WOMEN’S MAGAZINE is a living archive of modern culture.
A place where bold thinking, visual storytelling, and unexpected voices come together around one central theme. Each issue is a time capsule, curated to disrupt and designed to outlast the moment.
We don’t mirror trends. We create space for ideas that resist definition. Work that asks questions instead of offering answers. Stories that start conversations instead of ending them.
Created for curious minds and restless creatives, Women’s Magazine moves at the speed of art, thought, and instinct.
We don’t predict what’s next. We help make it.
Welcome to the spectacle.
Not a show, but a reckoning. A stage where truth wears sequins and defiance walks in heels. This is not about performance. This is about presence. Commanding it. Creating it. Becoming it.
This issue dives into excess, artifice, and raw identity. The body is not a canvas. It is the whole gallery. We move through myth, gender, expression, control.
We celebrate transformation in its loudest form. Not polished. Powerful.
We move through backroom mirrors and velvet corridors. Through the heavy air of the Moulin Rouge, where feathers fall like prayers and the floor remembers every heel that’s cracked it. We rise in latex wings and vintage garters. We smoke in silence. We dance without permission. We blur the line between sacred and synthetic, between ritual and riot.
This is not nostalgia. This is ignition. The culture we inherit is only the beginning. What we make of it is everything.
We do not follow rules. We rewrite them. We do not wear clothes. We wear declarations. We do not blend in. We burn.
This is not quiet. This is not clean. This is not polite. This is the body, center stage, out of line and out of time.
Curiosity is not a luxury. It is survival. Take it slow. Let it smolder. Let it scream.
In a world stitched together by performance, what happens when the seams come UNDONE?
How polished we become,
when we’re desperate to belong
Belonging is rarely granted without conditions.
A tucked shirt.
A sharpened jaw.
A knowing glance across a room full of people pretending just as hard. Sometimes the cost of connection is pretending you don’t need it.
pressed collars supressed chaos
We button up not just to conceal the mess but to be let in. To be part of something. A group. A world. A table we were never quite sure we had a seat at. So we learn the script. The silhouette. The rhythm of restraint. We perform elegance, composure, irony, intellect.
Whatever the invitation requires.
Pish Posh is both armor and admission. It mocks the rituals of inclusion while quietly longing for them. It’s the look. The walk. The perfectly timed eye-roll that signals I know the rules too.
Because beneath the performance is a hunger.
To be seen, not just looked at. To be let in, even if you had to lie a little to get there.
GiGi Burk
LOOK LONDON the
CREATIVE DIRECTOR—GIGI BURK
CLOTHING—THOM BROWNE
STYLIST—ULIA VEITCH
PHOTOGRAPHER—
ELLIOT MORGAN
MAKEUP/HAIR—
STEPHANIE LOUISE
MODEL—EVAN CAMPILLO
MODEL—JESSICA BEIRNE
MODEL—ALICE STONER
HANG
ON
you’re almost there.
You blinked. Start Over.
Stay. Don’t Flinch.
Stillness isn’t peace. It’s control.
Everything is in place. Hair. Eyes. Breath. Nothing moves unless it has to.
Time stretches. You pretend not to notice.
You’re not late.
You’re not early. You’re just here.
Something is coming. Maybe. Maybe not.
But for now — Hang on.
You’re almost there.
Whatever that means.
you’re almost there.
WILD THINGS
Somewhere, someone is lighting a match
Just to watch it burn out
Pass the time
This isn’t about freedom. Or instinct. Or power.
It’s just what happens when no one’s looking. Or maybe when everyone is.
Either way, the door was open. And whatever it was — it left.
There are places you go just to leave. People you meet just to remember something you were trying to forget.
You learn early don’t trust anything that moves too quietly. Or too loud. Or at all.
WE WERE NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS VISIBLE
There is no such thing as a private moment anymore. Every thought, face, space, and gesture is potentially public. We live in full view, willing participants in a world where to exist is to be witnessed.
The shift was gradual. First, we documented. Then we shared. Now we perform. Authenticity is filtered. Stillness is suspicious. Privacy feels like absence. The self has become a feed—curated, narrated, monetized.
