look SUNSET STARLET

294

ONE FISH, TWO FISH With omakase-style restaurants flourishing in New York, times have never been better for a sushi lover like Jeffrey Steingarten. But will a crisis of conscience spoil his fun?

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MOMENT OF THE MONTH Hot heads

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LIVE AND KICKING As Carolina Panthers quarterback Cam Newton suits up for another season, Karlie Kloss boots up in statement-making footwear. By Robert Sullivan

Index 310

MOUNTAIN HIGH Camping goes global and polished

Lupita Nyong’o wears a Chanel dress and Cathy Waterman earrings. To get this look, try: La Base Pro Hydra Glow, Nude Miracle Weightless Foundation, Les Sourcils Definis Brow Expert in Noir, Color Design Eyeshadow Palette in Kissed by Gold, Grandiôse Extrême Mascara, Juicy Tubes in Pure. All by Lancôme. Hair, Vernon François for Vernon François; makeup, Nick Barose. Produced by Onscreen Productions (Kenya). Details, see In This Issue. Photographer: Mario Testino. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.

VOGUE.COM

FASHION EDITOR: SA RA MOONVES. HAIR, ESTHER LANGHAM; MAKEUP, SUSIE SOBOL. SET DESIGN, DOROTHÉE BAUSSAN FOR M A RY HOWA R D ST U D IO. P RODUCE D BY F I LL I N T HE BL A N K P RO DUCTI ON. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

THE LONG GAME This season’s chicest nail is all about feminine length


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 LAUREN BELLAMY, 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 Beauty Associate ARDEN FANNING 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 Art Director MARTIN HOOPS Associate Art Director NOBI K ASHIWAGI Designer JENNIFER DONNELLY Visual Director ALEX O’NEILL Visual Director, Research MAUREEN SONGCO Visual Editor, Research TIM HERZOG Senior Visual Producers NIC BURDEKIN, JENNIFER GREIM 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 Executive Visual Director ANDREW GOLD 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, STEFF YOTK A 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 Enterainment 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 Production Manager CHRISTINA LIAO Assistant Managing Editor OLIVIA WEISS Research Editor LISA MACABASCO Producers IV Y TAN, MARIA WARD 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

Deputy Managing Editor DAVID BYARS Digital Production Manager JASON ROE Production Designers COR HAZELAAR, SARA REDEN Deputy Copy Chief CAROLINE KIRK Senior Copy Editor LESLIE LIPTON Copy Editor DIEGO HADIS Research Director ALEXANDRA SANIDAD Research Associate COURTNEY MARCELLIN Fashion Credits Editor IVETTE MANNERS S P E C I A L E V E N T S / E D I T O R I A L D E V E L O P M E N T/C O M M U N I C AT I O N S

Director of Special Events EADDY KIERNAN Editorial Business Director MIRA ILIE Associate Director, Operations XAVIER GONZALEZ Contracts Manager ALEXA ELAM Editorial Business Coordinator JESSECA JONES Special Events Associate LINDSAY STALL 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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SUSAN D. PLAGEMANN Chief Revenue Officer and Publisher Associate Publisher, Marketing KIMBERLY FASTING BERG General Manager DAVID STUCKEY

ADVERTISING Executive Director, Digital Advertising KRISTEN ELLIOT T Advertising Director, Digital ELIZABETH MARVIN Executive Director, International Fashion and Business Development SUSAN CAPPA Executive Retail Director GERALDINE RIZZO Executive Beauty Director LAUREN HULKOWER-BELNICK Fashion Director JAMIE TILSON ROSS Luxury Director ROY KIM Senior Director, American Fashion and Beauty MARIE LA FRANCE American Fashion Manager LENA JOHNSON Account Managers BLAIR CHEMIDLIN, LYNDSEY NATALE Executive Assistants to the Publisher ANNIE MAYBELL, JEENA MARIE PENA Advertising Associate NINA CAPACCHIONE Retail Coordinator ELIZABETH ODACHOWSKI International Fashion Coordinator SAMANTHA KIRSHON Advertising Assistants LILY MUMMERT, ELEANOR PEERY, GABRIELLE MIZRAHI, CAMERON CHALFIN Advertising Tel: 212 286 2860

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MARKETING Executive Director of Marketing MELISSA HALVERSON Marketing Director YI-MEI TRUXES Senior Marketing Managers MEREDITH MCCUE, ALEX ANDRIA GURULE Marketing Managers ANNA NATALI SWANSON, LINDSAY K ASS

D I G I TA L A D S T R AT E G Y A N D P L A N N I N G Director, Digital Operations JASON LOUIE Senior Digital Account Manager REBECCA ISQUITH Digital Account Manager COURTNEY CARROLL Associate Account Manager RYAN HOOVER Analysts, Sales Planning REBECCA YOUNG, ALANA SCHARLOP, HAYLEY SAMELA BRANCH OFFICES San Francisco ASHLEY KNOWLTON, Northwest Director, 1700 Montgomery St., Suite 200, San Francisco CA 94111 Tel: 415 955 8210 Midwest WENDY LEV Y, Director, 875 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago IL 60611 Tel: 312 649 3522 Detroit STEPHANIE SCHULTZ, Director, 2600 West Big Beaver Rd., Troy MI 48084 Tel: 248 458 7953 Los Angeles MARJAN DIPIAZZA, Executive West Coast Director; K ATIE HUSA, Account Manager, West Coast, 6300 Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles CA 90048 Tel: 323 965 3598 Southeast PETER ZUCKERMAN, Z. MEDIA 1666 Kennedy Causeway, Suite 602, Miami Beach FL 33141 Tel: 305 532 5566 Paris FLORENCE MOUVIER, Director, Europe 4 Place du Palais Bourbon, 75343 Paris Cedex 07 Tel: 331 4411 7846 Milan ALESSANDRO AND RINALDO MODENESE, Managers, Italy Via M. Malpighi 4, 20129 Milan Tel: 39 02 2951 3521

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Chairman Emeritus S. I. NEWHOUSE, JR. Chairman CHARLES H. TOWNSEND President & Chief Executive Officer ROBERT A. SAUERBERG, JR. Chief Financial Officer DAVID E. GEITHNER Chief Marketing Officer & President, Condé Nast Media Group EDWARD J. MENICHESCHI Chief Administrative Officer JILL BRIGHT Chief Human Resources Officer JOANN MURRAY Executive Vice President/Chief Digital Officer FRED SANTARPIA Executive Vice President–Consumer Marketing MONICA RAY Executive Vice President–Corporate Communications CAMERON R. BLANCHARD Senior Vice President–Business Operations DAVID ORLIN Senior Vice President–Corporate Controller DAVID B. CHEMIDLIN Senior Vice President–Managing Director–23 Stories JOSH STINCHCOMB Senior Vice President–Network Sales & Partnerships, CN & Chief Revenue Officer, CNÉ LISA VALENTINO Senior Vice President–Financial Planning & Analysis SUZANNE REINHARDT Senior Vice President–Strategy–23 Stories PADRAIG CONNOLLY Senior Vice President–Ad Products & Monetization DAVID ADAMS Senior Vice President–Licensing CATHY HOFFMAN GLOSSER Senior Vice President–Research & Analytics STEPHANIE FRIED Senior Vice President–Digital Operations LARRY BA ACH Senior Vice President–Human Resources NICOLE ZUSSMAN General Manager–Digital MAT THEW STARKER

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Big Picture THE

T

his October issue is really about fearlessness. As you’ve no doubt guessed, our cover star, Lupita Nyong’o, is very much part of that, but it’s someone who isn’t used to being in front of a camera that I want to talk about first. Franca Sozzani, the editor of Italian Vogue, is the subject of a new documentary, Franca: Chaos and Creation, which just premiered at the Venice Film Festival. Franca is someone I’ve been so lucky to call a good friend for 30 years now, with both of us becoming editors around the same time, so watching her story unfold on-screen was particularly moving for me. Truth be told, I’ve always been rather in awe of her. She is a risk-taking visionary—and the hardest-working person I know. (The two qualities are, I suspect, not entirely unrelated.) That Franca makes her multitasking look so effortless and easy is enviable. QUICK STUDIES LUPITA NYONG’O (WEARING ROKSANDA) WITH THE STUDENTS FROM MAMA DORCA NYONG’O GIRLS’ HOSTEL, RATTA MIXED SECONDARY SCHOOL, IN KISUMU COUNTY. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARIO TESTINO.

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FAMILY AFFAIR FRANCESCO CARROZZINI (FAR LEFT) AND FRANCA SOZZANI. PHOTOGRAPHED BY BRUCE WEBER.

Being the star of a documentary made by her son, though—the photographer and filmmaker Francesco Carrozzini—can’t have been effortless or easy. During the course of filming they told me there were many strong disagreements about the direction the movie was taking, with one early version unceremoniously scrapped. I n t h e e n d , Fr a n c e s c o turned to Baz Luhrmann for advice, and what Baz said to him clearly paid off. The result, which you can read about in “All About My Mother” (Talking Fashion, page 167), by Lynn Yaeger, is totally compelling and insightful. And how could it not be, given Francesco is every bit his mother’s son? Both are intelligent, cultured, charming, don’t-ever-play-by-the-rulebook characters who each brought so much of themselves to this film. The deep bond between Francesco and Franca is very much in evidence throughout the E D I T O R ’ S L E T T E R >1 1 6 N YO N G’O: FAS HI ON ED I TOR : TO N NE G OO D MA N . HA I R, VE RN O N FRA N ÇO I S FO R V ER NON FRANÇOIS; MA KEU P, N I CK BA ROSE . P RO DUCE D BY O NSCR EEN P RO DUCTI ON S ( KE N YA ) . D E TA I LS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Letter from the Editor


Letter from the Editor C O N T I N U E D F R O M PAG E 1 0 8

movie, as he perfectly captures how she is an editor who constantly expands the notion of what a magazine can and should be. Here, closeness is no impediment to stepping back and seeing the bigger picture. As Lynn points out, “Carrozzini was aware practically from birth that Sozzani was no ordinary mom. Not only was she driven and determined; she was also—in her fearlessness, her wild imagination, her unique way of fusing social issues with fashion—not like any of her professional contemporaries.” Someone else who sees the bigger picture is Lupita, who I’m delighted to say is making her third Vogue cover appearance in as many years. This time around, she returned to her native Kenya with photographer Mario Testino, Fashion Director Tonne Goodman, and the writer Elizabeth Rubin in tow (“My Africa,” page 245). The story is a wonderfully intimate and life-affirming portrait of one of the most talented and beautiful actresses of her generation. Lupita is happy to use her fame and status in the world to do meaningful things—while also asking everyone to think more deeply and carefully about the challenges faced by people of color in our culture today. Her latest film, Queen of Katwe, directed by Mira Nair, most likely got off the ground because of Lupita’s early involvement; ditto Danai Gurira’s play Eclipsed: Brilliant though it is, without Lupita’s presence it may not have made the transfer from the Public Theater to Broadway—or even been staged at the Public to begin with. In her quietly ambitious yet fiercely focused way, Lupita questions the status quo—something that is to be applauded, loudly. Lastly, Tom Ford. It’s his role as a director that we’re focusing on now, rather than that of designer, though he continues to play that part to dazzling effect. Tom just showed a collection during September’s New York shows that was immediately available to buy (as did Ralph Lauren, a man never content to rest on his laurels, who talks

DIRECTOR’S CUT LEFT TO RIGHT: JAKE GYLLENHAAL, MICHAEL SHANNON, AND TOM FORD DURING THE FILMING OF NOCTURNAL ANIMALS. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MERRICK MORTON.

about his decision to do so in “The New Frontier,” page 262). John Powers met Tom at home in Santa Fe to discuss his second movie, Nocturnal Animals, a powerful, menacing study of revenge and retribution with—this is Tom, after all!—an utterly striking cast. John’s excellent piece (“High Contrast,” page 288) has its amusing moments, such as the account of Tom’s perfectionism kicking in as he poured a glass of water, yet it also epitomizes what has driven his career all these years: the ability, as John puts it, to be “at once deeply nostalgic and boldly of the moment.” One thing that Tom said—about not throwing away the people in our lives—particularly struck me. It’s a comment born out of personal experience. When he walked away from his first fashion life in 2004, Tom went from a huge support network to nothing. Professionally, at least, he became a single man, someone who had to learn how to live all over again. That he did so, and magnificently, is a huge testament to his bravery, whether it involved sitting in the director’s chair the very first time or acting on his instincts that the fashion system drastically needed an overhaul. At a moment when it’s more important than ever to stand by your words and actions, I’m pleased that in this issue we can celebrate three amazing and creative people who always do exactly that.

HOW THE WEST IS WORN ACTOR ALLISON WILLIAMS WEARS RALPH LAUREN COLLECTION. PHOTOGRAPHED BY DAVID SIMS.

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VOGUE.COM


Up Front

HOLDING ON THE AUTHOR, WITH HIS SON, MELVIL, PHOTOGRAPHED BY THIBAULT MONTAMAT.

Love Among the Ruins NOVEMBER 13, 10:37 P.M. Melvil fell asleep without a murmur, as he usually does when his mama isn’t there. He knows that with Papa, the lullabies are not as soft and the hugs not as warm, so he doesn’t expect too much. To keep myself awake until she gets home, I read. It’s the story of a novelist turned detective who discovers that a novelist turned murderer did not actually write the novel that made him want to become a novelist. My phone, lying on my bedside table, buzzes. I read the text from a friend: “Hey, everything OK? Are you at home?” I hate those text messages that don’t really say anything. I don’t reply. “Everything OK?” “ . . . ” “Are you safe?” What’s that supposed to mean, “safe”? I put the book down and rush to the living room on tiptoes. Do not wake the baby. I grab the remote. Live: Terrorist attack at the Stade de France. I think about Hélène. I should call her, tell her it would be a good idea to take a taxi home. But there is

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something else. In the corridors of the stadium, some people stand frozen in front of a screen. They are watching something that I can’t see. Not yet. Then, at the bottom of my screen, the news on the ticker suddenly stops. “terrorist attack at the bataclan.” The sound cuts out. All I can hear is the noise of my heart trying to burst out of my chest. Those five words seem to echo endlessly in my head. One second lasts a year. A year of silence, sitting there, on my couch. It must be a mistake. I check that that is where she went. Maybe I got it mixed up, or forgot. But the concert really is at the Bataclan. Hélène is at the Bataclan. I feel an electric shock go through my body. I want to run outside, steal a car, go out and look for her. But I’m paralyzed because Melvil, seventeen months old, is with me. I want to scream, but it’s impossible. Do not wake the baby. I grab my phone. I have to call her, talk to her, hear her voice. Contacts. “Hélène,” just Hélène. U P F R O N T>1 2 4 VOGUE.COM

G ROO MI N G, LAU RE GAU DOU

In his slender, heartbreaking memoir, ANTOINE LEIRIS describes searching for his wife after the Paris attacks—and resolving to stay strong for their child.


Up Front

A Husband Remembers

I never changed her name in my contacts list, never added not in pain, not afraid? He misses his mother. She hasn’t “my love” or a photo of the two of us. Neither did she. The come home for two days now. call she never received that night was from “Antoine L.” It To soothe him, I send him to find a book from his bedrings out. Goes to voice mail. I hang up, I call again. Once, room. Smiling his six-tooth smile, he returns from his mistwice, a hundred times. However many it takes. sion with a book that he likes to read with his mother. It is I feel suffocated by the couch. The whole apartment is the story of a pretty little ladybug in an enchanted garden. collapsing in on me. At each unanswered call, I sink a little All the insects who gather nectar there admire the ladybug. deeper into the ruins. Everything looks unfamiliar. A phone She is the prettiest and kindest of all the bugs. Her mama call from my brother brings me back to reality. is so proud of her. But one day, the little ladybug lands by “Hélène is there.” chance on the hooked nose of an evil witch. In the moment when I pronounce these words, I realize Melvil has never known that the witch turns this sweet there is no way out. My brother and sister come to our apartladybug into a nasty ladybug who terrorizes the usually tranquil garden. Concerned that he might be scared by them, ment. No one knows what to say. Hélène always skipped those pages. Snug in his bed, Melvil In the living room, the TV is on. We wait, eyes riveted to saw only the good fairy who, with a wave of her magic wand, the 24-hour-news channels, which are already competing made the little insect beautiful and kind to come up with the most lurid headline. again. Today I skip those pages too. But “massacre,” “carnage,” “bloodbath.” I The cookie is when I see the fairy appear, in her dreamturn off the TV before the word slaughter too crumbly. The ball blue, star-covered dress, I suddenly stop. can be uttered. Melvil will not be able to skip these pagN.’s wife calls me. N. was at the Batahas rolled too far. es of his life the way he skipped the pages clan with Hélène. He’s safe. I call him. He He struggles of the story. I have no magic wand. Our says he doesn’t know where she is. Hélène’s little ladybug landed on the witch’s nose. mother joins us. with everything The witch had a Kalashnikov and death I have to act, do something. My brother clears the way for me. Without a word, he jostling inside him at its fingertip. I have to tell him, now. But how? picks up his car keys. We confer in whisHe stamps his feet, throws his books on the floor. He’s about pers. Close the door quietly behind us. Do not wake the baby. to have a meltdown. I pick up my phone to play the songs that There’s silence in the car. In the city around us, too. From he listens to with her, with his thumb in his mouth, wrapping time to time, the painful screams of a siren disturb the hush himself around her like an affectionate little boa constrictor. that has descended on Paris. We go to all the major hospitals. I hold him against my body, trap him between my legs, so Bichat, Saint-Louis, Salpêtrière, Georges-Pompidou. . . . Her he can feel me, understand me. He spent nine months inside name is not on any of the lists. But each time, I am given a his mother, listening to her live: Her heartbeat was the rhythm new reason to keep going. “Not all the wounded have been of his days. I want him to hear, his ear to my chest, my voice identified yet.” “They’re taking survivors at Bichat too.” telling him my sorrow. I want him to feel my muscles tensed Seven o’clock in the morning. by the gravity of this moment. I want the beating of my heart In half an hour, Melvil will drink from his bottle. He must to reassure him: Life will go on. still be sleeping. A baby’s sleep, uncluttered by the horrors On the phone, I find the playlist that his mother put toof the world. Time to go home. gether for him, and hit play. She handpicked every single song. Henri Salvador and his NOVEMBER 14, 8:00 P.M. “Une Chanson Douce” rub shoulders with Françoise Hardy’s “Le Temps de l’Amour.” As the first notes of “Berceuse à Melvil waits. He waits to be big enough to reach the light Frédéric” by Bourvil play, I open the photos folder. Her face switch in the living room. He waits for me to make his dinner appears, blurred, badly framed, but that is all it takes to jolt before I read him a story. He waits for bath time, for lunchMelvil from the fragile calm produced by the opening words time, for snack time. And tonight, he waits for his mother to of the song. “It’s time to sleep now. . . .” come home before he goes to bed. Immediately he points an anxious finger toward her, and I wait too. I tell myself she will come through the bedroom then turns to me, his smile turned upside down and warm door and join us for the last couplet. I tell myself she will tears welling in his eyes. I break down, and I explain to him as finally call. I tell myself we are going to wake up soon. best I can that his mama will not be able to come home, that Melvil has fallen asleep. The telephone rings. It’s Hélène’s she had a serious accident, that it’s not her fault, she would sister. have loved to be with him, but she can’t anymore. He cries like “Antoine, I’m so sorry. . . .” I’ve never seen him cry before. The photographs flash up one by one, and the music starts NOVEMBER 15, 5:00 P.M. to sting. We are like two children, crying our little hearts out. After the walk, it’s time for Melvil to settle down. Today I It’s normal that you feel sad; you’re allowed to be sad; Papa is can tell he is annoyed. The cookie is too crumbly. The ball sad too. Whenever you feel like this, come to see me and we’ll has rolled too far. The straps on his stroller are too tight. He look at the photos. The song ends. “Don’t forget this music . . . struggles with everything jostling inside him. What is this that I gave you one day . . . with all my love. . . .” U P F R O N T>1 2 8 feeling that makes him want to cry when he’s not hungry,

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A Husband Remembers

The tale of the little ladybug ends when, having once again become the prettiest ladybug in the garden, she finds her mama, who cries with joy at seeing her little girl again. Now I must explain to Melvil, every time he needs to hear it, why his mama will not be waiting for him at the end of his story. I tear the page out of the book and pin it to the wall of his bedroom, next to a photograph of her. Melvil is holding on to her shoulders while he lies on her back. She is looking at me, no pose, no lens. Her eyes speak directly to me. They tell me about the simple joys of those seventeen months we spent together, the three of us.

to close my eyes, too, and wait for Melvil to call out to us, to start tangling himself up in our crumpled sheets. Hélène often asked me if love could be shared. If, after the arrival of our child, I would still love her as much. After his birth, she never asked that question again. I cry, I talk to her. I would like to stay another hour, at least a day, perhaps a lifetime. But I must leave her. The moon must set. Today, November 16, the sun rises on our new “once upon a time.” The story of a father and a son who go on living alone, without the aid of the star to whom they swore allegiance. “Monsieur, it is time to leave her. . . .”

NOVEMBER 16, 10:00 A.M. NOVEMBER 16, 11:00 A.M. Accompanied by Hélène’s mother Since coming out of the mortuary, and sister, I map out the mortuary. I have only one thought in my head: Color-coded. Blue, police, so I can going to see Melvil at the day care. get through. Fluorescent yellow, Finding him and telling him that I psychological-support staff, to avoid. saw his mother, and I brought her Black, mortuary staff, so I can see her with me in the palm of my hand. again. I head toward someone in blue, We are in the car, on the way back, who leads me to someone in black, when it begins. My brother-in-law, who suggests I go to see someone in who is driving, sees my foot frenetifluorescent yellow. I pretend not to cally tapping, and says reassuringly, hear what he says. “You’ll get to the day care on time, Since arriving, I have been asked don’t worry.” It is not the stress of a dozen times if I would like to sit being late that dictates these movedown; each time, I refuse, out of fear ments, it is the words that have sudthat I won’t be able to get up again. denly started to form in my mind, Protocols. Paperwork. Families imposing their rhythm. One after MOTHER AND SON HÉLÈNE MUYAL-LEIRIS WITH MELVIL, 2014. come and go. About fifteen enter beanother or all at the same time. Each one begins to play a few notes, like the fore us. All reemerge in pieces. moments before an orchestra starts to play. “You’ve come to see Luna-Hélène Muyal?” Melvil was the only one, that day, who could respond to It’s our turn. my smile with a smile. The only one, that day, who saw that A young woman speaks to us. She has done this a thousand I had his mama with me. We go home on the path that he times before, I can hear it in her voice. adores, the one where we see the most road signs. He lifts up Hélène is there, just next door. I can sense her. I would like his arms: “No parking!” He lifts them again less than 50 feet to see her, alone. Hélène’s mother and sister understand. They later . . . another “No parking!” And so on. . . . know that even here, it is the two of us, first of all. House, lunch, diaper, pajamas, nap, computer. The words We were like two little Lego bricks that fit together percontinue to arrive. All I have to do is pluck them from the air. fectly. Our “once upon a time” began one June 21, with music, After a few minutes, the letter is there: “You will not have at a concert. I thought she wouldn’t want someone like me. my hate.” We were both Parisian, but I thought she was too beautiful, I hesitate for a while before posting it, then my brother too sophisticated, too everything for a guy like me. I took forces me to do what I have not done for two days. her hand. We were swallowed up by the crowd and the noise. “Lunch is ready. Come and eat!” Until the last moment, I thought she would escape me. Then No time to think about it. Facebook, through which I’m we kissed. A love story like any other. communicating with some of Hélène’s friends, is open in the The door opens. next tab. “What’s on your mind?” it asks. Copy, paste, post. “Let me know when you’re ready.” My words no longer belong to me. She is there. A pane of Plexiglas separates us. I press on it On Friday night, you stole the life of an exceptional being, with all my weight. Our life together flashes before my eyes. the love of my life, the mother of my son, but you will not have I feel as though I never had another life. Hélène was the my hate.  moon. A brunette with milk-white skin, eyes that made her look like a frightened owl, a smile you could fit the whole world inside. I remember her smile on our wedding day. From the book You Will Not Have My Hate, by Antoine She is just as beautiful as she always was. Leiris, copyright 2016 by Librairie Arthème Fayard and She looks like the woman I watched wake up each morntranslation copyright © 2016 by Sam Taylor. To be published on October 25. Reprinted by permission of ing. I want to lie next to her languorous body, warm her up, Penguin Press, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. tell her she is the most beautiful woman I ever met. I want

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Up Front


Lives

Losing Out Loud Three years ago, former front-runner CHRISTINE QUINN suffered a high-profile defeat in New York City’s mayoral race. But what came next? A period of deep reflection, she writes—and a renewed passion to help the homeless.

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lost my mother when I was sixteen. She always made clear to my sister and me that we were winners, that nothing could stand in our way—not opposition, not sexism, nothing. We were strong Irishwomen, and Irishwomen push through. Her conviction propelled me into politics, into the speaker’s chair of the New York City Council for eight years, and, in 2013, into the mayoral race. And it seemed for some time that my mother had been prescient. The poll numbers, public opinion, and conventional wisdom all told a consistent story: I would win the race and make history as the first female, and first openly gay, mayor of New York City. And so I ran out of the gate, through the five boroughs, full of joy and momentum. I was constantly thinking of women and girls, and LGBT children, who grew up feeling hopeless, and what my victory could mean for them and their futures.

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That momentum changed fast. Suddenly I watched my lead slip away. I felt powerless to stop it. I stood in the spotlight as the prospect of certain victory turned into clear and convincing defeat. The final weeks of campaigning, when I knew I wouldn’t succeed, were excruciating. Then it was over. I conceded, while my amazing wife, Kim, kept her hand on my lower back for support. A week later, I stood in front of City Hall and endorsed my opponent, Bill de Blasio. Those days are still white-hot in my mind. Today, three years on, I remain struck by how difficult it all was. I’d always had the toughest persona, the thickest skin, the loudest voice, the most boisterous laugh. I’d moved quickly and let the brickbats bounce off me. Fragility was anathema, failure a dirty word. The strength my mother gave us with both hands prepared me to work hard, expect success, to strive for it, and to believe in my own limitlessness. L I V E S >1 3 2 VOGUE.COM

RYA N P FLUG E R. SI T T I NG S E D I TO R: MI CHA E L P HI LOUZE . HA I R, PAUL WA RR E N; MAKEUP, MICH AEL ANTH ONY. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

JUMPING THROUGH HOOPS QUINN, WITH CHILDREN AT THE WIN SHELTER, BROOKLYN.


Lives

The Comeback Kid

And so I lived and grew through coming out as a lesbian in a less enlightened time; through losing my mom to cancer before I’d finished high school; through wrestling with alcoholism and bulimia. I rose to the top of the political heap in a tough city—and I stood firm through every loss, resolute and ready to tackle the next challenge. But my mother, whom I miss and love, left me unprepared in one sense. She taught me to power through, and I have, but at a cost.

