Elle Fannıng A Star inBloom Summer
Rose of the
NoSmall Thing Arundhati Roy’s Return to Fiction
Swooningly Romantıc Dresses TheReturn of the Red Lip Vogue’sVery Own Flower!
Getaway JAM ROCK SWEETNESS, P. 150
MODEL IMAAN HAMMAM WEARS A LOEWE DRESS AND HAT.
franchise and a fresh new face, Chanel is redefining femininity in fragrance
OLI VE R HA D L EE P EA RC H. FASH I O N ED I TO R: SA RA MO O N V ES. HA I R , JAWA RA ; M A KEUP, EMI KANEKO. PRODUCED BY WALTERS PRODUCTIONS. SPECIAL TH ANKS TO KANOPI H OUS E .
BIG SPLASH Watermelon is a summerbeauty cure-all
MATERIAL CULTURE Jessica Kerwin Jenkins checks in on the craftcosmetics movement
OIL BOOM Essential oils are spilling over into the mainstream
OUTSIDE INTERESTS Ditch the studio and try one of these workouts under the sun
People Are Talkıng About 81
UP FRONT Rebecca Johnson’s cancer was caught early but left her with a reconstructed breast
NOSTALGIA Her mother’s job as a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art gave Lucy Ives a glimpse into a mysterious, adult world
Talking Fashion 58
ALL EYES ON Zoë Kravitz and Karl Glusman
LE CLICK! Paris’s Le Bon Marché goes digital
BAND OF BERETS Military millinery gets a downtown refresh for summer
KEEP THE FAITH How did Faith Connexion become the toast of Paris? Lynn Yaeger finds out
TV Stefanie Martini stars in the reboot of Prime Suspect
DESIGN Cabana magazine’s highly anticipated home-goods collection arrives
TNT High-society dames and bucking broncos leave Elisabeth TNT with Lone Stars in her eyes
Beauty & Health
CERTAIN WOMEN Wıth a new scent
ART From Brooklyn to Manhattan, the best outdoor art BOOKS This season’s mustreads explore fresh starts and new beginnings C O N T I N U E D >2 8
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TRAVEL Journey to two ecoluxury lodges in Africa
MOVIES Funny girls command summer blockbusters
Fashion &Features 87
SWEPT AWAY From child actress to sparkling ingenue, Elle Fanning is becoming one of Hollywood’s most uncanny and fascinating stars. By Nathan Heller
MOONLIGHT & ROSES The fall collections blossomed with otherworldly beauty. Photographed by Mikael Jansson
FIRST BLUSH Nathan Heller follows the fragrant trail of the
newly fashioned Vogue Anniversary Rose
IN FULL BLOOM Meet the young roses: the brightest lights of philanthropy and society
GOLD STANDARD From 1984 to Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Sonia Friedman is considered the Midas of theater producers. By Hadley Freeman
CENTER STAGE A diverse generation of young women is remaking the theater world. By Adam Green
INDIAN SUMMER Arundhati Roy delivers the follow-up to The God of Small Things 20 years later. By Daphne Beal
FINGERS ON THE PRINTS A new designer takes on Marni. By Luke Leitch
MASTER OF CEREMONIES Questlove is changing America’s culinary culture one food salon at a time. Tamar Adler reports
IN CONTROL Defying categorization, SZA is the most exciting artist of the year. By Rob Haskell
JAM ROCK SWEETNESS Imaan Hammam lights up the paradise of Jamaica
POOL PARTY Light, bright swim style is making a big splash! Serve—and savor—the tones of your favorite gelato
IN THIS ISSUE
LOUD MOUTH Red lipstick returns to the spotlight. Lena Dunham reports
Cover Look ELEGANT ELLE
BETWEEN THE LINES Stripes are the stars of the season
FINGERS ON THE PRINTS, P. 134 MODELS (FROM LEFT) FARETTA, ANSLEY GULIELMI, ELLEN ROSA, SAMILE BERMANNELLI, AND WALLETTE WATSON, ALL IN MARNI.
Elle Fanning wears a Valentino Haute Couture dress. To get this look, try: Infallible Total Cover Foundation in Classic Ivory, True Match Super Blendable Blush in Baby Blossom, Colour Riche Eyeshadow in Little Beige Dress, Infallible Silkissime Eyeliner in Highlighter, Voluminous Feline Mascara, Brow Stylist Kabuki Blender in Blonde, and Infallible Paints Lipcolor in Spicy Blush. All by L’Oréal Paris. Hair, Julien d’Ys for Julien d’Ys; makeup, Lauren Parsons. Details, see In This Issue. Photographer: Annie Leibovitz. Fashion Editor: Grace Coddington.
VOGUE JUNE 2017
ANNA WINTOUR Editor in Chief Creative Director DAVID SEBBAH Fashion Director TONNE GOODMAN Features Director EVE MACSWEENEY Market Director, Fashion and Accessories VIRGINIA SMITH Executive Fashion Editor PHYLLIS POSNICK Style Director CAMILLA NICKERSON International Editor at Large HAMISH BOWLES Fashion News Director MARK HOLGATE Creative Digital Director SALLY SINGER Creative Director at Large GRACE CODDINGTON FA S H I O N /A C C E S S O R I E S Fashion News Editor EMMA ELWICK-BATES Bookings Director HELENA SURIC Accessories Director SELBY DRUMMOND Editors GRACE GIVENS, WILLOW LINDLEY, ALEXANDRA MICHLER, EMMA MORRISON Menswear Editor MICHAEL PHILOUZE Associate Market Editors SARA KLAUSING, FRANCESCA RAGAZZI Associate Fashion Editors TAYLOR ANGINO, GABRIELLA K AREFA-JOHNSON, YOHANA LEBASI Fashion Writer RACHEL WALDMAN Fashion Market Assistant MADELINE SWANSON BEAUTY Beauty Director CELIA ELLENBERG Beauty Editor LAURA REGENSDORF Beauty Associate ZOE RUFFNER F E AT U R E S Culture Editor VALERIE STEIKER Senior Editors TAYLOR ANTRIM, LAUREN MECHLING, COREY SEYMOUR Entertainment Director JILLIAN DEMLING Arts Editor MARK GUIDUCCI Style Editor at Large ELISABETH VON THURN UND TAXIS Assistant Entertainment Editor SAMANTHA LONDON Assistant Editor LILAH RAMZI Features Assistant LAUREN SANCHEZ ART Executive Visual Director ANDREW GOLD Design Director AURELIE PELLISSIER ROMAN Art Director MARTIN HOOPS Associate Art Director NOBI K ASHIWAGI Designer JENNIFER DONNELLY Visual Director, Research MAUREEN SONGCO Visual Editor, Research TIM HERZOG Visual Director NIC BURDEKIN Senior Visual Editor LIANA BLUM Visual Producer ERINA DIGBY VOGUE.COM Digital Director ANNA-LISA YABSLEY Executive Editor KOA BECK Director of Engineering KENTON JACOBSEN Fashion News Director CHIOMA NNADI Director, Vogue Runway NICOLE PHELPS Executive Fashion Editor JORDEN BICKHAM Beauty Director CATHERINE PIERCY Art Director FERNANDO DIAS DE SOUZA Director of Visual Production and Development ALLISON BROWN Style Editor EDWARD BARSAMIAN Fashion News and Emerging Platforms Editor STEFF YOTK A Fashion News Editor MONICA KIM Senior Product Manager BEN SMIT Digital Content Manager OLIVIA WEISS Archive Editor LAIRD BORRELLI-PERSSON Senior Market Editor KIRBY MARZEC Market Editor ANNY CHOI Associate Market Editor ALEXANDRA GURVITCH Fashion News Writers BROOKE BOBB, EMILY FARRA, JANELLE OKWODU, LIANA SATENSTEIN Senior Beauty Editor K ATE BRANCH Associate Beauty Editor JENNA RENNERT Culture Editor ALESSANDRA CODINHA Senior Culture Writer JULIA FELSENTHAL Culture Writer PATRICIA GARCIA Living Editor VIRGINIA VAN ZANTEN Living Writer MADELEINE LUCKEL Staff Writer MARIA WARD Senior Visual Editor EMILY ROSSER Visual Editors SAMANTHA ADLER, RUBEN RAMOS Entertainment Media Editor SOPHIA LI Designer SARA JENDUSA Social Media Director LINDSEY UNDERWOOD Senior Social Media Manager LUCIE ZHANG Social Media Manager JULIA FRANK Associate Editor, Emerging Platforms NIA PORTER Visual Producer AMANDA BROOKS Production Manager MALEANA DAVIS Manager, Digital Analytics ZAC SCHWARTZ Producer IV Y TAN Senior Developers JEROME COVINGTON, GREGORY KILIAN Developers JASON CHOI, SIMONE HILL, BEN MILTON P R O D U C T I O N / C O P Y/ R E S E A R C H
Deputy Managing Editor DAVID BYARS Copy Director JOYCE RUBIN Research Director ANDREW GILLINGS Digital Production Manager JASON ROE Production Designer COR HAZELAAR Copy Managers ADRIANA BÜRGI, JANE CHUN Research Managers LESLIE ANNE WIGGINS, LISA MACABASCO, COURTNEY MARCELLIN Fashion Credits Editor IVETTE MANNERS S P E C I A L E V E N T S / E D I T O R I A L D E V E L O P M E N T/C O M M U N I C AT I O N S Director of Special Events EADDY KIERNAN Special Events Manager CARA SANDERS Special Events Associate BRITTANY DAULTON Editorial Business Director MIRA ILIE Associate Director, Operations XAVIER GONZALEZ Contracts Manager ALEXA ELAM Editorial Business Coordinator JESSECA JONES Associate Director of Logistics MIMOZA NELA Executive Director of Communications HILDY KURYK Director of Brand Marketing NEGAR MOHAMMADI Associate Director of Communications ZARA RAHIM Executive Assistant to the Editor in Chief CORINNE PIERRE-LOUIS Assistant to the Editor in Chief JASMINE CONTOMICHALOS European Editor FIONA DARIN European Fashion Associates CAMILA HENNESSY, ANTHONY KLEIN West Coast Director LISA LOVE West Coast Special Projects Editor CAMERON BIRD
Managing Editor JON GLUCK Executive Director, Editorial and Special Projects CHRISTIANE MACK CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
MIRANDA BROOKS, SARAH BROWN, SYLVANA WARD DURRETT, ADAM GREEN, ROB HASKELL, NATHAN HELLER, LAWREN HOWELL, CAROLINA IRVING, REBECCA JOHNSON, DODIE K AZANJIAN, CHLOE MALLE, 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, LYNN YAEGER
VOGUE JUNE 2017
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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 Managers COURTNEY CARROLL, REBECCA YOUNG Analysts, Sales Planning ALANA SCHARLOP, SHELBY CHRISTIE, CYDNEY ECKERT Campaign Manager ELAINA BELL
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VOGUE JUNE 2017
Letter from the Editor FLOWERS OF THE FLOCK FROM FAR LEFT: TOM STURRIDGE, OLIVIA WILDE, AND REED BIRNEY STAR IN SONIA FRIEDMAN’S 1984. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANTON CORBIJN. BELOW: VOGUE ANNIVERSARY ROSES. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ERIC BOMAN.
From Strong Roots THIS JUNE BRINGS TOGETHER TWO OF MY FAVORITE things in one issue—gardens and the theater. When we began discussing last year some new and original ways we could celebrate our 125th anniversary, Features Director Eve MacSweeney had the rather brilliant idea of creating a Vogue rose. As you will read in Nathan Heller’s ode to our very own flower (“First Blush,” page 112), it was handy that we like to plan well in advance at this magazine: Our creation took months and months to blossom, quite literally, and involved crisscrossing the country several times to work with farmers, breeders, and gardeners to develop it. (I spent many a features meeting inquiring about its condition and when it would finally be able to be photographed. Major Hollywood stars need less cultivation.) All of the discussion around the rose led us to think more tangentially about the subject. We photographed some young roses of a different kind—a new generation of smart, capable women who are out and about and engaged with the world in a way that does without the dreaded need to add the suffix “ite” to social (“In Full Bloom,” page 114). And it led us to shoot our cover star, Elle Fanning, in some of spring’s most gorgeous bloomed-and-sprigged dresses in spooky-pretty New Orleans (“Swept Away,” page 87). Elle was photographed by Annie Leibovitz and styled by Grace Coddington—because when one needs a romantic eye on fashion, it is always Grace that one turns to. Nathan Heller, who has been kept extraordinarily busy this month, traveled southward to meet this remarkable nineteen-year-old actress, and he returned as
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impressed with her as we are; it is admirable to see Elle at her relatively tender age defy categorization and classification as an actor, choosing instead to stretch herself with cutting-edge directors such as Mike Mills and Sofia Coppola. Lastly, we have another way of celebrating our 125th birthday in a year in which we’re profiling women who define our era in every issue. This month it is the turn of those who live and breathe theater—timing that is entirely deliberate, given that the Tony Awards take place in New York on June 11 (and as an enthusiastic member of the audience, I’m delighted at the unexpected choice of Kevin Spacey as host; perhaps he’ll go for the political jugular). The writer Hadley Freeman profiles the London-based producer Sonia Friedman (“Gold Standard,” page 120), who has enviable instincts as to what makes a play a cultural phenomenon; her 1984 opens on Broadway in June, just one of the fifteen shows she now has in production on both sides of the Atlantic. Meanwhile, Adam Green introduces some of the newest actors, directors, and playwrights (“Center Stage,” page 126) who are, as he puts it, storming the fortress of the boys’ club. Adam’s piece heralds the arrival of their impressive and compelling voices, to be sure—yet it also welcomes the triumph of diversity in today’s theatrical landscape.
Rebecca Johnson feels lucky. Her cancer was caught early. What she didn’t know, however, was how hard it would be to get comfortable with her reconstructed breast.
ast year, a man in Australia came across a round, rubbery object on the beach, about the size of a small tortilla. In a panic, he scooped it up into a plastic bag and hurried to the local police station, convinced a woman had been mutilated by a maniac who had prized her breast implant out of her body. The police had a good laugh when they saw the object. It was a jellyfish. That’s what I have implanted on the right side of my body—a silicone disc that’s a dead ringer for a jellyfish. I discovered I had breast cancer the way a lot of women do—a routine mammogram revealed a lump in the right breast. One out of every eight women in America will develop breast cancer at one point in her life, but for some reason, when the nurse came into to the waiting room to call “Ms.