Visibility is not neutral. It reshapes how we think, behave, and belong. We dress not for ourselves, but for the lens. We speak for applause. We design our environments to be captured, not lived in. We optimize every corner of ourselves for clarity, consistency, reach.
Visibility is the new intimacy, and it’s killing both
We weren’t made for this. To be constantly perceived, is to be constantly edited. To be known too widely, is to be misunderstood too easily.
And yet, invisibility feels like erasure. Without proof, were we even there?
This is the paradox. The more visible we become, the more performative we are. The more we share, the less we reveal. The more connected we feel, the more detached we are—from self, from presence, from truth.
Maybe the next revolution is not expression, but disappearance. Not silence, but sacred privacy. Not the image, but the invisible.
Because we were never meant to be this visible.
And maybe that’s where we went wrong.
PHOTOGRAPHER—MARTA SKOVRO
& KING MANAGMENT AGENCY
MODEL—AYEN
MAKEIUP ARTIST—ANNIE LAMM SIU
HAIR STYLIST—DAVEY MATTHEW
PHOTO ASSISTANT—FIDEL VAZQUEZ
Paris Is Burning is a 1990 documentary directed by
Jennie Livingston.
No one was coming to save them.
Thrown out by their families. Ignored by the world. Left to survive with no money, no safety, no plan. What they built wasn’t just friendship. It was survival. They had no therapists, no support systems, no second chances. So they became that for each other. A place to sleep. Someone to talk to. A name to say when you disappeared.
It wasn’t perfect. There was jealousy, competition, betrayal. But there was love too. The kind you don’t talk about because you’re too busy living it.
They were kids, most of them. Learning who they were in a city that didn’t care if they lived or died. But they found each other. They held each other up.
Not because they had the answers. But because it was either that or nothing.
PARIS IS BURNING
Paris is built on heartbreak and haute couture.
Paris is burning
Not with fire, but with fever
The fever of rebirth, rebellion, and recklessness disguised as elegance
It’s 3AM and the city is lit
Not by stars, but by the white-hot flash of a camera catching a woman in a chrome gown
stumbling out of an unmarked club in Pigalle
Her heels are broken
Her eyeliner’s running
But god, she’s radiant
Because in this city, style isn’t worn
It’s survived
Paris is not a postcard anymore
The café is closed
The garçon is gone
The terrace is full of kids smoking their rent away
The old romance is dead
What came after is far more interesting
A generation painting on top of the cracked fresco
Unapologetically
Dressed like heartbreak
Laughing like revolution
Tonight, the angels wear PVC and the devils wear Dior
Boulevards turn into catwalks
Church steps become stages
You’ll find the future in a bathroom mirror at Silencio
Smeared with red lipstick prophecies
Somewhere between Sacré-Cœur and a cigarette burn on your vintage trench coat
Paris is dancing on its own grave
I’s a beautiful kind of collapse
Not the end
The combustion before evolution
The city isn’t burning down
It’s burning up
So light the match
Pigalle Nights
At night, Pigalle changes.
The city’s gloss fades and something real comes out. Loud music. Flickering lights. Smoke from open windows. A different kind of rhythm.
People linger in doorways. They pass bottles, light cigarettes, watch each other without pretending not to. No one’s performing. They’re just existing—messy, loud, electric.
It’s not pretty. The bars are packed. The floor’s sticky. Everyone looks tired in the most beautiful way.
You don’t need a reason to be here. You just show up. You stay out. You disappear into something bigger than you.
Pigalle doesn’t need to impress you. It just is. And if it makes sense to you...
You’ll come back.
Because some nights aren’t meant to be perfect. They’re meant to burn.
The Cigarette wasn’t lit
PHOTOGRAPHER—
JAQUES BURGA
CREATIVE DIRECTOR—
GIGI BURK
STYLIST—JULIA VEITCH
MODEL—CHLOE REYSE
MODEL—ALEXANDRE MIN
MODEL—DIANA PRINCE
HAIR—BARTHELEMY JORIS
MAKEUP—STEPHANIE LOUISE
PHOTOGRAPHED BY PETROS KOUIOURIS
IN THE FLESH Stella Maxwell
In the flesh, we return to truth.