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osing in private is hard. Losing in public is harder. And I think women lose and fall harder than men. To outsiders, the stakes seem different, and the conversation is skewed; to me, being a woman—and being gay—meant a different recovery process. When I lost, I felt as though I’d disappointed thousands of people I’d never met who had pinned their hopes on me. Politics is a mixture of the deliberate, languorous pace of crafting legislation and the frenetic contact sport of elections and jockeying for the next headline. I thrived in that rough-and-tumble world, working my way up from young staffer to the city’s top lawmaker; it was exhilarating and deeply fulfilling. But there’s a flip side to those highs. Politics can be binary: all or nothing, yes or no, win or lose. Whenever there was a bad press story, or if I made a mistake, I would beat myself up. And so it was when I lost the race for mayor of New York City that was, to cite a postmortem New York Times documentary that I’ve never brought myself to watch, mine to lose. Mayor of New York City. It was a job I’d kept an eye on my whole career. On Primary Day, I was campaigning outside a supermarket on the Upper West Side when a group of girls, ten or eleven years old, spotted me and called out, “There’s Chris Quinn, the woman who’s running for mayor!” As the light changed, they ran across the street to meet me. I’ll never forget that one of them shook my hand and burst into tears. Girls that age are their most pure selves. They aren’t children; they have a head on their shoulders and haven’t yet been corrupted by the toxicity of a society that pits women against one another. As I hugged her, she said through her sobs how incredible it was to her that a woman could be mayor, and to meet her, and to visualize it. When I conceded, only hours later, all I could think of was that girl. She personified the loss. I’m still struck by how hard it is to separate what’s personal—as in what’s uniquely mine—from what’s necessarily a shared experience with other women. Part of that is being a public figure, so naturally I knew a lot of eyes were on me and that other people looked at my destiny and saw theirs. I’m also still shocked by how long the personal impact has affected me. While there were still, officially, two more months to the mayor’s race, the night I lost the primary was the decisive moment. New York is an overwhelmingly Democratic city; no Republican had a realistic chance at victory in a citywide race. Bill de Blasio shot ahead of me and Bill Thompson, the former city comptroller, to secure his spot on the Democratic ballot against a long-shot Republican, effectively sealing the deal. In the same breath that the networks hailed de Blasio as a victor, the talking heads deemed my political career over.

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Immediately following the results, I focused on wrapping up my term as speaker, work that provided me with a muchneeded distraction. I insulated myself with obligations, deadlines, and meetings, refusing to allow a down minute. I tried to ignore the fact that there was a mayoral transition the whole city was watching, and that it wasn’t mine. True to form, I threw myself into this effort and postponed addressing the impact of the race—not on my political career but on my heart. The day after the primary was September 11. I went down to the Memorial because that’s what I had done every September 11 for eight years as speaker. I turned my phone off, of course. And when I finally turned it back on hours later, I saw three missed calls from Hillary Clinton’s office. Then I went home and got under the covers. There were more calls from her office. I called her back, which was difficult for me. It was a very emotional call. She told me how hard it had been for her to watch what was happening. President Clinton called the same day. I’ll never forget it. He said, “Just keep doing good.” My ennui felt embarrassing, shameful even. I felt that I had so profoundly let everyone down. I wanted to avoid being seen. Kim had to walk the dogs; I didn’t want to go out. I sat at home watching TV—thank God for NCIS reruns and SVU—ruminating on all that I had not done right. Over the holiday we went to Thailand: I wanted to be somewhere halfway around the world with a lot to see, a place where, even if I was trying to troll the blogs, it would be hard to keep up. When I talked to Andrew Cuomo after my defeat, he said, “Look, all you did was lose. I imploded in front of the whole state of New York, and look at me now—I’m the governor.

Kim had to walk the dogs. I sat at home watching TV and ruminating on all that I had not done right You’ll be fine.” And I said, “How long till you felt better?” He said: a year. “A year? That’s horrible!” There he was, this big, tough guy. He said, “I’m just telling you the truth.” Back home again, it was difficult to figure out what to do. Should I throw myself into finding a new job? Should I take some time, as Kim was advocating? People were lovely, but I didn’t want to get together with them. I replayed every decision I had made: We had peaked too early. I should have punched back when the people who wanted horse carriages banned got funding from an outside group and ran attack ads that misrepresented my position. I remember an interview with Barbara Walters when she was asked, “What’s your biggest regret?” She started laughing and said something to the effect of, “Oh, I’ve asked people that question a million times, and some people say, ‘I have no regrets.’ I regret I wore these shoes instead of the tan ones, you know? I regret these earrings.” I kept thinking about that because I had a litany of regrets. Slowly I began to share them. The defeat and its impact forced me to see that barreling through challenges without acknowledging their difficulty was a strategy that had its limitations. And then I got out of bed. Kim and my amazing family and friends helped. So did the dozens of everyday New Yorkers who stopped me while I was walking L I V E S >1 4 0 VOGUE.COM


Lives

The Comeback Kid

the dogs, spinning, getting a haircut, eating out, or riding the subway, to offer a kind word and a pat on the elbow. It meant the world. I received a lovely note from New York’s Cardinal Dolan (who, as you can imagine, agrees with me on some things but certainly not everything). He said, “I haven’t heard from you, so I fear you think I only liked you because you were in a powerful position. That’s not true; I actually like you. When can we get pasta?” That first winter I was out of office, Kim said to me one night over takeout, “What did you used to love to do that you didn’t get to do when you were so busy in politics?” And—this is so ironic in view of those anti–horse carriage advocates—I answered, “I used to love riding horses.” We have a house on

things that allowed me to contribute, but on some days I still felt dogged by the feeling that I had failed people. The companionship of brilliant women, and mentoring the next generation, brought me joy as I taught politics at Harvard for a semester. I worked alongside five incredible fellows, including two formidable female public servants: former U.S. senator Kay Hagan of North Carolina and former Massachusetts attorney general Martha Coakley, both of whom had also recently suffered high-profile political defeats. Bonding with them—in the student dining halls, at yoga class—was a way to share an experience to which few can relate. We supported one another through laughter and tears and looked ahead, trying to rebound and figure out our next chapters. Last fall, two years after my defeat, I felt ready to return to public service, and I yearned to get back to my roots. At the beginning of my career I was a housing advocate and tenant organizer, assisting lower-income New Yorkers as they fought for their right to affordable housing and freedom from predatory landlords. Many were poor women of color, including seniors and young single moms. The feeling of helping to reverse an unfair eviction and keeping these women in their homes was sweeter than any political triumph.

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THE SPEAKER STANDS CANDIDATE QUINN AT THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, PHOTOGRAPHED DURING HER MAYORAL RACE BY MIKAEL JANSSON, VOGUE, 2013.

the Jersey Shore, so we went to find a stable. I started taking lessons and then very quickly, and perhaps impulsively, bought a horse who was too young, too high energy, and very bombastic. I know, I know . . . that does ring some bells. I began to ride her and take care of her, which—particularly with this horse, who was very needy—was wonderful and reaffirmed that I could be helpful outside government or politics. My life began to seem brighter, and I felt stronger and surer of myself. Andrew Cuomo asked me to help him work toward legislation dealing with sex crimes in the university system, and I seized the opportunity to give voice to those who were silenced in the seemingly unending epidemic of rape on college campuses. I returned to my advocacy roots by joining nonprofit boards: pushing for choice and women’s health and reproductive rights at the National Institute for Reproductive Health Action Fund; advocating for LGBT youth through the Tyler Clementi Foundation; and fighting for equality in sports through Athlete Ally—especially as Russia repressed the LGBT community during the Sochi Olympics. All of these steps forward were important victories—but there were occasional setbacks and bumps in the road. I was doing rewarding

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n November 2015, I started my first fulltime post-politics job. I run Win, formerly called Women in Need. It’s New York City’s largest nonprofit that provides shelter and support services for homeless women and their children, offering them their own units in eleven shelters. During the day, these women work, look for jobs, and send their kids off to school. At night, they serve dinner and help with homework. Many have fled domestic violence or are in recovery from substance abuse or mental illness. Many grew up homeless themselves. Some are undocumented. They are the forgotten faces of homelessness. I knew that taking the job at the very moment that the mayor was being pilloried by the press for his management of New York’s acute homelessness crisis might raise an eyebrow. I could see the headline: onetime rival quinn to play de blasio foil on homelessness. But I also knew that to be effective in my role, I not only needed to join forces with the mayor, I needed to support his administration’s efforts to get a handle on the problem. I had to do this knowing that my defeat in 2013 came in large part due to a sustained attack he levied, falsely accusing me of looking out for the wealthy at the expense of everyone else during my time as City Council speaker. Partnering with him was tough at first, but in fact we work well together and are united by our mutual love for New York and the desire to help people—and that matters much more than politics. In the political arena, I had an extraordinary opportunity this summer to play a part as a surrogate in supporting the presidential bid of Hillary Clinton. She’s one of my mentors, who was there for me in good times and not-so-good times. The night she wins the presidency will be a watershed moment for women and girls everywhere. C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 3 1 2 VOGUE.COM


Nostalgia

HEAD OVER HEELS A MODEL TAKES A TUMBLE. PHOTOGRAPHED BY HELMUT NEWTON FOR VOGUE, 1973.

Making a Splash Even at its most tumultuous, the love between KIRA VON EICHEL’s unconventional parents held the entire family in its thrall.

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hen my mother was pulled into a pool in the midst of a raucous party, it was by my father, who was in the process of divorcing her. It was 2002, at a farm in Virginia. The dancing at the party was frenetic, and the two of them, Henry and Lindy, were at the center of it. Even as they were coming undone, they couldn’t stop dancing with each other. At some point someone pushed a guest, fully clothed, into the pool, setting off a cheerful melee of tumbling waterborne partygoers. My mother playfully shoved her soon-to-be ex-husband, and as he fell, he grabbed her arm and she tumbled in on top of him. They were underwater unraveling limb from limb, and when my father emerged to the surface he screamed bloody murder. My mother claims she wasn’t trying to drown him; that she couldn’t control where she fell in after him. I believe her.

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She’s not the murderous type. But he went on to repeat the story throughout Washington, D.C., and all the way to Munich, where most of his family lived. Can you believe Lindy tried to drown me? A year before the party, 9/11 happened, and my parents were still living in the house together. My brother, sister, and I were in New York. We each made it to our homes safely, and when the phone lines opened, we called one another. My sister insisted we all drive to Connecticut, to her motherin-law’s house. My husband and I were in our apartment in Little Italy. I wanted to stay. The phone rang again, and it was Lindy and Henry. They were on the kitchen phone, they said. I could picture their faces pressed together to the receiver, and I yearned for them. They told me to go; they said they needed to know we were all safe. So we went. The mother-in-law told me that it was probably good that our parents were splitting up because we were too obsessed with them. It was true. But N O S TA L G I A >1 6 0 VOGUE.COM


Crazy for Them

what she missed was that being in their club, loving them so much and being taken on their ride—sometimes blissfully, at other times stressfully—was all we knew. Other people reject their parents as early as twelve. It’s a rite of passage and self-determination. Our position was more slippery. Our parents had had my sister and me when they were in college—in a sense we’d grown up together. They moved from Switzerland to Toronto, where my father worked at the Bank of Nova Scotia and my brother was born. My siblings and I were still small children when we moved again, to Washington, D.C. And we were misfits, no country to call home, split between Europe and North America. We defined ourselves by our unconventional parents and lived in the cocoon of being their offspring.

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hey met in 1968. He was a young German baron banished to Canada for a series of infractions that included too-long hair and a love of rock’n’roll. She was a Toronto WASP turned beatnik in the thirteenth grade of Branksome Hall, the school her mother had also attended. He showed up a Pied Piper, leading her into corners of Toronto she’d never explored to buy exotic cheeses and German bread for picnics on her family’s farm. And no one was a better combination of nurturing and game than she. She kissed away the many wounds of his somewhat gothic upbringing: the cold castle; the coal in his stocking. We didn’t grow up as the kids of hippies or as typical children of privilege. Our rambling Victorian house in D.C. attracted people from all walks of life. They gathered week after week throughout my childhood to be dazzled by my father and comforted by my mother. Relatives in tasteful tweed from Germany, bagpipe- and bridge-playing Canadians, think-tank fellows, liberal senators, poets, and artists who otherwise eschewed human company, all met there. A friend of my brother’s who slept over often called them von Eichel Kitchen People. Ours wasn’t a show house; it was decidedly lived-in. Fabrics from around the world covered Biedermeier sofas. My mother’s obscure poetry journals and our Hindu comic books from the ashram we had been to weighed down the tables. The place was filled with strange collections that ranged from my father’s ivory heads to his great-grandfather’s ancient coins to tableaux of Tintin figurines. My father dressed us in baggy pants from Argentina, raincoats from Australia, and Liberty print dresses from London. My mother wrote us letters apologizing when she lost her temper and included snippets of Emily Dickinson or William Blake to make a point. Screaming fights and flying porcelain, and my mother’s threats to leave and never come back, regularly accompanied summer visits to relatives’ castles in Germany or to my mother’s parents’ horse farm in Ontario. We were described by our parents as classless and free, but instructed that chewing gum was gauche. We weren’t allowed to cut bangs, as we were told one should never conceal one’s forehead, but Doc Martens boots and hair dyed blue-black were applauded. Impeccable table manners were non-negotiable, yet loud conversation and strong opinions were encouraged.

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JOY RIDE HENRY TAKES LINDY FOR A SPIN IN GERMANY, 1970.

Walking in on our parents in flagrante was not uncommon, and I always saw it as proof that all was well in spite of the fights. And here is where it gets tricky. He was unfaithful to her. With all his brilliance, and its highs, sex was bound to enter the mix. And so, suddenly, after 33 years, the beautiful chaos and idealism couldn’t hold the center. We three children each left home for universities in the 1990s. By the time our parents began to split in 2001, they had grown into adults with different values. He reverted back to type, as a German aristocrat, while her commitment to psychology deepened. When the five of us were together, the old theater of the perfect bohemian family endured, but when the weekend was over, they grew more distant again. Their breakup felt as though it were against the laws of nature, not just to us but to a whole group of friends who couldn’t fathom how it was possible. We had to rearrange our entire sense of things, try to know one parent without the other. Together they had been irresistible, in spite of their many flaws, and apart they were too human, and the flaws felt too close to the bone. He had never been faithful; she was chaotic and prone to rages. Henry was drawn like a magpie to shiny things and people; Lindy, in those days, needed to be

Impeccable table manners were non-negotiable, yet loud conversation and strong opinions were encouraged needed a touch too much. Neither one was able to do in the world alone what they’d done together. Henry died young, at 64, of complications from leukemia. My brother and I found a box of letters he’d saved from various conquests during the years he’d been unfaithful to my mother. They were hilariously poorly written, which my brother pointed out was a relief—Mommy would never write stupid letters like that. When he said this, our mother laughed and said that when she’d rail against the affairs, he would explain that he didn’t love the others the way he loved her. Four years later, I still miss him acutely. Lindy, at long last, became a therapist, on top of being a poet. My two siblings and I talk almost daily, share friends and playlists, and can’t help living within blocks of one another in Brooklyn. A few weeks before my father died, I lay in his bed at the house he shared with his second wife in Austria. We were holding hands, and he said he wished my mother could see the view of the lake from the window, as if the end of his life didn’t quite make sense without her to bear witness.  VOGUE.COM

COU RT ESY O F KI RA VO N EI C HEL

Nostalgia


Talking Fashion EDITORS: MARK HOLGATE & MARK GUIDUCCI

All About

My Mother A fascinating new documentary about Italian Vogue editor Franca Sozzani couldn’t be any more personal—it was directed by her son. Lynn Yaeger goes behind the scenes.

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ho’s going to play me?” Franca Sozzani asked when her son, Francesco Carrozzini, informed her that he was planning to make a film about her life. “You are playing Franca,” he replied. And who better to bring to life the spectacular career of this editor in chief, for 28 years at the helm of Italian Vogue, than the woman herself ? Carrozzini’s new biopic, Franca: Chaos and Creation, took six years to complete. Though he began by immersing himself in other biographical films—Anderson Cooper’s documentary with his own mother; Martin Scorsese’s Italianamerican; My Architect, by Nathaniel Kahn, about his father, Louis Kahn; and Sarah Polley’s Stories We Tell among them—some of the subjects of those films were deceased. But even when they were alive, were VOGUE.COM

they as seemingly impenetrable as the enigmatic Sozzani? Persuading his mother to embark on the project in the first place was no easy task. “She said yes—but there were a lot of buts,” Carrozzini recalls. “Many times she didn’t want to keep doing it; it was too hard—I feel like the whole thing almost tanked seven or eight times! We argued so much about things—not about content but about the music, the colors, certain home videos she didn’t want in. She was relentless!” he says, laughing. “It was a lot of ‘Fuck you,’ a lot of ‘I love you.’ ” Carrozzini smiles. “My mother treats me like she treats her photographers: When you don’t hear, you know it’s great.” It proved far simpler to get his mother to talk about her business life than her personal story, but even there, he says, Sozzani is a woman of famously few TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 6 8 REEL LIFE FRANCA SOZZANI WITH HER SON, FRANCESCO CARROZZINI, PHOTOGRAPHED BY BRUCE WEBER, 2016.

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FAMILY TRADITION SOZZANI’S FATHER WALKS HER DOWN THE AISLE.

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ROLE CALL MODELS KRISTEN MCMENAMY (LEFT), 2010, AND JOURDAN DUNN (RIGHT), 2008. CENTER: MODEL LINDA EVANGELISTA, 2005. ALL PHOTOGRAPHED FOR ITALIAN VOGUE BY STEVEN MEISEL.

thought this was perhaps meant to echo the segregation rampant in the industry, but Sozzani argues that her intention was just the opposite. “I knew it would be controversial, but I was sure that was the right moment.” In any case, the issue sold out and was reprinted twice. Sozzani was born into a prosperous northern Italian family (the film includes home movies of her as a child enjoying lush summer holidays) and says she always thought she “was going to have a bourgeois life—a husband, kids, a country house, a beach house.” She married young, but the union was very brief—asked why she went through with it in the first place, she deadpans, “Because I was already wearing the dress.” She planned to study physics at university—never imagining the combustible mixture she would introduce in the pages of a magazine—before switching to philosophy and literature. Then two things happened that changed her forever: She fell in love with Yves Saint Laurent—because, she says, he gave a woman permission to dress like a man—and, in the late 1960s, she visited London. “At that time in Italy there was a very conservative way of dressing,” she remembers. “When I went to London, I found a totally new world, and it changed me completely: not only my approach to clothes but even my way of living. We were breathing a completely antiestablishment kind of air. Maybe in my head I never came back.” Sozzani never abandoned that revolutionary outlook. From the first, she says, “I knew that Italian Vogue would not just be a social magazine. It was important for me to do something different.” Something different, indeed: The strength of the photographs, the international language of images, the unique way they merge brutal reality with fantasy are what gives her work its special power: “I add the dream!” as Sozzani says. And while that’s true, there is a firm reality behind that dream—one that her son brilliantly elucidates in Franca: Chaos and Creation. In taking as its subject this iconic editor, who has until now remained a rather mysterious figure, he shows us a woman—a mom!—whose vision has always been laced with courage and humor. But if the pictures in her magazine are provocative, the invisible hand is gentle. “You need to be light in life,” Sozzani explains in the film. “Lightness for me is when being TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 7 8 profound allows you to fly high.”  VOGUE.COM

ROL E CA LL : COURT ESY O F I TA LI A N VOGUE . FA MI LY TRA D I T I O N: COURTESY OF FRANCA SOZ Z ANI.

words. And, in fact, one gets a sense of the subject’s silent authority in the scenes where Carrozzini films her strolling alone, perfectly coiffed, exquisitely garbed, and lost in thought through a snowy Central Park. A first cut of the movie was rejected— Sozzani told him curtly that it didn’t go deep enough, that it was like a TV movie—butt d both agreed that the final version, completed in April, was good to go. Carrozzini says hee hopes that he has fulfilled Baz Luhrmann’’s friendly instructions: “Make the movie thaat ur only you can make—bring to the table you mother and you,” the director told him. Carrozzini was aware practically from birth that Sozzani was no ordinary mom. Not only was she driven and determined, she was also—in her fearlessness, her wild imagination, her unique way of fusing social issues with fashion—not like any of her professional contemporaries. “I didn’t even know what I was doing—it even surprises me,” Sozzani says, laughing as she takes the measure of a tenure that includes flaunting models posed in daring, socially conscious scenarios shot by stellar photographers who were allowed not just to push but to smash boundaries. As Bruce Weber, who worked with her from her earliest days, explains in the film, “She wasn’t asking me a million questions. I thought, Wow, she trusts me!” For almost three decades, trusting luminaries that include Weber, Peter Lindbergh, and Tim Walker, Sozzani has been building a notorious back catalog, including “Water & Oil,” a 2010 feature that famously offered model Kristen McMenamy covered in oil and supine on a beach, a clear reference to the horrific BP spill. The photographer for this scandalous effort was her stalwart comrade Steven Meisel, who has shot so many of her covers, and the ensuing controversy—whatever was this doing in a fashion mag?—landed Sozzani on CNN. “Why can’t I talk about it? Why can’t a fashion magazine talk about what’s happening in the world?” Sozzani responds when critics suggest that her topics—women swooning in graveyards, women arrested, women abused, a gaggle of models in various stages of plastic surgery—have no place between soft covers. “Market researchers always say, Do this, do that.” She shrugs. “I did the exact opposite of what they said. I don’t think that today a fashion magazine can only show you the clothes, and that’s it.” Perhaps the most famous example of this manifesto was her July 2008 Black Issue, a decision to feature black models exclusively. Some


@UNSKILLEDWORKER

LEFT: HELEN DOWNIE’S INTERPRETATION OF ALESSANDRO MICHELE’S GUCCI RESORT ’17.

practitioners have set up pad and paper in New York. Joana Avillez grew up drawing, her mother a painter and photographer and her father a Portugal-born illustrator. “My dad and I would just draw all the time,” she recalls, “and after dinner we’d all be working on something together.” She went to school for painting, but after a stint in the art world she published Life Dressing: The Idiosyncratic Fashionistas—sketches of two older women who, as Avillez wrote, “live to dress and dress to live.” These days, she considers herself less a fashion illustrator than an illustrator of TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 8 0

@JOANAAVILLEZ

AVILLEZ, A NATIVE NEW YORKER, AT WORK IN TUSCANY. BOTTOM: A WOMAN WITH RANUNCULI.

Cartoon COUTURE A new generation of artists is redrawing the lines around fashion, illustration, and social-media whimsy.

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ust to be clear: While social media didn’t start the fire that is street-fashion illustration, they certainly fanned its flames. Unlike in the seventies and eighties, though—the last time illustration was this huge—the hottest illustrators posting today are predominantly female, and in their new relationships with designers and brands they’re having some fun with fashion. The London-based painter Helen Downie began quietly putting her work on

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Instagram three years ago; 220,000 followers later, her illustrations are collected by Alessandro Michele, the Gucci creative director—and, in their touched-by-the-hand quality and their link to an earlier tradition, are even seen as a kind of encapsulation of the Gucci moment. “I love Helen’s work,” Michele says. “Her illustrations immediately get me in touch with my inner child—the dreamlike, fairy-tale part of me.” And while Insta-illustration is happening all over the world, a slew of

GUCCI R ESORT: COURTESY OF H ELEN D OWNIE. AVILLEZ : NIKLAS AD R IAN VIND ELEV. RANUNCULI: COU RT ESY O F JOAN A AVILLE Z.

Talking Fashion


Talking Fashion fashions, influenced by Maira Kalman, Lea n n e S h a p t o n ,

TOP: A TONGUE-IN-CHEEK SKETCH BY JULIE HOUTS (ABOVE).

On the World Stage “People will do good if you incentivize them” is how Elizabeth Edelman, 28, describes the core ethos of Global Citizen, a nonprofit created to fight extreme poverty in developing nations. Small actions (dozens of which are curated on its Web site) like tweeting at a world leader, signing a petition, or protesting at an embassy can earn you points; earn a certain amount, and you’re rewarded with free access not only to GC’s massive annual music festival—this year’s, on September 24 in Central Park, will feature Selena Gomez, Kendrick Lamar, and Rihanna—but also to partner concerts all around the world. “If we get someone’s attention with the concert,” Edelman says, “they might realize they care about these issues and take even more action.” Edelman, now a vice president of the NGO, discovered it in a serendipitous moment of clarity. “I was sitting in a bar in the West Village,” she recalls, “and I overheard a guy talking about Global Citizen.” At the time, she was working in private equity for a man who, she says, “was not very nice to women,” and was looking for an excuse to leave. She started out donating her free time to working with GC, and after a few months she was hooked. “Action is currency,” she says. “I believe in what I’m selling.”—LILI GÖKSENIN

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@ANGELICAHICKS

HICKS’S WORK IS EQUAL PARTS CARTOON AND WORDPLAY.

magazine, with her pieces taking inspiration from advertising of the sixties and seventies. “Illustration is really cool because it’s not reality,” she says. “It’s drawn from reality.” Last summer she moved from London, where her father is an architect and interior designer (and second cousin to Prince Charles), to New York—not that anyone knows. Hicks is that rare selfiefree Instagram phenom. She has also yet to find a studio, so in the meantime she works in cafés and practices her parents’ mantra: “Take in your surroundings!”—ROBERT SULLIVAN TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 8 4

BAND AID EDELMAN IN PHILOSOPHY DI LORENZO SERAFINI.

ST RE E T ST YLE : COURT ESY O F JUL I E HOU TS. H OU TS : VA N ESSA GRA NDA . TA M A GUCCI: COURTESY OF ANGELICA H ICKS. HI C KS : DA N NY GH I TI S. ED E LM A N: DA I SY JO HN SO N . FASHI O N E D I TO R: E MMA MO R R ISON.

@JOOLEELOREN

and most especially by the city as performance space. “I’m tickled by what’s happening around me now,” she says. “I think people want something a little more tactile.” Why this new surge in illustration interest? “In an age where everything is completely airbrushed and artificial, it’s really nice to get the hand, and maybe the heart, back into things,” says Julie Houts, a J.Crew designer by day whose private drawings have lately been going public. Houts’s long and smooth (but sometimes scraggly) lines are distant relatives to Jules Feiffer’s—if Feiffer were, say, 28 and, like Houts, fluent in Prada. Angelica Hicks began conjuring up portraits as a kind of break from exams and thesis-writing during her senior year at University College London. “It wasn’t like I was sitting down watching Netflix,” she recalls. “I was being productive.” A few months later, she was freelancing, drawing for publications like Porter


Talking Fashion

GREEN PEACE CHOI SHARES A QUIET MOMENT IN THE HAZELNUT WALKWAY WITH HER DAUGHTER PHOENIX.