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Johnson” back for a consultation, I just assumed it was someone else. In my defense, Johnson is a common name. The radiologist described the suspicious mass as pea-size and recommended a biopsy. I asked if I could see it. She turned the computer screen my way and there it was, a distinct circle suspended in a ghostly web of white, like the egg sac in a spiderweb. “Is it cancer?” I asked. The doctor turned the screen back to herself. I have noticed this about doctors— none of them wants to be the bearer of bad news. If they can pass the buck, they will, and really, who can blame them? What kind of life is it, telling people they’re U P F R O N T> 4 6 SHAPE-SHIFTER FOCUSED ON THEIR PATIENTS’ SURVIVAL, DOCTORS RARELY PREPARE THEM FOR THE JARRING SENSATION OF LIVING WITH A PROSTHETIC BODY PART. BLUE NUDE, 2000, BY TOM WESSELMANN.
TO M W ESSE LM A NN . B LU E NUDE , 2000. S I LK SC RE EN O N 100 P ERCEN T COT TO N RAG, 17˝ X 19˝. ART © ESTATE OF TOM WESSELMANN/LICENSED BY VAGA, NEW YOR K.
A STRANGER in My House
going to die sooner than they think? “We’ll need to do more testing,” she answered impassively. And that is what we did. More testing. The mammogram gave way to the sonogram, which gave way to the biopsy, which gave way to the MRI. It was like hitting the plus sign on Google Maps over and over, getting closer and closer to the target. Soon we would be able to read the writing on the garbage cans next to the back door. Initially, my surgeon had assured me I could get a lumpectomy and keep the breast, but as the results of the testing got grimmer, the prognosis changed. My tumors may have been tiny—more lentil than pea—but they were numerous. Four, to be exact. In the end, it was an Alice in Wonderland moment: “Off with her breast!”
he night before my mastectomy, I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror and held my right breast in my hand, like an old friend in need of comfort. Goodbye, I told it, thanking it for its years of service. Like every sentient woman in the First World, I have spent stupid hours bemoaning my physical flaws, but in all that time I could never think of anything bad to say about my breasts. Not too big, not too small. Not too droopy. During sex, they were a pleasant erogenous zone, and when it came time to breastfeed, they performed yeoman’s duty. I’d always thought men were a bit silly in their worship of breasts, but actually they are right. Breasts are wonderfully springy, joyful things. I had so much to be grateful for, but, of course, I only realized all that on the cusp of its loss. The problem with breast reconstruction after cancer is that you have to make your decision in the midst of all these other traumatic life and death decisions. Only after discussing the possibilities of chemotherapy, radiation, mastectomy, and statistical outcomes for survival are you asked to consider reconstruction, at which point you’re thinking, Who cares? What’s a breast compared with a life? On the other hand (assuming treatment is successful), you will have the rest of your life to live with that void on your chest, so you really do have to pay attention. Plus, reconstruction is the one area where you actually get to make your own choice, as opposed to treatment, where only a fool would decline to follow standard protocol (don’t get me started on alternative medicine). My options for reconstruction were (1) do nothing; (2) get an implant; (3) undergo a six-hour DIEP-flap (deep inferior epigastric perforator) surgery, in which a plastic surgeon removes flesh from the abdomen, assuming you have sufficient excess (not a problem!), and then painstakingly reconnects the blood vessels from your abdomen to the blood vessels in your chest, trying as best as possible to match the shape of the remaining breast. I considered declining reconstruction—I like the idea of being that indifferent to convention. On the Internet, you can see lots of pictures of women who made this decision.
They look proud, defiant, and like they could run an Ironman. That’s not me. I hate being the center of attention. If I had only one breast, anytime I wore anything formfitting, people would notice the lopsidedness. I was lucky not to need chemo, not just because I wasn’t going to have toxic chemicals dripped through my veins but also because I would not have to endure the sad face of strangers contemplating my bald head and its attendant message: “This person may be dead soon.” I know because I can’t help making the same sad face when I share an elevator with those bald people at Memorial Sloan Kettering, the hospital where I was treated. I was tempted by the idea of reconstructing the breast with my existing flesh by doing the DIEP-flap operation. The result would be soft and warm, like my own body, but, as with all the options, it would still initially be numb, like a lobotomized cousin who comes for dinner every night. Once the nerve endings are cut during the mastectomy, full, normal sensation never comes back. Shaving under your arm will forever after be a guessing game—you know a blade is scraping your flesh, but you can’t feel a thing. After DIEP surgery, you also need to spend three or four days in the hospital, the cost of which can run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars (although insurance pays for it, thanks to the Women’s Health and Cancer Rights Act of 1998). In a world where people are dying for lack of basic medical care, I could not fathom so much trouble just so I could have a soft breast. So, the silicone implant. But only one. There is a growing trend for women with low-risk cancer (Stage 1 and under) in a single breast to opt for a double mastectomy with reconstruction. In 2002, 4 percent of diagnosed women chose this option; in 2012, 13 percent of women did. The thinking is, they’ll never have to worry about cancer again and will get a great rack to boot. In reality, the risk of developing cancer in the healthy breast remains the same as if you have never had cancer. And as for the myth of the “great rack,” read on. If I had been tempted, a conversation with a friend of a friend put an end to that. “I can’t tell you how much I regret giving up that healthy breast,” she confided. “It was probably the biggest mistake of my life.” Each option, it turned out, was its own political minefield. Not long after I made my plan, I ran into an acquaintance who’d had a mastectomy but decided not to reconstruct her A-cup breast. After hearing about her diagnosis, I had lent her all the breast cancer books in my library, but when I told her I’d been diagnosed and opted for the implant she said, “Really? I didn’t think you were the type.” Meow! “Unlike you,” I answered, “I actually have breasts.” Not my finest moment. When I met with my plastic surgeon to discuss the operation, he explained there were two shapes of implants to choose from—round or teardrop. “I want the teardrop,” I told him confidently, imagining the fake-looking hockeypuck boobs on strippers’ chests. I looked at U P F R O N T> 4 8
I looked down at my handsome doctor’s polished Italian loafers and panicked. A man I did not know was going to choose my new breast?
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my husband for confirmation, but he only nodded, a ghastly expression on his face for which I couldn’t really fault him. “We’ll see,” the doctor answered. Apparently, some decisions get made on the operating table when the surgeon can finally see how the scar healed. Unfortunately, the person who will have to live with what is implanted in her body for the rest of her life is unconscious at that moment. I looked down at my handsome doctor’s perfectly polished Italian loafers and panicked. A man I did not know at all was going to choose my new breast? Suddenly, I regretted my impulse to always dress up for my appointments, something I did because my doctor’s office was right across the street from Barneys and sometimes I would wander in there to cheer myself up. But the Mikimoto pearls, the Marni jacket, the Robert Clergerie shoes, maybe they were sending the wrong message? The bulk of my days were spent in UGGs and yoga pants at a computer. “Listen,” I told him, “if I were a pair of shoes, I’d be Birkenstocks.” “So,” he answered, “comfort above all?” “Absolutely.” When I woke from surgery in the Evelyn H. Lauder Breast Center on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I released all my years of bitterness at paying $30 for a tube of lipstick. My room had marble floors, a killer view of Manhattan, and a private nurse who told me people beg to stay a few days longer. It took me weeks to look at my new breast. When I finally worked up the courage to give it a good, hard stare, I felt shock at all the angry red scars, followed by relief. The surgeon had gone with the round implant and done a lift on the other so the two would match. In a million years I never would have gotten a breast lift, but the look of it wasn’t bad (assuming you saw past the scars, which would eventually fade). The feel of it was the problem. In the doctor’s office, the implant had felt squishy and almost playful—like something you’d give a three-year-old to get her interested in science. But once it was placed under the muscles of my chest wall, it felt hard and strange and just wrong, worthy of a Germanic portmanteau word—Brustschmerzangst. Whenever I hugged my then ten-year-old son, the top of his head would hit it and I would wince, not from pain exactly, but from the physical dissonance of knowing something alien was in my body.
gel to slip its bonds and travel through my body, ending up somewhere around my ankles. Whenever I went to visit my oncologist for checkups, she would ask how things were going, and I would bite my tongue about the odious implant. She spent her days with people dying of cancer, and I had gotten off pretty easy in the cancer game. No chemo. No radiation. Just the mastectomy and the drug tamoxifen for the next ten years. To complain about an implant seemed churlish and ungrateful. “Fine,” I always lied. We don’t do a great job of preparing women for life without a breast. If a soldier loses her leg in combat, the whole world can see. If a woman loses her breast, she carries her scar in secret and rarely talks about it out loud. Angelina Jolie quite bravely told the world she was having a prophylactic double mastectomy and oophorectomy in order to avoid the cancer that killed her mother, grandmother, and aunt, but after that we heard little until the bombshell news of her divorce. While the tabloids were scratching away for clues to the marriage’s dissolution, I couldn’t help feeling that I understood better than most. Life after reconstruction isn’t just hard on the woman, it’s hard on the man who is with the woman. We’re weepy, we’re sad. We miss our breasts. I never felt like “less of a woman,” a stupid phrase if ever there was one, but I felt like less of a human because I had lost something I cared deeply about. When it came to sex, I was impossible. If my husband didn’t touch it, I accused him of being grossed out by it; if he did touch it, I was grossed out by the sensation of being touched but unable to feel. Aging brings its own depredations to the human body; this just felt like one more insult to deal with. The first time I undressed in the gym, I carefully covered the fake breast with a towel so no one could see, but now, almost two years after the surgery, I have come to a reluctant truce with my new breast. Our bodies are maps of our lives—I have a scar on my thigh from the time a thug pushed me off my bike on the Brooklyn Bridge, a chip on my front tooth from when I slipped on the wet tile of the YWCA pool, a long scar across my abdomen from the C-sections that yielded the greatest joys of my life (Hi, Simon! Hi, Toby!), and now I have these scars on my chest that bear witness to that brush with death. I’ve never liked the cancer-survivor metaphor and its implicit message that anyone who dies isn’t a warrior, as if cancer were simply a matter of will. I did not “battle” cancer; I meekly (sometimes snivelingly) followed every single thing the doctor said to do so that I could squeeze out as many years as possible on this planet. When I was told my remaining breast was cancer-free at my one-year-anniversary scan, I felt enormously lucky and grateful to every scientist and doctor who has worked to make breast cancer less of a death sentence. If the towel slips and someone sees the scar that tells that story, it’s not the end of the world.
When it came to sex, I was impossible. If my husband didn’t touch it, I accused him of being grossed out; if he did, I was grossed out
n the websites devoted to breast cancer, I read other women’s complaints about tightness and discomfort. One mentioned how weird it felt to go swimming in cold water, when the rest of your body stays at 98.6 degrees but the silicone hardens into an immovable lump. I am a tennis player. The moment during the serve when the racket makes contact with the ball while the arm is fully extended overhead is when I feel the implant the most. It’s like the plucking of a giant harp string. I never cease to wonder if everything is going to unravel at the point of impact, causing the unloved blob of
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Nostalgia Her Brilliant
CAREER Her mother’s job as a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art gave Lucy Ives a glimpse into a mysterious, adult world.
SCULPTURAL STYLE MODEL INGRID BOULTING IN GRÈS, PHOTOGRAPHED BY RICHARD AVEDON FOR VOGUE, 1970.
discovering a photograph of my mother taken a few years before I was born. In the image, my mother stands in a white room. She is laughing as I had never seen her laugh in life, completely taken by elation. Surrounding her are large-format photographs, presumably waiting to be hung on the walls. Some are still wrapped in paper, but two—showing beautiful women—are visible. One of the women is also laughing, almost as much as my mother. I later learned that this long-haired, gently disheveled, smoking and ring-wearing figure was the singer Janis Joplin—though for now she was just an anonymous subject who reminded me a little of myself. When I brought the picture to my mom, she told me that the photographs were by a man named Richard Avedon. In 1978 Avedon, a.k.a.“Dick,” had a retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where my mother worked as a curator. This was a standard mother-daughter conversation. There were many unusual objects in our Upper East Side apartment, and I was a wily sleuth. I was even beginning to believe— knowing nothing of the cost of child care—that my mother’s reason for sometimes bringing me with her to her office after school was that she wanted my assistance. We traveled, hand in hand, from the neighborhood’s upper reaches to Fifth Avenue and the Met’s imposing neoclassical façade. As we ascended the steps together, I believed that the building belonged to us. Only we knew about the unfinished blocks at the tops of the grand columns—meant to become figures personifying the four great periods of art, from Ancient to Modern, but never carved. This was the power of the museum: It could hide a flaw in plain sight and look magnificent while doing so. My mother and I proudly entered, making our way to my mother’s department. She was a specialist in European drawings and prints, and her office was accessible via a secret door in the wall of one of the galleries, which she opened using a key, often in full sight of gawking tourists. We’d pass through a study room, into the haven of my mother’s private work space. The smell was of ancient papers, leather, inks, and resins. I did homework or looked through my mother’s collection of antique doorknobs, keys, and keyhole covers. She liked to
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purchase these odds and ends at European flea markets. I had no idea what they meant to her. Later, museum closed and workday done, we exited the departmental warren and descended through the empty, darkened building. We passed shadowy busts and portraits, obscure arms and armor, sacred objects visible only in outline. These walks, sometimes up or down staircases inaccessible to the public, would reappear in my dreams. Sometimes it would be impossible to find my way out of the museum; or a work of art might come, disconcertingly and messily, to life. In reality, we always reached an exit without incident. In one subterranean storage hall, passing a giant two-dimensional reproduction of a blue hippopotamus sculpture from ancient Egypt nicknamed “William” by the staff, we’d even salute. My mother’s heels clicked reassuringly. This was her place. These are my most vivid childhood memories. Of course, there were privileges: an early viewing of the immense Christmas tree along with the intricate, miniature crèche, put out every year without fail in the medieval hall; my mother’s ability to give the occasional tour to my grade-school class, an event that filled me with pride. However, it was the incidental things I cherished: eating lunch in the staff cafeteria, looking through my mother’s suitcase after she’d come home from a business trip. These moments impressed upon me the dignity and solace of work. The institution encompassed my mother; it seemed to support her at every turn. Dinner conversation with my father revealed a different side of the job: other people. There was the macho curator who always had to get his way, flaunting N O S TA L G I A > 5 6 VOGUE.COM
INGRID BOULTING, DRESS BY GRÈS, PARIS, JANUARY 26, 1970 © THE RICHARD AVEDON FOUNDATION
I RECALL, AS A GIRL OF EIGHT OR NINE,
Nights at the Museum
the economic superiority of his specialty and mocking my mother’s lowly prints and illustrated books. There were also regular updates on Brooke Astor, the late heiress, with whom my mother lunched from time to time—and here the tone of the report shifted. Mrs. Astor was extraordinary; the chauvinist was forgotten amid reflections about Mrs. Astor’s palatial apartment, the pleasantness of her conversation. Sometimes celebrities appeared, requesting tours. There was the week of Brad Pitt. Despite repeated entreaties, all my mother would say was that he seemed “attentive.” I knew from the Avedon installation picture that my mother’s life at the museum had been different before my time, maybe more surprising. It was, after all, her first big job. She’d fled a difficult family situation in San Diego and taken a master’s in art history at Columbia. Here she’d met my father, who was studying law and had previously worked construction on the side. They’d made a go of it. My mother changed her first name as well as her last in marriage, and my father left behind Yonkers and his working-class roots. My mother had the physical gifts that permit self-transformation: She was slender, with sweet, symmetrical features and beguiling brown eyes. She made powerful friends, including the philanthropist Lincoln Kirstein, and rose quickly through the ranks at the Met, becoming the director of her department. She met Andy Warhol. “But what was Andy like?” I demanded to know. I was a teenager now, and the 1990s had brought renewed hunger for Warhol’s commodified irony. Even Kurt Cobain seemed to be modeling himself on the Factory magus. “Weird,” my mother said. “Quiet.”