In the flesh, we stop apologizing. In the flesh, we come home.
TOP AND SHORTS
CHRISTIAN COWAN
BELT SEKS
SHOES GIVENCHY
The body carries what the mind edits out.
It recalls the tone, not the sentence.
The tension, not the timeline.
The gesture, not the explanation.
It remembers what you learned to expect.
It remembers how long you waited for someone to say sorry.
It remembers that the danger didn’t always look dangerous.
It holds your heartbreak like a phantom limb.
It rehearses safety even when you’re no longer in the fire.
It prepares for loss before it arrives.
JACKET, UNDERWEAR AND SHOES SEKS GLASSES GUCCI
POSTURE IS AUTOBIOGRAPHY
GOWN AND GLOVES
FANCI CLUB
SHOES MIISTA
JEWELRY ALEXIS
BITTAR
LACE TOP MARK GONG
LACE UNDERWEAR
CPLUS SERIES
EMBELLISHED BELT
CONFESSIONAL
SHOWROOM
The body keeps its own archive.
It operates outside of language, beyond logic. No timeline. No headlines. Just patterns. Triggers. Habits.
You walk into a room and your chest tightens. Nothing has happened. But your system is already preparing for it.
PHOTOGRAPHER—PETROS KOUIOURIS
DIRECTOR—GIGI BURK
MODEL—STELLA MAXWELL
STYLIST—AYUMI PERRY
HAIR—ALEKSANDRA SASHA NESTERCHUK
HAIR ASSISTANT—AIDAN RODRIGUEZ
MAKEUP—CHRISTYNA KAY
PHOTO ASSISTANT—VASSILIOS SMARAGDAS
PHOTO ASSISTANT—TEAGUE SHOUP
STYLIST ASSISTANT—MADILYNN SMITH
GiGi Burk Interviewed by
STELLA MAXWELL’S THOUGHTS
The world today is chaotic, yes, but it’s also vibrant, connected, and full of possibility.
I think young people are brilliant and wise and full of fire, and I love connecting with them.
Real freedom means expressing yourself without fear, especially without fear for your safety. It’s not just about movement; it’s about authenticity and dignity.
I’m endlessly inspired by what this generation is creating and how fearless so many people are in being themselves.
If seeing my image or hearing my voice gives someone the courage to embrace their own, then that means everything to me.
I think the most powerful thing is inspiring people to be unapologetically themselves.
If I had an alter ego, her name would be Baby.
I just want people to feel empowered to live life on their own terms.
Baby would move through the world boldly, getting away with everything just by owning her space.
I know this is a hypothetical question, but the truth is , I already embrace her. Baby is part of me. She shows up when I need her to.
“ FREEDOM IS WAKING UP WHEN YOUR BODY TELLS YOU TO, NOT WHEN THE WORLD DEMANDS IT.“
DON'T DRINK
THE MINT TEA
—Saint Laurent
There are places you end up without remembering how you got there.
Rooms with low light and perfect chairs.
Windows that don’t open.
People who say they’ve been waiting for you, though you never gave them your name. You’re always offered something. Tea, usually. Or a towel.
Or a robe with a handwritten tag that says “one size.”
No one explains what happens if you say no.
Most people don’t.
THE INVITATION NEVER MENTIONED CONSEQUENCES
You follow.
You take the hallway lined with mirrors that don’t show your face. You wear the sandals, even though they don’t fit. You accept the compliments.
You nod at the man with the key who never says what it unlocks.
Everything smells faintly of mint and something underneath it — like perfume spilled on something that can’t be washed.
There are rules, but no one says them out loud. You just know.
Don’t step on the black tile.
Don’t ask what time it is.
Don’t open the third drawer.
Don’t drink the mint tea.
Especially not the tea.
The women there all speak softly. They look rested, but not well.
Like they’ve slept too long inside someone else’s dream.
They ask you strange questions:
“Do you still hear music when no one’s playing it?”