BLOOMS with aView

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rose, to a deer, is like caviar,” observes Jimmy Choo creative director Sandra Choi, greeting me at the end of the milelong, tree-lined drive to her new English country home in Upton Cheyney, Gloucestershire. The eighteenthcentury stone cottage has become a choice destination for roe deer, led by their surprisingly sophisticated palates to the dense rose borders that encircle the magical property. (The extensive lands surrounding the house, meanwhile, include 25 acres devoted to sheep grazing and 30 for an arboretum.) Choi, 43, decamps to the country most Fridays from the Battersea, London, town house she shares with her

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artist husband, Tamburlaine Gorst, and their two daughters, Phoenix, six, and Cyan, three. Breezily dressed in a Peter Pilotto embroidered cotton dress and Birkenstocks—somehow managing to exude glamorous accessibility even in her downtime—Choi has filled the cottage with unexpected and ravishing arrangements of local flowers. With the garden taking center stage, the interior of the house is “a work in progress,” she says, though it retains a welcoming English charm with its sinking mounds of floral upholstery and fireplaces. Raised in Hong Kong, Choi finds country life an entirely new endeavor— albeit one she seems to have taken to rather naturally. “These are foxgloves; this is nepeta, TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 8 7

BUDDING BEAUTY JIMMY CHOO SATIN CAMOFLOWERPRINT MULE, $795; JIMMYCHOO.COM.

VOGUE.COM

KASI A GAT KOWS KA . S I TT I N G S E DI TOR : SO NN Y GROO. HA I R, T ER RI CA P O N; MA K EU P, RE BE KA H LI DSTON E . S HO E: JOSE P HI N E SC HI E LE.

Sandra Choi’s English-countryside home—much like her designs for Jimmy Choo—is brimming with blossoms.


Talking Fashion

KASI A GAT KOWS KA . BAG : COURTESY O F J I MM Y CH OO. D E TA I LS, SE E I N T HI S I SSU E.

COUNTRY MUSE ABOVE: JIMMY CHOO METALLIC LEATHER BAG, $1,595; JIMMYCHOO.COM. TOP RIGHT: CHOI’S ROSE GARDEN ECHOES THE PERENNIAL PRINTS FROM THE JIMMY CHOO RESORT COLLECTION.

which mixes very well with salvia; here are lupines and then echinacea,” she says proudly, guiding me through the latest additions to the borders. There is, however, a characteristically modern Choi twist to the bucolic color riot: “We did it online,” she says. Using the Web site of gardener Claire Austin (daughter of rose specialist David Austin), Choi and Gorst pulled images they liked and designed everything via Photoshop. “It’s going to be supercolorful—a rhapsody of pinks and blues,” Gorst says—not unlike the modern silk-screen florals of his wife’s latest resort collection. The kitchen garden is also a collective effort. “The girls are learning where their food comes from, pulling potatoes from the ground,” says Choi before showing off a homegrown roll call to rival the trendiest farmer’s market: bok choy, tomatoes, gooseberries, artichokes, garlic, heritage carrots, Swiss chard, and haricots verts all grow among edible flowers. “The beetroot is amazing roasted, and we’ll make stuffed courgette flowers later—I’m getting back to proper cooking,” she says. At the apex of the kitchen garden stands a scarecrow—dressed in clothes VOGUE.COM

from Tamburlaine’s tenure at Kenzo Homme in Paris—above a patch of curly kale (“for juicing,” Choi says). The garden then descends, via a long hazelnut tunnel, from the house into the seclusion of the orchard and the valley. In the afternoon light, we walk toward a beech archway and wander among the plums, pears, Bramleys, and Coxes, a homemade swing swaying in the breeze beneath the walnut tree in the corner. The house itself is surrounded by a terraced walkway with far-reaching vistas overlooking the Bath countryside and the most southerly point of the garden, which is to be made into what Choi calls “a low-seated, Ibiza-style chill-out area.” The property’s previous owner cultivated thousands of trees, including more than 250 species of oaks—thus laying claim to one of the largest collections of oak trees in the U.K., a heritage Choi is eager to continue. “We recently invested in 80 rare acorns from Taiwan,” she says, leading me into the heated potting shed to show off the germinating specimens. How many species does she hope to add to the collection? “I’ll have to let you know in about fifteen years’ time,” she says, smiling.—EMMA ELWICK-BATES

QUEEN OF THE CROP CHOI WEARS A PETER PILOTTO DRESS AND JIMMY CHOO FLATS ($995; JIMMYCHOO.COM).

TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 8 8

GARDEN VARIETY THE COTTAGE LANDSCAPE INCLUDES A WILD MIX OF FOXGLOVES, LUPINES, NEPETA, SALVIA, AND ECHINACEA.

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FIRE BIRD THE ACTRESS IN RED-HOT CHANEL.

all eyes on

ELLIE Bamber

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P I E RRE SU U/G C I MAGES/G E T TY IM AG ES

ou must excuse my hair,” says nineteenyear-old Ellie Bamber, pushing back her damp auburn locks. Dressed in only an oversize Calvin Klein T-shirt thrown over her bathing suit, the energetic British actress is taking a break from promoting Tom Ford’s film Nocturnal Animals (page 288) when I reach her via Skype at a villa with her family on Spain’s Costa Brava. Even post-swim, Bamber’s tresses against her pale skin create an Egon Schiele effect—and Ford, meanwhile, seems to be developing a propensity for redheads akin to Hitchcock’s for blondes. Bamber, though, freely admits that the color isn’t natural. “I turned red for the film—but it suits me.” As the on-screen daughter of Jake Gyllenhaal and Isla Fisher, Bamber is brazen, vulnerable, and at the epicenter of the film’s violent story line. “Tom created a safe environment, despite the scary sequence of events,” she says of the perfectionist director, who changed her character’s nail polish after spotting a particular shade on a wardrobe TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 9 0 VOGUE.COM


Talking Fashion

AT A LINKS OF LONDON EVENT. IN MARKUS LUPFER.

IN GILES DEACON.

IN A SAM GREENBERG VINTAGE JACKET,

SONIC Bloom Though fashion consultant Kate Foley has lately been more accustomed to lighting up Manhattan, for her nuptials to Suno’s Max Osterweis she gathered her friends from around the globe at the exquisitely restored West Dean Gardens in her home county of Sussex. A collection of Victorian glasshouses and July flora provided the backdrop for Foley’s crisp broderie anglaise Suno dress, set off by her signature red lip. Passionflower vines decorated the tables, where guests sat down to a garden-fresh feast prepared by Tart London— the first wedding for the eco-conscious London caterers, who fulfilled the groom’s wish for a childhood favorite: pineapple upside-down cake. “I have married my best friend,” the charming bride told me, moments before spinning around the dance floor in her second look of the day, a dazzling silver-sequined number by Erdem. —E.E.-B.

HEAVEN AND EARTH KATE FOLEY AND MAX OSTERWEIS CELEBRATE UNDER A MAGNIFICENT PERGOLA. RIGHT: SIMPLY LUSH FLORALS.

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LON D ON : DAV I D M . BE NE T T/GE T TY I M AG ES. M A RKUS LUP F ER: ST UA RT C. W I LSO N/GETTY IMAGES. GILES D EACON: RABBANI + SOLIMENE P HOTO G RA P HY/G ET T YI MAG ES. SA M G REE NB ERG: MI KE MA RSLA N D/W I RE I MAGE /GETTY IMAGES. SONIC BLOOM: CINZ IA BRUSCH INI, PAOLO MANZ I.

supervisor. A sixteen-week stint at London’s Old Vic as Dinah in High Society helped prepare her for the stamina of the production, which was further enhanced by the camaraderie on set. “Ellie can sing, act—and she has this otherworldly, ethereal beauty,” says Fisher. From her first audition at his Victoria offices, Ford immediately spotted Bamber’s fashion flair—“He said I had great personal style; I was done after that!” she says—and she’s since captured the attention of Karl Lagerfeld. “If I’m not hanging out in Supreme or Lyz Olko, I love to dress up in Chanel,” she says. “It’s got such a cool edge.” Cool credentials seem to be something that Bamber comes by effortlessly. Next up: her first indie lead, in Extra Curricular Activities, with Colin Ford and Timothy Simons.—EMMA ELWICK-BATES TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 9 2


Talking Fashion

Two Brooklyn restaurateurs bring home their vision of the good life with a leather-goods line and a cookbook.

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illiamsburg in 1998 was desolate; we just wanted to open a place where we could all hang out,” Andrew Tarlow says of the inspiration behind Diner, his restaurant—now a neighborhood fixture—born in a vintage Kullman dining car. That New Year’s Eve, he and his then-girlfriend, Kate Huling, convened 20 or so friends to celebrate the first night of service. Never mind that the gas wasn’t turned on, or that youth outweighed experience—what they had was a pot of cassoulet so satisfying, it foretold a lifetime rooted in the community of food. “The intimacy of it all was instantly palpable,” recalls Huling. Eighteen years and four bright-eyed children later, the couple have left an indelible mark on Brooklyn’s dining scene with a group of influential restaurants and bars (along with a provisions shop, bakery, small-press magazine, and partnership in the Wythe Hotel) grounded in deep relationships with staff, with farmers, and with regulars. It’s a family affair in the broadest sense, which Tarlow and co-writer Anna Dunn capture in their first cookbook, Dinner at the Long Table (Ten Speed). The book lays out a trove of recipes, a wide-angle narrative—beginning with Tarlow and Huling’s coup de foudre while working together at the Odeon in Manhattan—and a philosophy: that entertaining should be frequent and fearless. “I hope this can inspire people to come together and not be so scared of failing in the process,” he says.

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Which is why the recipe for aioli is called “I Almost Always Fail.” “It’s totally true!” Tarlow admits. There’s also a weekend-long ragù, an herb-loaded green gazpacho, and morel toast so good you’ll want to befriend a forager. Huling, meanwhile—teaming up with the same nearby farms that supply the restaurants’ grass-fed beef—has just opened Marlow Goods, an East Village storefront showcasing her line of simple, functional bags and wallets in a rainbow of vegetable-tanned leathers. There, the growing range includes leather rugs, pillows, and bolsters, which began as prototypes for their Brooklyn brownstone. The twin facets of the family business invariably intertwine: Huling shot next season’s look book inside Diner, and her leather covers the banquettes at their Greenpoint bar, Achilles Heel. “They’ve aged so beautiTA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 9 4 fully,” she says.—LAURA REGENSDORF ROOTS AND ALL RECIPES LIKE PICKLED EGGS, TINGED MAGENTA WITH LOCAL BEETS, HIGHLIGHT THE HERE AND NOW.

TA RLOW A N D HU LI NG : LI Z BA RCL AY. A LL OTH ERS: N I KOL E HE RRI OT T A N D M IC HA E L G RAYD O N.

Family Style

SUNNY SIDE UP LEFT: ANDREW TARLOW AND KATE HULING (IN AN A DÉTACHER DRESS) AT THEIR RESTAURANT MARLOW & SONS. BELOW: THE DINAN BAG BY MARLOW GOODS, $555; MARLOWGOODS.COM.


The New

BLUES

Meet the labels putting out fall’s most covetable denim—sliced, diced, and slightly distressed.

NILI LOTAN

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need those jeans,” my friend Stella says of my darkwash, slouchy style—replete with buttons that climb the leg—over dinner at the Soho House’s newest location, the Ludlow. Despite some apprehension (I hadn’t donned wide-leg flares since junior high school), I was instantly sold. She tries to guess the label, rattling off a few usual suspects without success. But this pair came from a new and unlikely source—one that’s sure to inspire obsession among denim-heads everywhere.

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LEAN BACK MODEL LILY STEWART WEARS NILI LOTAN JEANS, $425; NILI LOTAN, NYC. CALVIN KLEIN COLLECTION TUNIC, $1,595; CALVIN KLEIN COLLECTION, NYC. PACO RABANNE LOAFERS.

Nili Lotan has always been grounded in realness; the Israeli-born designer built her brand of covetable basics on stripes, slips, and crisp white shirting. Given her highly personal approach to dressing (Lotan is the first to admit that she designs for herself), it makes sense that she is finally embracing blue as the warmest color. “I’m most at home in a pair of jeans,” she says. But while denim is new to her namesake line, Lotan’s fervor for the fabric runs deep. “As a kid, I begged my dad to drive me to Haifa, where TA L K I N G FA S H I O N >1 9 8 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. PH OTOGRAPH ED IN H ASTINGS- ON- H UDSON, NY. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Talking Fashion


Talking Fashion the American sailors came to sell Levi’s,” she recalls. “I lived in my denim jacket and didn’t care about the school uniform.” Cut to Lotan’s blues. The assortment of drop-crotch trousers, hip-huggers, and a gently washed utilitarian jacket— which evokes the effortlessly casual instinct that the brand is known for—is laid-back in a way that transcends trends.

The best example here, the flirty-yet-unfussy Ena flared fit, with a length of buttons that allow you to reveal a sliver of skin (or not!), promises to put the ease in day-to-evening dressing. Who knows what’s next for Lotan—a sailor pant in denim, perhaps? “Definitely maybe,” she says, smiling. Until then, I’m taking a walk on the wide side.—RACHEL WALDMAN

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orrowing from the boys? Save for a single long-ago skateboarder’s plaid shirt (suddenly very Vetements) and the odd attempt to make off with my partner’s clothing, my efforts have always seemed doomed. Instead of emulating the tomboyish élan of Mica Arganaraz, I manage to look more under the weather than anything. (Or, as my mother might say, “as if you’ve let yourself go.”) Enter Sean Barron and Jamie Mazur, the brains behind the L.A. cult denim brand Re/ Done, who source vintage Levi’s, take them apart, and recut them into contemporary silhouettes. “Every cool girl we knew wanted to wear vintage Levi’s, and we worked out a way to flatter bodies now,” says Barron. The duo’s trade secret: The vintage back pockets are significantly larger than most pockets today, resulting in a beneficial optical illusion. “It makes your behind look much smaller,” says Barron. When Re/Done launched in July 2014 as an e-commerce project with just two designs— straight skinny and modified boyfriend—the first 190 pairs sold out in 20 minutes, with 2,000 people signing on to the waiting list. And the members of the label’s loyal cortege are as glossy as they are devoted. “It’s hard to fall in love with a pair of jeans without trying them on beforehand,” says actress Emily Ratajkowski, but that’s exactly what she—along with Beyoncé, Dakota Johnson, Cara Delevingne, and Gigi and Bella Hadid—did. “Every pair fits differently, so finding a pair that fits perfectly feels incredibly special,” says Kendall Jenner, who owns more than 20 pairs. The way so many stylish women are responding to the brand feels timely. In a moment when real, authentic (yet still fashionable) gestures—the upscale hoodie, the elegant track pant, the bespoke jean—are trumping gilded and overwrought design statements, the desire to deconstruct, reconstruct, and reconsider seems to reflect our ever-moremultidimensional world. The jeans are repaired and reassembled on rickety machines from the 1940s and held together in part by official Levi’s rivets—the company gave Re/Done its blessing four months into the launch. Now Barron and Mazur are working with Hanes to make the perfect shrunken Tshirt and with Champion for rescaled hoodies and sun-faded

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PIECES OF WORK MODEL LILY STEWART WEARS A RE/DONE SHERPA-LINED DENIM JACKET ($550) AND HIGH-RISE JEANS ($345); SHOPREDONE.COM. PACO RABANNE TOP, $970; PACORABANNE.COM.

varsity sweatshirts, while their own brand will soon include patchworked denim pieces, mink-trimmed jackets, and their first “new” jeans, to be called Re/Done Originals. Inspired, I send the duo a challenge: to downsize a pair of my husband’s vintage Japanese selvage 32/32 jeans using the formula at the crux of their business. The husband hasn’t noticed that his jeans have gone AWOL—but will he be able to place them after their L.A. overhaul? A mere 48 hours later, the FedEx from Los Angeles arrives. The answer: No—they’re now revitalized as a straight skinny 25/30 work of art. (Warning re husband’s denim attentiveness: Results may vary.)—EMMA ELWICK-BATES TA L K I N G FA S H I O N > 2 0 2 FO R FA S H I O N N E W S A N D F E AT U R E S , G O TO VO G U E . C O M

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. PH OTOGRAPH ED IN H ASTINGS- ON- H UDSON, NY. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

RE/DONE


Talking Fashion

INTO THE BLUE LAKE STARNBERG IN BAVARIA, GERMANY, THE SITE OF MY FAMILY’S SUMMER HOUSE.

TNT Alpine getaways are for family, friends, and extreme water sports. Elisabeth TNT hits the high notes in Germany and Austria.

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ake Starnberg is Bavaria’s fairy-tale spot: deep-green forests, snow-capped Alps, a calm, emerald lake. On a cloudy day the landscape looks romantic—even melancholic—but, boy, does it change when the sky opens up. Sunlight glistens on the water; the whole horizon sparkles. Our family summer house fits the romance: a yellow eighteenth-century folly full of beautiful, hopelessly proportioned rooms, each more colorful than the last, with winding, crooked wooden staircases leading you through. The lake was where we spent our days growing up. When the water was cold, we kept to the wooden dock next to our simple boathouse, spinning fantastical stories about the dangerous underwater plants waiting to wrap around our legs and drag us down. My mother, a boy scout at heart, taught us to water-ski and wakeboard, and had us dragged behind the boat at breakneck speed in twin inflatable doughnuts. Tennis and horseback riding were also on the menu. An older cousin one summer brought his mountaineering equipment and

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thus began a tradition of rappelling out the tower window. These days my summers are a lot less extreme, but my mother and I still take our waterskiing very seriously. And there is a chaotic coming and going of family—uncles, aunts, cousins; you never quite know who will appear through those gates. My sister’s little baby girl is the new attraction. If Lake Starnberg is a fairy tale, then the Austrian countryside around Salzburg is a veritable fantasy. The meadows are fluorescent green, the mountain peaks shaped like Toblerone chocolates; even the cows look perfectly checkered. Staying at gallerist Thaddaeus Ropac’s estate, Villa Emslieb, during festival season can feel fantastical too. Days pass as you laze beside his black granite pool, inscribed by the Swiss artist Sylvie Fleury with the fitting instruction to be amazing. Thaddaeus has a knack for mixing up a potpourri of houseguests. Artists, musicians, writers, actors, directors, architects, you name it—anyone who is anyone and happens to find themselves around Salzburg will show up for one of his lunches, dinners, or parties. Makes me wonder where he hides his army of Oompa Loompas to run the show so smoothly. Bianca Jagger, an annual houseguest, was my roomie on this visit. I loved watching her descend from her room deliciously perfumed and decked out in her signature tailored suits or a beautiful Cavalli leopard caftan. One night the young violinist Joseph Morag and pianist Riko Higuma spoiled us with Brahms, Rachmaninoff, and Tchaikovsky. Other evenings we were taken to a symphony conducted by Daniel Barenboim or a rehearsal with Italian superstar conductor Riccardo Muti or the opera for a performance of Mozart’s Don Giovanni. That night ended with schnitzel at Salzburg’s most legendary hotel, Goldener Hirsch. Being amazing indeed. 

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

COU RT ESY OF E LI SA BE T H T N T

PICTURE-PERFECT ABOVE: THE SALZBURG CONCERT HALL HAS A KOOKY, COOL SIXTIES FLAIR, SO, OF COURSE, I STAGED AN IMPROMPTU PHOTO SHOOT. LEFT: UPON ARRIVAL AT THADDAEUS’S HOUSE WE WENT STRAIGHT TO THE POOL, WHICH REMINDED US TO BE AMAZING!


Beauty

EXTREME MAKEOVER ISAMAYA FFRENCH, IN A SCHIAPARELLI HAUTE COUTURE BLAZER AND A DELFINA DELETTREZ EARRING. PHOTOGRAPHED BY RAF STAHELIN. SITTINGS EDITOR: LAWREN HOWELL.

EDITOR: CELIA ELLENBERG

HA I R , CA I LE N O BLE ; M A KEU P, I SA M AYA FFR EN C H. D E TA I LS, SE E I N T HI S I SSUE .

PERFORMANCE

PIECE Renegade makeup artist ISAMAYA FFRENCH is changing the beauty conversation with her high-concept brand of offbeat cool.

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here are plenty of essentials in Isamaya Ffrench’s “kit,” as the makeup artist refers to the multitiered suitcase currently overflowing in a Hollywood photo studio: cream foundations, concealers, mascaras, and an impressive collection of HD makeup that Ffrench loads into her trusty airbrush gun with habitual ease. But the bulk of the contents are less familiar: Kryolan’s wax and latex; a selection of Temptu’s Dura Color, alcohol-based waterproof liquids that Ffrench uses to make prosthetics look “more believable”; and a bountiful supply of clay. “It’s good to mix in for cracking effects and texture,” she says casually.

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Despite having logged just five years in a highly competitive industry, the 27-year-old Ffrench, a petite brunette with clear blue eyes, full lips, and a newly cut chin-grazing bob, has brought her unique brand of beauty to both sides of the camera lately, working with some of the biggest names in fashion—Tom Ford, MAC Cosmetics, and the photographers Tim Walker and Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott. Fergie is also a fan and handpicked Ffrench to give Kim Kardashian and Chrissy Teigen those milk mustaches for her hit summer music video, “M.I.L.F. $.” “The term makeup artist is too limiting for her,” says Kenzo’s Humberto Leon, who cast Ffrench as a model in the campaign for the brand’s fall B E A U T Y > 2 1 6 VO GU E O CTO B E R 20 16

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STRIKE A REPOSE MODEL KENDALL JENNER, IN MAKEUP BY FFRENCH AND A GUCCI DRESS. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MERT ALAS AND MARCUS PIGGOTT. FASHION EDITOR: TONNE GOODMAN.

collaboration with H&M. “She is a photographer, videographer, forward thinker, challenger to beauty norms—and yes, she can also apply makeup in an artistic way.” Born in Cambridge, England, Ffrench trained in ballet from the age of four, exploring contemporary and street-inspired disciplines before joining the Theo Adams Company—an experimental performance troupe—in 2010, while she studied 3-D and industrial design at London’s Central Saint Martins college. Beyond a sideline painting faces at children’s parties, makeup was never something Ffrench considered pursuing as a profession, though it had always been a part of her periphery. “That was a lot of what I enjoyed about dancing—doing other people’s makeup backstage, the character-building and the theater that came with it,” she reveals, recalling the early

influence of makeup artist Kevyn Aucoin’s lauded 1997 instructional book, Making Faces, and the similar impact of the graphic images Serge Lutens produced as the artistic director of Shiseido in the eighties. In the end, “beauty is just something that moves you,” Ffrench declares, which might shed some light on her impulse to draw a matching red lip and eye outside the lines with a soft-focus blur; or why she feels that adding a cluster of idiosyncratic, fake freckles to an otherwise bare face perfectly complements an elongated brow. When Ffrench coated models head-to-toe in blue pigment for an i-D magazine shoot with the artist Matthew Stone in 2011, it put her on “a bit of a radar,” she says. Photographers and fashion designers—including Iris Van Herpen, who enlisted Ffrench for her fall couture show—went wild for her ability to mix classic makeup techniques with esoteric expressionism, using the face (and often arms, legs, and chest) as a blank canvas. Keeping Ffrench from being pigeonholed as merely trading in shock value are the hyperoriginal looks she creates on herself with the photographer Josh Wilks. The duo’s portfolio, live on Instagram, has helped bring her work to the attention of YSL Beauté, which named her a U.K. ambassador last year, and the director Floria Sigismondi, who recruited Ffrench to collaborate on Rihanna’s stirringly dystopic tribal makeup for her IMAX-streamed “Sledgehammer” video. Audience engagement is important to Ffrench. “People are getting a bit bored of seeing normal, basic concepts of beauty,” she suggests, pointing out that a photo carries much more currency if the viewer can relate to it emotionally. “She sees the beauty in things other people might miss,” says Nick Knight, the photographer and SHOWstudio founder, who compares Ffrench’s eye to that of the late Alexander McQueen—and Pat McGrath. The latter comparison is one that Ffrench will likely start hearing more. In McGrath’s decades-long career, the legendary makeup artist has revolutionized runway beauty, helped Rooney Mara win Oscar attention as the bleach-browed Lisbeth Salander in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and launched her own line. As Ffrench’s potential is only starting to unfold, there’s no telling what surprises are in store.—CELIA ELLENBERG B E AU T Y>2 1 8

ISAMAYA’S Edit 1 “Biafine is a classic French staple for wounds, scarring, and burns, but I use it as an overnight mask.” 2 “Tom Ford’s Traceless Foundation produces a slight reflective glow. It’s also supersheer and flexible.” 3 Ffrench, pictured with her oncesignature waist-length locks. 4 “My Clarisonic brush is the best skin-care investment I’ve ever made!” 5 “Yves Saint Laurent’s Anti-Cernes Multi-Action Concealer stick is smaller than a lip balm and can double as an intense, bright nude lipstick.”

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J ENNER : H AIR , GAR R EN AT GAR R EN NEW YOR K FOR R + CO. SET D ESIGN, GILLE MILLS FOR TH E M AGNET AGENCY. PRODUCED BY GABR IEL H ILL FOR GE PROJ ECTS. FFR ENCH : COURTESY OF ISAMAYA FFRENCH /TUMBLR . PRODUCTS: COURTESY OF BRANDS. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

Beauty


Beauty

Skin Care

Seeing SPOTS

Many women bid farewell to breakouts along with adolescence. But an influx of adult-acne cases is bringing up bad memories. Kari Molvar goes in search of clear answers.

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an Francisco–based dancer Patricia Wilkins prides herself on having good skin-care habits: She stays out of the sun, wears SPF 50, and pats on an antioxidant-rich serum daily. But last October, the 31-year-old’s complexion went haywire. “It was insane,” she recalls of the angry red bumps that materialized on her face. “I had never experienced anything like it.” The probable culprit, Wilkins discovered, was the switch from an IUD to a birth-control arm implant, which disrupted her hormonal balance. “You think by your 20s you should be done with acne,” she says. “And then you’re not.” Adult acne is fast becoming the new teen acne. In recent years, a surprising 45 percent of women between the ages of 21 and 31 have reported cases, while one in four women between the ages of 31 and 41 is experiencing a similar battle for clear skin. The struggle is real—and it’s often due to a particular hormonal maelstrom that occurs in our 30s and 40s,

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explains Eve Feinberg, M.D., a reproductive endocrinologist and fertility specialist at Northwestern University’s Feinberg School of Medicine in Chicago. We produce varying levels of testosterone—the male hormone that bumps up poreclogging oil production—throughout our entire lifespan, and being on birth control often limits our exposure to it, Feinberg elaborates. “As women come off the pill when they get older, they get acne.” Not all midlife breakouts are caused by hormones, and when they’re not, inflammation is likely to blame, according to Manhattan dermatologist Joshua Zeichner, M.D. “It can trap oil in pores and lead to bacteria,” he says of an internal swelling that can be triggered by anything—from what we eat to stress to genetics. “I think you have to consider the big picture,” says Kristina Holey, a Bay Area aesthetician and cosmetic chemist who takes an increasingly popular B E A U T Y > 2 2 0

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

ROY L IC HT E NSTE I N. UNTI TL ED H EA D, 1995. SCREEN PRINT ON LANAQUARELLE WAT ERCO LO R PA P E R. 1 8¾ ″ X 2 19∕16″ . © ESTAT E O F ROY LI C HT EN ST E IN .