transformed, at nightfall. I continued to grow away from her, at first physically, then creatively. I became obsessed with drawing, a pursuit my mother discouraged vehemently when a high school teacher suggested I apply to art school. I would go often to the museum on Friday afternoons to work on my sketches. I no longer bothered to venture up to my mother’s office; I came alone and sat alone and left without her. After I was accepted at Harvard, the polar opposite of art school, my mother began taking me with her on research trips, perhaps because I was a good sounding board or perhaps to keep an eye on me. We went to London, Paris, Australia, and French Polynesia. Our last trip, an inquiry into Paul Gauguin’s final days on the remote island of Hiva Oa, was challenging. I was tailed by wild dogs when I foolishly attempted to visit the artist’s grave alone, and my mother came close to drowning.
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COU RT ESY OF CO LTA I V ES
y this time, my mother and I disagreed on many topics. Not least among these was my appearance. All my clothing BALANCING ACT was deemed too tight. My eye makeup THE AUTHOR’S MOTHER, COLTA IVES (SECOND FROM LEFT), was eternally inappropriate, what my INSTALLING AVEDON PORTRAITS AT THE MET, 1978. mother termed “your Cleopatra eyes,” a mild dig This episode took place on a volcanic beach, where we were I tried to take as a compliment, given the Met’s spectacular walking. I don’t know why my mother decided to swim, but Egyptian collection. Meanwhile, I was athletic, verging on swim she did, and was caught in a rip current. Our host, MonAmazonian, or so I felt. By age twelve, I was already passing my mother in height. I played three sports. My face came from sieur Gaby, and I stood on the shore, watching with mounting my father. His Assyrian-Iranian and Polish features—dark horror. “Swim to the side!” Gaby yelled, probably in French. hair, broad face, pronounced nose—had won out over Mom’s Eventually all was well, but in that petrifying moment I saw German-WASP blend. In spite of my apparently British last clearly and for the first time the distance between my mother name—in fact an Ellis Island corruption of my paternal and me. It wasn’t just the fast-moving ocean. grandfather’s Ivas—everyone assumed I was of Eastern EuLater, after my mother had staggered back to land, we all ropean descent and Jewish. Among friends’ families I usually stood staring at one another. I felt as if I was meeting her smoothed over any confusion by preemptively proclaiming for the first time. Gaby, meanwhile, seemed ready to depart. that I had no religious education at all, which was true. We piled into his SUV. As the vehicle bounded up the lush mountainside, I reflected on what an odd couple we must apOnly later did I understand how fully one can reinvent oneself in New York City, particularly with a good partner in pear: the brooding daughter wandering off into an overgrown metamorphosis, as it were. In my mother’s case, I was never cemetery; the sociable mother nearly swept out to sea. Or entirely sure if that partner was my father or the museum perhaps we were not so much “odd” as inverses, I thought, itself, which during certain periods seemed to consume her mirror images. whole each morning, spitting her out again, mysteriously But what a strange and difficult mirror it was.
Talking Fashion EDITORS: MARK HOLGATE & MARK GUIDUCCI
ALL EYES ON
KRAVITZ IN CÉLINE AND GLUSMAN IN A LANVIN OVERCOAT.
CERTAIN HOLLYWOOD COUPLES debut their romance with a tabloid shot heard round the world—and then there are those who casually slink onto the scene and into each other’s arms. Consider Zoë Kravitz and Karl Glusman, poster children for the latter. Last fall, the pair were spotted hand in hand at a private Kings of Leon concert (Cara Delevingne, Lily Aldridge, and Dakota Johnson also attended), and soon after came a stream of couples Instagrams. In October, the Nocturnal Animals star quite literally cemented his relationship status with Kravitz by posting a photo of her standing beside fresh pavement with her name scrawled on it. Together, Glusman, ethereal with wide-set eyes, and Kravitz, a downtown goddess, make for a duo with serious fashion chops. At Saint Laurent’s last show, they appeared to have stepped off the catwalk and into their front-row seats. Earlier that week, Kravitz looked the antithesis of her crunchy Big Little Lies character at the Vanity Fair Oscar party, every bit the twenty-first-century vamp in Armani Privé with a Pepto pink–tressed Glusman on her arm. Despite their relationship’s fledgling status, the two seem to fit each other like a perfect pair of vintage blue jeans. —LILAH RAMZI TA L K I N G FA S H I O N > 6 2
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A LO CE BA LLOS/G ET T Y I MAG ES
Zoë Kravitz and Karl Glusman
Talking Fashion RITA ORA IN VINTAGE KANGOL.
AUDREY GELMAN IN VINTAGE.
Military millinery gets a downtown refresh for summer.
Le Bon Marché, with its iconic orange bags, has been unleashing shopping endorphins since it opened its Rive Gauche doors in 1852, and this month the department store, armed with the luxury might of the entire LVMH group, which owns it, launches a global shopping site called 24 Sèvres to build on its legacy. In addition to Bon Marché’s famed curation, 24 Sèvres will be stocking both Louis Vuitton and Dior—two titans that have until now been largely absent from the e-commerce space. The site (and a corresponding app) offers everything from a Laura Mercier compact ($75) to an Yves Salomon mink bomber ($13,000) with a singular focus. “We wanted to make this visually based,” says Ian Rogers, LVMH’s chief digital officer, “with an elevated social-media presence.” (There’s also a team of Parisian fashion experts available via video chat: Imagine those decisive and believable ouis and nons.) A 75-piece capsule collection—which combines the talents of 68 stocked maisons (including Chloé, Proenza Schouler, Givenchy, and Prada) and contemporary Parisian creatives—debuts just in time to celebrate the launch. Note the art de vivre of Loewe’s hammock bag emblazoned with an illustration by Jonathan Anderson’s collaborators at the creative agency M/M—or the Courrèges motocross jacket adorned with a print by artist Chloe Wise. Rogers has given the nascent site an early test-drive, sending a PARISIENNE sweatshirt by Maison Kitsuné to his daughter in California. With such petits trésors now just a click away, now we will truly always have Paris.—EMMA ELWICK-BATES
RIHANNA IN DIOR.
BEYONCÉ IN GUCCI.
24/7 HERO MIU LADY BAG BY MIU MIU, REIMAGINED IN ROYAL BLUE, IS A 24 SÈVRES EXCLUSIVE. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.
TALI LENNOX IN VINTAGE.
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ST I LL LI FE : COU RT ESY O F MI U M I U. GE LM A N : B EN JA MI N LOZOVSKY/ B FA / REX /S HUTTERSTOCK. ORA: MAR K MILAN/GETTY IMAGES. RI H A NN A : CHR I ST I A N V I E RI G/G E T TY IM AG ES. BEYO N CÉ : A KM- G SI . L EN N OX : DAV ID X PRUTTING/BFA/R EX/SH UTTERSTOCK.
How did the amorphous— and anonymous—fashion collective Faith Connexion become the toast of Paris? Lynn Yaeger ﬁnds out.
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veryone but Thomas Monet has gone to Tahiti or the Caribbean or some other sunny clime. It is the day after the Faith Connexion fall 2017 show in Paris, and the rest of the design collective responsible for putting vast bejeweled cardigans, minuscule punk-lace frocks, and Easter chick–yellow faux-fur coats on the runway have flown the coop for parts unknown. Which is why the bearded Monet, who is leaving for Bali next week, is the sole representative available to describe this dynamic, street-infused line. But he makes it clear he is speaking for the entire gang—a young, multinational crew who specialize in such arcane tasks as deconstructing tailored pieces and piling froufrou upon once-simple knitwear. We are seated at a small table next to the incredibly busy showroom, where buyers are clamoring for brocade tuxedo coats, leather drainpipe trousers, and sweatshirts with sleeves reading TA L K I N G FA S H I O N > 6 6 VOGUE.COM
TO M JO HN SON . SI T T I N GS E D I TO R: KA R EN K A I SE R. HA I R, TA MAS T UZES; M A KEU P, J EN MYLES. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.
Keep the FAITH
PANTS ON FIRE MODEL GRACE ELIZABETH WEARS A FAITH CONNEXION CARDIGAN ($2,190), T-SHIRT ($150), AND PANTS ($1,240); FAITHCONNEXION .COM. PUMA SNEAKERS.
WITH THE BAND MODELS BACKSTAGE AT FAITH CONNEXION’S FIRST RUNWAY SHOW IN PARIS IN MARCH.
that London or Paris or Los Angeles “is my hometown.” Monet himself is a walking billboard for the company’s sensibility. Clad in a repurposed vintage pajama top, a beat-up Perfecto, and his trademark self-customized jeans, he stands in contrast to the opulence of the surroundings. Faith Connexion’s atelier is currently based in the elegant Hôtel de Pourtalès, in view of the Madeleine. (It is a location that has gained notoriety as the site of the harrowing Kim Kardashian robbery.) “We are doing something together,” Monet says. “We are bringing energies together!” Not just energies but actual personnel: Faith Connexion heartily rejects the model of most high-end brands, which employ a single star designer, in favor of a loosely organized collective—a conceit that might be described, to paraphrase that hoary fashion icon Karl Marx, as “from each according to his—or her—ability.” In this case, the ability refers to the lightning skill at which a tagger signs a pair of jeans or an embellisher creates a giant, glittery Byzantine cross. The invisible hand pulling at least some of the literal strings at Faith Connexion is Christophe Decarnin, formerly the designer for Balmain, and the guy responsible for the revolutionary reinvention of that house in 2006. After five whirlwind years of feathered minidresses, ersatz-military overcoats, and a vast array of artfully wrecked denim, Decarnin left Balmain in 2011. Though the collective is reluctant to discuss his exact role, he remains a backstage presence at Faith Connexion, a ghost in the machine, hovering over the line’s distinctive urban-couture sensibility. It is an aesthetic that fully embraces the notion of gender-nonspecific clothing and that flaunts a fierce commitment to artisanal detail, even if this means not Lesage embroideries but T-shirts hand-painted with slogans like protect earth. The company’s owner, the loquacious Alexandre Allard, says he thinks the idea of a single designer is not just passé but also slightly depressing. “I always had a problem with the idea that there would be only one amazing designer—I think this is a concept that is going to disappear!” he declares. “We need to give a chance to more creative people.” Allard likens Decarnin to a composer allowing people in the Faith Connexion “orchestra” to create their own masterpieces. This orchestra will soon be playing in New York, when a flagship in SoHo opens this summer. Of course, it won’t be a conventional boutique: A juice machine from Jean-Georges is on order; neighborhood seamstresses may be recruited to create individualized embroidered flourishes; a rotating cast of artists will be on hand to decorate your jeans or your tee while you wait. “This is a new magic!” Allard says. And in these fraught times, when the earth seems to be shifting under our feet, when all of our assumptions are suddenly up in the air, who doesn’t want a magical one-of-a-kind fringed jacket, joyously tagged and glittering with crazy paste jewels, to at least give the illusion of keeping you happy and safe? TA L K I N G FA S H I O N > 6 8 VOGUE.COM
CO REY T E NO LD
High-society dames and bucking broncos leave Elisabeth TNT with Lone Stars in her eyes.
Santo Domingo, Poppy Delevingne, Coco Brandolini.