“Have you tasted anything sweet since you arrived?”
“Are your feet still yours?”
You don’t know how to answer, so you change the subject. They smile like they’ve heard that before.
You think about leaving, but you can’t remember what direction you came from.
You try retracing your steps, but the floor has changed.
Now it’s carpet. Or water. Or a kind of glass that hums when you walk on it.
Someone offers you tea again. This time in a glass that vibrates in your hand.
You almost take a sip. Almost.
PHOTOGRAPHER—ANDRES JIMENEZ
CREATIVE DIRECTOR—GIGI BURK
SAINT LAURENT STYLING—
JULIA VEITCH
HAIR—SAM GROENEVELD
MAKEUP—MILAN REDDY-DEVLIN
MAKEUP ASSISTANT—ANNIE KNOWLES
MODEL—DIANA PRINCE
MODEL—ELIBEIDY DANI MARTINEZ
PRODUCTION—PILOT MOHAMED
VIDEO PRODUCTION—HAMZA CHRIGUI
PROPERTY—RIAD 55 MARRAKECH
THE BOLD AGE
Aweng Chuol
PHOTOGRAPHER
Petros Kouiouris
GARMENT QUINE LI SHOES CHRISTIAN LOUBOUTIN
TOP MOSCHINO
BOOTS BALENCIAGA
COLLAR ALEXIS
BITTAR
BAG NEW YORK
NEW WAVE
Plastic fruit on a porcelain plate. Lipstick stains on rotary phones. A Cadillac idling in the desert, engine running, no one inside. The Bold Age doesn’t explain itself. It stares back, unblinking, and dares you to ask.
This isn’t the future we were promised. It’s stranger. Grittier. Glossed in a layer of synthetic perfection that peels the closer you get. We’ve entered an era where reality is performative, nostalgia is a weapon, and glamour has teeth.
FUR BY MARKGONG BOOTS BALENCIAGA
THIS
ISN’T NOSTALGIA,
JACKET BOTTOMS, BAG,
SHOES MARKGONG
ALEXIS
DORÉ
THE BOLD AGE
The Bold Age is a mood board gone rogue. It is art direction as lifestyle and lifestyle as fiction. There are no rules here, only references. Hollywood archetypes warped through a fisheye lens. Surveillance culture rebranded as intimacy. Religion sold in neon. Beauty with a bruise.
In this world, irony is sacred. Outfits are armor. Emotion is exaggerated for effect. Everyone’s in costume even when they’re naked.
TOP PACO RABANNE
JEANS BY EARTHLING VIP
SHOES MARC JACOBS
EARRINGS ALEXIS BITTAR
RING ON LEFT HAND
RINGS ON RIGHT
HAND INDEX
SASSY JONES
MIDDLE RING FINGER
The Bold Age is a love letter to hyperreality. It’s knowing you’re in the scene and leaning in harder. It’s mascara that runs perfectly when you cry. It’s screaming into a pillow in couture. It’s existentialism with a blowout. It doesn’t want to be understated. It wants to be unforgettable.
This is not a glitch in the culture. It is the culture. It’s the mirror turned on itself. It’s the world in drag. A simulation with a God com plex.
A renaissance for the digi tally haunted
DRESS TOM FORD
EARRINGS JEUNESSE
DORÉ
SASSYJONES
CAROLINA VALENCIA
TOP AND SKIRT PUCCI
BIKINI SET
SOL OF EOS SHOES
GISELI DIAZ
BODY SUIT
LEAK NYC
BIKINI BRIEFS VERSACE EARRINGS
SC COLLECTION
JEWELRY
SHOES
The Bold Age doesn’t end. It stalls in fluorescent bath rooms. It hums through blown-out speakers. It flickers in convenience store windows at 3 a.m. It tastes like lipstick on a paper cup and smells like gasoline and fake vanilla. You don’t exit The Bold Age—you live in it, endless ly styled, slightly off-center, always almost becoming.
Camera’s still rolling. No one says cut.