CONNECTING THE DOTS HOLISTIC PROTOCOLS AND NEW BLEMISH-FIGHTING PRODUCTS TARGET HORMONE FLUCTUATIONS AND ENVIRONMENTAL TRIGGERS TO FIGHT ADULT ACNE. UNTITLED HEAD, BY ROY LICHTENSTEIN, 1995.


Beauty

Skin Care

holistic view when it comes to combating inflammation. approved by the FDA for over-the-counter use, making it the Holey often prescribes an elimination diet—no dairy, sugar, first active acne ingredient to hit the OTC market in 30 years. alcohol, caffeine, or gluten—in tandem with facial massage “A pea-size amount once a day increases cell turnover to keep and stress-reducing yoga and acupuncture, which help kickpores clear and reduce inflammation,” says Adam Geyer, start circulation and break up surface congestion while reducM.D., a New York dermatologist and consultant for Kiehl’s. Antimicrobial sulfur is another readily accessible ingredient ing levels of inflammatory cortisol. This multitiered approach that Geyer likes for accelerating the healing of blemishes. worked for Wilkins. “It took four months of dedication, but Kiehl’s new Breakout Control Targeted Acne now my skin is in such a healthier place,” she Spot Treatment contains a hefty 10 percent says of Holey’s system. At her atelier on New “You think dose, while Tata Harper’s Clarifying Spot SoYork’s Upper East Side, aesthetician Georgia by your 20s Louise relies on a similarly integrative approach. lution uses it in combination with a botanical Louise’s preferred acne protocol includes fasalicylic acid to temper redness. you should be Remembering to wash your face every cial acupuncture performed by Konstandina done with night with an oil cleanser—even if you have Gialalidis, to encourage blood flow and prevent stagnation. She also refers clients to medical acne. And then oily skin—is also surprisingly effective when it comes to preventing acne. “Oil dissolves oil herbalist Daniela Turley for bespoke tinctures you’re not” and easily removes it from your skin without and supplement regimens to help manage metaweakening the surface,” says Zeichner, extolbolic function and immune response, both of which can be thrown out of whack by inflammation. “We’re ling the virtues of the big-in-Asia “double cleanse,” which able to get a lot further than just looking at the skin externally,” begins with an oil cleanser, like skin-care formulator May Louise says of the collective result. Lindstrom’s Pendulum Potion, followed by another purifyThere are benefits to topical treatments, of course, like ing cleanser to thoroughly remove any traces of pollutants, bacteria-eradicating blue-light therapy and new and imsunscreen, or makeup. “I massage it into my skin with a warm cloth for five minutes in the morning and at night,” proved medical-grade prescriptions. Differin gel with 0.1 Lindstrom reveals. “That’s my meditation.”  B E A U T Y > 2 3 0 percent adapalene, a collagen-boosting retinoid, was just

Nails

The LONG Game

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all it the Oval, the Almond, or the Adele. This season’s chicest nail is all about feminine length, soft edges, and carefully considered gestures. “It forces you to act very ladylike in your movements,” manicurist Madeline Poole says of the elliptical style seen on Gigi Hadid and Selena Gomez, whose recordbreaking Instagram—featuring crimson tips curled around a Coke—suggested that opening a soda should always require assistance. “The truth is, it never really left,” Rihanna’s nail artist Kimmie Kyees notes of the popular-again shape. While acrylics (glued and sanded into conical obedience) and press-ons (a gentler drugstore mainstay) offer instant gratification, there’s an uptick in women who are nurturing their own nails to keyboard-defiant lengths. “My friend Carlotta Kohl spent all summer growing hers out,” Poole says of the New York– based artist, adding that diligent filing and coats of Sally Hansen’s Nailgrowth Miracle aid in the endeavor’s success. As for skirting the line between sophistication and mall chick? Poole has been known to paint the underside of neutral nails in rainbow hues. “It’s a really interesting detail,” she muses, “like having a gorgeous bright silk lining inside a classic coat.”—ARDEN FANNING

TIPPING POINT RIHANNA DIALS DOWN A STATEMENT NAIL WITH BARELY THERE POLISH. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MERT ALAS AND MARCUS PIGGOTT, VOGUE, 2016.


Beauty Health

FEASTor Fashion?

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NUTRITION IN A CAPSULE ARE ALL GOOD BACTERIA CREATED EQUAL? PHOTOGRAPHED BY GRANT CORNETT.

Fitness

Extension School

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or more than a decade, experts thought that the importance of traditional stretching before exercise was overstated; it could even hinder performance. Now multiple studies are revising that position: Only the most elite athletes could notice the potential detriment. For the rest of us, going beyond knees-toes-done may improve injury prevention, range of motion, and possibly our appearance. Just in time for these findings comes an explosion of classes and studios dedicated solely to limbering up. Heather Andersen’s Stretch sessions at New York Pilates in SoHo include lengthening (without tensing) moves on the reformer. Ropes and bands are the tools of the Stretch Therapy class at Equinox in Beverly Hills, while trainers called “flexologists” manually assist clients into deeper bends and splits at Stretch Lab in Santa Monica and Venice. After I train with Andersen, my body feels more fluid and less tight. “Stretching lengthens bulky muscles,” she says, “which makes them look thinner.” I’m ready to lean in.—KAYLEEN SCHAEFER FLEXING PRETTY MIRANDA KERR GOES OUT ON A LIMB. PHOTOGRAPHED BY INEZ AND VINOODH, VOGUE, 2015.

N UT RI T I O N I N A CA PSU LE: P RO P ST YL IST, JOJO LI ; FO OD ST YLI ST, VI CTO RI A G RA NOF

wyneth Paltrow: yes. Daria Strokous: on board. Dree Hemingway: “Always.” The proclaimed benefits of probiotic supplements are hard to resist. Said to boost levels of beneficial bacteria that live in the gut, they are credited with helping to regulate our immune system, mood, weight, and complexion. Claims of an improved sense of irony should be rolling in any day now. A new study led by Oluf Pedersen, M.D., at the University of Copenhagen, however, suggests there is no merit to them for the average person: No consistent effects were found on the bacterial makeup of healthy adults taking probiotic supplements versus those who were not. According to Pedersen, “There is scientific evidence that probiotics have beneficial effects in some forms of colitis and irritable-colon diseases.” For the unafflicted, he tells me, “you are wasting your dollars.” A better solution, say medics, is true nutrition. “We can get everything we need by focusing on our diets and making sure they have a healthy combination of probiotics,” says Tim Spector, M.D., professor of genetic epidemiology at King’s College London. He recommends yogurt and fermented foods, as well as berries and green vegetables. “The research is still in its infancy,” he says, “but it’s definitely more sound than that of probiotic supplements.” My capsule collection just got smaller.—EVIANA HARTMAN


People Are Talking About EDITOR: VALERIE STEIKER

Theater

The LAST Seduction

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Janet McTeer and Liev Schreiber come to Broadway in Josie Rourke’s hit production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

s a student at Cambridge, Josie Rourke directed Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Christopher Hampton’s savagely entertaining adaptation of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’s epistolary novel about sex as blood sport in eighteenth-century France. “At that point, I had probably only had sex four times,” she says with a laugh, “so perhaps I was driven more by curiosity than art.” Last year, in her fourth season as the director of London’s Donmar Warehouse, where her successes have included The Weir and Privacy, Rourke took another crack at it, staging a rapier-sharp (and sold-out) revival, starring Dominic West and Janet McTeer as a pair of debauched sociopaths, parts originated onstage in 1985 by Alan Rickman and Lindsay Duncan. Now the production is coming to Broadway, with McTeer and a new leading man, Liev Schreiber. Though set in the ancien régime, a play about the power of words to seduce and wound feels very of the moment. “What it has to say about the ability of one human being to wreak emotional and sexual havoc on another remains deeply engrossing,” Rourke says. With her commanding presence and gift for conveying her character’s heartlessness and vulnerability, McTeer—whose

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career spans a 1996 triumph in A Doll’s House to last summer’s Taming of the Shrew—dazzled London critics as that “virtuoso of deceit” the Marquise de Merteuil. Playing her ex-lover, the bed-hopping Vicomte de Valmont, Schreiber promises to be, as Rourke puts it, “someone who can match the force of Janet’s performance.” Merteuil challenges Valmont to seduce the virginal teen Cécile (Elena Kampouris) and then the pious, married Madame de Tourvel (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen). But when he develops feelings for Tourvel, Merteuil sets out to destroy them.“If you’re brought up in that world, then what’s the only power you have as a woman?” McTeer says. “It’s to somehow try to manipulate the men in your life to get what you want, to save yourself.” Schreiber returns to the stage for the first time since 2010’s A View from the Bridge, largely because, after he saw McTeer in London, he says, “something inside me just kind of ached to join her.” He describes their characters as “sexual cannibals” but sees something more beneath the surface. “Valmont has wit and passion,” Schreiber says, “but the horrible things he does suggest a kind of self-loathing.” Much of the play’s wicked fun comes from its depiction of carnal P ATA > 2 3 4 VOGUE.COM

HA I R , LUC V E RSCH UE RE N ; M A KEU P, CA R LA W HI TE . P RO DUC ED BY LOLA P RO DUCT ION. SET D ESIGN, J ESSE KAUFMANN. ON MCTEER : COSTUME MAD E BY DAVID PLUNKETT. D ETAILS, S E E IN T HIS ISSU E .

MCTEER (IN A COSTUME DESIGNED BY TOM SCUTT) AND SCHREIBER, PHOTOGRAPHED BY STEVEN KLEIN. SITTINGS EDITOR: PHYLLIS POSNICK.


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gamesmanship, but in Rourke’s production, the intense feelings between the two leads, which they are both too damaged to fully acknowledge, take center stage, turning it into an almost tragic love story. Scenic and costume designer Tom Scutt’s set, inspired by period paintings and Robert Polidori’s photographs of the restoration of Versailles, starts out as a complete evocation of the eighteenth century and gradually gets stripped away while the actors remain in their finery. “We wanted to find a way to think of these figures as almost ghostly presences, at the very tipping point of revolution,” Rourke says. “It’s a kind of version of the past that haunts the present.”—ADAM GREEN

FOLKTALE

Maggie Rogers is harnessing viral fame to go her own way.

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Surface CHARM The gum ball–machine toy gets a fresh spin with artist Anandamayi Arnold’s surprise-filled fruits, inspired by vintage botanical prints, her own travels, and a sense of whimsy. Found exclusively at the cult Berkeley-based boutique Tail of the Yak, where the designer began selling ribbon flowers at fifteen, each one is crafted out of crepe paper and vibrant inks and contains ten little gifts, from novelty toys to glass-bead necklaces from India. As with this autumnal blood orange, Arnold likes to stay in season. “I wouldn’t do holly in July or watermelons in December,” she says.—SAMANTHA REES

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Music

aggie Rogers had not written music for nearly

three years when, in a cascade of creativity this past March, it took her fifteen minutes to produce a song called “Alaska.” Four days later, Rogers, then a senior at NYU, played the track—which combines the confessional lyricism of folk music with a trotting electronic rhythm—in a master class hosted by Pharrell Williams. “Wow. I have zero, zero, zero notes for that,” Williams said afterward, almost teary-eyed. “It’s singular. . . . And that is such a special quality.” The video went viral. A few months later, over breakfast at Rucola in Brooklyn’s Boerum Hill (and wearing the silver scarab earrings from the Pharrell clip), Rogers, 22, says that moment still feels like a fluke: “I only had one song to submit.” Now she has singles on the way, a debut album expected next year, and has been courted by dozens of record labels, one with a first edition of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, which she calls “the most beautiful thing I own.” Growing up on a working farm in rural Maryland, Rogers started playing the harp at seven and applied to NYU as a folk player. “For a long time, I was the banjo girl,” she says. In her last year, Rogers took a course taught by Questlove—“It was awesome”—and saw the “Thriller” video for the very first time. Rogers’s virgin ear for pop music has become an unlikely advantage, allowing her to experience new sounds without bias and to fold them into her creative process without aping them. Like her heroes—Carrie Brownstein, Patti Smith, Kim Gordon, Björk—Rogers is writing (and producing and performing) her own story.—MARK GUIDUCCI P ATA > 2 3 6 THE SINGER-SONGWRITER IN A ROCHAS JACKET, ADEAM SWEATER, AND LEVI’S JEANS. VOGUE.COM

MUS I C: CH A D M OO RE . SI T T IN G S ED I TO R: A LE XA N D RA CRO NA N . HA I R, TI N A OUTEN; MA KEU P, CA IT L IN WO OTE RS. DESI GN : JO HN M A N N O. DE TA I LS, S EE IN TH I S I SSUE.

Theater

People Are Talking About


Art

CRAFT WORK

A photograph shows artist Alan Shields towering above the crowd at the opening of his 1973 exhibition in Stockholm, wearing a full beard, long hair, and a suit he’d stitched from multicolored strips of fabric. Shields, who died in 2005, was a child of the sixties, but his loosely painted canvases—embroidered, hung with beads, or woven and sewn into soft sculptures—speak to contemporary artists, from Jessica Stockholder to Jim Drain, interested in radiant color and a DIY aesthetic. A new show at New York’s Van Doren Waxter gallery includes two of Shields’s exuberant, large-scale works, and a series of luminous watercolors, many painted on paper towels—mandalas, latticeworks, and forms reminiscent of Klee and Kandinsky. Born in rural Kansas in 1944, Shields credited his farm-boy upbringing and early exposure to quilting with influencing his art. After he moved to New York, his first show, at the Paula Cooper Gallery in SoHo in 1969, established him as an unusually joyful star in the Post-Minimalist firmament. Later he moved to Shelter Island, where he helped support his young family as a fisherman and ferryboat captain, finding new inspiration in lures, nets, and the sea’s watery geometries. He also made prints and late in life turned his hand to animation. “It’s just like farming,” he once said of his own versatility. “It’s good to rotate crops.”—LESLIE CAMHI SHIELDS’S BROWN BOX SET #13, 1974, WATERCOLOR AND PENCIL ON PAPER.

Travel

A TRIP to Bountiful

Downtown chic meets country nostalgia at Scribner’s Catskill Lodge, in Hunter, New York. Originally a sixties motor lodge, the hotel has been redesigned by Brooklyn-based firm Studio Tack, which has outfitted almost all of its 38 rooms with dark maple floors, Persian rugs, sheepskin throws, and fireplaces. Guests can hike, fish, or take in the fall foliage on the 20-acre property, swim in one of two pools, or dine at the in-house restaurant, with a wraparound terrace and a Hudson Valley–inspired menu. “We wanted to create something for the urban explorer,” say owners Glennon Travis and Marc Chodock.—IVETTE MANNERS P ATA > 2 3 8 OPENING THIS MONTH, SCRIBNER’S INVITES GUESTS TO ENJOY THE NATURAL BEAUTY OF UPSTATE NEW YORK.

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A RT: A LA N SHI E LDS. BROWN BOX SET #13, 1974. WATERCO LOR, PENCIL ON PAPER. 7 1 ⁄ 8 ˝ X 10 1 ⁄ 4 ˝. COURTESY OF VAN D OR EN WAXTER . TRAVEL: © ALISON PER RY PH OTOGRAPH Y.

People Are Talking About


People Are Talking About Talk, extolling the virtues of Alan Alda, Steely Dan, and Ed Koch, kibitzing about their old friend “Bernard” Sanders (“He’s running for president? President of what? The dandruff-on-blazers society?”), and pranking a rotating series of guest stars by presenting them with overstuffed tuna sandwiches and the taunt “Too much tuna!” Now Gil and George, the inspired alter egos of 30-something comedians Nick Kroll and John Mulaney, are coming to Broadway, under the direction of Alex Timbers, and while Oh, Hello may not boast hip-hop-spouting Founding Fathers, it is, I promise, the funniest thing you’ll see for a long time. Kroll, best known for his Comedy Central sketch show, on which Gil P ATA > 2 4 0 KROLL (FAR LEFT) IN A MAISON KITSUNÉ SHIRT AND BOGLIOLI JEANS; MULANEY IN A RALPH LAUREN SWEATER AND PATRIK ERVELL JEANS.

Up Next

Grumpy Old MEN Following a sold-out run downtown, Nick Kroll and John Mulaney bring their hilarious alter egos Gil and George to Broadway.

BEN RAYNER. SITTINGS EDITOR: NICOLAS KLAM. GROOMING, CHARLES MCNAIR. PRODUCED BY TALLULAH BER NAR D AT ROSCO PRODUCTION. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

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or a few weeks last winter, a pair of rumpled, cranky, decidedly un-PC 70-something bachelors from New York’s Upper West Side—one an unsuccessful actor currently employed as a stand-in for mashed potatoes and other creamed foods, the other the author of Prostate Cancer as a Metaphor for Israel—starred in an Off-Broadway show that became, alongside Hamilton, the hottest ticket in town. The show was Oh, Hello Live! on (Off) Broadway, and its creators, Gil Faizon and George St. Geegland, spent 70 minutes performing a play-within-a-play called We’re Us, You’re You, Let’s


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and George’s surreal antics became a cult favorite, and Mulaney, an SNL alum, met at Georgetown, where they bonded over their love of Mel Brooks, Bob and Ray, and Nichols and May. “There is a kind of rhythm that older comedy has,” Mulaney says. “It somehow feels insanely stale and therefore fresh.” In 2005, Kroll and Mulaney saw a pair of 70-ish men in the Strand Book Store, clearly best friends, each buy a copy of Alan Alda’s Never Have Your Dog Stuffed, and Gil and George were born. “They were the kind of guys we both knew and were fascinated by,” Kroll says. “They’re ‘liberal racists’—the NPR tote bag, the PBS mug.” Adds Mulaney, “Long articles cut out from the newspaper and mailed to you with a note.”

The two naturally slip into character to discuss bingewatching Friends (“We binge an episode, and then we’ll stop for a week, and then we’ll binge another episode”) and how fame has affected their love lives (“The ultimate thrill, honestly, is to call somebody anonymously as a heavy breather and have them go, ‘George St. Geegland?’ ”). When I ask what kind of offers have been coming their way, George says, “I got an offer to visit my grandson, which I turned down.” Gil adds, “I had an offer that came, and it was 20 percent off at Payless for shoe inserts. And ultimately, I decided to pass, because what I did was I stuck a pair of Tevas inside my existing shoes, so it’s now like I’ve got cushioning.”—A.G.

Books

VOICE of America

It’s the morning after yet another high-profile shooting by police of a black man, and Brit Bennett’s tank top, with a line drawing of Beyoncé throwing up her middle fingers, perfectly suits the mood. On Skype from L.A., the 26-year-old is discussing The Mothers (Riverhead), her buzzed-about debut, set in an African-American community in a Southern California beach town. Partly narrated by a group of gossipy church ladies, it focuses on teenage Nadia—“Like most girls, she’d already learned that pretty exposes you and pretty hides you”—who gets involved with the pastor’s son after her mother’s suicide. With echoes of James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain, The Mothers is not your typical coming-of-age novel: It begins with Nadia’s abortion, an experience often absent from our culture’s stories, and goes on to look at how women step in to nurture—and sometimes betray—one another. (At the same time, it demolishes the stereotype of absentee African-American fathers.) The novel came out of a story Bennett wrote at Stanford and reworked at the University of Michigan’s M.F.A. program, BENNETT, IN A J.CREW DRESS; HER DEBUT NOVEL, THE MOTHERS, IS OUT THIS MONTH.

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but its seeds can be found in Oceanside, where she grew up. “In a lot of ways, I was writing in the direction of my fears. When I was younger, one of the worst things I could have done was to get pregnant. Another thing that really scared me was the idea of losing my mother,” says Bennett. Her parents, who retired after years of working in law enforcement, remain very much alive and supportive of her writing career. Bennett’s nonfiction essays, from an incisive history of black dolls for the Paris Review blog to a post about white intention on Jezebel that generated more than a million hits in three days, have already made her a rising star. The strength of her work comes from her willingness to listen in on her own ambivalence—on the one hand, feeling it’s important to write about racism; on the other, rejecting the idea that it’s her responsibility to “translate black pain for white readers.” Tracing the origins of systemic discrimination, her next novel is set in the past, in the South. “I think about my mom’s generation or my grandmother’s generation, what they experienced,” says Bennett, referring to her mother’s childhood in Jim Crow–era Louisiana. “It’s 2016, and we’re still trying to assert that black lives matter.”—MEGAN O’GRADY

VOGUE.COM

CH A NTA L A N D ERSON . SI T T IN G S ED I TO R: CA M ERO N BI RD. HA I R , M A KI KO N A RA FOR OR IBE; MAKEUP, KIR IN BH ATTY. BOOK COVER: COURTESY OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.

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October 2016

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In her new movie, Queen of Katwe, Lupita Nyong’o brings her talent and brilliance to a story from her native East Africa. To celebrate, she takes Vogue—and the most glorious prints of the season—to her family’s village in Kenya. By Elizabeth Rubin. Photographed by Mario Testino. DANCING WITH THE STARS Lupita celebrates with her fellow Luo women in western Kenya. Roberto Cavalli dress. Cara Croninger earrings. Roxanne Assoulin bracelets. Photographed at Kit Mikayi, Kisumu County. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.


THE GOLDEN HOUR Lupita at Dunga Beach, near the shores of majestic Lake Victoria. ChloĂŠ dress. Cara Croninger earrings. Christian Louboutin sandals. Details, see In This Issue.


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There’s something about Lupita that also feels intentional, as if she had been groomed, designed even, to be a messenger, to bear with poise the privilege and burden of her newfound fame. Mira Nair has known her for many years almost as a daughter. (Nair’s husband, Ugandan political scientist Mahmood Mamdani, is an old friend of Lupita’s father from their days in the late sixties as student activists at Makerere University.) Lupita interned for Nair on The Namesake. Then, when Nair was setting up Maisha, a lab for East African filmmakers in Kampala, Lupita joined her as a production coordinator—of course, all the young directors there wanted her in their films even then. “Her roots are strong, which is why she flies,” says Nair over dinner in New York, where she is rehearsing for the Broadway debut of the musical based on her film Monsoon Wedding. “She knows where she comes from and uses that to see the world. She has seen ups and downs through the family’s journey; that gives her a clear-eyed approach to who she plays and what she stands for.” And whether it’s cutting-edge music, dance, or fashion, “it sounds boring to say this, but the politics of representation— what we represent when we do our thing—she knows how to use the system and be true to herself.” Nair laughs. “Really, I know her as someone who is greedy for fun,” she says, thumbing through her iPhone to find the photo she sent Lupita of an amazing hairstyle she saw in a book—cornrows rising up

P HOTO G RA P HE D AT N YO N G’O FA MI LY RESI D EN CE , KI SU MU COU NT Y

upita Nyong’o walks tall, much taller than her height. Her mother, Dorothy, once said that her family will forever tease her about how she walks: as if she believes she’s six feet tall. (She’s five-five.) The first time I meet her, at a laid-back taverna in Brooklyn, where she lives, I feel that walk. She is cool, straight-backed, circumspect. She doesn’t ooze emotion the way many young Americans do. She orders the green eggs and lamb, and lets the joke speak for itself, not offering a gratuitous laugh. But once we start speaking about her work, she’s all in, as if able to forget the public Lupita for a moment or two, slip inside the details of story and character, and let go. Around Christmas of 2014, Lupita got an email from the director Mira Nair with the script for Queen of Katwe, which tells how Phiona Mutesi, an uneducated girl from the slums of Uganda, rises to become the chess champion of her country and an international chess master. Nair wanted her to play Phiona’s mother, Harriet. “Five pages in I wrote my manager and agent with the words ‘I must do this film,’ ” says Lupita. “To play a mother of four in Uganda, a formidable mother who has so much working against her, was so compelling to me. It wasn’t something I thought I’d be asked to do”—at least not by Hollywood. “The fact that it was based on a true story, an uplifting story out of Africa. . . .” She inhales and shakes her head. “Oh, my goodness, all my dreams were coming true in that script.” I’d just seen her on Broadway in Danai Gurira’s Eclipsed. She played a fifteen-year-old Liberian called the Girl, sheltering with wives numbers one and three of a Liberian commander who is never seen onstage. The Girl is forced to become the fourth wife until Maima (wife number two), a warrior with an AK-47, shows up and persuades her to escape captivity and join the fight. Lupita gave an incredibly physical performance. She leaped, wailed, hid, manipulated her face in the exaggerated way children do. She inhabited the child’s naïveté and ruthlessness, and crumbled, too, like a child. “Lupita employs a powerful intellect in her work and makes very deep, very intricate choices. And she’s just relentless in her pursuit of authenticity and specificity of the character,” says Gurira, who is an actress (The Walking

Dead) as well as a playwright. “She is 150 percent every second, doing more and more work offstage, growing in her understanding of that world. It’s a dream for a writer.” It’s what Lupita said she needed “after that long roller-coaster ride that culminated in the Academy Awards.” For Nyong’o, 2014 was a year that only happens in fairy tales or Hollywood, a year that spun the then-31-year-old actress of 12 Years a Slave into an icon of fashion, beauty, and cool, a star whose combination of grace and mischief and timing on the scene broke a color barrier that never should have existed. In the six months leading up to the Oscars, she swirled through 66 red carpets. She was dubbed People’s Most Beautiful Person and appeared on the cover of multiple magazines. “But it was all not acting,” she says. The director of 12 Years a Slave, artist and filmmaker Steve McQueen, who continues to be a guiding voice for her, told her, “You have to go right back to the beginning, to when you saw your first film or dressed up, and remind yourself what the purpose is, why you got into the profession, because you get seduced by the obvious.” And so Lupita harnessed her newly minted Oscar power to bring Eclipsed to the stage. And with Queen of Katwe and the forthcoming film adaptation of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah—and even to some extent with her fantasy roles as the pirate Maz Kanata in Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Nakia in Marvel’s Black Panther, mother wolf Raksha in Disney’s new Jungle Book— Lupita is using her stature to reshape the way the world sees itself, to reflect images that have always been present but weren’t being looked at. She didn’t set out with a mission to tell these African stories, Lupita says. It happened organically. “Being able to use my platform to expand and diversify the African voice,” she says, searching for the right words, “I feel very passionate about that. It feels intentional, meaningful.”


SERIOUSLY FOLK “Five pages in, I wrote my manager and agent with the words ‘I must do this film,’ ” Nyong’o says of reading the script for her new movie, Queen of Katwe. 3.1 Phillip Lim dress. Walt Cassidy Studio earrings, brass necklace, and beaded necklaces (worn as bracelets). Details, see In This Issue.


PH OTOGRAPH ED AT N YO N G’O FAMILY RES ID E N CE , KISU MU COU N T Y. OPPOSITE: PH OTOGRAPHE D AT KIT MIKAYI, KISU MU COU N T Y.

GENERATION NEXT Lupita with her paternal grandmother, Dorca, age 96, who built a dormitory for orphaned and disadvantaged schoolgirls. Duro Olowu silk coat and skirt. Cult Gaia turban. Walt Cassidy Studio earrings.


ROCK OF AGES Ever grounded, Lupita says, “Being able to use my platform to expand and diversify the African voice . . . I feel very passionate about that.” Akris dress and cuffs. Perez Sanz earrings. Details, see In This Issue.