Next we jetted off to Houston, where we were joined by born-and-bred Houstonian Allison Sarofim. She gave us a tour of the stunning Menil Collection and an invitation for tea and ginger biscuits at the home of the grande dame of Texas socialites, Lynn Wyatt. Flawlessly turned out as all Texan women are, with a fresh lick of red lips and perfect platinum hair, Wyatt chatted to us about our trip while her two large Warhol portraits gazed back at me. And then we were off to the races—well, the rodeo—and arrived just in time to meet one of the sport’s biggest stars, multiple world champion Kelly Timberman, a blue-eyed
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COUNTRY STRONG TOP: FRIEND AND GUIDE LACEY DORN TOOK ME FOR A RIDE BEYOND CIRCLE RANCH. ABOVE: THE RODEO BLEW MY BAVARIAN MIND.
hunk from Wyoming, who told us he’s one of the oldest riders in the business—and by old he meant 41. Signing autographs were riders from all disciplines: bullfighting, bareback, tiedown roping, steer wrestling. One young steer wrestler smiled at me and said he could not imagine doing anything else. The rodeo girls were a sight, too, with their tucked shirts and rhinestone-studded bell-bottom jeans, their long hair spilling out from under cowboy hats. There was one last essential stop on my Texan tour: Rocky Carroll, boot-maker to eight U.S. presidents. Even Elizabeth Taylor had her boots made by Rocky, hers involving nine-carat diamonds, of course. No surprise the man was not fazed by measuring the feet of a real princess—but he did enjoy addressing me as such. (How he knew I have no idea.) “Princess, I’m gonna make you the perfect boot.” The longer I talked to Rocky, the more excited I got to stomp around a few castles in my new pair. I may even let them walk me back to Texas! Let’s go, boots! VOGUE.COM
FRO M TO P : COURT ESY O F T N T; SCOTT DA LTON
TEXAS STOLE MY HEART, OR MAYBE I JUST DROPPED it somewhere whizzing along those arrow-straight roads, wind in my hair, that extraordinary light bathing everything in a golden hue. I took the plunge with Lacey Dorn, a seventhgeneration Texan whom I had met at my cousin’s art opening in London, and our first stop was her uncle’s ranch near El Paso. There were red mountains on the horizon, a few wonky signposts . . . and nothing else. The emptiness made me gasp. A proud West Texan, her uncle gave us the grand tour. From his jeep we spotted coyotes, longhorn sheep, and quail before stopping for a delicious mountaintop picnic. Then he let us try out his elegant white-gripped revolver, which, he told us, “won the West.” Turns out we have quite the shooting skills, Lacey and I, even though I hadn’t held a gun since I was a child. A few nights later we were in Marfa, the famous little desert town technically off the beaten track but very much on track with anyone in the know. Taking in a sunset at Donald Judd’s Chinati Foundation has made it hard to imagine looking at a regular white-cube gallery the same way again. There was so much great art to see, not to mention a few drinks to be had with a gaggle of New York and European friends—Lauren
Beauty EDITOR: CELIA ELLENBERG
Wıth a new scent franchise and a fresh new face,Chanel is redeﬁning femininity in fragrance.
hen Kristen Stewart shaved off her choppy, chin-grazing strands in early March, leaving behind a prickly fuzz tinted a shade of icy corn silk, there seemed to be a brief moment when the world—as far as it exists on celebrity-news feeds—stopped spinning. “Circumstances really just worked out, because I had been wanting to do it forever,” the 27-year-old actress reveals a few weeks post–buzz cut from the New Orleans set of her new film, Underwater. A close shave made logistical sense for the big-budget, action-packed drama, which requires Stewart to be in mechanical-engineer B E A U T Y >74 PERFUME GENIUS IN HER FIRST FRAGRANCE CAMPAIGN FOR THE FRENCH HOUSE, ACTRESS KRISTEN STEWART CHANNELS THE REBELLIOUS SPIRIT OF GABRIELLE CHANEL BEFORE SHE WAS COCO. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARIO TESTINO.
owever you slice it, watermelon is nearly synonymous with warm-weather picnics and afternoons on the beach. But the electric-pink après-barbecue treat also happens to be packed with vitamins and lycopene—a potent antioxidant that helps counteract UV damage—which has made it a buzzy new addition to everything from the sweet jerky in Sakara Life’s cultish organic-meal-delivery service to a Beyoncé-backed cold-pressed-juice brand, and now skin care. “It’s Korea’s favorite fruit,” says Sarah Lee, cofounder of Glow Recipe, the online destination for natural K-beauty products. Lee’s mother used to grate refrigerated watermelon rind to soothe sunburns and acne irritation, which helped inspire the Watermelon Glow Sleeping Mask in the brand’s debut product range. The cooling, clear gel treatment—with visible chunks of locally sourced Korean watermelon rind— delivers a burst of plumping hydration and can be rinsed off for a quick dose of moisture, or worn overnight following a long day spent in the summer sun.—ZOE RUFFNER
JUICY FRUIT ULTRA-HYDRATING AND LOADED WITH ANTIOXIDANTS, WATERMELON IS A SUMMER BEAUTY CURE-ALL. THE COMFORT OF WATERMELON, BY ANA MERCEDES HOYOS, 1993.
FRAG RA NC E: COU RT ESY O F CH A NE L. I N G RE DI E NT: A N A M ERCED ES HOYOS. TH E CO MFO RT O F WATE RME LO N , 1993. O I L ON CA N VAS. P RI VATE COL LECT I O N. P HOTO: © CH RI ST I E ’S I MAG ES/ B RI DG EM AN IMAGES.
garb—with helmet—for much of its running novel. But perhaps it’s time to reassess how time. Plus, the streamlined style has been we apply this term in a beauty context. “It’s essential to conveying a certain “strength” not girlie or frilly in any way,” insists Stewon-camera, she reveals—the kind needed art, who will star as the face of the perfume, by an unlikely heroine who must overout in September. Instead, the golden bevcome a cataclysmic chain of events. But eled bottle conjures what she describes as Stewart wants to make one thing clear: It Chanel’s “basic essence”—what the French is by no means intended to read as mascall insoumission, a word that falls someculine. “Immediately after I did it, I felt where between rebelliousness and disobeundeniably feminine,” she explains. The dience in English, although Stewart’s own definition, having an “unshakable”quality, decolletage-exposing look has also made her more accurately describes it. feel longer and leaner, subsequently opening FLOWER POWER THE NEW SCENT FEATURES A GOLDEN In her role as a Chanel ambassador, her up to wearing brighter colors, new neckBEVELED BOTTLE AND A STANDOUT Stewart has been indoctrinated into the lines, and a surprising fragrance that refuses TUBEROSE NOTE DISTILLED FROM CHANEL’S PRIVATE GARDENS lore surrounding the French house’s foundto be pigeonholed as just another floral. IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. “It smells really good—particularly on er: She has toured Mademoiselle’s Paris me,” Stewart says with a laugh while disapartment, and she has been brought up to speed on the trysts and turns that helped take her from an cussing Gabrielle, Chanel’s first blockbuster scent franchise orphaned cabaret singer to a milliner, couturier, perfumer, in fifteen years. As someone whose own olfactory history has brand builder, and an all-around expectations-defier whose precarious roots—“To be quite honest, I love Old Spice”—the legend continues to resonate with women globally 107 years Twilight star turned Cannes darling wasn’t necessarily the after she opened her first store on the Rue Cambon. But woman perfumer Olivier Polge had in mind when he started the way Stewart connects to Chanel’s nonconformity feels work on the jasmine, orange-flower, and ylang-ylang blend refreshingly unsponsored. “It’s hard to speak about yourself that includes an exclusive strain of creamy tuberose distilled in that way, but I like to imagine that I act on my own accord, from Chanel’s private gardens in Grasse. But Gabrielle, the and there’s nothing really exterior that would derail the deepfragrance, much like its namesake, Gabrielle Chanel—before she was Coco—is hard to pin down. est things that keep me going,” she acknowledges of her own In our increasingly gender-agnostic society, where fragrancdriving force. “I feel kind of worthy of it at this point in my life,” Stewart says of Gabrielle’s unapologetic scent profile. es are skewing increasingly unisex, billing something as delib“Which is a great feeling.”—CELIA ELLENBERG B E A U T Y >7 6 erately feminine, as Polge has with his latest creation, is almost
STATE OF THE ART MODEL JULIA BERGSHOEFF IN THREAD AND FLOCK LIDS AND BROWS BY MAKEUP ARTIST PAT MCGRATH. PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHARLOTTE WALES. BACKGROUND: FELT SWATCHES.
y two daughters, now seven and a half and almost ten, are heartbeats away from outgrowing those peak crafting years when we would while away the hours at the dining-room table, snipping and gluing delicate tulles and feathers, and trimming doll clothes with my collection of antique ribbons. Truthfully, I’m a little wistful about what will become of these glittering mementos, all crammed into an overstuffed closet at our home in Maine, though if the latest runways are any indication, they may find a second life in an unlikely place: my makeup bag.
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The very concept of cosmetics has been stretched in recent seasons by artists like Pat McGrath, who wound a length of colorful string from brow to nose bridge at Maison Margiela’s spring couture show. Since the early nineties, McGrath’s nontraditional makeup kit has included strips of chain mail (a gift from Donatella Versace), faux fur, and anything else she might find in designers’ ateliers. “When you have the freedom to create a look from experimental materials, a realm of limitless possibility opens,” says McGrath. There is also a practicality in choosing colorful cat-eye paper cuttings over more traditional pencils and gel pots, she admits. “Drawing on eyeliner is labor intensive!” Thanks to platforms like Instagram, a new generation of fans and followers—more than a million of them—have been emboldened by McGrath’s techniques, making things like the Swarovski-studded mouth she debuted for John Galliano fifteen years ago (and later reprised for Raf Simons), “a basic,” she says, bemused. This willingness to supplement lipsticks and eye-shadow palettes with items gleaned from the world of high fashion—or online, which is where Erin Parsons picked up the flocking powder she used for the Muppet-like red lids and lips at LRS’s fall show—is a confirmation that “the fear of makeup is totally gone,” says Peter Philips. The creative and image director of Dior Makeup, who brought an elfin twinkle to the house’s spring couture runway with strategically placed star-shaped sequins, also credits social media for the cosmetics coup. YouTube daredevils have taken cues from the pros, proliferating the trend by gluing on everything from wildflower lashes to crystal tears (see also: Alessandro Michele’s fall Gucci show). Our collective audacity has rarely been so evident, yet why now? Does decorating the face deliver that crafty catharsis people seek when taking up knitting? Or do homespun materials lend comfort in a climate of polarized politics? McGrath recalls another era when beauty turned wild: London’s punk scene, with its visceral expression of social unrest. “You don’t put safety pins through your face as a reaction to feeling safe and sound,” she says. Even so, this latest incarnation of extreme beauty has a uniquely folksy vibe, offering what we desire most in uncertain times: joy. Uplifting creativity is what women crave right now, according to Georgie Greville, a cofounder of Milk Makeup, which debuted a series of Tattoo Stamp styluses made of face-safe ink in peace symbols, hearts, stars, and smiley faces earlier this year. As Greville, a busy working mother who often wears a small stamped heart on her cheek like a New Wave beauty mark, explains, “That’s what makes us feel alive.” B E A U T Y >7 8
SITTINGS ED ITOR : EMILIE KAR EH . H AIR , TOMO J IDAI; MAKEUP, PAT MCGRAT H. BACKGROUND : STEVE GORTON/GETTY IMAGES. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSU E .
As the definition of makeup grows to include everything from felt and string to sequins and stamps, Jessica Kerwin Jenkins checks in on the craft-cosmetics movement.
Once the domain of health-food stores and hippie aunts, essential oils are spilling over into the mainstream, with dedicated workshops being held everywhere from Los Angeles to New York. At a dinner party I recently attended, the chic woman sitting next to me whipped out a tiny rollerball and twirled it on her temples. “Cannabis oil, mixed with peppermint and sage,” she explained. “It makes me less tense around the jaw.” When applied topically to the pulse points, inhaled, or even ingested, these superpotent plant extracts pack a one-two punch: The scent affects mood, while the plant medicines can have an impact on physiology. An increasing number of peer-reviewed medical studies have shown that certain oils—cinnamon, eucalyptus, and rosemary, for example—have an antibacterial effect, and a study published earlier this year showed that geranium and rose oils may raise estrogen levels in perimenopausal women. Desperate for a solution to my tension headaches, I visited the SoHo studio of Oceana Baity, a yoga instructor and acupuncturist who has started leading essential-oil classes. For 45 heady minutes, Baity diffused a springy grapefruit and bergamot oil into the air, then pressed something zingy and herbaceous into the tips of my ears. I felt a little silly but also, I had to admit, relaxed. The best part? One week later, I’m still headache-free.—JULIE BUNTIN
SCENIC ROUTES CLOCKWISE FROM TOP RIGHT: SAN FRANCISCO’S GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE; LOVE YOGA INSTRUCTORS; SANTA MONICA BEACH; PHOTOGRAPH BY JORG BADURA FOR VOGUE, 2004.
t used to be that an outdoor workout meant going for a jog or rustling up a tennis partner. Thanks to an array of inventive new offerings on the fitness scene, you can finally get your grade-A instruction along with some vitamin D. Manhattan stalwarts Sky Ting Yoga and New York Pilates are pairing up to stage Abs Arms Ass and Grass classes in Nolita’s Elizabeth Street Garden. Across town, on the West Village’s Charles Street Pier, Bandier’s editorpacked Studio B offers cardio and sculpting classes. All about props? Look no further than San Francisco’s Kokoda, a mobile boot camp whose trainers set up rowing machines and squat racks in Crissy Field and Oakland’s Lake Merritt, rain or shine. In Los Angeles, head to VeniceBeach, where cult studio Love Yoga’s instructors Kyle Miller and Sian Gordon lead classes to the sounds of the Pacific Ocean. You can also climb Runyon Canyon with the Wildfire Initiative, whose weekly Walk & Talk offering blends breath work, meditation, and qigong with vigorous hiking. The air just got a little fresher.—Z.R. VOGUE.COM
HE A LT H: VO I SI N/P H A NI E/G E TT Y I MAGES ; B EAU T Y: C LO C KW I S E FRO M TO P RI G HT: MARCEL MA LHE RBE /I A I F/ REDUX ; M I KI AS H/ LOVE YOGA ; ST EV E P ROE HL/G ET T Y I MAG ES
People Are Talking About
MACI EK P OŻO GA . SI T T I NG S ED I TO R: A N N A SC HI FFE L. HA I R, A LEX A N D ER SO LT ERM ANN; MAKEUP, J O FROST. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.
EDITOR: VALERIE STEIKER
In a 1970s-set reboot of Prime Suspect, Stefanie Martini brings Jane Tennison’s early years to life.