JACKET
JEAN PAUL GAULTIER
PANTS ALAIA
ALEXIS BITTAR
SAINT LAURENT
TOP AND BOTTOM SET BY JEAN PAUL
GAULTIER
EARRINGS ALEXIS
BITTAR
BRACELETS
SAMANTHA SIU
SHOES GISELI DIAZ
PHOTOGRAPHY—PETROS KOUIOURIS
MODEL—AWENG CHUOL
DIRECTOR—GIGI BURK
STYLING—FANI POLYCHRONIOU
HAIR—DAVEY MATTHEW
MAKEUP—ANASTASIA VAVINA
MAKEUP ASSISTANT—SARA JADE & MISA AKAMATSU
PHOTOGRAPHY ASSISTANT—TEAGUE SHOP
STYLING ASSISTANT—JULIZZA VIVAS
m/Other
Mother, other—how easily the words fracture.
One letter apart, a breath between roles, a lifetime between identities. She is the giver, the ghost, the foundation, the forgotten.
They call her mother when they need. They call her other when they don’t understand.
Early Signs You’re Listening to Yourself Again
GiGi Burk
You pause before answering.
Not because you’re unsure, but because you’re checking in.
You ask: Do I actually want to say yes?
You eat when you’re hungry.
Not because it’s “time.”
Not because it’s convenient.
But because your body asked ...and you listened.
You leave the room.
No explanation.
No drama.
ust the quiet decision to protect your nervous system.
You let yourself rest without guilt. No productivity hacks. No multitasking.
Just rest. Because you’re tired. And that’s enough.
You feel proud after doing nothing at all. No achievement. No content.
Just a quiet pride for honoring your limits.
This is what it means to come home to yourself. Not all at once.
But slowly, steadily ...one decision at a time. In the flesh.
KNOT ME UP
He had rope in the trunk and cologne from 1983 Said he used to sail but couldn’t stand the silence
Told me I looked like trouble on vacation
Asked if I needed help with anything at all I said no and handed him the rope
He looped it twice for no reason
Then sat on the bed like he meant to stay
PHOTOGRAPHER/EDITOR—
KIZZY KALU
MODEL—GIOVANNI CANELA
HAIR—NATHAN JUERGENSEN
MAKEUP—YUUI
PHOTOGRAPHER
Melting Point
KIZZY KALU
There’s a difference between frozen and holding it together. She was the latter, barely.
Black and white. Ice held in the mouth.
Not for shock. Not for seduction. Just a moment of pause — suspended, quiet, deliberate.
Melting Point is a study in proximity: of heat next to cold, tension next to release, skin next to stillness. Nothing breaks. Nothing spills. But it could.
The body is present, but not inviting. The gaze lingers, not for attention, but for control. Every image captures the in-between — not what happens, but what might. A cool jawline. Condensation. A breath held longer than necessary.
This isn’t about drama. It’s about friction.
How long can you stay composed while something inside you starts to shift?
The ice is temporary. The restraint is not.
PHOTOGRAPHY AND CREATIVE DIRECTION— BEX DAY
STYLING—OLIVER VOLQUARDSEN MUA—CLARE URQUHART AT JULIAN WATSON
HAIR—TOMI ROPPONGI AT JULIAN WATSON
PHOTOGRAPHY ASSISTANT—BURAK YASAR RETOUCH—MAY GLOBAL
By the time you arrive here, you’ve already wandered through fever dreams, forgotten faces, soft violence, and velvet truths. That’s exactly how we built this: a living, breathing artifact meant to haunt you a little.
A world curated in shadow, lit by instinct, and bound together by the quiet obsession to make something real.
I didn’t get here through clean lines or tidy milestones. I built this from wrong turns, late nights, city lights, and the art of starting over.
So take this with you.
Into the bath, the backseat, the airport, the afterparty. Fold it. Frame it. Rip it if you need to. It’s yours now.
WHO GIVES A FUCK
In the flesh,
GiGi Founder & Editor-in-Chief Women’s Magazine
PHOTO BY ROEG COHEN
Write a secret on this page.
The kind that makes you blush or breathe deeper. Tear it out. Burn it. Frame it. Leave it in a bathroom stall. It’s yours to free.