BACK TO SCHOOL The actress at the Ratta Mixed Secondary school in Kisumu County, where students were gifted Soular backpacks invented by Salima Visram, Lupita’s family friend. Kiki Clothing handkerchief-hem dress. Soko earrings. Details, see In This Issue.


WINGED VICTORY “She’s just relentless in her pursuit of authenticity and specificity of the character,” the playwright and Walking Dead actress Danai Gurira says of Lupita. Lupita stands beneath the stone formation Kit Mikayi, close to the Nyongo’s’ village, in a Valentino dress and cuffs.


P HOTO G RA P HE D AT KI T MI KAYI , K I SU M U COUN T Y

In a glass-enclosed patio at Lupita’s parents’ house, her into a bulbous Popsicle. “Next thing I knew, at the Met gala father—a dramatic storyteller—narrates in great detail his she did the hair.” The hair: high, tall, a sculptural exclamation. political past: leading demonstrations, getting detained and Eclipsed closed in June, and Lupita went to Bali to relax. interrogated, security men ransacking the house during the You can see her there on Facebook and Instagram, two forregime of Kenyan president Daniel arap Moi. His brother mats she curates with a careful selection of Lupitas—diva, Charles vanished at just 26. The family heard he was thrown fashionista, monitor of Lupita cartoons and drawings on off a ferry. “It was vicarious punishment,” says Nyong’o, #FanArtFriday, and messenger sharing videos like Mic’s “23 busy fielding calls and messages on his iPhone. “Fascist Ways You Could Be Killed If You Are Black in America.” regimes, if they can’t get you, they get your wife or uncle.” The following month, I catch up with her in Kenya, where In 1981, he and Dorothy went into self-imposed exile she has traveled to her family’s ancestral village in the Luo with their first daughter, Zawadi, now a digital activist for homeland, a stone’s throw from Lake Victoria. “We’d visit social justice. He took a teaching position in Mexico, where my grandparents, spend my vacations here; all the cousins Lupita was born and given her non-African name. They would come from around the world to spend Christmas in also gave her a Luo name—Amondi, which means “born the village,” says Lupita. Today she’s wearing a baby-blue at dawn.” When the family rehalter dress and an udeng, an Indonesian headdress. “I saw turned to Nairobi, the trouble them on the men and thought, also returned. Peter was thrown That will work so well for me. in the infamous Nyayo House It’s a little cultural appropriatorture chamber—you’re kept dirty, cold, unfed, and interrotion,” she says, quite pleased. We’re at the Acacia Premier gated day after day. “It’s dehuHotel in the nearest town, Kisumanization. It demoralizes you.” Did the kids know about all mu, where she’s staying. this? I ask. In the afternoon, we caravan Oh, yes, he nods. “We told out to the family grounds, past them everything. “Zawadi was the railroad and the strange traumatized. These things made Stonehenge-size rocks balancher afraid of the outside world.” ing on the horizon. The most Lupita too? famous is Kit Mikayi—which “I don’t think so. The trouble means “stones of the first with Lupita is she grew under wife” in Luo, the language and the shadow of Zawadi,” he name of the Nyong’o family’s says. “Terrorized by her . . . ah, ethnic group, which stretches siblings”—he shakes his head— across parts of Kenya, South “until they separated in early Sudan, Uganda, and Tanzahigh school and Lupita found nia. The place is still a sacred her own personality.” pilgrimage site. Lupita was already acting Up a dirt road, past a malarand leading the other kids in ia-research hospital funded by STYLE FILE kindergarten. By high school Walter Reed, Ratta Mixed SecLupita was delighted when the nineties South Sudanese at St. Mary’s, in Nairobi, she ondary school, fields, chickens, model Alek Wek,“who looked so much like me,” broadened was in all the musicals. “When goats, and short-horned cows, beauty ideals. Missoni dress. Details, see In This Issue. I got there, I kept hearing ‘Luwe arrive at the gated family compound. A sign nearby pita this, Lupita that,’ and I reads: an experiment in rural living. Lupita’s father, thought, Is she some supermodel?” a Kenyan producer Peter Anyang’ Nyong’o, has taken to grand-scale farming— tells me. “All the guys talked about her. She had a walk.” Just a day in the Nyong’o world and I can imagine the bananas, tomatoes, potted kale, fruit trees, maize. origins of both Lupita’s confidence and her freedom. OutLupita is the second of six children from a prominent Kenyan family. Her mother manages the Africa Cancer side on the terrace Dorothy teaches Lupita how to make Foundation. Her father is a senator, political activist, and ugali for a video—Lupita had confessed on Kenyan TV former university lecturer. She and her siblings grew up in that she cannot cook the national dish made of cornmeal. the public eye, negotiating visibility, privilege, and politics. Dorothy moves about the grounds with elegance, a regal A wellspring in the village is named after her great-greatbearing, overseeing the cooking, the cleaning—doing much grandfather. On her grandparents’ land stands a small, herself. She has been the tree shading the children from stately chapel built in memory of her grandfather, the retheir father’s tumultuous political career—seeking ways to cultivate their interests. gion’s first clergyman, who ministered to the poor and When Lupita was fourteen, her aunt encouraged her to brought Christianity and education to the villagers. After audition for the Phoenix Players, the only repertory-theater his death, Lupita’s grandmother completed their project to group in Nairobi. It was Dorothy who drove her to rehearsbuild a dormitory for orphaned or disadvantaged girls from the district so that they could go to school unencumbered als, sat in the car doing her work so Lupita could perform by suitors or domestic chores. Juliet and cement her name in Nairobi thespian circles. 255


CHECKMATE In Queen of Katwe, Lupita plays Harriet, whose daughter Phiona, played by Madina Nalwanga (FAR RIGHT), becomes a chess prodigy. “To play a mother of four in Uganda, a formidable mother who has so much working against her, was so compelling to me,” Lupita says of her role in the film. Valentino dress. Ippolita earrings. Martin Kabanza (THIS PAGE), who plays Harriet’s son Brian, wears a GapKids shirt. Details, see In This Issue.


P HOTO GRA P HED AT DU N GA BE AC H, KI SUM U COUN T Y


PARENTAL GUIDANCE Lupita at home with her father, Senator Peter Anyang’ Nyong’o (FAR LEFT), who represents the county of Kisumu, and her mother, Dorothy Nyong’o (NEAR LEFT), the managing director of the Africa Cancer Foundation. On Lupita: Zac Posen dress. Cara Croninger earrings. Stella McCartney loafers. On Dorothy: Antonio Marras dress. Giuseppe Zanotti Design sandals.


P HOTO G RA P HED AT SE N ATO R P ET ER A N YA N G’ N YON G’O A ND D OROTH Y NYONG’O R ESID ENCE, KISUMU COUNTY

POISED FOR SUCCESS Lupita’s upcoming films include Star Wars: Episode VIII and Americanah. Prada dress. Ashley Pittman bracelet (worn as a necklace). Details, see In This Issue.

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“My mother had dream charts and would say, ‘What do you want to dream short-term, long-term, mid-term?’ ” Lupita recalls. “She really believed in dreaming out loud.” She can’t help comparing her story with that of the characters in Queen of Katwe. “Phiona keeps going up against her mother and is unable to achieve her potential until her mother comes on board in a little way, even just buying the kerosene that allows Phiona to read.” (Phiona, like so many village girls, walks kilometers to fetch water, helps her mother with washing and cooking, and by the time she has a minute to study the chess books that could elevate her game, it’s dark and there’s no electricity.) Eventually Harriet will sell her clothing fabric to get kerosene for Phiona. “You see how you can hinder your children, not because you mean to,” and here Lupita walls her hands around her eyes, “but because you have a limited view.” Instead, Lupita’s family fostered a leader with an appetite for the dramatic, loud gesture. At nineteen she shaved her head, an act very few girls would have dared at that time. “I wanted to know what my head looked like,” she exclaims. She was also tired of going to the salon. Relaxed hair has to be styled weekly. The process can burn your scalp, cause scabs and itching. It’s an ordeal. “My father doesn’t know this, but it was at his prompting. He was funding my hairdos, and at one point he said, ‘Ah, why don’t you just cut it all off?’ ” She took him up on it. For two weeks he was too busy to notice. One day at the table he did a double take. “Where’s your hair?” “You said I should cut it!” she says, laughing, slapping her thigh, and closing her eyes. Perhaps it’s the times—a black U.S. president, Black Lives Matter, and the matter of hair—but for sure Lupita’s hair has rippled across continents. Shaved is beautiful. You walk into the salon here and ask for the Lupita style—close-cropped head, big earrings, the antithesis of the braid extensions called the Obama line, or the braids curved around your head and called the Bensouda style (after Fatou Bensouda, the Gambian prosecutor of the International Criminal Court). A beautician at a local salon tells me that four years ago, girls outside the village did not shave their heads. Bad form. “Lupita changed that,” she says. Ground breaking is a rough process. It bruises even the toughest. In April 2014, a Hollywood magazine ran a shocking analysis of “post-Oscar Lupita,” suggesting that her future prospects were complicated and her dark skin challenged an industry predisposed to light. “Would Beyoncé be who she is if she didn’t look like she does?” asked a talent agent named Tracy Christian. “Being lighter-skinned, more people can look at her image and see themselves in her. In Lupita’s case I think she has two-and-half, three years. If she can find a franchise, a big crossover film, or if she’s cast by a significant filmmaker, then she’s golden, she’ll have carved out a unique path for herself.” We’re at the Acacia, which overlooks Lake Victoria. Lupita notices the hyacinth are back, greening large swaths of the lake. Though the plants are beautiful, the fishermen say they are a sign of the water’s pollution and are causing a scarcity of fish. She sighs. “I have to deafen my ears to that Christian lady,” she says, referring to the talent agent. “She

is looking at me as part of the cultural tapestry.” She throws out her arms. “I am living and breathing. That person is not considering what I had for breakfast, how that is sitting in my stomach, and why I didn’t do well with that audition.” She shakes her head. “I can’t think like that.” There’s a silence. “I cannot run away from who I am and my complexion or the larger society and how they may view that. I realize that with what I shared at the Essence awards.”  It is one of the great speeches on beauty, a landmark that outlasted the night two years ago when Lupita recounted being taunted about her dark skin, and how she bargained with God that she’d stop stealing sugar cubes if she could wake up with lighter skin. “The European sense of beauty affects us all,” she says abruptly. “I came home from college in the early twothousands and saw ads on TV with a girl who can’t get a job. She uses this product. She gets her skin lighter. She gets the job. The lording of lighter skin is a common thing growing up in Nairobi. Being called ‘black mamba.’ The slow burn of recognizing something else is better than you.”  Until it’s not. Along comes Alek Wek, the model from South Sudan, “dark as night” on all the runways, celebrated in magazines and TV. Lupita could not believe the world was embracing as beautiful a woman “who looked so much like me.” And now it is Lupita blasting doors open, as she has apparently done for a young Ugandan-British woman who worked in production on Queen of Katwe, who told her: “I’ve never had so many people call me beautiful until you showed up. I get called to auditions I never would have been called to before. And I know it’s because you exist.” She wasn’t emoting, just stating facts. “Alek Wek changed how dark people saw themselves. That I could do the same in a way for somebody somewhere is amazing,” Lupita says, bounding out of her chair, talking about the benefit of having visibility and influence. She is the first black woman, for example, to have landed a Lancôme contract. “There is no point in getting your picture taken if it doesn’t move somebody.” Her eyes widen. “Right?” Lupita has firsthand experience with the power of images, words, their performance and endurance. “I watched my father speak a lot,” she says, recalling her days on the campaign trail with him and her siblings, singing party songs, making up dances, speaking to the constituents. “He is quite the speaker. He has his own flair. It’s a performance art, politics.” Ever on the ball, aware that the reverse is true, she’s lent her voice to save elephants and to end maternal mortality in childbirth. She’s supported a project for girls begun by Salima Visram, who grew up in Mombasa near an impoverished village with no electricity. Visram designed a backpack for children fitted with a solar panel that is connected to a battery pack. As the children take the long walk to school, their battery is charged, and at night, after chores, the battery can power an LED lamp and they can study. Lupita loved the idea and devised a quote for the backpack: The power is in your step—Lupita Nyong’o. Today Visram has produced 500 backpacks, with 3,000 more in the works, and has moved the factory to Kenya to generate C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 3 1 2

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“Really, I know her as someone who is greedy for fun,”says director Mira Nair


DON’T LOOK BACK Givenchy by Riccardo Tisci dress. Tiffany & Co. earrings. 3.1 Phillip Lim sandals. In this story: hair, Vernon François for Vernon François; makeup, Nick Barose. Produced by On Screen Productions (Kenya). Details, see In This Issue.


WHAT WILL YOU WEAR TO THE REVOLUTION? RALPH LAUREN—WHOSE NEW COLLECTION WILL BE AVAILABLE IN STORES THE SAME DAY IT’S SHOWN ON THE RUNWAY—HAS PLENTY OF IDEAS. PHOTOGRAPHED BY DAVID SIMS.

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F R O N T I E R

alph Lauren is no stranger to crossing frontiers—he’s been doing it for years; decades even—but the territory he’s just lit out for doesn’t come with any signposting. On September 14, Ralph (as with Hillary or Kanye, the first name alone suffices) presented a collection that was available to buy nanoseconds after it was walked down the runway, and globally at that: in his own boutiques, online, and in stores dotted around the world. Maybe the gargantuan scale of the undertaking subconsciously influenced the design process, because what he showed, which you can see here on five very different all-American women, is a virtual ode to vastness—from the wide-open vistas of the mythic West (fringing, buffalo plaid) to the towering, twinkling metropolis that is New York (fluid jumpsuits, Art Deco beading that gleams more than the Chrysler Building ’round midnight)— coalesced into a collection that’s as much of its time as it is timeless. Newness-wise, the collection has legs, and Ralph knows how to use them: He’s covered just about every current way to wear pants, which—if you haven’t noticed already, you will very soon—are having a moment. Obviously, he’s not alone in thinking about immediacy. Tom Ford, Tommy Hilfiger, Burberry’s Christopher Bailey— they’re all in the here-and-now game too. But this is Ralph. That’s major. That’s the mountain and Muhammad at the same time. Still, the man himself, sitting one particularly hot and humid afternoon in his sixth-floor office at 650 Madison Avenue, seems unfazed by the tectonic shift his company has undertaken. Guess it’s the pioneer mind-set: Think only of the destination, not the journey. Revisiting the early conversations about this monumental transformation—not to mention having to work on two collections at once to get this one ready for September—he insists that his decision was driven forward by a single thought. “Showing clothes, then delivering them six months later . . . it’s over,” he says with a measured finality. “With the Internet, social media . . . you have to change.”

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These days, change is not an unfamiliar concept at Ralph Lauren. Ralph’s morning had started with a town-hall meeting to reveal his company’s first-quarter figures, which were encouraging, after a recent less-stellar transit in the company’s fortunes required a substantial rethink of how it operated. Stefan Larsson, the young Swedish president and CEO who was installed last November, discussed the Way Forward plan that he’d formulated for the near-50-year-old company, and where it was taking Ralph Lauren, the brand. (On an upward trajectory, he was happy to report.) Ralph Lauren, the man, spoke to his new way of showing from September onward. “I’ve always looked at the business as an evolution,” he said. “We’re never standing still, and we’re never chasing anyone. Everything is a new chapter.” In a way, his response to every designer’s challenge today— to make people reconnect with the pleasure of shopping and to speak to our need for instant gratification—is textbook Ralph: Forget the din and clamor of industry hand-wringing and just cut to the chase by engaging with those who are actually buying. “I’ve been through it before, when nothing moves,” he says. “When everything is available, how do you do specialness? How do you create magic?” Part of the dilemma, he freely acknowledges, is finding a place for fashion at a time when it is simply one element of an ever-expanding repertoire of what we rely upon to give a sense of expression to our lives. “Where you see most of the excitement now is in food,” he says. “Restaurants, where to go, what’s healthy: That’s the sensibility that’s happening. There are more diverse ideas about living. The world is into experience, so you’ve got to give experience.” He’s doing his part for that: At the time of writing, he was envisioning two shows taking place on Madison Avenue, one for the usual industry types and one aimed at label loyalists—and both in the shadow of his empire, which stretches from Seventy-first to Seventysecond streets, so those right-off-the-runway clothes are tantalizingly close. That night, even familiar terrain will become a new frontier.—MARK HOLGATE


LONE STAR Actress Allison Williams (who will star in Get Out early next year) kicks off our exclusive first look at the new pieces. Clothes and ring by Ralph Lauren Collection; select Ralph Lauren stores. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.


CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY Model Grace Hartzel embodies haute boho codes in a tinsel top paired with indigo denim and supple leather. Clothes and earrings by Ralph Lauren Collection; select Ralph Lauren stores. BEAUTY NOTE

Amplify your look from head to toe this season. Living Proof’s Full Dry Volume Blast lifts hair to long-lasting heights with a lightweight texturizing mist.


GALLANTLY STREAMING Actress Renée Elise Goldsberry is hanging up her Hamilton hat in pursuit of small-screen performances (including Netflix’s Altered Carbon and HBO’s The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks). Ralph Lauren Collection fringedcrochet dress; select Ralph Lauren stores. Details, see In This Issue.


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HIGH NOON Model Karlie Kloss gets a leg up—or out—in a daringly cut one-piece wonder. Ralph Lauren Collection silk cady jumpsuit; select Ralph Lauren stores.


S ET D ES IG N , NI C HO LAS D ES JA RD IN S FO R M A RY H OWA RD STU D I O. P RO DUCE D BY ART H OUSE.

FRINGE BENEFITS Though actress Jessica Biel soon stars in (and produced) The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, her frontier look here is plains as day. Suede jacket, shirt, and hat (in hand) by Ralph Lauren Collection; select Ralph Lauren stores. In this story: hair, Guido for Redken; makeup, Diane Kendal. Details, see In This Issue.

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F r e e Upstate New York’s Worlds End farm—and its unrivaled, hauntingly antique flora—serves as the perfect foil for a rustic romance draped in the season’s coziest shearling coats. By Chloe Malle.

C o u n t r y

Landscapes photographed by Mark Borthwick


GREEN LIGHT The pond catches the sun behind the property’s historic swing-beam barn. Sittings Editor: Miranda Brooks.


grow these for morale,” says Sarah Ryhanen, gently cupping a palecoral poppy. “They’re bad cutting flowers. They only last a day— but when you see them in the field, they’re so beautiful.” Milkweed blossoms dance overhead as the owner of the beloved Brooklyn florist Saipua continues down the rows of dahlias, black scabiosa, and amethyst Queen Anne’s lace on her 107-acre Worlds End farm in upstate New York. Teaching others to appreciate ephemerality has become a battle cry of sorts for the florist-farmer. “We have people coming into the store all the time asking, ‘How long is this gonna last?’ I want them to have an experience with it.” Ryhanen and her partner, Eric Famisan, purchased the farm in 2011, but when asked how long they have been here they count in seasons. This isn’t the only sensibility they share with fashion designers, who are increasingly drawing inspiration from the fantasy of vast, untended landscapes and the slow pace of thoughtful living. From Proenza Schouler’s careful craftsmanship to Erdem’s refulgent fil coupé blossoms, the muse is Lauren Santo Domingo meets Laura Ingalls Wilder adrift in the chicest field, through the lens of Terrence Malick. It’s a countermovement to our age of fast fashion and instant gratification, one that values the time and the patience to see something through from start to finish. To be sure, Ryhanen and Famisan are part of an expanding coterie of urbanites turned farmers—call them yappies, or young agricultural professionals—but what they’re up to here in the Mohawk Valley strikes a chord that echoes through a variety of industries. Flowers supplied by Saipua for events are returned to be composted, making Ryhanen’s arrangements some of the few in the world that are nurtured from seed to mulch. She plans to apply the same philosophy to this year’s flock of 27 Icelandic sheep, named after military call codes (last year’s were Top Gun characters). Their wool, skirted, dyed, and spun by Ryhanen, will be knit into hats by her mother, in nearby Peekskill. “It’s a six-month process. You’d have to charge $10,000 for that hat to make any money, but my goal is to inspire people to think more about where their clothing is coming from. So next time you see a sweater at H&M for $20, you’re like, ‘Oh, that’s acrylic; that’s plastic.’ ” Kate Huling, of Marlow Goods, is another exemplar of the farm-to-fashion ethos. Huling purchases the hides of the same grass-fed cows sourced by her restaurateur husband, Andrew Tarlow (Diner, Marlow & Sons, Roman’s), for her line of handsome leather goods (“Family Style,” Talking Fashion, page 192). And while Phoebe Philo isn’t personally curing the leather for Céline’s latest Cabas, the designer does acknowledge a pull toward the great outdoors. “It’s about taking her out of urban life and putting her feet on the sand. It’s where I long to be more and more,” Philo explained of her vision for a recent collection. Jamie Hawkesworth’s fall ad campaign for Alexander McQueen is as much a celebration of desolate landscapes as a showcase for the house’s hand-embroidered ensembles. McQueen designer Sarah Burton even took her team to the Shetland islands to meet the knitters and weavers—and sheep—who will be providing the knitwear for upcoming collections. “When you’re so obsessed with control, you’re not open to happiness,” says Ryhanen, wearing vintage denim and

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GOLD STANDARD Bundle up for the magic hour in luxurious layers. Models Rianne Van Rompaey and Anna Ewers and actor Boyd Holbrook, star of Netflix’s hit series Narcos, matched theirs to the surrounding fields. FROM FAR LEFT: Van Rompaey wears a Sacai coat, $3,575; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Ewers wears a Coach 1941 coat ($2,795) and dress ($795); coach.com. Holbrook wears a Carhartt jacket. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.

Fashion portfolio photographed by Alasdair McLellan


IDYLL WILD BELOW: A characteristically lush arrangement of yellow cosmos, Queen Anne’s lace, sumac, and rudbeckia in the refurbished barn, which is now used for tomato canning and fiber-arts workshops. BOTTOM: A view of the three-seasons porch at the back of the 1825 Greek Revival house.


OFF THE BEATEN PATH Sarah Ryhanen—who with her partner, Eric Famisan, owns Worlds End—leads the way through an allée of wildflowers to the tepee camp.


ACT NATURALLY “This farm is 20 miles from my house, but I never got to see it,” laments Holbrook, who has been traveling nearly nonstop for years. “It's two months later, and I still haven’t been home!" Ewers wears a Philosophy di Lorenzo Serafini dress, $1,250; En Avance, Miami. Prada boots. Holbrook wears a J. Mueser suit and a Ralph Lauren shirt. Baby Max Blankenbaker wears OshKosh B’gosh overalls. Isla MacPherson wears a Marie-Chantal dress.


BLONDE AMBITION The palest of camel-hued shearling—shorn short or shaggy—keeps the look light and the warmth tucked in. Van Rompaey wears a Paco Rabanne coat and dress ($1,550); pacorabanne.com. Stuart Weitzman boots. Ewers wears a Céline coat; Céline, NYC. Off-White c/o Virgil Abloh boots. Details, see In This Issue.


AT HOME ON THE RANGE A guest surveys the flora in a neighboring field. BELOW: Wild grasses grow abundantly around the 1⁄4-acre pond.

tread-soled farm boots, her favorite hen, Goldie, nestled under her arm like a fragile football. She plucks two yolkyellow cherry tomatoes from the vine, hands one to me, and pops the other in her mouth like a gum ball. “There was one day last fall,” she says, “where I was dealing with an injured, bloody sheep in the morning and then that evening I was at MoMA debating with some women from Louis Vuitton about whether a peony was white enough for the event I was doing for them. One is not better than the other. The reality is I appreciate that someone cares so much about what color white a peony is. It lends significance to what I do here on the farm.” We pull carrots for lunch, which are washed, roasted, and tossed in a salad with Russian kale, cucumbers, and coriander seeds. Communal meals are a daily ritual at Worlds End and at Saipua. Today the group discusses the weekend’s elderberry-foraging workshop and that evening’s meteor shower. Our centerpiece is a china pitcher erupting with yellow cosmos, Queen Anne’s lace, and various wildflowers from the garden. Ryhanen encourages everyone on the farm to create spontaneous arrangements. The fact that this one, like the field poppies, might not last through tomorrow’s lunch is of little concern. It’s important to have things just for morale. 

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THIS WAY UP Flip the script on woodsy outdoorwear with a pretty coat-dress-cape combination. Ewers wears a Maison Margiela coat; Maison Margiela boutiques. Holbrook wears a Stetson shirt, Levi’s jeans, and Frye Company boots. Details, see In This Issue.


WOOLY BULLY This versatile down-shearling hybrid with buttery sleeves and exquisite fur accents is the casual parka we’ve all been waiting for. On Ewers: Moncler Grenoble coat; Moncler, Aspen, CO. Calvin Klein Collection dress, $1,095; Calvin Klein Collection, NYC. On Holbrook: Levi’s shirt. Denim & Supply Ralph Lauren jeans.


LEADING THE FIELD Bibs and ruffles and sleeves and lace—such a cavalcade of detailing makes this updated farmwife ensemble the stuff of modern romance. Van Rompaey wears an Erdem blouse and skirt; erdem.com. Tabitha Simmons boots. Details, see In This Issue.


WARM WELCOME Stand out from the crowd with a snow-white shag. Van Rompaey, among the farm’s 27 Icelandic sheep, wears a Chloé coat and bag. Coat at net-a-porter.com. BEAUTY NOTE: Embrace your waves’ natural state. Strong Sexy Hair Core Strength mask’s sulfate-free formula replenishes strands with aloe vera and mango butter.


S ET D ES IG N , G ERA RD SA N TOS FO R ST RE ET ERS. P RODUC ED BY RO G ER D ON G FO R G E P ROJECTS.

A CALL TO ARMS Flirt with this fall trend by opting for fine tweed with a fuzzy twist. Ewers wears a Prada jacket and tights; select Prada boutiques. In this story: hair, Anthony Turner; makeup, Aaron de Mey. Menswear Editor: Michael Philouze. Photographed on location at Nectar Hills Farm (pages 275 and 280) and the Saipua farm, Worlds End. Details, see In This Issue.


I M

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Italy’s dynamic young prime minister, Matteo Renzi, is charming, combative, pragmatic—and determined to reform his government, at whatever the cost. Jason Horowitz reports. Photographed by Annie Leibovitz.