’m a country girl, from North Somerset,” admits Stefanie Martini. “When I was seventeen, I went to the National Youth Theatre in London and it was like in The Hobbit—the first time I’d been out of the shire. I realized there was this whole other world I could be a part of.” So she jumped in: Two years ago she was an unknown drama student at RADA; a year later, she was starring as the immaculately virtuous heroine of Julian Fellowes’s Doctor Thorne (“She was too nice and had no flaws; I struggled with that”). From there, she went on to play the vengeful Lady Ev in Emerald City. Now the 26-year-old is enjoying her highestprofile role yet as the lead in Prime Suspect: Tennison (PBS’s Masterpiece), the prequel to the landmark 1990s show about Jane Tennison, a flinty London police inspector played by Helen Mirren who battled crooks, sexist colleagues, and her own demons. In this new series, set in 1973, Martini is an
eager uniformed rookie cop from a well-to-do family who starts off wide-eyed but, while investigating murder, discovers her own inner steel. “It was scary,” she says of filling Dame Helen’s shoes, “but I wasn’t really playing the same character. The point of the show is how my Tennison gets to where Helen Mirren’s is.” A North Londoner these days, Martini spends her offhours doing “lots of yoga” and hitting coffeehouses with her friends. She recently finished shooting a fifties-style Agatha Christie mystery alongside Glenn Close and Christina Hendricks—“I had to keep from fan-girling too hard”—and, she tells me, looks forward to playing characters with some dark edges. This would come as no surprise to Prime Suspect: Tennison’s director, David Caffrey. “Stefanie has that level of innocence and that level of ambition,” he says. “She looks delicate, but she’s as tough P ATA > 8 2 as a pair of old boots.”—JOHN POWERS
THE ACTRESS IN AN EMILIO PUCCI TRENCH COAT AND A SEE BY CHLOÉ TOP.
VOGUE JUNE 2017
People Are Talking About
Just after the Public Art Fund brought Anish Kapoor’s spellbinding work Descension, an endless spiral of dark water that leads to nowhere, to Brooklyn Bridge Park comes their artful intervention at City Hall Park. This month, Estonian artist Katja Novitskova installs seven otherworldly sculptures in the downtown green space. Embossed on sheets of aluminum, each work depicts celestial and terrestrial imagery that plays into our collective picture and technology obsessions. Meanwhile in midtown, Josiah McElheny creates a haven for spontaneous expression in Madison Square Park with three pieces in painted wood and prismatic glass: a curvilinear wall to enhance music, a reflective floor for dance, and pavilions for poetry—public art for public consumption.—LILAH RAMZI
KATJA NOVITSKOVA’S RENDERING FOR EARTH POTENTIAL, 2017.
The highly anticipated debut collection of home goods by cultish design magazine Cabana is finally upon us. Our favorite: this carafeand-tumbler set, hand-blown in Murano, featuring Tyrolean motifs inspired by eighteenth-century bottles that Cabana founder Martina Mondadori Sartogo spotted in an Austrian antiques store. “I think this is so genius for a bedside table,” she says. Consider this glassware for the bedroom.—SAMANTHA REES CABANA’S HANDMADE BEDSIDETABLE CARAFE-AND-TUMBLER SET.
ON the Table
“I’d run out of options. That’s how these things usually happen,” explains Mary, the heroine of Catherine Lacey’s tartly feminist second novel, The Answers (FSG), who pays for her New Age therapy by taking part in a narcissistic actor’s “Girlfriend Experiment,” with chilling results. The Northern Irish sisters in Nick Laird’s Modern Gods (Viking) find their attempts at fresh starts—via a BBC show on religion and a second wedding—doomed by legacies of fanaticism. A Delhi family gets schooled in upward mobility in Diksha Basu’s ultra-charming debut, The Windfall (Crown), while a marital reboot becomes a zip line to disaster in Maile Meloy’s holiday cruise–set thriller Do Not Become Alarmed (Riverhead), in which the children’s moral complexity outstrips that of their parents. And generational rebellion is in the air in Estep Nagy’s 1960s Maine–set ode to a disintegrating WASP order, We Shall Not All Sleep (Bloomsbury), written for a new era of uncertainty, in which there’s much to believe in and little to depend on.—MEGAN O’GRADY P ATA > 8 4
A RT: KATJA NOV I TS KOVA . REN D ERI NG FO R EA RT H P OTENT I AL , 2017. COU RT ESY OF T H E ARTIST; KRAUPA-TUSKANY Z EID LER , BER LIN; AND GR EENE NAFTALI, NEW YORK IMAGE COURTESY OF THE ARTIST AND PUBLIC ART FUND, NY. DESIGN: COURTESY OF CABANA. BOOKS: COURTESY OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE.
People Are Talking About
Into the WILD
The ethically and environmentally focused travel group Time + Tide welcomes two properties—both plunged deep into local African ecosystems—to their portfolio of luxury lodgings. King Lewanika Lodge, the first permanent campsite in Zambia’s Liuwa Plain National Park, a mecca for rare birds, features six luxury villas designed with a nod to 1920s safaris (old-school sink basins, steamer trunks, khaki linens). Off the Madagascan coast, meanwhile, is the private island resort of Miavana. While guests’ first impressions are formed from above (the island is accessible solely via helicopter), on the ground the ocean gives way to fourteen beachfront villas constructed with local honey-pink limestone. Explore the area on a marine-based Blue Safari before heading to the beach piazza, where things get lively on the breezy rooftop dance floor and culminate with a midnight dip in the infinity pool.—L.R.
Movies are suddenly in love with women who make trouble. In the uproarious Rough Night, a gender-flipping riff on guy pictures like The Hangover, Scarlett Johansson plays a politician whose Miami bachelorette party gets way out of hand. While Lucia Aniello’s feature directorial debut doesn’t quite scale the heights of Bridesmaids, it’s carried by Kate McKinnon’s off-kilter Aussie and Jillian Bell’s hardcore girl crush. You’ll be squirming during Miguel Arteta’s Beatriz at Dinner, a Trump-era comedy starring Salma Hayek as a holistic healer who gets roped into a 1 percenters’ dinner for an Earthdespoiling real estate tycoon (John Lithgow), then can’t hide her righteous detestation of him. A sly film that questions how to battle a monster without becoming one yourself.—J.P. HAYEK (THIRD FROM LEFT) AND THE FEMALE CAST OF BEATRIZ AT DINNER.
VOGUE JUNE 2017
T RAV EL : COU RTESY OF T IM E + T I D E . M OV I ES : LACEY T ERR ELL /ROA DSI DE AT T RACTIONS.
A CHEETAH STANDS GUARD AT TIME + TIDE’S NEW PROPERTY IN ZAMBIA.
June 2 017
A wa y We’ve watched her transform from child actress to sparkling ingenue, but with a series of mature roles Elle Fanning is becoming something else—one of Hollywood’s most uncanny and fascinating stars. Nathan Heller visits her in New Orleans, the setting for her gothic new film, Sofia Coppola’s The Beguiled. Photographed by Annie Leibovitz. PRETTY IN PINK Fanning, who has been acting since she was two, regards moviemaking as the easy part of growing up. It’s real life that can feel tricky. Loewe jacket and skirt. Manolo Blahnik boots (worn throughout). Fashion Editor: Grace Coddington.
BRANCHING OUT In Sofia Coppola’s The Beguiled, Fanning plays an aspiring temptress at a Civil War–era boarding school. “Sofia was so excited about making me the bad girl!” she says. Gucci dress.
ou can tell the story of Elle Fanning through the things she does, but also through the things she does not do. Fanning would rather not sit still, for instance. She does not tweet. She does not learn her lines until the night before she shoots them (then she memorizes them in the bath) and does not watch her own talk-show appearances (“It’s like hearing your voice on an answering machine”). She does not appreciate it when the paparazzi trail her to the gym, because she thinks she’s not famous enough to merit the commotion. (“The rest of the world is like, ‘Who is that person?’ I’m like, ‘I’m sorry!’ ”) When people now stop Fanning on the street (“Are you——”), she tries not to reply, “Dakota Fanning’s sister!” Fanning, then, would not be the first person—and might actually be the last—to realize what a rare and even spooky star Fanning, at nineteen, has become. It’s not only the regal beauty—arching eyebrows, snub nose, and a sylphic whoosh of hair—or the growing catalog of impressive work. When I meet Fanning one evening at Tableau, a high-ceilinged restaurant in New Orleans’s French Quarter, what is striking is the outward flexure of her confidence, the way she knows just who she is and wants to pass along such certainty to you. “Hi!” she says, and throws her arms around me in a big squelch of a hug. She’s dressed in an elegant red Céline turtleneck top, black Balenciaga rockabilly denim, and Maison Margiela sneakers with sparkling buckles. She doffs her tiny Gucci purse and slides into a chair by French doors that open out onto the street. Fanning lived in New Orleans for weeks while shooting Sofia Coppola’s new movie, The Beguiled, with Kirsten Dunst, Colin Farrell, and Nicole Kidman. It was seven years after she had filmed Somewhere for Coppola and the first time she’d flown off alone to shoot without a family member on hand. We’ve met for drinks (a lemonade, a Diet Coke—“a lot of ice,” she says) before embarking on a haunted tour of the French Quarter, something Fanning has always wanted to
do. As an errand, it’s appropriately eerie. Coppola’s adaptation of The Beguiled (originally a 1966 novel by Thomas P. Cullinan and, later, a 1971 film starring Clint Eastwood), is the Civil War–era story of a wounded Union soldier (Farrell) taken in by a girls’ boarding school in Virginia and subjected to a gantlet of hospitality, temptation, and horror. Fanning plays Alicia, an aspiring seductress; early in the film, she steals into the soldier’s chamber and, as he sleeps, plants on him a bold To Catch a Thief–style kiss. “Elle is so sweet, and a kid, and to have her play this role where she’s kind of like the slutty, mischievous one, very vain and kind of a bad girl—that’s the opposite of her personality,” Coppola says. “I thought that was really fun.” “Sofia was so excited about making me the bad girl!” Fanning says. But the idea had appeal for her, too. After she finished 20th Century Women, Mike Mills’s tribute to women of three generations finding their way through the drifting, abeyant seventies, she had her star chart read for the first time (Mills’s wrap gift to her). “I am a person of huge contradictions, apparently,” she says. “Opposite, opposite, opposite.” On the one hand, there’s her Pisces side: “very girly,” otherworldly, uncanny in talent. “I’m not sure I’ve ever worked with an actress who seems to operate from such a place of deep instinct as Elle,” Colin Farrell says. Nicole Kidman speaks of her ease and grace: “Her work feels effortless.” Many young people know Fanning best as Sleeping Beauty in Maleficent, a role she adored. And although she was born in Decatur, Georgia, and spent her first couple of years in nearby Conyers, she is, to fans, the ultimate L.A. child: effortlessly stylish, enamelcheeked, a Hollywood princess. She has acted since she was two, and has lived her life both on and for the screen. Fanning had her very first kiss on-camera, in Ginger & Rosa—and they used that take. Yet there’s another side to Fanning (her Aries side, according to the star chart) that few people see, although she wishes more would. She has a huge temper. “My mom and my sister are always like, ‘That’s not something you brag about,’ ” she says with a laugh. “But I tell strangers—I’m also very trusting of people—like, ‘I get so mad!’ ” This is the Elle Fanning who takes no guff, who knows what she wants, who has started boxing to stay fit at the LA Fitness near her parents’ house, where she still lives, and has developed a brutal left hook. It’s the Elle Fanning who criticizes her own table manners (“I eat like a dude”) and who marches to her own beat with a gawky, Diane Keaton–like stride. Often she introduces her ideas archly—“I must say”—or tacks an incredulous “—yeah!” on the end of a sentence, meaning, Gosh, what a world. “Elle has this funny way of speaking, these old-lady phrases,” says Kirsten Dunst, with whom she developed a close friendship while shooting The Beguiled. In the years when both Fanning sisters were working as minors, Elle’s grandmother was her usual companion on set; Elle sometimes has the waggish voice and vantage of another time. That Fanning has a taste for professional adventurousness. She stunned some people last year, when, newly eighteen,
“I am a person of huge contradictions, apparently,” says Fanning, who recently had her star chart read.“Opposite, opposite, opposite”
she starred in Nicolas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon: a dark parable of sex and death and stardom whose surreal dreamscape culminated—rather divisively—in a spectacle of horror-film gore. (Dakota Fanning says she was so rattled watching her sister seem to suffer torment at the movie’s climax that she almost fled the theater. When the lights came up, she was amazed: “I was so moved by her as an actor.”) In The Beguiled, Fanning has another outré role—at least by the measure of Civil War mores. “It’s seductive in that I show my collarbone,” she says. “Like, Oh! Her ankle is out.” Such roles have brought on lots of long-faced-press questions about growing within her craft, maturing as an actress, and the artist she aspires to be. She finds this line of inquiry bizarre. “Obviously, people watch you grow up onscreen,” she says, taking a sip of Diet Coke. To her, moviemaking is the easy part: the constant and familiar churn. She doesn’t understand why people ask so little about what is truly strange and new about getting older. Parties, for example. Graduation. Figuring out what kind of woman you are going to be. “You have responsibilities at eighteen that you didn’t have before, but you still feel like a little kid,” she says. Until Dakota went off to NYU, the sisters, their parents, and their grandmother all lived together in L.A., and the Fannings have an extended family of, as Elle puts it, “girls, girls, girls!” She thinks a lot about the women around her and the standards that they’ve set. Around the time of her high school graduation, she realized that she shouldn’t coast mindlessly into an acting career and weighed other options, including college. But the choice, she says, was easy in the end: “It’s scary to think of not being able to do movies still.” Fanning has a vivid, cinematic inner life: One of her favorite pastimes, she tells me, is sitting on her bed and letting her imagination run. When she goes to sleep, she has clear, lucid dreams that dredge up buried memories and sometimes, she thinks, let her see the future. There was the time in fourth grade when she and three of her friends made plans to see Twilight at the Grove, in L.A. She could scarcely wait. She had a crush on a particular boy at school (a fifth-grader— you know how it is), and when she went to bed the night before the movie, she dreamed about rounding a corner in the Grove and seeing him there. “I woke up that day and told my friends, ‘We’re going to see him! I just know we’re going to see him.’ They’re like, ‘He doesn’t even live close by.’ ” But in fact her crush did appear at the Grove that day—right in the spot where Fanning had dreamed he would be. “I’m like a witch!” she exclaims delightedly. This all seems a swell prelude to our haunted tour. I’m even a little spooked, and probably look it. “If I dream about you tonight,” Fanning says with a reassuring laugh, “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Gray-bearded and tanned, he wears white jeans with kneehigh lace-up boots, a button-down shirt printed with Star Wars logos, and two huge silver crosses around his neck. Strapped to one thigh he has a pack in which he keeps some spirit sensors, and on his back he wears a bulky JanSport filled with other vitals of the trade. “We’ll use the Ovilus, and I have a couple of spirit boxes, and we’ll see what happens,” he explains. His voice is like a plucked banjo; his chestnut hair is parted on one side. We wander to a nearby corner and a stately old French Quarter eatery. “This is Muriel’s,” Bill explains. “It’s a good restaurant. It’s also haunted.” The ghost is Pierre Jourdan, who, in the late eighteenth century, lost the deed in a heated poker game and hanged himself. Up a winding staircase to the second floor, a plush room has been lit in soft red light. We sit, and Bill takes out his Ovilus, a device that turns spiritual energy into English words. It looks like a baby monitor. “Is it true that this place is haunted?” he asks. Fanning is scrutinizing the screen of the device when it delivers its reply. “Definitely,” she says. On Royal Street a female reveler, probably possessed by spirits of another kind, shouts to Fanning from a car: “Dear, I like your top!” The Céline top is, in fact, great. With a high neck and an opening around the navel, it’s a kind of grown-up evening version of the midriff-baring shirts that Fanning wore as a child. But as the car zooms on, Fanning doesn’t hear “Dear, I like your top”; she hears “Dear God, you’re tall!” She has been self-conscious about her height—a very reasonable five feet nine—ever since she shot up seven inches one year and gained two shoe sizes while shooting Somewhere. And yet her elegant, long form makes it easy to find clothes she loves: Rodarte (fashion’s own California sisters) and Miu Miu (quirky and fun). “Rodarte and Miu Miu are like characters in a film,” she explains. Last spring, at Cannes, she got to wear a sumptuous Valentino dress, and that was heaven. She loved to spread the skirt for cameras. “I was basically just walking around with it flared.” It’s dark now, and the tight French Quarter streets are filled with nighttime wanderers. Bill leads us to a building that was formerly a brothel; he says that it was called the House of the Rising Sun. If a john treated the women badly there, the madam would exact revenge. She’d offer the man a laced drink, served by two ladies. Then two more women would come, and then more. “The rube would realize he was surrounded by six very pissed-off prostitutes!” he exclaims. “They would beat him down, slit his throat, take out his wallet, roll him into a pre-dug grave, take out the cash—and the coup de grâce would come when they would throw the empty bottle on top of him and cover him up!” Today, he says, the building is a hotel. Fanning smiles sweetly. “So bring, like, a bad boyfriend or something,” she says.
“I’m superromantic,” she says— and then, as if worried I didn’t hear, throws out her arms and shouts it: “Superromantic!”
On the north corner of Jackson Square, we meet Michael Bill, a “paranormal investigator” sent by Ghost City Tours. En route to the Quarter, I had realized that I had no mental image of what a ghost-tour guide looks like, but when we spot him, it is clear that Bill could not be anything else.
The Fannings were supposed to be a family of athletes, not actors. Dakota and Elle’s father had been in the minor leagues, their mother played tennis professionally, and an
EYE OF THE STORM For all of her outward confidence, Fanning’s weakness is auditions—she hates them so much she fainted at one from sheer terror. Dior dress.
FAMILY TREE Elle’s big sister, Dakota, blazed a trail to Hollywood. “You think, Gosh, if I didn’t have a sister who started acting, would I be acting?” Louis Vuitton dress.
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aunt was a sideline reporter in football. Although Elle has always had physical interests—she did ballet for a while, before subjecting herself to a brief but intense preoccupation with hot yoga—the sisters’ interests quickly turned in other directions. When Dakota was five, she went to a local theater camp and was spotted by a scout. “It was a play called Blue Fish. She was the blue fish!” Elle explains. “They’re like, You need to go to L.A. or New York with her, because she was amazing at being the blue fish.” In an act of parental heroism, their mother put her life in Georgia on hold and relocated to California with Dakota for commercials and pilot season; Elle and her father followed when Dakota booked a lead in the Sean Penn drama I Am Sam. Elle was called on set to play that character’s younger self. By the time she was six, they were giving interviews together. Today, Elle talks about Dakota with open awe and something more. “You think, Gosh, if I didn’t have a sister who started acting, would I be acting?” she says. A peek at home videos of the toddler Elle reveals a natural performer. (“Here’s . . . Elle Fanning!” she cries into the camera, spreading her arms wide.) But her path was cleared by Dakota, and a mutual loyalty has lingered as their work has diverged. “People sometimes want us to feel weird jealousy or competition,” Dakota says. “It will never happen. There’s no one I want to see succeed or soar more.” Elle loathes auditions—she once fainted in one from sheer terror—but she loves to meet with directors and talk a project over. When Coppola cast Somewhere, the two immediately hit it off. “She just had a really fun, sparkling personality,” Coppola says. “It’s that rare combination of being sophisticated but a kid at the same time—she’s not a mini-adult like a lot of kid actors.” Because the character in Somewhere skates, Coppola offered Fanning an ice-skating double, but Fanning knew the skating scene was key, so for weeks she took early-morning and after-school lessons. Somewhere showed the world she was more than just Dakota Fanning’s sister. But that was already quite long ago. “All of a sudden, she’s much taller than me,” Coppola says. “But the same person, with the same sparkly essence.” Marilyn Monroe has been Fanning’s hero for about fifteen years—most of her life. She studies Marilyn’s interviews the way some study paintings by Cézanne. “You could always see the emotions that she was feeling . . . in her eyes,” she says. “She didn’t know how great she was.” She often wonders how Marilyn would have managed social media. For years, Fanning resisted what she calls (in excellent old-lady fashion) “the Facebook and the Twitter.” But as time went on she worried she was too much in her shell. “I need to evolve with the times!” she says. She’s a visual person, so Instagram beckoned. As of this writing, her account has upward of 900,000 followers. “Before you share, you get nervous: You can’t help but have those flashes,” she says. “My sister has a million followers—which is nothing compared with Selena Gomez, who has the world.” Yet Fanning’s embrace of technology is still vexed at best. She got Netflix for the first time this past winter. She does not have any of the new emojis on her iPhone, because she has not managed to update it in a while. As a result, much of what her friends text her shows up as question marks and gibberish. She’s too chagrined to tell them, so she acts as if she understands. C O N T I N U E D O N PAG E 1 5 8
HOT BLOODED For all of her effervescence and wit, Fanning also has a temper, which she boasts about to strangers. “My mom and sister are like, ‘That’s not something you brag about.’” Valentino Haute Couture dress.
SLEEPING BEAUTY Fanning says one of her favorite pastimes is sitting on her bed and letting her imagination run. Alexander McQueen dress.
P RODUCTI O N D ESI G N : M A RY HOWA RD. FU RN I T UR E COURTESY O F ROYA L A N T IQUES LTD, N EW ORL EA N S. LO CA L P RO DUCT I O N BY BATOU CHA N D LE R.
PRACTICAL MAGIC “I’m not sure I’ve ever worked with an actress who seems to operate from such a place of deep instinct as Elle,” says her Beguiled costar Colin Farrell. Givenchy Haute Couture by Riccardo Tisci dress. In this story: hair, Julien d’Ys for Julien d’Ys; makeup, Lauren Parsons. Details, see In This Issue.
SOMETHING IN THE AIR THE DETAILING ON THIS EMBROIDERED COAT IS STITCHED TO POSY PERFECTION. MODEL GRACE HARTZEL WEARS A DOLCE & GABBANA COAT; SELECT DOLCE & GABBANA BOUTIQUES. VOGUE ANNIVERSARY ROSE (ON JACKET). FASHION EDITOR: TONNE GOODMAN.
BLOOMS WITH A VIEW THE SKY’S THE LIMIT WHEN IT COMES TO INTERPRETATIONS OF THE PRICKLY PERENNIAL. KARL LAGERFELD PARIS FOR LORD & TAYLOR X VOGUE 125 DRESS, $198; LORD & TAYLOR STORES. VOGUE RECEIVES A PORTION OF THE PROFITS FROM THE SALE OF THIS DRESS.
MOONLIGHT &ROSES FROM THE DELICATELY APPLIQUÉD TO THE INTRICATELY EMBROIDERED, THE FALL COLLECTIONS BLOSSOMED WITH OTHERWORLDLY BEAUTY. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MIKAEL JANSSON.
STOMPING GROUNDS KICK UP SOME DUST IN A BLOWNOUT FLORAL GOWN. DOLCE & GABBANA SILK DRESS; SELECT DOLCE & GABBANA BOUTIQUES.
EVER AFTER ENCASED OR UNLEASHED, PEACH POSIES BRING LIFE TO EVERYTHING THEY TOUCH. REFORMATION DRESS, $278; THEREFORMATION.COM.
PETALS WITH METTLE ADAM SELMAN’S RAMPANT-FLORA FINALE GOES TOTALLY IMMERSIVE AMID PHILLIP K. SMITH III’S INSTALLATION THE CIRCLE OF LAND AND SKY, AT “DESERT X,” AN EXHIBITION OF LARGE-SCALE WORKS NEAR PALM SPRINGS, CALIFORNIA, CURATED BY NEVILLE WAKEFIELD. ADAM SELMAN TULLE DRESS, $1,750; THE GROCERY STORE, SAN FRANCISCO.
BELLE FLEUR A BUDDING ROMANCE CALLS FOR A SLINKY, FLORAL-STREWN FROCK. JUNKO SHIMADA SILK DRESS, $1,596; JUNKOSHIMADA.COM. BEAUTY NOTE OFFSET FEMININE FLORALS WITH TEXTURED HAIR. PHILIP KINGSLEYâ€™S INSTANT BEACH ADDS PIECEYNESS WITH A SOFT, TOUCHABLE HOLD.
A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS
THE WORLD’S HIS STAGE
t takes a rare breed of actor able to cross-pollinate acting chops and cultural appeal to find success in both Hollywood and Bollywood. Ali Fazal’s big break came in 2013 with the hit Hindi comedy Fukrey, a film (a sequel is in the works) about four friends who concoct a harebrained getrich-quick scheme that goes awry. Since then the Indian-born Fazal, 30, has been a regular on the Bollywood circuit—but the actor, whose floppy-haired charm apparently translates internationally, has set his sights beyond his home country. Shooting for Vogue near Joshua Tree National Park gave him his taste of California—he’ll soon be back on the West Coast to promote his next project, Victoria and Abdul, the true story of Queen Victoria’s (Judi Dench) unexpected friendship with a young Indian clerk played by Fazal. Like the actor, the film—shot in India, Scotland, and a handful of small towns around the United Kingdom—melds the English- and Hindi-speaking worlds. Despite both his full-blown Hollywood-star potential and his weighty Bollywood presence— he cites Indian designers Manish Malhotra and Shantanu & Nikhil as his red-carpet go-tos—Fazal radiates a humbling lack of pretension. (“I have a weird job for a grown man,” reads his Instagram bio.) But while the actor might not take himself too seriously, the same can’t be said of his craft. With a steady stream of projects in the pipeline and his forthcoming directorial debut, Fazal is a multinational force whose Stateside arrival comes at just the right moment. “It’s a strange time,” says the actor, “but we are seeing a sudden burst of people from everywhere, and I want to be part of it.”—LILAH RAMZI
FAZAL WEARS A SALVATORE FERRAGAMO SUIT, AN A.P.C. SHIRT, AND A J.CREW TIE.
GREENHOUSE LEAD IN HERE EFFECT AMA SO SDGNIA POREM SADDOS A LITTLEDU FLOWER EIUSAM RERCIAS POWER, IN THE END, IN COMNIENTIUS GOES A LONG WAY. ENIMOLRUM INISIN MICHAEL KORS RIDAND GENIMUS COLLECTION DRESS, NIAUT VOLORES $2,150; SELECT EST LA GUAEST, MICHAEL KORS NET VELIMUIDIT AE ET STORES. IN THIS NUIAS DESPOR AUT STORY: HAIR, SHAY PRAESTEM ETUR ASHUAL; MAKEUP, MAGNIS EA DOLORE DIANE KENDAL. VOLORIB ERIATEM SET DESIGN, MARY LIGENIT ASSGED HOWARD. DETAILS, MAGNIM SANDAES SEE IN THIS ISSUE.
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B trend: “Everything’s coming up roses.” And when Beyoncé heralded her pregnancy in a styled Instagram photo? Those weren’t geraniums behind her. But if plucking the idea out of the air was easy, anointing a new flower was a thornier proposition. The naming of roses has become one of the dimly lit, mysterious back corridors of celebrity culture, lodged somewhere between wax museums and franchise emoji. There is a Christian Dior rose (red), a John F. Kennedy rose (white), and a Miranda Lambert rose (rousing hot pink). There’s a Catherine Deneuve (elegant coral, in the French style), a Marilyn Monroe (pale blonde and said to smell like peaches), and a Rosie O’Donnell (loony red tips, possibly shippable to the White House). If there was to be a Vogue rose, it would have to be—well, what? A list of ideal qualities emerged. First, the Vogue rose should be elegant and of its moment—because standard-setting is important. It should be exquisitely fragrant because, to quote Coco Chanel (who borrowed in turn from the poet Paul Valéry), “a woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future.” It should be an English rose (the layered, heavily petaled variety favored in gardens, rather than the quick-to-wilt things sold in grocery stores), but with New World roots. Instead of the dusty, dark foliage that often droops below vivacious blooms, it should have leaves as bright and glossy as this magazine. And because fashion is adaptable, fast-traveling, and global, it should be able to thrive anywhere: planted in a Los Angeles garden, potted on a New York City patio, or set along a boulevard in Paris or Milan. Stephen Scanniello, best known as the former longtime curator of the Cranford Rose Garden in Brooklyn, put Vogue in touch with rose breeders, including Brad Jalbert of Select Roses, a star hybridizer near Vancouver who was raising some of the most interesting new flowers around. Breeding roses is like breeding animals: You take the pollen from one variety (the “father”) and apply it to another (the “mother”); a few months later, seeds are gathered from the mother’s rosehips and planted. Cross two varieties repeatedly, and you’ll get different offspring every time. Most breeders get one promising rose from as many as 10,000 new seeds they create; Jalbert can work that to one in 1,000. Finding that one, however, requires eight years of scrutiny. Does the plant look healthy? Can it survive winter or shade? Are the flowers interesting and new? (Rose growers disparage what they shorthand J.A.P.—“just another pink.”) Many beautiful roses smell bad—I encountered one redolent of fried food—and more have no fragrance at all. Year after year, breeds get cut from the running. “It’s the only thing in the world I C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 5 8
SPRING IN THE ARIZONA DESERT BRINGS A SENSE OF expectation and the stirrings of new life. “You see the first flush and the first bloom,” Tyler Francis, a farmer, tells me one morning as we tear around the fields of Francis Roses, the world’s second-largest grower, in his white Ford pickup. The young bushes crop up at this time of year, but the real thrill arrives in November, when they are fully mature. Francis’s farm grows more than 1,000 varieties, making the fields at harvest luscious and ambrosial. He tells me, “There are very few things that bring that much passion and joy.” We are here to see the first days of an infant flower: lush, fragrant, and destined for gardens nationwide. It is a floribunda, bright and bushy in the ground, with a deep, dawny peach color, more than 50 petals to each flower. It has the fragrance of soft summer mornings on the coast—citrus, licorice, a tincture of vanilla—and an eagerness to bloom. And it’s new. In a world of roses colored by a traditional lineup of reds, whites, yellows, pinks, and oranges, this bloom represents not only a new breed but a new way of thinking about the nation’s favorite flower. In the postwar years, Francis explains, roses were bred to fit into a landscape of female domestic chores: You dusted and vacuumed your house; you sprayed and pruned your rosebushes. Women today, thankfully, have broader opportunities. “You get people like my wife, who have two kids, who work,” Francis says, bringing the truck to a stop. “They’re not going to go out into the garden and start deadheading.” Gardening fathers are similarly beset. Fortunately, advances in rose breeding are making better, less finicky flowers—everblooming, self-cleaning (i.e., they don’t require deadheading), fragrant, and resistant to disease. The peach-colored buds we have come to see emerged from decades of cultivation, and when Francis first saw the flower, he had a eureka feeling. Meet the Vogue Anniversary Rose.