MAN OF THE HOUR Prime Minister Renzi, photographed at his father’s home outside Florence. “It’s when I have everyone against me,” he says, “that’s when I have the most fun.” Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


T hey haven’t arrived?” asked Matteo Renzi. The 41-year-old Italian prime minister, dressed in a tailored navy Armani suit, swept into a reception room in Palazzo Chigi, the frescoed sixteenthcentury seat of power in Rome, expecting to bestow the thanks of a grateful nation on a group of Italian skiing champions. The skiers, to his astonishment, were running late. Renzi exudes confidence and an almost mischievous nonchalance—a combination that has beguiled, infuriated, and defined Italy since he became its youngest leader two years ago. On this summer day he spun on the heels of his polished black shoes and clapped his hands into the praying gesture of Italian disbelief. “Marvelous,” he said. In a country—and a continent— known for taking its time, Renzi moves at a breakneck pace. He hates sitting still. A fraught photo shoot last year prompted the photojournalist Alex Majoli to complain to Renzi’s press secretary that “only one other person ever made me work as hard for a photo: Rihanna.” Before one of our interviews, Renzi, having just had breakfast with his wife, Agnese Landini, excused himself to brush his teeth—and ran at full clip to the sink. In meetings he is known for being brusque, with elbows-on-the-table and bouncing-knee intensity. His friends say the thing that truly enrages him is wasting time. (When, during a trip to Boston and Cambridge last March, an aide held up his motorcade to remind Renzi he had forgotten to film a progress report for his millions of social-media followers, the prime minister practically exploded: “Fuck, you’ve got to tell me!”) Impatience is stamped on Renzi’s face. With his soft features and infectious laugh, he can be disarmingly charming, but Renzi’s default expression is one of restlessness: lips pursed,

hyphen-short eyebrows arched, and dark eyes glaring with a dubious let’s-get-on-with-it look. That sense of urgency is a necessity for a leader seeking to change a country that has had 63 governments in 70 years. But it is also required to rescue a European Union in existential crisis, as elite estrangement from economically alienated citizens has fueled a populist rage most clearly manifested in Britain’s momentous decision to leave the E.U. Renzi may be the man for the moment. A pure political animal who in his rise to power presciently tapped the mad-as-hell vein running through Europe, Renzi campaigned under a superhero nickname: Il Rottamatore, the Demolition Man of dusty institutions. But once in office, Renzi became Stability Man, seeking measured reforms—liberalize the job market, improve education, and legalize civil unions for same-sex couples. He has an affable, Everyman quality about him—backslapping provincial charm is one of Renzi’s most powerful political weapons—but his eyes betray constant calibration and light up when he waxes poetic about “working the levers inside the system.” Renzi has sought to spark Italy’s beleaguered economy by attracting foreign investors—Apple in Naples, IBM in Milan, Amazon outside Rome—but also by pledging €30 million in government funding to its fashion industry. But his greatest ambition is constitutional: to reshape Italian democracy through a key reform that would essentially dissolve the bloated Italian senate and strip it of its ability to gridlock legislation. By streamlining government, Renzi hopes to transform his country into a reliable international player and unifying force for a Europe that has come undone. Europe needs to be a place of more “ideals and values,” he says, “fewer rules and parameters.” He has great hopes for himself. After a speech at Harvard in March, as Renzi headed to his motorcade, a breeze scattered his handwritten notes across the Cambridge sidewalk. I collected them for an aide, noticing that Renzi, at the top of the page, had scrawled “JFK” and an Obamaesque “Change.” President Obama, it so happens, also has great hopes for Renzi. “I first met Matteo when he visited the White House as mayor of Florence. Even then I realized that he was a leader who was on the move, and that he had a progressive, forward-looking vision for the future of his country,” the president says. “I have been impressed with the bold steps he has taken to reform Italy’s economy and political system, as well as his passion for European solidarity.” In some ways, Renzi has modeled himself after the Clinton-era iteration of Tony Blair, before the former British prime minister fatefully tied himself to George W. Bush and the burden of the Iraq War. Like Blair in the 1990s, Renzi is a pro-business centrist attempting to free his liberal party from outdated ideologies. “He is, in my view, one of the most important things to happen to Europe in several years,” says Blair, adding that the so-called Brexit has made “Renzi more important. He’s a reformer inside Italy and a reformer for Europe. And it’s essential that he succeed on both counts.”

Renzi says he’ll leave politics if his proposed reforms fail.“I’ll do something else with my life. I’m41; I can do anything, with a smile”

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BEST OF YOUTH Renzi with his wife, Agnese Landini, and their children, FROM LEFT: Francesco, Emanuele, and Ester. In this story: hair, Roberto Nardozzi; makeup, Arianna Campa.

But by the time I stepped into Renzi’s Palazzo Chigi office, the road to success had grown hazardous. Italians, weighed down by an enormous national debt, a stubbornly high unemployment rate, and a slow convalescence from the financial crisis of 2008, seemed to be a little exasperated with the prime minister and his apparent contradictions. A man of the left, he has had no scruples about forming tactical alliances with the right. A leader who urges Italians to have faith in their countrymen, he has seemed to trust mostly himself and a tiny circle of advisers. A self-described small-city crusader, he has moved with ease among big bankers and powerful interests. When, for instance, Giovanni Malagò, a confidant of the late billionaire Gianni Agnelli and now suave head of the Italian National Olympic Committee, finally appeared at the Palazzo Chigi with the Italian skiers, Renzi joked with the Roman businessman as if he were a pledge to his Florentine fraternity, teasing him and punching his arm. The Italian prime minister is nothing if not quick on his feet—but in what is either a stunning display of political confidence or a high-stakes gamble he will come to regret, Renzi has called a national referendum on his proposed constitutional reform. His aim is to silence his critics and prove that he is enacting the will of the people—and if he loses, he says, he’ll quit, itself a nearly revolutionary notion in Italian politics. “I’ll go home and do something else with my life,” he

told me, showing no signs of strain in an open-collar white dress shirt. “I’m 41; I can do anything, with a smile.” In the ensuing months, though, with polls narrowing, some stress started to show. Renzi pushed back the date of the referendum to buy more time and admitted to supporters he had overly personalized the issue, prompting skepticism he would actually leave if he lost. His new message: This isn’t about me, it’s about the fate of Italy and the European Union. On the day of our interview at Palazzo Chigi, a colorful collection of Renzi’s ties lay neatly on a desk cluttered with NATO documents, a mostly finished glass of orange juice, scattered pink highlighters, a MacBook Air, an iPhone, and various tangled chargers. The prime minister picked up a stack of plastic espresso cups and assured me he makes a better coffee with his little Illy coffee machine than the tuxedoed ushers pacing outside his door like extras in A Night at the Opera. “Sugar?” he asked. We sat with our coffees under the gaze of a stuffed owl Renzi placed on a marble end table to remind himself that his many enemies are always watching. Renzi has no shortage of them. For starters, there are those in his own Democratic Party still angry with him for coming to power in an internal coup, which exhibited Renzi’s tactical deftness but also his arrogance (“Stay calm! Nobody wants your job,” he sarcastically 285


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FRO M TO P : T H E CA NA DI AN P R ESS/SE A N KI LPATR I CK; ST E FA N O M ON T ES I /COR BI S/GETTY IMAGES; WH ITE H OUSE PH OTO/ALAMY STOCK PH OTO.

POLITICAL PLAYERS FROM TOP: Renzi with Canada’s Prime Minister Justin Trudeau in D.C.; Virginia Raggi, the new mayor of Rome—and a fierce Renzi opponent; a meeting with President Obama in April.

assured his predecessor on Twitter, before going on to take it). Leftist diehards, including many former Communists, abhor him for aligning with conservatives including Silvio Berlusconi, who dominated the political landscape here for nearly two decades. Berlusconi, for his part, resents Renzi for outmaneuvering him. In the precarious early days of his tenure, Renzi persuaded the media mogul to support electoral reforms as part of a pact; then, when Renzi had broader support and it came time to reciprocate, he left Berlusconi on the sidelines. There is also the church. When I asked Renzi, a devout Catholic, if Pope Francis went easy on him with regard to the same sex–civil unions legislation Renzi passed in May, the prime minister raised his eyebrows at me as if I had lost my mind. Just as quickly he cinched his lips shut with his fingers. Criticizing an immensely popular pontiff—in Italy, of all places—would be politically unwise. Renzi has been less discreet when it comes to mocking leaders in Brussels, where he is often called the “bad boy” of Europe. He has dragged his feet on international sanctions against Vladimir Putin in the hopes, many analysts believe, of an oil deal with Russia; complained about unfair preference for Germany; and, fearing a banking crisis, implored Brussels (and Germany) to let Italy inject €40 billion into its banks to mitigate pilings of toxic debt. But he has also made inspiring arguments for Europe to act together on the migrant crisis, to prevent the Mediterranean from turning into a watery mass grave. He has called on Italians to absorb refugees in its parishes and resist the waves of fear and nationalism washing over the continent. “We can face this challenge because we have a strong fabric of values,” he told me with a preacher’s conviction. That fabric frayed badly this summer when Britain decided to tear away from the union. The Brexit not only exposed the fragility of Europe and the surging of frustrated populism, it also deprived Renzi of a key partner on issues ranging from immigration to Libya to market competition. Renzi has called the Brexit vote “painful” but has also been savvy enough to cultivate a relationship with Europe’s true powerhouse, German chancellor Angela Merkel, acting as her tour guide during an official visit to Florence in January 2015. But in his hard-charging rush to be a world player, Renzi has overlooked some of the diplomatic grace notes of relationship building. He told me about a successful dinner last year with Merkel, along with his wife and, he said, “the husband of Angela. Jerome, something like that.” (His name is Joachim.) But the greatest threat to Renzi comes from within. Italy’s populist Five Star Movement is feeding on a Mediterranean diet of discontent, gaining power in municipal elections over the summer, including in Rome, where Virginia Raggi became the first woman ever to be elected mayor. I visited the affable and attractive 38-year-old at her modest apartment, so far from the Roman city center that when she called a cab to pick me up, the dispatcher—not knowing whom he was speaking to—told the mayor that her address did not exist. Raggi called Renzi the “emblem” of a corrupt political system and portrayed her victory as “the end of the dance” for the prime minister. Renzi’s cardinal sin, she said, was that he had worked in politics since his 20s. “He keeps working in the system he was supposed to demolish.” Renzi barely conceals his disgust for the Five Star


Movement and their above-the-fray approach to politics. When I brought up Raggi and her party, his eyes rolled. “They must get their hands dirty to govern,” Renzi said. “We’ll see if they’re capable.” He also knows that his political survival depends on his reestablishing his outsider credentials among Italians who are increasingly enchanted by Raggi and her populist party. When I complimented Renzi on his office, which is wallpapered in an ornate golden damask, he called it “hideous.” Berlusconi decorated the place at his own expense, Renzi said, and the prime minister can’t afford to take it down. “ ‘Look at how beautiful,’ ” he said, in a Milanese accent— a spot-on Berlusconi impression. “ ‘I paid for it myself.’ ” The message was clear. Renzi, who vows to serve only two terms, who ignores the socialite scene of Rome, who acts the part of barista in open collar, is but a renter in the seat of power and the underdog in the great battle to change Italy. “I’m trying to slim down to get ready for the campaign,” said Renzi about the coming referendum. He had been swimming at six every morning in a nearby gym with the army, lifting weights with a judo master, and running on the treadmill. “It’s when I have everyone against me,” he said, “that’s when I have the most fun.”

“Other politicians were worried to be seen in fashion because it would be seen as not serious,” Daelli said, “like they were there to look at the legs of models. Renzi knows that fashion is an economic engine.” “It was an important—even extraordinary—event, considering that no politician, neither of the right nor of the left, had ever been present,” added Armani, who used to criticize Renzi for dressing too casually but now approves of his wardrobe and says he looks best in dark blue or gray. “Everything about Mr. Renzi is new and different from the usual image of our politics.” In the mayor’s office at Palazzo Vecchio, Renzi’s successor, Dario Nardella, showed off vividly painted Vasari frescoes with a laser pointer. “Through here,” he told me cheerily, “have passed the greatest men in history.” He clearly included Renzi, of whom he spoke deferentially. “Renzi is a Florentine with a capital F,” Nardella said. “In his character he is combative, ironic, proud, argumentative. Renzi is like Machiavelli. He wants to change politics. There is a pragmatism there.” With Merkel at the end of her political trajectory and Britain exiting the European Union, progressive leaders in the United States and Canada are in the market for just such a pragmatic partner. President Obama, who jogged with Renzi during a G7 summit in Japan (“the first time I ran with snipers!” Renzi said), personally invited the prime minister as the guest of honor for a state dinner for Italy in October, just before Renzi’s make-or-break vote. Renzi, the president said, “has proven to be a valued partner and friend” with whom he enjoys talking about family, fitness, and politics. He said that under Renzi’s leadership, Italy had played an active role in the coalition against ISIS, supported Afghan security forces, and “emphasized the need to address the root causes of migration while treating migrants who do arrive humanely and with respect.” Renzi has chatted on the phone with Hillary Clinton, whose candidacy he supports. He has established a twentyfirst-century version of the Clinton-Blair bonhomie with Justin Trudeau of Canada, who appears in photos doing impossibly difficult yoga poses. “I told him, ‘I hate you,’ ” Renzi recalls joking with Trudeau at a recent nuclear summit. “He said, ‘Let’s take a selfie!’ And I said, ‘You’re doing it on purpose because you’re more handsome.’ ”

“He is a Florentine with a capital F,”said Nardella.“Ironic, proud, argumentative. Renzi is like Machiavelli. He wants to change politics”

This is all heady stuff for an altar boy from Rignano sull’Arno, a tiny town about a 30-minute train ride from Florence where Renzi was born and raised and enrolled in the deeply Catholic Boy Scouts. His family’s condominium is situated above a butcher shop and faces the church where his father, a politically active businessman, sings and plays the organ in the choir. His parents have moved to the countryside, but his sister Matilde still lives in the apartment. On the day I visited, I spoke to locals reading sports newspapers at a nearby coffee bar, who remembered Renzi playing soccer behind the church: “We call him Matteo,” said Amato Degl’Innocenti, 77. “He’s as familiar as someone you might bump into at dinner.” Renzi worked for his father distributing newspapers to local delivery boys and was drawn to politics early. He graduated from the University of Florence with a degree in law and began shaping his image as a brash antiestablishment politician, rising through the ranks to become mayor of Florence in 2009. In the city’s Parrucchiere Tony Estetica beauty salon, decorated with cardboard cutouts and a Neapolitan crèche figurine of Renzi, the owner, Antonio Salvi, showed me the tanning bed where the wunderkind mayor used to recline in a huddle of his closest advisers. Across the Arno in Palazzo Strozzi, Ermanno Daelli, a fellow Florentine and the designer behind Ermanno Scervino, Renzi’s unofficial clothier, swooned about Renzi’s being the first Italian prime minister to open Milan Fashion Week, during which Renzi touted the bright future of the country’s fashion sector, declaring, “Fashion is many people working hard, with passion behind what they do,” at a luncheon with industry leaders including Giorgio Armani and Donatella Versace (an event he plans to repeat this year).

I

first met Renzi during his four-day sweep through the United States in March aboard Italy’s Air Force One, a small but elegant A319 corporate jet with brown leather seats and suede walls. Soon after liftoff, an aide invited me up front, where Renzi had an office, a small suite with a bed and a bathroom. The prime minister had removed his Ermanno Scervino tie and suit jacket and sat next to his wife, who has ringlets of dark hair, a sly smile, and rarely speaks with the press. Wearing an elegantly tailored glen-plaid pantsuit, she quietly read the French novel Memoirs of Hadrian, by Marguerite Yourcenar, as we talked. C O N T I N U E D O N PAG E 3 1 3 287


S ET D ES I G N, P I E RS HA N ME R. CA R: P I CT U RE CA R .

THREE FOR THE ROAD FROM NEAR RIGHT: The film’s Jake Gyllenhaal, in a Maison Margiela shirt; Aaron Taylor-Johnson, in a Freemans Sporting Club Shirt; and Michael Shannon, in a John Varvatos jacket. In this story: grooming, Losi. Produced by LOLA Production. Menswear Editor: Michael Philouze. Details, see In This Issue. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


H I G H

C O N T R A S T

Set in the Hollywood hills, where he spends much of his time, and the expansive Southwest, where he grew up, Tom Ford’s dark new thriller, Nocturnal Animals, is a mythic American story about passion and revenge. By John Powers. Photographed by Norman Jean Roy.


I

t’s a late-summer afternoon in Santa Fe, and Tom Ford is waiting for me outside the big wooden doors of his traditional adobe house, perched on a hill high above the countryside. “I like looking at the same view I’ve been looking at since I was a little kid,” says the designer/filmmaker, who was raised in this Southwestern city and still lives here part of the year with his husband (and partner of 30 years), the fashion writer Richard Buckley, and their four-yearold son, Jack. “I’m sorry for the heat. May I offer you something to drink?” he asks while ushering me into a large foyer. When I say yes, he stands at a small built-in wooden bar and begins preparing a glass of iced mineral water with a twist. As he finishes, he sighs—he’s spotted a tiny black speck floating amid the bubbles. He prepares another, only to sigh again—the lime slice, he says, looks too unappealing. He painstakingly squeezes a new slice into a prettier shape. When he finally hands me the glass, my drink looks like the Platonic ideal of a glass of sparkling water. As anyone who’s followed his work can tell you, Tom Ford likes things just so.

colors in interiors very potent.” Behind Ford is a vaguely Cubist steel sculpture by another Angeleno artist, Aaron Curry. It seems familiar, and Ford tells me that’s because it’s in his new movie. From its opening shots of obese naked women accessorized in bits of Americana and dancing in slow motion at a sleek L.A. art gallery—“I like to provoke,” Ford says—Nocturnal Animals finds him bending his trademark stylishness to unexpected new ends. Where his Oscar-nominated first film, A Single Man, embraced you with its melancholy romanticism, this tense marital thriller contains echoes of David Lynch, Stanley Kubrick, and David Cronenberg. Reflecting our election-year obsession with the chasm between an unfeeling elite and volatile have-nots, it’s a dark morality tale that offers, Ford says, “a strong underlying message about not throwing away people in our lives.” Based on Austin Wright’s 2011 best seller Tony and Susan (originally published in 1993), the movie shuttles between two worlds. In the framing narrative, Susan Morrow (Amy Adams) is a jaded L.A. art dealer who jilted her first husband, a struggling Texas writer named Edward Sheffield (Jake Gyllenhaal), for a WASP financier, a guy so parodically handsome that he’s played by Armie Hammer. Then Susan is sent the psychic equivalent of a ticking bomb—a manuscript written by Edward.

“The script was rapturous and terrifying,”says Gyllenhaal. “But the thing that attracted me most was Tom’s passion” I’ve come to Santa Fe to discuss Ford’s new film, Nocturnal Animals. The place is rich with associations for him— “Santa Fe for me is the 1960s and 1970s, when Canyon Road was dirt and Georgia O’Keeffe was still alive and hippies were in communes raising chickens and goats”—though it’s one he keeps mostly private. “You’re the first journalist ever to be in this house,” he tells me, “aside from Richard, of course. And journalists normally don’t see me wearing this.” Beneath his trademark bearded stubble, Ford is deep in New Mexico mode, sporting a blue denim Western shirt, dark blue jeans, and brown boots (all from the Tom Ford label). He wears a turquoise-and-silver bracelet on his right wrist and a turquoise-encrusted watchband on his left. “I buy a lot of turquoise jewelry,” he says, “and sometimes I wonder if I should take a piece when I go somewhere else. But turquoise only fits here. Wearing it outside Santa Fe”—he laughs— “it’s impossible.” We wind up in the enormous living room, where high, wood-beamed ceilings look down on dark-brown suede sofas and wooden tables so immaculately placed that I wonder if they’ve been clicked into the floor. “It’s very traditional Santa Fe,” he says, “because our ranch”—a nearby 20,000-acre property with architecture by Tadao Ando—“is very modern.” From the furniture to the art, which includes a gorgeous brown-and-black abstract painting by the L.A. artist Mark Bradford, the room we’re in is a sonata in earth tones except for a vase of flowers carefully chosen to explode pink in the New Mexico light. “It’s like a cactus flower,” he says. “I find 290

In that story, Gyllenhaal (this time bearded) plays Tony Hastings, a meek, plaid-shirted family man with a teenage daughter, India (Ellie Bamber), and a loving wife, Laura (Isla Fisher). Driving on a deserted West Texas highway late at night, the family gets terrorized by a band of louts led by Ray (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), a psycho in green cowboy boots. In the aftermath, Tony enlists help from Bobby Andes, a crusty Lone Star cop played by Michael Shannon. “I wanted a sort of iconic Wild West Gary Cooper of today—a Marlboro Man,” says Ford, who spent his early childhood in Austin and still has a lot of family there. Having done some acting in Los Angeles as a young man—“I wasn’t particularly good,” he says—Ford has very precise ideas about how he wants his actors to move and read their lines. Shooting the nude dance that opens the film, he stood behind the camera showing the women the steps. “I said, ‘Now we’re going to do Gloria Swanson from Sunset Boulevard, and I want you to do the close-up thing.” Demonstrating this, Ford rises and, gazing into an imaginary camera with wide eyes, snakes his arms out before him. Actors love working with Ford. It was no accident that Colin Firth gave perhaps his finest performance in A Single Man, or that he thanked Ford from the stage in accepting his Oscar for The King’s Speech a year later. Ford is a reassuring collaborator, Adams tells me on the phone from London: “I expected to be very self-conscious with Tom because he’s always in a gorgeous suit and smells really good, but he made me very relaxed.” Shannon echoes the sentiment. “He always


presented every idea in the most respectful way,” says the laconic Kentucky-born actor, who may give the film’s strongest performance as a lawman on his last legs. “You’re more likely to listen to somebody if they’re not being superaggressive.” Gyllenhaal calls the script “rapturous and terrifying” but says he was drawn to the project by Ford himself: “The thing that attracted me most was Tom’s passion. I like working with directors who need to tell a story.” Of course, you know it’s a Tom Ford movie when its backcountry villain—whom Wright portrays as a homely yokel—is played by someone as handsome as TaylorJohnson. When I bring this up to Ford, he concedes the point. “I like movie stars,” he says matter-of-factly. “I want enhanced reality.” Nocturnal Animals is brimming with enhancements. In his adaptation of Wright’s novel, Ford switches Susan’s life from the Midwestern suburbs to BelAir, where Ford himself has a house. “Cinematically,” he says, “I needed the high contrast.” With help from his costume designer, Arianne Phillips, he also gives Susan a much harder edge. “I wanted her to look very slick and

suspect, prove divisive—and I tell Ford so. Abstract, violent, and gorgeous, it’s easier to admire than to like. “I wasn’t trying to be likable,” he says. “Life isn’t always likable. The story spoke to me about what happens when you buy into certain things in contemporary culture. We live in a culture where everything is disposable. Fire them! Divorce them! Toss it away!” He shakes his head. “It upsets me.” This is someone who’s been with the same life partner for three decades and the same publicist for a quarter century. Ford says his feeling for this story is profoundly personal. “Like Jake’s character,” he says, “I was the kid who was perceived as physically weak—I was teased, tortured, bullied—but finds some ultimate strength. And Susan, she’s practically me. I’ve achieved the material things she has, but I sometimes long for the days when I lived in a small place on St. Marks Place—not that I’m asking anyone to feel sorry for me,” he quickly adds. It has always been the paradox—and underlying strength—of Ford’s career that he is at once deeply nostalgic and boldly of the moment. “I’m probably a throwback,” he

ME RRI CK MORTO N ( 2 )

COOL CUSTOMERS “I expected to be very self-conscious with Tom because he’s always in a gorgeous suit and smells really good,” says Amy Adams, LEFT, who plays an L.A. art dealer. Ford (FAR RIGHT) directs Gyllenhaal and Shannon during one of the tense Texas scenes.

somewhat synthetic. Her hair is naturally curly, so it had to be dead straight. Everything is calculated—the handbags, the watch, the fur coat, all of it.” Even Susan’s spectacularly modern home—“I’ve been on some beautiful sets,” Adams says, “but never one like this”—has been digitally tweaked. Ford shot those scenes in a house overlooking the ocean in Malibu, then added a view of the glittering lights of L.A. to make it seem as if we’re actually in the Hollywood hills. “We just dropped the city in,” he says, smiling. Aided by Seamus McGarvey’s crisp, moody photography, the film is a procession of arresting imagery, from Ray’s startling green cowboy boots—“Yeah, he’s a killer,” Ford says, “but he fancies himself a seventies rock star”—to the Richard Misrach photo of two men in a field that serves as a bridge between the film’s two worlds. At moments, it must be said, such visual richness undercuts the suspense. And as with Wright’s original novel, you sometimes wish the plot didn’t feel quite so overdetermined. With a hall-of-mirrors structure and not altogether nice characters, this movie will, I

says. “If I was going to pick an era to live in, except for the fact you died of cancer like that”—he snaps his fingers—“it would have been the thirties. My clothes are very inspired by that period. And the seventies because the seventies were inspired by the thirties.” His love affair with the movies goes equally far back. “I grew up as a child living through films,” he says. “I learned so much of what I wanted, or thought I wanted, in films like The Women, The Philadelphia Story, and Bringing Up Baby. They’re happy, they’re light, they’re optimistic. You don’t see all the work it takes to live that easy life.” He recently came close to spending more than $50 million for a Beverly Hills estate because of its connection to old Hollywood. “I couldn’t actually see the existing house,” he says, “because what I saw was the history. I was seeing that fact that William Powell lived in it, that the front door is the Arc de Triomphe and the designer James Dolena designed it so that every day when William Powell came home he could walk through the Arc de Triomphe because now he was a star. That’s what spoke to me.” C O N T I N U E D O N PAG E 3 1 3 291


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AS THE ELEVATOR DOORS PARTED, I ROLLED my suitcase onto the polished concrete floor and took in my friend’s airy new loft: recessed lighting, chrome accents, the modular de Sede sectional where I’d be sleeping during an early-summer West Coast getaway. Exactly the kind of graphic, minimalist decor you’d expect from a successful Bay Area techie. There was one outlier, though. On the desk in the corner, a pink salt–crystal lamp was stationed beside an open laptop. It emitted a warm glow. “What’s that about?” I asked. “Ions,” she replied, walking over and touching a hand to the crystal. “Ions.” That was my first encounter with pink salt, and I haven’t been able to avoid the stuff since—salmon steaks grilling on a pink-salt slab in Montauk; jars of edible pink salt for sale at CAP Beauty, the popular West Village emporium of antioxidant serums and sulfate-free shampoo; Gwyneth Paltrow exhorting her Goop fans to add pinches of pink salt to drinking water; pink-salt scrubs and baths advertised at Miraval in Tucson and India’s Ananda Spa. The substance offers many levels of commitment. “I know shamans who keep bowls of pink salt crystals in the room to draw negative energy,” says the actress, activist, and blogger Shiva Rose, who recently launched her own pinksalt soak. “But I also know ‘normal’ people who carry pink salt to restaurants—it tastes better and it’s better for you,” she goes on, citing all of the alkalizing, hydrating, and antiinflammatory muscle-soothing benefits that have also made Moon Juice founder Amanda Chantal Bacon a fan. “Plus,” Rose adds, “the color pink—it’s very heart-opening.” An undercurrent of yearning drives any major trend, and Himalayan pink salt’s ubiquity seems to originate in our collective desire for balance. I, too, am a seeker of balance, I realize. In this 24/7 world of smartphones, bootcamp classes, and “workations,” who isn’t? Spiritual and bodily malaise can easily reinforce each other, and their feedback loop produces an affliction I like to call “feeling meh,” which makes the numerous claims about pink salt— that it will balance your electrolytes, bring your pH levels into perfect poise, and even stabilize your mood—very seductive. And then there’s the ion thing my friend mentioned. Purportedly, mineral-rich pink salt draws moisture out of the air and returns it in the form of negative ions (electrically charged atoms), which neutralize the positively charged “electro-smog” emitted by our various iThings. I’m keen to indulge the poetry of the promise; I’m less inclined to buy into the fabulist marketing copy that materializes as I dive down the pink-salt rabbit hole. With every blog post that promises “healing magic” via these “ancient crystals,” the skeptic in me recoils. I want data—hard,

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nail-downable information. James Hughes, Ph.D., a biochemist and the founder of the Himalayan Salt Company (which began importing pink salt to the States in 1998), explains that an inland sea near present-day Pakistan receded some 300 million years ago, leaving behind a bed of salt tinted pink by iron oxide. The bed was then sealed when one tectonic plate slid over another, creating the Himalayan mountain range. By the time it was discovered, the salt had solidified into dense, rigid crystals. That hardness is a sign of its age. Himalayan pink salt also hasn’t been exposed to any of the pollutants now choking up rivers and seas, which regular salt, in its young, soft form, eagerly sops up. “It’s sodium chloride, plus 84 minerals. Nothing else,” Hughes says. Straight-from-the-earth, free from manmade chemicals, unrefined: Pink salt fits right into our current fixation on all things whole and organic. But many people question the extreme promises that surround its lore. Integrativemedicine expert Andrew Weil, M.D., is one. The only reason he keeps a supply of pink salt in his pantry, he says, is that he likes the color. “I don’t believe it offers therapeutic benefits,” Weil asserts. “Regardless of form. The health claims are overblown.” To test out the anecdotal evidence, I use CAP Beauty’s pink salt exclusively in the food I prepare at home for a few straight weeks, and although I can’t say I notice any changes to my being, I can say that I reach for it more sparingly than other types of salt—a boon to my sodium levels—and on the nights that I bathe in Shiva Rose’s Rose Moon Sea Salts, I sleep particularly well. I also visit a salt room, a popular treatment in Eastern Europe, where they’re prescribed for people suffering from respiratory ailments; Breathe Salt Rooms introduced the concept to New York City last year. One hot evening in July, I make my way to the grotto-like Breathe space on Park Avenue to attend a “Salty Yoga” class, an hour of breath-focused vinyasa that is undemanding by design. The main challenge is keeping steady in tree pose on the uneven pink salt–crystal floor. The walls of the room are pink salt, too, and an atomizer fills the air with microscopic salt particles meant to scrub out lungs and sinus passages. I don’t know if it was the yoga, the salt atoms, or the negative ions flying off the wall, but I leave the class feeling uncharacteristically refreshed; dare I say balanced? I may not be a convert, but maybe a little credulousness is in order if believing in the miracle of pink salt gets you to breathe a little deeper or, better yet, turn off your myriad devices and draw yourself a bath. And if you still don’t experience the positive ion–neutralizing, aura-tuning calm, there’s always this: It tastes fantastic on avocado toast. And that’s not up for debate. 