U S H
A while back, the editors of this magazine confronted a new version of a familiar challenge: How to celebrate the passage of time without raking tediously over the past? Vogue turns 125 this year, an impressive age for any publication. But dragging out last year’s (or century’s) stuff isn’t what the magazine has ever been about. Was there a way to celebrate the past with something brand-new—an icon of fashion that grows toward the future? How about a rose? The idea seemed predestined. The fall runways in New York were so dense with rose prints this February (recall Prabal Gurung, Brock Collection, and Tanya Taylor, to say nothing of Adam Selman’s sending out a model covered in actual stemmed roses) that the Los Angeles Times called a
What does it take to create your very own bloom? Nathan Heller follows the fragrant trail of the newly fashioned Vogue Anniversary Rose. Photographed by Eric Boman.
JUST PEACHY With notes of citrus, licorice, and vanilla, Vogue's namesake rose will start blooming in gardens this summer. Vogue receives a portion of the profits from the sale of this rose.
CĂŠcile Winckler On the terrace of her Manhattan apartment, Winckler stands in a cutout peplum sheath dress by Ryan Roche, $1,933; ryan-roche.com. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
Photographed by Anton Corbijn
A RT: KA RA WA L KER , EV ENT H OR I ZON, 2004. © KA RA WA LKE R, COURTESY OF S IKK EMA J ENKINS & CO. , NEW YOR K. TH IS SPR EAD : PRODUCED BY IAN KAPLAN FOR TH E CUSTOM FAMILY.
The New School lecturer at work, where Kara Walker’s mural Event Horizon (2005) commands the eye. The Row coat ($4,890), belt, and boots. Coat at Neiman Marcus stores. Céline earrings. Hair, Shon; makeup, Jen Myles.
F U L L
B L O O M From Jayne Wrightsman to Lauren Santo Domingo, Vogue has always celebrated the brightest lights of philanthropy and society. The new generation, however, is not just ineffably stylish but self-aware, socially conscious—and sometimes even self-made. Meet the young roses.
CÉCILE WINCKLER “Artists have to remain open and independent,” explains Winckler, 31, a New Yorker by way of Paris and her native Belgium. “When artists are tied down to a job, they lose their vision.” It’s a sentiment that led Winckler, whose circle encompasses everyone from actor and artist India Salvor Menuez to Charlotte Casiraghi, to cofound Unemployed, a large-format magazine that she coedits with her partner, Sophie Tabet. Unemployed publishes the work that her artist and fashion-photographer friends are most passionate about but which is—so far, at least—of little commercial value. Think of it as a nonprofit gallery without the gallery, and Winckler a kind of postmodern patron of the arts. “It’s a bridge between art and fashion,” she says. “We create something you could put on your wall.” In most cases, Winckler’s support is what allows the photographers to realize their projects at all. Recently she has taken Pierre-Ange Carlotti to the beaches of Marseilles, Harley Weir to Beirut, and Oliver Hadlee Pearch to Savannah, Georgia. And last fall, François Pragnère shot a photo essay at the Burgundy château that belongs to Winckler’s family. “We produce everything together—it’s a whole community, an ecosystem,” she says. So much for not having a job.—MARK GUIDUCCI
AMY SALL Sall, a striking 27-year-old Senegalese-American academic—she’s currently a Eugene Lang College lecturer at Manhattan’s New School—has recently lent her face to Kenzo x H&M and J.Crew campaigns. Though her growing exposure in the social and fashion worlds would seem to prove otherwise, her primary focus these days is SUNU Journal, a print and online outlet centered on ideas of African cultural expression. Ahead of its launch, Sall, a former U.N. intern with a master’s in human-rights studies from Columbia, has already enticed more than 52,000 would-be readers with SUNU’s social-media feed full of references to classic African cinema and rare portraiture from the continent. “I want to create a space where young people—emerging thinkers, voices, artists—can disseminate their work,” she says.—MARJON CARLOS
NIEVES ZUBERBÜHLER During one week in March, Zuberbühler, 29, flew back and forth from New York to southern Florida twice: first for the Okeechobee Music & Arts Festival, organized by her husband, Julio Santo Domingo, and then again to a retirement community in nearby Delray Beach to interview the last surviving Nuremberg prosecutor for her job as a 60 Minutes associate producer. On both trips, the Emmy Award–winning Argentine’s wardrobe was surprisingly similar: Frame jeans and Converse sneakers (which at Okeechobee were paired with a favorite vintage Rolling Stones tee and feather earrings trawled from a street fair in Punta del Este). The attire for Zuberbühler’s fantastical Halloween wedding, however, was decidedly less casual. For that occasion—with 900 guests in attendance—she called on friend Brandon Maxwell to create a Pre-Raphaelite–inspired satin-faced chiffon confection with a ten-foot train that the designer sheared off after the church ceremony, and then
cut shorter still for the early-morning after-party. In lieu of a registry, she and her husband asked for donations to two South American charities, the ALAS foundation and the Argentinean school Las Lomas Oral. But Zuberbühler’s philanthropic inclinations extend far beyond the placement at her gala table: During 60 Minutes’ summer hiatus, she plans to volunteer with the International Rescue Committee in a U.S. refugee-resettlement center and also one in either the Middle East or East Africa. “I’ve been trying to contribute in any way I can,” she says. “I just really feel like I need to do this.”—CHLOE MALLE
CLEO WADE Though she didn’t debut at the Crillon, let it not be said that the magnetic Wade, with her halo of curls and fantastical Valentino dresses, doesn’t make a grand entrance. With more than 200,000 Instagram followers, Wade, 28, has become the face of a new creative guard determined to use fashion to altruistic ends. She stands for specific causes—drawing attention to criminal-justice reform and putting an end to mass incarceration in the United States, for starters—as well as a broader agenda to promote change through positivity (Heart Talk, her debut self-help book, will be published in early 2018). “The people always have more power than the people in power,” says Wade, her tone at once personal and political. “I want to represent the people who feel they don’t have a voice. Activism is organized storytelling.” Glistening as she does in a Valentino dress (and on the arm of Senator Cory Booker), Wade has set herself up to be one very inspiring narrator.—EMMA ELWICK-BATES
NELL DIAMOND “And tresses all disordered. . . . ” Twenty-eight-year-old Diamond is fond of quoting Milton, about whom she wrote her undergraduate thesis at Princeton, but there is nothing disordered about this laser-focused entrepreneur with auburn hair and a Sargent complexion. The daughter of former Barclays CEO Bob Diamond, Nell took to the trading floors of Wall Street before starting her linens company, Hill House Home, last year while still in business school at Yale. In addition to debunking marketing myths about thread counts and Egyptian cottons—and with an expansion into tabletop linens up next—she aims to make Hill House a lifestyle destination for her contemporaries. Diamond also exemplifies the millennial philanthropist looking for more meaningful ways to give back. “There’s a disconnect between a champagne-fueled party and the cause it supports,” she says. “I don’t think there’s an appetite there anymore.” Instead, she is a founding member of UNICEF’s Next Generation, with which she has raised funds to distribute Plumpy’Nut—a life-saving peanut paste that has done wonders to combat child malnutrition—in Guatemala; she has also helped establish sanitation in parts of Vietnam. The group’s New York City–based successes include instigating a pop-up speaker series and hosting the Snowflake Ball with UNICEF ambassador Katy Perry. Diamond also supports the Guggenheim Museum and is passionately hands-on with God’s Love We Deliver. “The more we engage,” she says, “the more people will listen.”—E.E.-B.
Nieves ZuberbĂźhler The news producer epitomizes the glamour of a lady in red. Brock Collection dress, $4,490; matchesfashion.com. Oscar de la Renta earrings. Rings by RetrouvaĂ and Pascale Monvoisin. Hair, Garren for Garren New York at R+Co. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.
Photographed by Patrick Demarchelier
Cleo Wade Head to toe in the brand, Wade appears a Gucci heroine. Gucci coat, earrings, and rings; select Gucci boutiques.
T HI S S P RE A D : P RO DUCE D BY ROG E R DO N G FO R G E P ROJ ECTS
At her West Village town house, currently under construction, Diamond is seen in profile in a Monique Lhuillier dress; Monique Lhuillier boutiques. Cathy Waterman earrings. Hair, Jerrod Roberts; makeup, Dick Page for Shiseido. Details, see In This Issue.
Standard From 1984 to Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Sonia Friedman has fourteen shows (and counting) on the go between London and NewYork. No wonder she’s considered the Midas of theater producers. By Hadley Freeman. Photographed by Anton Corbijn.
t’s a warm spring evening in London’s West End. Dodging tourists and excited theatergoers, Sonia Friedman is attempting to visit the casts of at least some of the plays she is producing before curtains rise in 90 minutes. “Wait, I need a cigarette—who’s got a light? Have you got a light?” she asks looking around. Happily, a nearby Spanish-speaking tourist does, and, cigarette lit and held between clenched teeth, we’re off again. Even though she flew in this morning on a red-eye from New York, Friedman is lively and bright-eyed, energized by doing what she loves most. She has been making preparations for the Broadway transfer in 2018 of the mammoth twopart show, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, about (and I’m tiptoeing around spoilers here) the adult Harry struggling with fatherhood. She’s also been supervising the rehearsals of her dazzlingly clever production of 1984, an adaptation of George Orwell’s all-too-relevant novel that opens on Broadway this month, starring Reed Birney, Tom Sturridge, and Olivia Wilde. (You don’t become one of the biggest producers in the world by failing to recognize the Zeitgeist.) “Bit of a nightmare, really, as Tom’s visa didn’t turn up. We ended up getting him a duplicate passport—all very Mission: Impossible!” she says, chuckling. I tell her she does rather look like PET PROJECTS Friedman, with bichon frises Teddy and Buddy, outside London’s Palace Theatre. The Row coat, shirt, and pants. Hair, Shon; makeup, Hiromi Ueda. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
a spy in her Topshop black-and-white striped trousers, black top, and Gucci leather jacket. “Ha! Is Gucci a good thing? Make sure you put that in, then,” she says. First on our list for this evening is Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, starring Imelda Staunton and Imogen Poots. We slip through the stage door, and Friedman walks down the stairs and through the dark, winding corridors with the confidence of someone who could do this blindfolded. Staunton, who has been suffering from a throat infection, is onstage in rehearsal and hugs Friedman warmly. “If you need anything, anybody, anytime, call me. I’m always five seconds away,” Friedman tells her. “Ooh, I’ll start making a list,” says Staunton, smiling. Next stop is The Book of Mormon, which Friedman brought over from New York; then Travesties, written by her friend Tom Stoppard. In the theater, Sam Mendes FaceTimes her. “I’ll call you back—I’m backstage!” she shouts at her phone. She rolls her eyes at me and laughs: “Always the wrong time, eh?” We have just enough time to make it to Harry Potter and the Cursed Child (which she is coproducing with Colin Callender). She greets all the backstage crew by name, and they wave at her—“Welcome back, Sonia! Thank you for the lovely email!”—as we hurry toward the cast, waiting for her on the Hogwarts set. Shoe bags of wands hang in the wings, as well as cards from fans, including Tom Cruise (“Thank you all for a fantastic performance on Sunday”). “I’ve just been in New York and missed you all,” she says. “Do you feel promiscuous, like you’ve been with the New York Harry Potter and now you’re back here with us?” asks the actor Jamie Parker, who plays Harry. Friedman loves the question. “I do!” she says, laughing. A bell rings, meaning the audience is arriving. Friedman grabs my hand. “Come on! If we’re quick we might make The Glass Menagerie!”