Rich in restorative minerals, a rosy-hued salt from the mountains of South Asia is fınding favor among wellness advocates and spa devotees. By Maya Singer. Photographed by Tim Walker.


P RO DUCE D BY J EF FREY D ELI CH FO R PA D BU RY P RODUCT I O N

IN THE PINK Model Guinevere van Seenus in a Rosamosario dress. Hair, Shon; makeup, Sam Bryant. Set design, David White for Streeters. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.


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WITH OMAKASE-STYLE RESTAURANTS FLOURISHING IN NEW YORK, TIMES HAVE NEVER BEEN BETTER FOR A SUSHI LOVER LIKE JEFFREY STEINGARTEN. BUT WILL A CRISIS OF GASTRONOMIC CONSCIENCE SPOIL HIS FUN? PHOTOGRAPHED BY ERIC BOMAN.

t was a feast to remember, 22 courses, all chosen and prepared by the chef himself, right then and there, plus three wines poured in generous amounts. The restaurant was Shuko, a relatively new place on East Twelfth Street in Manhattan. There was no written menu, so every course was a surprise. We started with a bang, a tiny bang: one Kumamoto oyster, small and briny, nearly frozen and topped with chopped apple; next, a one-inch square of mochi heaped with bright-green pistachio miso; and then a small, flat bowl filled with the youngest, earliest spring vegetables and cubes of raw scallop, all glistening under a mild vinaigrette. The next dish was a bit more substantial—sweet translucent strips of raw trout laid on a thick oval of rice, and over it a sheet of deliciously salty, crackling grilled trout skin. Next came one of the evening’s superstars, a meaty, deeply pink rectangular slice of fish, also laid out on a nugget of boiled rice. This was bluefin tuna, a cut from its belly known as toro, rich and opulent, probably the costliest piece of fish in the world, the most tender and delectable, a transcendent sensual experience. But as we realized long ago, sensual pleasure can rarely be enjoyed for itself alone. Soon enough a squall of completely unpleasant thoughts moves in and rains all over our parade. It reminds me of that day in the Garden of Eden—we were all there—when one bite from the fruit of the Tree of the 294

Knowledge of Good and Evil cast a dark cloud over everything that followed on Earth. Bluefin tuna are the kings and queens of the seas. Some grow as large as baby whales, and some live for 30 years. Bluefin can sprint at 30 miles an hour, are voracious carnivores, are warm-blooded (unlike most other fish), and, like sharks, must continuously plunge ahead to survive. They migrate several thousand miles twice a year and, like migratory wild geese and ducks, gorge themselves to store energy for the long swim ahead. The meat of the bluefin is more highly valued than that of the bigeye, albacore, yellowfin (ahi), skipjack, or blackfin tuna, and wherever the bluefin’s muscle is striated and layered with its own fat—mostly in its belly and the muscles around its neck and jaw—it is the most succulent and desirable meat under the sea. Given its size, a bluefin is the single most valuable catch in all the world’s oceans, and humans hunt it with unmatched energy wherever it swims. So it’s no wonder that bluefin have been overfished nearly everywhere to the point of extinction. Conservation and wildlife organizations are practically unanimous: Do not eat bluefin tuna, at least for several years or maybe decades, until their population has rebounded and can then be stabilized and properly managed. I knew all of this when the chef put the pink strip of fatty bluefin belly in front of me. Once in my mouth and after a chew or two, the toro dissolved into a cloud of exquisite flavor and tenderness, and with it dissolved my culinary superego. And it’s not only the bluefin. Later, we’ll turn to a few of the dozens of other creatures of the sea commonly served in sushi bars. But for now let’s return to our memorable feast.


THE BIG BLUE The head of a freshly caught bluefin tuna—one of the most highly prized sushi fish in the world.


Next came a simple little soup, a clear golden broth of bonito flakes and kelp with one honshimeji mushroom, having the deepest, meatiest umami flavor imaginable, with not a cow in sight. Most of our remaining courses were thin rectangular slices of raw fish laid on lumps of white rice: sea bream, skipjack, fluke, and unctuous yellow seaurchin “tongues.” Then there were slices of raw amberjack with shiso leaf and pickled plum, striped bass with a chip of dried, fermented citrus peel and minced hot pepper, a dense and crunchy slice of geoduck (the obscenely phalliclooking sea creature, longer and thicker than a banana, that thrusts out from a large clamshell but when sliced thin in a sushi bar looks completely innocuous), and then another form of toro—the sinews that hold its many layers together carefully peeled and delectably crisped over charcoal embers. Nearing the end, we ate crunchy rice un-

circle of young Hollywood royalty. Somehow, as I recall, I talked my way past these barriers and, knowing something of restaurant customs in Japan, set in advance a price for lunch. The man on the telephone agreed that $150 would be adequate if I didn’t expect to eat fugu (the vaunted poisonous blowfish) or Iranian caviar. Ginza Sushiko was located in a somewhat crummy strip mall on Wilshire several miles from downtown; a tall, nicely dressed Japanese man assured me that he would guard my shabby rental car. The restaurant was handsome and bright inside with a bar long enough for nine diners, and behind it Masa Takayama was already preparing my lunch. I was the only remaining customer. I had never had a more refined and satisfying series of courses of sashimi and sushi—one perfect and pristine piece of fish after another. Masa later told me that the counter was made from a single piece of

ONCE IN MY MOUTH AND AFTER A CHEW OR TWO, THE TORO DISSOLVED INTO A CLOUD OF EXQUISITE FLAVOR AND TENDERNESS, AND WITH IT DISSOLVED MY CULINARY SUPEREGO

der thin slices of costly white maitake mushrooms, then sweet chopped eel—and finally the chef handed us more lotus root, pickled this time and laid into a large spicy shiso leaf doubled over into a sort of sling. We were offered a dessert but were unable to take even one more sip or bite. The style of our feast is known as omakase—from the Japanese for “entrust” and used to mean “chef’s choice.” An omakase meal can be sushi or tempura, teriyaki or a series of vegan dishes. It can last several hours, like our dinner at Shuko, or it can be limited to a few courses. In the U.S., omakase usually refers to an extended sushi dinner, ideally eaten at the sushi counter, where the chef prepares one piece of fish at a time, announces its name and origin, answers your questions, and guesses what else you might enjoy and how much more you’d like to eat. You expect to be brought the most perfect seafood available at that time of year, fish that will be handled as carefully as a kidney awaiting transplantation and as respectfully as a still-living thing. You marvel at the endless training of the dedicated staff, the precision of their work, their incredible concentration for hours at a time, their lack of pretense, their quiet. And the beauty of their knives. The past decade has seen a flowering and flourishing in New York City of the highest-quality sushi restaurants, most of them offering extended omakase meals. For aficionados with plump wallets, this is a heavenly moment in time, not merely for the supremely refined enjoyment available to us but also for a rarely discussed feature. A full-blown, all-out omakase dinner is a high-end celebration of gluttony and excess in the guise of a refined, high-protein, near-perfect paleo meal (if you ignore the rice). My introduction to omakase was 25 years ago in Los Angeles, at a restaurant named Ginza Sushiko, then reputed to be the most authentic and refined and expensive sushi place in the U.S. To win a reservation, you needed a personal introduction to the chef, Masa Takayama, from one of his inner 296

silky wood, and that he rubbed it every morning to keep it satiny, just as he sharpened his knives every morning on a set of sharpening stones. When I asked Masa where he bought his fish, he showed me a typed form with lists of fish names in Japanese and in English. Masa had written a weight in grams next to several of these names. He explained that he would soon fax the form to his agent at the famous Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo (the largest in the world), who would buy the fish, pack it up, and dispatch it on a Northwest Airlines flight to LAX, which Masa would meet the next day in his odd little truck. As he prospered Masa moved his restaurant to Beverly Hills, on Rodeo Drive, where I was able to afford one or two fantastically expensive meals. In 2004, Masa moved to the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle in New York, where I’ve eaten seven times, most of them with great pleasure. I was a guest of somebody else on five occasions and paid for myself twice, most recently at the current rate of $595 for an excellent dinner for one, tip included, with sake and tax bringing the total to $800. It’s a good thing I wasn’t thirstier. Today Masa has a company named Horyo in Tokyo that buys fish at Tsukiji and dispatches it to him in New York, where he now has three restaurants and another on the way named Tetsu. His Time Warner Center restaurant may be the most expensive in the city, if not the entire country, but Masa still sharpens his knives every morning. When Masa first arrived in New York, there were several first-rate sushi places, the best of which was probably Kurumazushi, founded in 1977 and still presided over by Mr. Toshihiro Uezu. I had an excellent lunch there three weeks ago as a guest of my book publisher. The restaurant’s online menu lists omakase at $300 a person, which by the end of our lunch with tax, tip, and a little sake came to $800 for the two of us. I hope the punishment meted out to my publisher’s delegate was light.


Masa certainly raised the bar on sushi prices in the city, giving cover to several other serious new restaurants that specialize in omakase meals and need to charge enough to serve fish of the highest quality and support several welltrained sushi chefs. Two young men who worked alongside Masa some fifteen hours a day for eight years are Nick Kim and Jimmy Lau. Both left Masa to open the sushi bar Neta on West Eighth Street in 2012, as chefs, not owners. After leaving in 2013, they spent a year planning, organizing, and raising capital to open Shuko—the site of my feast to remember—a beautiful restaurant with a lovely counter having room for 20 and a few tables at the front. In just two years, Shuko has emerged as one of the top omakase sushi places in the city and one of the most hospitable. There are two menus: $135 for just raw fish and $175 for fish plus several dishes cooked in the kitchen. Adding a fabulous course of Japanese beef costs $50. I’ve never had the most expensive menu, which includes squab from an Amish farm in Pennsylvania, cooked two ways. O Ya is a gift from Boston, where Tim and Nancy Cushman won over the city with their innovative style of omakase. The varieties of fish are familiar, but the aromatic herbs, spices, and garnishes paired with them are originals largely from the Western pantry: maple, pine nut, Perigord truffle, green mango with coconut broth, sesame brittle, nigella seeds, aji amarillo, cocoa pulp, walnut, apricot, chicken schmaltz. The Cushmans are quite a talented couple, Tim a conjurer of surprising flavors and Nancy a charismatic sommelier of sake and a keyboardist. My printed menu at O Ya, which is on East Twenty-eighth Street near Lexington Avenue, concluded with eighteen delectable-sounding cooked dishes—foie gras shumai, tea-brined pork, bone-marrow chawanmushi, and four costly styles of wagyu beef—all of which I need to try. The omakase dinner of eighteen courses costs $185; a 24-course Okii Ringo is $245. Add $150 for sake, plus tax and tip, and you’re up to $300 a person and beyond,

was trained for years in Tokyo by the world-famous Jiro Ono, the subject of the 2011 hit documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi. After two meals there at tables far removed from the sushi bar, my third dinner, at the counter, was memorable, with several original and unusual dishes. The buzz today surrounds Sushi Zo, a ten-seat sushi bar recently imported from L.A. to West Third Street in Greenwich Village by chef Keizo Seki, whose little empire now expands from two highly praised restaurants to a third. The online reviews have been predominantly ecstatic, but you can’t trust reviews unless you know the people who wrote them. I was forced to postpone my own visit when I realized I had already busted my article budget at Vogue without hope of pardon or appeal. Two less expensive but highly satisfying places for an omakase dinner are Sushi Seki in Chelsea and Kanoyama in the East Village.

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he sushi business is a monument to globalization. Sushi in the U.S. and in Japan was revolutionized in the early 1970s, when Japan Airlines launched flights between Tokyo and both New York City and Los Angeles with special freight lockers designed to hold cargoes of valuable fish, including raw 1,000-pound bluefins. For the first time, tuna caught in New England, eastern Canada, and Long Island could arrive fresh at Tokyo’s Tsukiji market four days out of the water, be sold at the daily tuna auction, and be dispatched whole or in parts to sushi bars throughout Japan, the rest of Asia, even back to parts of North America. Every year since then has brought innovations in transport and communication. Today there are hardly any desirable fish or shellfish anywhere on the planet that aren’t at great risk of getting captured and relished by the most technologically talented predators on Earth. Tsukiji market is still at the center, the throbbing

TODAY, THERE ARE HARDLY ANY FISH OR SHELLFISH ANYWHERE ON THE PLANET THAT AREN’T AT GREAT RISK OF GETTING CAPTURED AND RELISHED BY THE MOST TECHNOLOGICALLY TALENTED PREDATORS ON EARTH

not unusual for an upscale omakase dinner in this city. Ichimura is the two-Michelin-star sushi bar within David Bouley’s Japanese restaurant Brushstroke, at 30 Hudson Street, in Tribeca. Chef Eiji Ichimura presides over a quiet, eight-seat area of traditional perfection, sufficiently apart from the bright lights of the main rooms at Brushstroke but close enough to absorb a little of their energy. Your $195 omakase begins with one or two ethereal courses of sashimi and glides onto a dozen or so pieces of sushi, briefly interrupted with a classic chawanmushi (the cunning and brilliant savory Japanese custard). Mr. Ichimura’s craftsmanship, his relaxed, friendly mood, and the quality of his fish are unexcelled. But here there is no fusion, no showy surprises. His toro does come as a triple-decker. Sushi Nakazawa drew everybody’s attention when it opened three years ago because chef Daisuke Nakazawa

heart of a vast network, at least for setting prices (auction results are posted on the Internet) and levels of quality. Masa Takayama’s Tokyo company now has four buyers at Tsukiji, and they send him the best they can find; Masa also buys some local fish from nearby distributors. Mr. Uezu at Kurumazushi has been developing his own network of suppliers ever since he opened in 1977, buying crab, he told me, only when his crab specialist telephones with something especially fine. Nearly all the sushi places I visited mentioned as a supplier a company called True World Foods—headquartered in New Jersey and with 23 branches around the country and major operations at Tsukiji. True World’s marketing manager, Mr. Tad Kumagai, estimates that of the 500 sushi bars in New York City, his company sells some fish to at least 90 percent of them. I asked him, Does that mean that every sushi place in the city serves fish of C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 3 1 4 297


HOT HEADS The Moment If the nipping at your ankles wasn’t warning enough, let it be known: Winter is coming, and the best way to suit up for it is from the top down. These are not your traditional face-framing, Soviet military–inspired fur trapper hats, though. Impressive in both shape and size and brimming with exaggerated proportions, their supersize silhouettes inject flair (and volume) into the most audacious of forecasts. It’s just the kind of warm, soft touch of insulation needed come sleet or snow or gloom of night. The Details On Maartje Verhoef (NEAR RIGHT): Patricia Underwood fox-fur trapper hat, $3,000; (212) 268-3774. Missoni coat ($4,885) and shirt ($1,995); Missoni, NYC. Prada gloves. On Lineisy Montero: Louis Vuitton shearling chapka hat, $1,420; select Louis Vuitton boutiques. Altuzarra sweater, $950; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Missoni scarf. Hair, Esther Langham; makeup, Susie Sobol. Details, see In This Issue. Photographed by Patrick Demarchelier. Fashion Editor: Sara Moonves.


S ET D ES IG N , D OROT HÉ E BAUSSA N FO R M A RY HOWA R D ST U D IO. P RODUC ED BY FI L L I N T HE B LA NK P RO DUCT IO N . D ETA I LS, S EE I N T HI S ISSUE .

MOMENT OF THE MONTH


L I V E A N D K I C K I N G


BRINGING THE BLITZ “I try to take everything to a new level,” says Newton, FAR LEFT. “I try to take living to a new level.” Model Karlie Kloss wears Louis Vuitton block-heel boots ($1,900) and dress; select Louis Vuitton boutiques. Alexander Wang earrings (throughout). Newton wears a Raf Simons sweater, Tom Ford shirt, Baldwin jeans, and Clarks boots. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Sara Moonves.

AS CAM NEWTON, THE DAZZLING CAROLINA PANTHERS QUARTERBACK, SUITS UP TO CHASE ANOTHER SUPER BOWL, KARLIE KLOSS BOOTS UP IN THE SEASON’S STATEMENTMAKING FOOTWEAR. PHOTOGRAPHED BY GREGORY HARRIS.


hat Cam Newton—the Carolina Panthers’ astonishing quarterback, already the owner of numerous NFL records in a mere five seasons as a pro, not to mention the recipient of last year’s Most Valuable Player honor— is in person sharp, funny, and even, yes, a little over the top, isn’t surprising. Newton’s exuberance, in fact, makes the complaints against his end-zone celebrations (“Surely you know you’re a role model,” a mother famously wrote in an open letter to the player published in the Charlotte Observer) seem not just off but just plain wrong. Why shouldn’t a man celebrate his successes and glory in his triumphs? The minute details of the particular glories that Newton is recounting for a handful of us today at the Vogue offices involve not one of his diving, somersaulting touchdowns nor a particularly blessed Hail Mary pass, but rather his more recent successes on the field of parenthood as the father of ten-month-old Chosen Sebastian Newton (Newton’s girlfriend, Kia Proctor, is the mom). Quick reflexes, fast feet, and the ability to get out of trouble in a hurry also seem to come in handy when the game is changing diapers. Does the 27-year-old father—the owner-operator of a six-foot-five, 245-pound body that functions in the space between a dancer and a heat-seeking missile—execute plays well in the nursery? He nearly scoffs at the question. “Of course,” he says. Newton, in fact, says he’s planning to take fatherhood to a new level. “I try to take everything to a new level,” he says at one point while speaking of fashion (he is both smiling and serious all at once). “I try to take living to a new level.” Last season, after he threw 35 touchdowns and, like an acrobat, ran the ball in for another ten (while, as he notes, “a lot of people are trying to knock your head off”), only a Super Bowl victory eluded him. His off-the-field efforts were equally daring, from the tailored camouflage-printed suit that he sported at press conferences to the Versace Barocco print pants that he wore on his way to the big game. Leather jogging pants? Sheer recovery stockings? Check, check. His eye for fashion seemed to emerge spontaneously when Newton was still a young boy in Atlanta, hanging out at the park known today as Flat Shoals. “I started when I was ten-ish, eleven,” he says. “I would see certain people do things with their socks; 302


QUARTERBACK SNEAK Fall is for earthy shades of caramel, brown, and gold. Thigh-high boots for her and buttery shearling for him fit the bill for pre-gaming—or tailgating. Kloss wears Vetements boots, coat, and shirt ($600). Boots and coat at vetementswebsite.com. Shirt at lagarconne .com. Newton wears a Loewe coat, Etro shirt, and Aidan Black shoes. Details, see In This Issue.


certain people would have headbands on. It never made any particular person better than the next person, but you know the old cliché—you look good, you play good.” (His own line, MADE Cam Newton, distributed by Belk, the North Carolina–based department store, is, as he sees it, for the Southern man on the go.) Critics, of course, have been quick to see Newton’s taste in clothing in the same light as his now-notorious touchdown dances—his dabs and joy-bursts in the end zone. That is, as mere histrionics. For Newton himself, though, it all comes down to one principle: going for it. “So many people—female, male, young, old—come up to me and want to talk about the way I dress. I take that as a compliment.” What do they ask? “A lot of times, it’s just ‘Why?’—like, ‘Why would you wear a fox tail?’ So I tell ’em: It’s just an added accessory that makes me have my own spill; you know, a signature, pizzazz, swag—something that another person’s not willing to do.” He began to be courted by colleges when, as a junior in high school, he passed for 2,500 yards, completing 23 touchdowns and running nine more. He ended up at Auburn, where in one year he won college football’s most famous totem, the Heisman Trophy, along with a national championship, before being swept up as the first pick in the 2011 NFL draft. In Newton’s first game, he threw for more than 400 yards—no one else in history had even come close. He also ignited the Panthers, a team that had not been on fire, bringing some much-needed fun to what’s occasionally referred to as the No Fun League. Now he teases younger players. “Don’t just come out here as a generic character,” he says. “Put your own style into it—express yourself!” “He’s 27 years old, but he’s five years old in his heart,” one of his teammates told a reporter in Charlotte, where—as he was at Auburn—Newton is beloved. At the moment, though, his heart appears to be consumed by his ten-month-old teammate, whose touch (no offense) seems just a little off at the moment. “He’s grabbing things, but he hasn’t perfected it,” Newton says. “He’s grabbing his bottle, putting it in his mouth, but then he makes a move and it just falls.” Newton can remember when he was growing into his own body— when he went from sometimes feeling scared out on the field as a seven-year-old to feeling good. And he remembers the feeling he had when, in 2010, playing against the LSU Tigers, he broke the SEC record for rushing yards by a quarterback in a single season on one half-the-field run past two tackles, ultimately dragging a defender into the end zone along with him—a play that likely won him the Heisman. On that day, Newton says, he felt like he had the whole stadium in the palm of his hand. “I was watching a rerun the other day,” he says, “and I’m just like, ‘Damn—I look so childish out there.’ You know, laughing, smiling, goofing around. But I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. When people see me play, I want them to see the joy of it. Life is already hard enough. Why not smile, why not enjoy it?”—ROBERT SULLIVAN RED ZONE Milk-chocolaty over-the-knee-highs pair perfectly with the season’s exaggerated padded shoulders—reminiscent of a certain playmaker’s distinctively broad silhouette. Kloss in Giuseppe Zanotti Design suede boots, $1,595; Giuseppe Zanotti Design boutiques. Jacquemus jacket, $855; jacquemus.com. Off-White c/o Virgil Abloh skirt, $880; off---white.com. On Newton: Raf Simons sweater vest and shirt. Timberland boots. Details, see In This Issue.

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FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS “You know the old cliché,” Newton says: “You look good, you play good.” Kloss wears Stuart Weitzman boots, $735; Stuart Weitzman, NYC. Derek Lam embroidered top ($2,950), sleeveless turtleneck ($550), and skirt ($4,550); Derek Lam, NYC. Bally bag. On Newton: Tom Ford suit, shirt, and tie. Photographed at EJ’s Luncheonette, NYC. Menswear Editor: Michael Philouze. In this story: hair, Jimmy Paul for Bumble and Bumble; makeup, Romy Soleimani. Details, see In This Issue.


S ET D ES IG N , NI C HO LAS D ES JA RD IN S FO R M A RY H OWA RD STU D I O. P RODUCTI O N BY P RO D N AT A RT + COM M ERC E.


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Mountain

Trek into the wilderness—with Wi-Fi, of course—as camping goes global and polished.

High

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1: MIKAEL JANSSON. FASHION EDITOR: GRACE CODDINGTON. 2, 11, & 16: JOHN MANNO. 3: COURTESY OF VINCE CAMUTO. 4: COURTESY OF AUDEMARS PIGUET. 5 & 20: LIAM GOODMAN. 6: COURTESY OF NET-A-PORTER. 7: COURTESY OF DIESEL. 8: COURTESY OF MATCHESFASHION.COM. 9: COURTESY OF AMAZON. 10: COURTESY OF B&O PLAY.

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ANDREA CACOPARDI/GLAMPING CANONICI DI SAN MARCO. 13: COURTESY OF TOM DIXON. COURTESY OF B RUN E LLO CUCI NE LLI . 1 5 : COU RT ESY OF DAVID YUR MAN. COURTESY OF LE LABO FRAG RANCES. 18: COURTESY OF THE ELDER STATESMAN. COU RTESY OF BA LE N CI AGA . 2 1 : COURTESY O F RX BA R. SP R EAD : D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

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1. Model Caroline Trentini, Vogue, 2015. 2. Emilio Pucci jacket; Emilio Pucci boutiques. 3. Vince Camuto sunglasses, $85; vincecamuto.com. 4. Audemars Piguet watch; Audemars Piguet, NYC. 5. Sacai boots, $1,440; sacai. jp. 6. Elizabeth and James pants, $325; net-a-porter. 7. Diesel jacket, $398; Diesel, NYC. 8. Marni sandals, $619; matchesfashion.com. 9. Lumitem action camera with selfie stick, $150; amazon.com. 10. B&O Play speaker, $249; beoplay.com. 11. Versace sweater; select Versace boutiques. 12. Glamping Canonici di San Marco, Mirano, Italy. 13. Tom Dixon Brew Cafetiere, $210; tomdixon .net. 14. Brunello Cucinelli handbag; brunellocucinelli.com. 15. David Yurman necklace; David Yurman, NYC. 16. Canvas by Lands’ End sweater, $95; canvasbylandsend .com. 17. Le Labo solid perfume, $90; lelabofragrances.com. 18. The Elder Statesman cap, $255; elderstatesman.com. 19. Balenciaga earring, $445 for pair; Balenciaga, NYC. 20. Chanel backpack; select Chanel boutiques. 21. RXBAR protein bars, $2.49 each; rxbar.com. C H EC K O U T VO G U E . C O M FO R M O R E S H O P PA B L E L O O K S

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Despite my not having been able to do it in New York City last time around, she will do it for every city in America this November. For myself, I am not closing the door on running for office again. I loved governing; I thought it was fabulous and a great way to serve. And I’d like to think I wasn’t half bad at it. But I love the job I have now and the work I am getting to do. The women I meet at Win’s shelters are stuck in the cycle of homelessness— a pernicious, self-reinforcing, intergenerational loop that exerts a centripetal force so strong it can seem impossible to escape. I hear their stories every day. I watch them look at their children and fight to succeed with everything they have. They ache to do more and do better and climb higher. And they are doing it. In my own, far smaller way, I’m doing the same thing alongside them. Estephanie is a mother of two daughters, one severely disabled, at a Win shelter, who gave up her home in Florida to tend her sick mother in New York. She is trying to figure out a plan to take care of her girls and get work so that she can get an apartment. I once told her that through my job I meet important people, including policy makers. What did she want me to tell them? She replied, “Tell them I’m trying really hard. And that every step forward is a victory. Every step matters.” 

MY AFRICA CONTINUED FROM PAGE 260

employment and income. “There are certain cards that have been dealt me that I take on,” Lupita says. “I want to create opportunities for other people of color because I’m fortunate enough to have a platform to do that. That is why Eclipsed and even Queen of Katwe are so important, to change the narrative, offer a new lens on African identity.” It’s also why she wanted to make Adichie’s Americanah—“a portrait of African dynamism and racial commentary,” she says, but at its heart, an epic love story of two Nigerians across three continents: That will be a first for Hollywood. Lupita preordered the book, devoured it, and asked a mutual friend, Kenyan author Binyavanga Wainaina, to forward an email to Adichie. Though 12 Years a Slave had not yet premiered, she wanted to buy the rights and make the movie. “I can’t tell you how much

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I laughed and cried out loud reading your book,” she wrote Adichie. “As an African actress looking to develop great projects, I am always searching for characters who are full of life, complicated and indelible in their pursuits and in their needs.” Americanah is filled with such characters. Lupita wanted to play Ifemelu, the young Nigerian student who comes to America (babysitting for her auntie and then making her way to college) and experiences its baffling, offensive, fertile, and privileged ways. She soon begins an anonymous blog with such titles as “To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby,” and observations like “If you are a woman, please do not speak your mind as you are used to doing in your country. Because in America, strong-minded black women are scary.” Her blog takes off; advertisers want in, and she’s suddenly the It girl on race, invited to conferences and workshops, all of which intensifies her unease—it’s clear that Lupita might identify with Ifemelu’s experiences. Adichie was curious when she got Nyong’o’s email. She asked Wainaina what Lupita was like, if she was “real,” because “being real” matters, and when “Binya said, ‘Yes, very real,’ ” she decided to go ahead. “I liked the idea of a young African woman being at the center of the adaptation,” says Adichie. On a slight rise past the Prayer Palace Christian Centre and the Shepherd’s Grammar School in a corner of Kampala’s Katwe slum stands a onestory building, painted brown, with a corrugated-metal roof. It’s a clean, welltended shelter, like a church. And it’s blessed by elevation—in Katwe, that is how your wealth is measured. Like any Ugandan slum, Katwe is an unforgiving place where raw sewage festers in gutters along the mud road, and the earth is so unstable that when the rains come, you, your children, and your belongings are likely to be swept away if you’re low to the ground. With no state of welfare to fall back on, your wits are your survival. In this chess club, Robert Katende (played by David Oyelowo in the film) continues to deploy chess to teach life to children, to plan, strategize, and hope. There are two benches against the yellow wall, but the kids sit on the floor— that way no space is wasted on chairs. Curious teachings written by the kids adorn the walls.

never reply when you are angry. never make a promise when you are happy. never waste your time on revenge. In Nair’s movie, Phiona shadows her brother Brian through the alleys of Katwe and spies him through a crack in the club’s wooden slats. Coach Robert sees her, invites her in, and one of the young girls entices her into the world of chess by holding up a pawn and a queen. “In chess, the small one can become the big one,” she says. Robert doesn’t pay much mind. Girls were not taken as seriously as boys, but over time he notices that she is learning fast and winning. The real Harriet has come by today in a bright-blue dress with yellow embroidery. We talk about the days when she didn’t trust Robert and took Phiona out of the club. She had lost hope, says Robert, interrupting. “She tried to get the kids in school. She failed. She sold her mattress. The money wasn’t enough. They were chased out of school for defaulting tuition.” And so like many in Katwe she reduced her dreams to survival, with the kids selling eggplants and maize. “And now Robert comes,” he says, pointing at himself and laughing, “and says, ‘Let me take them to the chess club.’ ” Harriet is smiling, and I ask her what persuaded her to let Robert take the children back to compete. She closes her eyes. Her arms are crossed on her chest. “His faith,” she says. And his aid. He paid the rent when they were thrown onto the street. He paid their hospital bill when one of her four children was ill. He was always there. “I started to trust him,” she says, smiling. Shy. Sly. Contained. As Lupita puts it: “Harriet shines. She is very reserved but also very cheeky.” And that is what inspired Nair to make this film, when Tendo Nagenda, a Ugandan vice president for Disney, told her the story. She saw Harriet as a Mother Courage who would do anything to save her children except compromise her values. And she saw in Katwe a story she had to tell. “We need to know that genius is everywhere, that you don’t have to leave everyone behind while ascending.” Phiona today—now in her 20s—is thriving in school and chess, and has opened more than 300 chess clubs. That such a story can be told to the world thrills Lupita as much as it did Nair. Lupita has always been attracted and moved by risk-takers and dreamers and wants their experiences known.

VOGUE.COM


“I have an inner compass,” she says, pointing. She follows the direction the arrow is facing whenever a potential project comes along. Does it sing? Is it pointing north or south? And because the destiny of an actor depends on others, she says, “I am definitely at a point where I feel like taking charge of what I want to make.” While she wants to work with risktaking directors like Kathryn Bigelow and Ava DuVernay, director of Selma, she’d also love to meet and talk to those courageous, perhaps less well known women who forged their own radical paths, like Assata Shakur. She was a member of the Black Panthers and the Black Liberation Army, was convicted of several crimes, escaped from prison, and got political asylum in Cuba, where she lives, still wanted by the FBI. Her choices, her destiny, would definitely make a fascinating tale. “Maybe for a future project,” Lupita says with a mischievous smile. “You never know.” 

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The couple met 22 years ago as teenagers in the Scouts. “In short pants,” Agnese told me. Since their marriage in 1999, they have had three children, Francesco, fifteen; Emanuele, thirteen; and Ester, ten. The two celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary in 2009 with a trip to New York, where they took in Mamma Mia! on Broadway. The family lives in a modest home outside Florence, where Agnese works as a high school humanities teacher. Away from the Roman magnifying glass, life is remarkably quiet. Ester has sleepovers with her cousins, Francesco cooks French fries, and Emanuele lets his father pick the mighty Barcelona soccer team when they play video games. “And he loses all the same,” Agnese said wryly. As a steward spread a yellow tablecloth, serving salmon, shrimp, chocolate cake, and Renzi’s omnipresent can of Coke, Agnese, who regards her garrulous husband with an endearing weariness, made fun of the oversize blazer he wore as teenage champion on the Italian Wheel of Fortune. The prime minister, seeming a touch embarrassed, wanted to talk about all the ways he was trying to make Italy a more modern, risk-taking enterprise, a goal he communicates tirelessly on social media. “I’m not on Twitter or Facebook,” Agnese interjected proudly. VOGUE.COM

Renzi stressed that he preferred real contact with voters and said he spent a half hour every day reading emails sent to him by Italians. “I’ll show you,” he said, leaping up from his seat and disappearing into his office. He returned with an elegant duffel bag in the Italian flag’s red, white, and green, embossed with the name renzi. He opened the bag to reveal thousands of pages that he carried wherever he went. I returned to my seat in the back of the plane for the landing at Andrews Air Force Base, which had become a vast parking lot for heads of state attending a conference in Washington. Renzi’s aides began buzzing with the news on their phones that during the flight, one of Italy’s ministers had resigned after discussing government business about oil investments with a boyfriend who stood to financially gain from the information. I asked Renzi the next morning at Villa Firenze, the residence of the Italian ambassador in Washington, about his decision to demand his minister’s resignation. “I needed to show that Italy has changed,” he told me. Over the following months, Renzi won key votes and fought to keep his enemies at bay. In our final meeting, in Rome’s Palazzo Chigi, an Arco-style floor lamp hovered over Renzi’s black hair, and the silver halo reminded me that some of Renzi’s best friends in Florence use the word illuminated to describe him. They say he has a calling for leadership, on display since the beginning, and that in a palace that once housed papal libraries, he is Italy’s, and Europe’s, best hope of salvation. But it seemed to me that if Renzi were to win the coming referendum and lead Italy and Europe through this chaotic period, it would not be because he is a saint unsullied by politics, but because he is the right kind of sinner—an unapologetic politician, a believer in the European project whose entire adult life has been spent in the pursuit of influence. Renzi is someone who knows how to acquire power, and who knows what to do with it. As we wrapped up our conversation, our empty plastic espresso cups in front of us on the table, I asked him if he had the stamina to persuade Italians to follow him. He leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and left no doubt as to his answer. “You know when you’re fighting a battle in which you believe?” he asked. “You give it your all.” 

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He and his family currently divide their time between L.A., Santa Fe, and London. “Our house in London is John Nash, 1827 English. I like that each house looks like where it is. Context is very, very important to me.” They spent the last school year in London but have enrolled Jack at an L.A. school for the current academic year. In the meantime, Ford spends his days in New Mexico in simple pleasures—tennis, swimming, hiking, and horseback riding. “In Santa Fe,” he says, “I live in the past.” But like any brilliant designer, he knows when to move on. The city has been buzzing at his decision to put his 20,000-acre ranch on the market for $75 million. If the 55-year-old Ford is perpetually drawn by the past, he is, as ever, taking aim at the future. Even as he keeps growing the Tom Ford brand—it now has more than 120 stores and turns over $1 billion a year—he’s working to make his mark as a filmmaker, an ambition he takes so seriously that he pointedly never includes his own clothes in his movies. Even though he lost a bit of money doing it, Ford calls making A Single Man “the most fun I’d ever had in my life, so how can you put a price on that?” He is equally enthusiastic about Nocturnal Animals, which he presold at Cannes for $20 million. Why did it take so long between projects? “Well, I have another job and I have a child. I said, with Jack, I’m not going to make another movie until he’s three, and when he turned three, I started production.” These days, making movies holds a special appeal. “I’ve been doing my old job for more than 30 years. I know it inside out. I know the business; I know the players. I know the cycle. Doing movies feels newer and fresher and so, more exciting.” His years in fashion prepared him well. “Being a fashion designer in Europe is like being a dictator,” he says, stiffening his body to suggest absolute martial control. “You say, ‘This is the way it’s going to be. That is what you’re going to wear. This is what looks good now.’ ” He finds the process of directing very similar. “You hire a great team, you have a vision—you have to have that. You lead them, steer them, direct them to realize your goal. Then you take it and push it out there. So it felt very natural.” And unlike most filmmakers, Ford finds himself in the privileged position of being able to make exactly the films he wants C O N TIN U ED O N PAG E 314

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to make. “I’m not a director for hire,” he says firmly. “I get offered great things all the time, but I can’t function like that. I can’t function in a studio. I can’t function with people breathing down my neck. I have to have ultimate control of projects. I have to own them, to be able to say, ‘This is what I’m doing.’ ” As the afternoon shadows start to lengthen, I ask the natural question: So what is Tom Ford doing next? Unfolding his arms, he gives a tiny shrug. “I don’t know,” he says almost dreamily. “I want to do a very dark, twisted comedy. But I have to think what I want to say.” He pauses. “Because that’s what making movies is for me. ‘What do I want to say now?’ ” 

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the same quality (firm-fleshed, with a bright, clean flavor characteristic of the species and lacking any “fishy” flavor)? Mr. Kumagai seemed uncomfortable answering directly, but it became clear

that his customers can choose among varying levels of quality and price. All of this has put me on the verge of panic. What if we totally run out of sushi? The main threat to the bluefin may be overfishing—but many other species and fishing areas are in danger for lots of other reasons. When you learn the details, you’ll see that if you’re really serious about conservation and sustainability, you need to know, before you pop a piece of sushi into your mouth: 1) the precise species of the fish and where it was caught; 2) how it was caught; 3) whether other species were harmed in the process; 4) whether the ocean floor was damaged; 5) whether this species is particularly vulnerable on account of its life cycle; 6) how well the local authorities are managing that particular fishery—setting quotas scientifically and enforcing them; 7) in the case of farmed or ranched fish, whether that particular farm is healthy or full of disease; 8) whether the fish was farm-raised from eggs or, more commonly and destructively, from juveniles captured from the

In This Issue Table of Contents 61: On Kloss: Coat ($4,950) and boots ($1,860); Proenza Schouler, NYC. On Newton: Cardigan ($1,698) and shirt ($574); rafsimons .com. Jeans, $249; Baldwin, Kansas City, MO. Clarks boots, $130; clarksusa .com. Cover look 94: Dress, $67,900; select Chanel boutiques. Earrings, $9,190; Barneys New York, NYC. Editor’s letter 108: On Nyong’o: Dress, $2,040; matchesfashion.com. Pichulik earrings, $75; pichulik.com. Lives 130: Tailor, Cora James for Lars Nord Agency. On Quinn: Marni dress, price upon request; select Marni boutiques. Zino Jewellery earrings, $750; daniellezino .com. Sam Edelman pumps, $120; samedelman.com. Talking Fashion 187: Dress, $1,395; modaoperandi .com. 194: Loafers, $1,250; Barneys New York, NYC. 198: Paco Rabanne bra (worn under sheer

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top), price upon request; pacorabanne.com. Beauty 215: Manicure, Christina Aviles for Dior Vernis. Blazer (part of a suit), price upon request; schiaparelli.com for information. Earring, $1,080; net-a-porter.com. 216: On Jenner: Manicure, Emi Kudo for Dior Vernis. Dress, $26,000; select Gucci boutiques. Hutton Wilkinson for Tony Duquette necklace ($16,000), ruby-anddiamond ring ($20,000), and onyx ring ($16,000); tonyduquette.com. Biafine emulsion, $50; biafinecream.com. Tom Ford Traceless Foundation SPF 15, $82; tomford.com. Clarisonic Mia Fit, $219; clarisonic.com. Yves Saint Laurent Anti-Cernes MultiAction Concealer, $38; yslbeautyus.com. PATA 232: On Schreiber: Coat, breeches, and shoes from United American Costume Company, L.A.; vest from TDF Costume Collection, NYC; shirt from

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Claudia Diaz Costume Shop, NYC. 234: Tailor, Lucy Falck for Christy Rilling Studio. Jacket, $22,250; modaoperandi.com. Sweater, $495; net-a-porter .com. Jeans, $98; levi.com. Paper surprise ball, $70; Tail of the Yak, Berkeley, CA. 238: On Kroll: Shirt, $250; Maison Kitsuné, NYC, (212) 4816010. Jeans, $325; boglioli.it. Mack Weldon socks, $15; mackweldon.com. J.Crew shoes, $288; jcrew.com. On Mulaney: Sweater, $995; select Ralph Lauren stores. Jeans, $275; patrikervell .com. Church’s shoes, $725; church-footwear.com. 240: Dress, $98; jcrew.com.

MY AFRICA In this story: Special thanks to MT +. Produced by On Screen Productions (Kenya); getonscreen.com. 245: Dress, $3,485; select Roberto Cavalli boutiques. Earrings, $300; caracroninger.net. Bracelets ($340 for set of five) and chokers worn on arms ($120 each); roxanneassoulin.com. 246–247: Dress, $7,995; select Neiman Marcus stores. Cara Croninger earrings, $260;

wild in huge nets and released into pens to be fattened; 9) if the growing fish, farmed or ranched, are fed live fish, how these were captured; and 10) how the waste continually generated by thousands of confined fish is disposed of. (These criteria were developed by the indispensable Seafood Watch at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, whose Web site offers recommendations and analysis for 91 species. The World Wildlife Fund does comparable work. Casson Trenor summarizes the issues in his excellent book, Sustainable Sushi, North Atlantic Books, 2008.) Can you imagine sitting at a sushi bar and being able to answer all these questions for every morsel of fish plunked down in front of you? Some species can be handled with only a small number of simple facts. When a sushi chef puts a strip of sea urchin (uni) before you, you need only ask him where it’s from. If it lived in Maine, please refuse it; according to the most recent data, the stock there is down to 10 percent of what it once was and needs time to

caracroninger.net. Sandals, price upon request; christianlouboutin.com. 249: Dress, $850; 31philliplim.com. Earrings ($200), necklace ($500), and necklaces worn as bracelets ($500 each); waltcassidy.com. 250: Coat ($3,546) and skirt ($1,690); matchesfashion.com. Denim turban, $38; cultgaia .com. Earrings, $200; waltcassidy.com. 251: Dress ($5,990), cuffs worn as a necklace ($495 each), and cuffs ($495 each); Akris boutiques. Earrings, $742; perezsanz.com. 252–253: Dress, $165; kikiclothing .com. Earrings, $58; shopsoko.com. 254: Dress ($7,900) and cuffs ($625 each); select Valentino boutiques. Walt Cassidy Studio earrings, $200; waltcassidy.com. Perez Sanz choker, $1,650; perezsanz .com. 255: Dress, $2,680; Missoni, NYC. 256–257: On Nyong’o: Dress, $28,000; select Valentino boutiques. Earrings, $1,695; ippolita .com. On Kabanza: Shirt, $30; gap.com. J.Crew pants, $50; jcrew.com. On Nalwanga: John Hardy bracelet, $2,900; johnhardy .com. 258: On Nyong’o:

Dress, price upon request; zacposen.com.Earrings,$300; caracroninger.net. Loafers, $565; Saks Fifth Avenue, NYC. On Dorothy: Dress, $2,195; Blake, Chicago. Sandals, $845; Giuseppe Zanotti Design boutiques. 259: Dress, $3,850; select Prada boutiques. Bracelet worn as a necklace, $495; ashleypittman.com. Christian Louboutin sandals, price upon request; christianlouboutin.com. 261: Dress, $6,535; Givenchy, NYC. Earrings, $750; tiffany.com. Sandals, $595; 31philliplim.com.

THE NEW FRONTIER In this story: Tailor, Leah Huntsinger for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Jin Soon Choi for JINsoon. 263: Shirt ($890), pants ($2,690), and ring ($1,100). Stetson cowboy hat, $250; jjhatcenter.com. 264: Jacket ($3,490), top ($4,990), and earrings ($595). Polo Ralph Lauren jeans, $125; Polo Ralph Lauren stores. 265: Dress, $2,690. 266: Jumpsuit, $3,990. Giuseppe Zanotti Design sneakers, $625; Giuseppe Zanotti Design boutiques. 267: Jacket ($3,990),

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A WORD ABOUT DISCOUNTERS W HI LE VOGU E T HO ROUG H LY RESE A RC HES TH E COMPANIES MENTIONED IN ITS PAGES, WE CANNOT GUA RA N T EE T HE AU T HE NT I C IT Y O F M ERC HA N DI S E SO LD BY D I SCOU N T ERS. AS I S ALWAYS TH E CASE IN PURCH ASING AN ITEM FROM A N YW HE RE OT HER T HA N TH E AU T HO RI ZE D STO RE, T HE BUY ER TA K ES A RI S K A ND SH OULD USE CAUTION WH EN D OING SO.

regenerate. If it’s from Canada—New Brunswick or British Columbia—that’s fine; both fisheries have strict quotas strictly enforced, and the urchins are gathered by hand, doing no damage to the ocean floor; sea urchins can live for 50 years, and the females produce millions of eggs, so the species itself is not vulnerable. But if your urchin lived in California—scary urchins with long purple spines—it is in some danger, because no quotas exist there and the population may already be declining. (In my experience, Santa Barbara uni still seem to be the most common in U.S. bars.) Sushi chefs are often proud to announce that their sea urchins come from Hokkaido, in the cold far north of Japan. But I don’t have enough information on how sea urchins are fished and processed in Hokkaido. So sea urchins are easy: Enjoy East Coast or West, but preferably from Canada. Conch is even easier. The Florida conch fisheries have been closed until the population recovers. Most Caribbean nations have no controls and overfishing

shirt ($650), and hat ($1,950). Charvet scarf, $91; 011-33-1-4260-3070.

FREE COUNTRY In this story: Tailor, Laura Cortese for Christy Rilling Studio. Tailor, Zunyda Watson for Stitched Tailors. 270–271: On Holbrook: Jacket, $110; carhartt.com. 274: On Ewers: Boots, price upon request; select Prada boutiques. On Holbrook: Three-piece suit, $3,650; J. Mueser, NYC. Ralph Lauren shirt ($425) and tie ($185); select Ralph Lauren stores. The Frye Company boots, $358; thefryecompany.com. On Blankenbaker: Overalls, $36; oshkosh.com. On MacPherson: Dress, $109; mariechantal.com. Bonpoint tights (worn as socks), $75;

is everywhere. Just say no to conch. How can we use such knowledge? You can’t very well take a massive fish encyclopedia to your local sushi bar. But there’s an app for it! Seafood Watch has designed one for Android and Apple that offers abbreviated recommendations for all 91 species. But during an omakase feast, when the chef hands you a piece of sushi and identifies the fish and where it came from, you really can’t hand it back to him after looking it up on your phone, if for example you have found that all freshwater eel, unagi, should be avoided. (Who knew? I love unagi, but they are all farmed in Asia using prohibited chemicals with no control over the spread of their wastes, and most new farms begin by capturing juveniles.) You could print out the restaurant’s à la carte menu in advance, spend an evening or two editing it with the help of the full-scale version of Seafood Watch, and present it to the chef before dinner starts. That might work, but only if you’re a very regular customer. It might be better to pick three or four species you really

bonpoint.com. Hi-Tec boots, $60; amazon.com. 275: On Van Rompaey: Coat, $7,590. Boots, $565; Stuart Weitzman, NYC. On Ewers: Coat, $8,100. Boots, $932; ssense.com. 277: On Ewers: Coat, $6,670. Wigwam socks, $13; wigwam.com. On Holbrook: Shirt, $100; stetson.com. WGACA belt, $128; whatgoesaroundnyc .com. The Frye Company boots, $358; thefryecompany.com. 278: On Ewers: Coat, $9,100. On Holbrook: Shirt, $68; levi.com. Jeans, $125; ralphlauren.com. 279: Blouse and skirt, priced upon request. Boots, $795; tabithasimmons.com. 280: Coat ($6,550) and bag (price upon request for similar styles). Bag at Chloé boutiques.

281: Jacket ($5,840) and tights ($515). HIGH CONTRAST 288–289: On Gyllenhaal: Shirt, $350; Maison Margiela boutiques. John Varvatos Star USA T-shirt, $68; johnvarvatos .com. Gilded Age jeans, $249; Gilded Age, NYC. On Taylor-Johnson: Shirt, $215; freemanssporting club.com. WGACA T-shirt ($300) and belt ($98); whatgoesaroundnyc.com. Gilded Age jeans, $249; Gilded Age, NYC. Fiorentini + Baker boots, $495; FiorentiniBaker. On Shannon: Jacket, $2,198; johnvarvatos.com. Levi’s jeans, $89.50; levi.com. ROCK STEADY 293: Dress, $870; rosamosario.com.

worry about, and when the chef asks whether you have any allergies, tell him about your concerns. Otherwise, just order à la carte and say no to omakase. Some years back, I drove two hours from San Diego to the port city of Ensenada, on the Pacific coast of Baja California, to visit a bluefin ranch. I once imagined that ranches like this one could relieve the pressure on wild bluefin and supply sushi fans with an endless supply of toro. Fat chance! There are now bluefin ranches all over the world. To operate a ranch, juvenile and adolescent bluefin are captured at sea and dropped into the fenced pens, devastating the wild bluefin population more severely than fishing for adult bluefin, which will have had several years to spawn and reproduce. In recent years, scientists at Kindai University in Japan have succeeded in hatching bluefin eggs and raising the tiny infants until they can survive on their own. Will this mean the return of toro? Let us prey. 

MOMENT OF THE MONTH In this story: Tailor, Leah Huntsinger for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Alicia Torello. 298–299: On Verhoef: Gloves, $440; select Prada boutiques. On Montero: Scarf, $2,720; Missoni, NYC. LIVE AND KICKING In this story: Tailor, Laura Cortese for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Casey Herman. 300–301: On Kloss: Dress, price upon request; Louis Vuitton stores. Earrings, $425; Alexander Wang, NYC. On Newton: Sweater, $1,910; rafsimons .com. Shirt, $615; Tom Ford boutiques. Jeans, $249; baldwin.co. Boots, $130; clarksusa.com. 302–303: On Kloss: Boots and coat, priced upon request;

vetementswebsite.com. On Newton: Coat, $3,250; Dover Street Market, NYC. Shirt, $365; Etro, NYC. Shoes, $395; toboot.com. 304–305: On Newton: vest ($1,087) and shirt ($641); rafsimons.com. Boots, $190; timberland.com. 306–307: Bag, price upon request; Bally, NYC. On Newton: Suit ($3,870), shirt ($640), and tie ($220); Tom Ford boutiques.

INDEX 310–311: 2. Jacket, $2,580. 4. Watch, $27,900. 11. Sweater, $2,295. 14. Handbag, $1,595. 15. Necklace, $2,200. 20. Backpack, $4,000. LAST LOOK 316: Bag; Proenza Schouler, NYC. 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. 10. 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

Proenza Schouler bag, $1,595 The unflashy flash of yellow on this otherwise subdued bucket tote is just what we’ve come to expect from the boys at Proenza Schouler—pieces that coolly stand out without showing off. In this bag’s case, the sunny leather whipstitch is the first of many unusually charming details: The snakeskin edging on each panel lends a hint of the exotic, while the discreet silver toggle closure adds some fine-jewelry finesse. This cleverly constructed carryall has been dubbed the Hex for its geometric shape (the swirling canvas slices emerge smoothly from a six-sided base) and has become an anchor piece for a brand known for its best-in-show bags. It’s wearable minimalism at its chicest max.  PHOTOGRAPHED BY ERIC BOMAN

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

EDITOR: VIRGINIA SMITH



Vogue october 2016 usa