British Empire from the queen for services to the theater. “She is, to use that dreadful phrase, the go-to theater producer,” says Stoppard. “Every generation has one whom everyone wants to work with, and now it’s Sonia. She’s probably the busiest person I know; she crosses the Atlantic like other people cross the street.” Butterworth—whose new play, The Ferryman, opens in the West End this month, directed by Sam Mendes—describes her attentiveness. “I know she has a million things going on, but when I’m working with her I always feel like she’s just doing my shows,” he says. “She makes you feel special.” To find Friedman in her office above a West End theater, you follow photos of her past productions and their stars up the stairway: Ralph Fiennes! Kristin Scott Thomas! Simon Russell Beale! Benedict Cumberbatch, as Hamlet, up in a corner! At the top, one of her 40-odd mostly female staff ushers me into a side room. Eventually her two bichon frises, Teddy and Buddy, trot in, like knights announcing the arrival of a queen. And what a regal entrance she makes, talking 20 miles to the minute before she even sits down, a vision of London chic in a Biba–style white fake fur coat, dark velour Donna Karan trousers tucked into chunky high heeled boots, and a silky black chemise top that shows an impressive amount of skin for the English weather. “Sonia,” Stoppard tells me later with some understatement, “does not look like a typical theater producer. She is much cooler than that.” In fact, with her tousled dark-blonde hair, crooked mouth, and husky smoker’s laugh, she could be Joanne—better known as J. K.—Rowling’s naughty twin. “Jo and I look very, very similar, and we’re the same age,” says Friedman, who is 52 and first visited Rowling in the author’s hometown of Edinburgh in 2013. But physical resemblances were only the start of how Friedman got Rowling to agree to a Harry Potter play, succeeding where so many before her had failed. For a while—a lifetime, really—Friedman had been stewing over a question: Do great men make good fathers? And Harry, she realized, was the perfect vehicle through which to explore it. Rowling loved the idea. “We immediately connected over being daughters of difficult dads,” Friedman says. Rowling has spoken out about her estrangement from her father, and Friedman’s relationship with hers was even more fraught. A celebrated violinist, Leonard Friedman left his wife the year Sonia, their fourth child, was born, and barely looked back. “I’d see him once a year, maybe—he certainly never knew my birthday or said he loved me. He would shake my hand; it was that kind of relationship. Things like that form you. So I was always fascinated with how so-called Great Men cope with being fathers,” she says. As for the play, Broadway regulars may suspect they’re too jaded by years of jazzy onstage pyrotechnics to be excited by magic wands. Well, they’re in for a big surprise. When I saw the production in London, I gasped aloud watching papers tidy themselves on desks and human figures disappear inside telephones. And don’t get me started on the time travel. “It is quite clever, isn’t it?” says the director, John Tiffany. “But we didn’t use a huge amount of technology, because
Wıth her tousled dark-blonde hair, crooked mouth, and husky smoker’s laugh, she could be J.K.Rowling’s naughty twin
riedman is widely hailed as the most powerful person in British theater. She put Madonna on the London stage (in 2002’s Up for Grabs) and introduced Mark Rylance to Broadway (in plays including Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem, as well as Twelfth Night and Richard III. She will bring his latest, Farinelli and the King, to New York later this year). Mainly known for dramas, she also produces the classics, farce, musicals, and even TV (the BBC’s Wolf Hall and an upcoming production of King Lear, starring Anthony Hopkins). The common denominator of them all is caliber: The credit “Sonia Friedman Productions” is a guarantee of quality. This year her plays were nominated for a recordbreaking 31 Oliviers (the British equivalent of the Tonys), and she ended up winning eleven. Nine went to Harry Potter—another record, since no new play has previously won more than seven. In January, she picked up an Order of the 122
we knew there was no way we could compete with the movies. So we used the fantasy to go further into the human experience, which is when fantasy works best.” And, like the books, the play triumphs at taking big themes—death, family, love, isolation—and turning them into deeply personal stories. After her father left, Friedman’s childhood in North London was pretty rackety. Her mother was often absent, working multiple jobs to earn enough to feed her children. “I don’t have any of the normal memories: being put to bed, doing homework. But I do remember the four of us kids putting on plays together and having a laugh. It was an idyllic childhood, really. None of us went off the rails, although we’re all terrible with authority, and I’m especially awful with male authority. It doesn’t take an analyst to figure out why I ended up being my own boss,” she says. Friedman’s sister Maria, an actor and theater director five years her senior, says that their homegrown projects gave Sonia a particular insight. “Other producers are like, ‘Just write something; just say your lines.’ But because we grew up making plays, puppet shows, and operas, Sonia knows creativity doesn’t come out of a toothpaste tube,” she says, “and that has given her a genuine love for it.” Aside from Sonia and Maria, their brother Richard is a successful musician, and sister Sarah is an academic. Their half-brother, Ben, is a producer and director (his credits include The Great British Bake Off). “One of the great things about having a childhood like ours is that you don’t know you’re breaking rules, because you have no idea what they are,” Maria adds. “The ropes and barriers are invisible, and Sonia has always exemplified that. If someone tells her no, she just keeps going.” When Friedman was fourteen and had recently been expelled from school for truancy, she went to the West End to see Maria rehearsing as an understudy in Oklahoma! “I co–brought up Sonia because our mother was so busy. I loved her, this ringleted, sunny, stubborn, funny creature, so she came with me everywhere. I remember her little face as she watched what was happening backstage. It was like she was intoxicated,” recalls Maria. Says Friedman, “I turned my stool around because the scene changes seemed so much more interesting than whatever was happening onstage.” As it happens, the scene of that epiphany was the Palace Theatre in London, where Harry Potter is now playing. “Life is weird, isn’t it?” Friedman reflects. “I wanted it so badly then, and now here I am.” As soon as she was old enough, Friedman enrolled in night school to learn stage management. She went on to drama school and afterward was interviewed by Laurence Olivier in his kitchen over a lunch of chicken and salad for her first stage-management job. She got it. Later she worked at London’s National Theatre as an assistant stage manager. “I’d be sitting in rehearsals, and Harold Pinter, who was directing his own plays then, would lean over and say, ‘I think there needs to be a pause there. Can you write pause in the script?’ That was when I fell in love with new writing,
because I watched plays being written in front of me,” Friedman says. The then head of the National Theatre, Richard Eyre, told her one day, “You seem to be very good at getting people to do what you want. You should be a producer.” She took his advice, launching her current company in 2002.
ften, a commercial-theater producer is little more than a bean counter, but those who work with Friedman laugh at the idea of that being the limit of her role. For one, she is known for being on the side of writers, which has won her the loyalty of many of the biggest names in theater today. “I’ve known Sonia since 1985, when she was a skinny stage manager” at the Oxford Stage Company, says Rylance. “She’s always had an amazing vision about what theater should be. Working with her is like working for a superb artistic director.” Remembering a production of his own play Nice Fish, he adds, “She would come in with specific ideas about what needed to be cut, how a scene could evolve, how to shift the audience’s perspective. She could be tough, but she was always right.” “I can get as paranoid as the next precious twat, but I feel very looked after by her,” says Butterworth. “I have a tendency to disappear, especially if I’m struggling with writing. Halfway through The River I just couldn’t finish it, but Sonia has a very careful way of flushing me out and not making me feel like I’m in trouble. She gave me the keys to the country house, which for The Ferryman was hugely valuable.” Whether she’s considering taking an already established play to the West End or helping to plan a new work, Friedman, who says she currently has eleven shows in production, has only one criterion: “It needs to feel relevant. I don’t mean that cliché about putting a mirror up to society—it needs to go deeper, scratch below the surface to answer questions politicians are not asking for us, and provoke debate. I need that in my life. But a fusty old revival with a TV star? I mean, why?” Plenty of people in creative industries begin their careers wanting to push boundaries, but as they get older moneymaking instincts almost invariably take over. Friedman, unusually, has never succumbed to that trajectory, and she remains as excited about esoteric fare like Rylance’s Nice Fish as she is about Harry Potter. As John Tiffany points out, “When Sonia walks into the room you never feel, ‘Oh God, the producer’s here.’ That’s because most commercial producers want to cut corners to make a profit, but Sonia’s focus is how to make the work as good as possible. Also, she’s a woman, which shouldn’t be unusual but is.” I ask Friedman why she thinks there are so few female producers in the theater. “The hours,” she says immediately. “I’m never home before eleven at night, and if I had a child, I couldn’t do it.” She says she did not explicitly decide not to become a mother. “It was subconscious,” she says. “I have to
“She’s probably the busiest person I know,” saysTomStoppard. “She crosses the Atlantic like other peoplecross the street”
P RODUC ED BY PAU LA NAV RAT I L FO R P RO D N.
be philosophical about it. I’ve always made things happen for myself if I wanted them, and I didn’t with this. But I’m very maternal within my work. I send people presents and emoji texts and love hearts. It’s all personal to me.” As Rylance puts it, “Her plays are like her children, and the way she runs her office—she has a bunch of youngsters in there. For a long time Sonia was a little lonely. She was so busy, and things didn’t work out with the people she knew. But now she has the most wonderful partner in Joe.” So tell me about Joe, I say to her. A blush creeps up from her chest to her cheeks. “Oh! Well, it’s an unusual relationship in lots of ways. He’s younger than me.” That’s not a big deal, I say. “Whatever age gap you’re thinking, double it.” Ten years? “Double it again.” Twenty? “And more,” she says. We both pause. Well, get you! I say. “Quite!” she hoots. Poet and writer Joe Murphy is, it eventually emerges, 25 years younger than Friedman. They met in 2012 through the director Stephen Daldry, when Daldry was staying at Friedman’s house, a converted pub in East London, while supervising the 2012 Olympics ceremonies nearby. “And Joe started hanging around and, well, bit by bit, you know . . . It’s been three years, which is not bad for me. I find it hard to make it beyond five years in a relationship, so we’ll see,” she says. When I meet Friedman at the after-party for the first night of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Imelda Staunton is there calmly greeting guests, but Friedman is visibly quivering with nerves about the newspaper reviews, which will be online shortly. “But it was amazing,” she says, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction over a job well done. She is looking pretty amazing herself, in a 1970s-style Sonia Rykiel velvet jumpsuit that plunges almost to her belly button. Modesty is retained with a black Armani tuxedo jacket. I can’t believe this is just one of your eleven shows, I say. “No, no—fourteen,” she corrects me. “We took on three more today—ha-ha-ha! Go talk to Joe!” she orders as she heads off to mingle, and I am introduced to Friedman’s boyfriend, who is talking with some of the play’s investors. With his feathered brown hair and Bambi-size eyes, he is boy-band cute, with an earnest manner and a soft voice that makes you lean in close. I can see all too well how things began, bit by bit. “She’s a genius, she really is,” he says, his eyes instinctively scanning the bar for her. Friedman has no time to talk, because the reviews are just coming in: five stars from the broadsheets! She punches the air and treats herself to a drink. As I leave, I see her talking earnestly to another investor, eating canapés and drinking champagne. She seems happy enough. But she looked like she was having a lot more fun backstage at the theaters. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU The cast of George Orwell’s 1984, on Broadway this month. FROM FAR LEFT: Tom Sturridge, Olivia Wilde, and Reed Birney. Hair, Shon; makeup, Yumi Lee. Menswear Editor: Michael Philouze. Details, see In This Issue. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
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S T A G E
In time for the ďŹ rst Tony Awards of the pink-pussy-hat era, weâ€™re celebrating an electrifying new generation of women storming the fortress of American theater: four ethnically diverse young actresses redefining what it means to be a musical-comedy ingenue and four restlessly inventive writers and directors shaping the dramatic landscape. By Adam Green. Photographed by Nigel Shafran.
BE N TO N: HA I R , CA RRI E RO HM . N OB LE ZA DA : HA I R , A LYSSA BATT E RSBY. D OSS: HAIR , SUSAN COR RAD O.
DRESS REHEARSAL FROM LEFT: DenÃ©e Benton (costume by Paloma Young), Eva Noblezada (costume by Andreane Neofitou), Barrett Doss (costume by Rob Howell), and Laura Dreyfuss (costume by Emily Rebholz). Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
DENÉE BENTON, 25, plays a lovelorn Russian aristocrat in the
War and Peace–inspired musical Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812. The show’s color-blind casting is fast becoming a hallmark of the Hamilton age. “It’s telling a universal story of love and loss and war and regret,” Benton says, “and I think because of that you can put any person of any shade in it.” E VA N O B L E Z A DA is only 21, yet she has already played Eponine in Les Misérables in London and now brings her clarion singing voice to the Broadway Theatre’s Miss Saigon. “I’ve learned how necessary it is to have someone like Denée expose the hidden talents of minority performers,” says Noblezada, who is of Filipino and Mexican descent. “We work our asses off to be seen on the same level as everyone else.” BARRETT DOSS was all set to become a San Francisco
cheesemonger six years ago, after a series of fruitless auditions. Then Thomas Bradshaw—in whose 2007 one-act Cleansed she had played a fourteen-year-old biracial skinhead—cast her in his play Burning. Now, at 28, she is making her Broadway-musical debut as Rita (played onscreen by Andie MacDowell) in the stage adaptation of Groundhog Day. L AURA DREYFUSS With heartbreaking tenderness, Dreyfuss, 28, plays a soulful high school student struggling in a relationship with the anxiety-ridden class geek (Ben Platt) in the musical Dear Evan Hansen. She has appeared on Broadway in Hair and Once and is best known as Madison McCarthy on Glee. “Glee and Evan Hansen are fundamentally the same idea: ‘Where do I belong?’ ” she says. THIS SPREAD
CLARE BARRON’ s plays burn with an almost feral urgency—coupled with an off-kilter humor—as they explore the joys and terrors of faith, family, and the female body. Her latest, Dance Nation, concerns a preteen dance troupe, played by a cast ranging in age from twelve to 75. Barron, 31, depicts the pagan ferocity beneath the girls’ skin. “I think we tend to simplify what it was like to be that age,” she says. LILEANA BLAIN-CRUZ, 33, mounted Suzan-Lori Parks’s The
Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World at the Signature last fall. This month she returns with Dominique Morisseau’s Pipeline, about the plight of an AfricanAmerican teacher and her son, at Lincoln Center Theater. “Making theater right now—especially when it seems to be speaking to the times—feels like a refuge,” she says. LILA NEUGEBAUER, 31, directed four acclaimed plays in the
past few months—Miles for Mary, by her theater company, the Mad Ones; Sarah DeLappe’s The Wolves; Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s Everybody; and, most recently, Annie Baker’s The Antipodes—with several more slated for next season. “I hope I’m inviting people to investigate ideas that they might normally take for granted about the way they live,” she says. YOUNG JEAN LEE, 42, has for nearly fifteen years been writing and staging genre-bending works that also manage to be deliriously entertaining. Next season she’s making her Broadway debut as a playwright—the first Asian-American woman to do so—with the funny and mournful Straight White Men. Her next play will be, she says, about “everything that’s going on in the country right now.”
PRODUCED BY MATH IL D E CA R LOTT I AT ROSCO PRODUCTION
CURTAIN CALL FROM LEFT: Clare Barron, Lileana Blain-Cruz, Lila Neugebauer, and Young Jean Lee. All in clothes of their own. In this story: hair and hair color, Joe Martino; makeup, Alice Lane. Set design, Bette Adams for Mary Howard Studio.
INDIAN SUMMER Her first novel, The God of Small Things,was an instant best seller.Twenty years later, Delhi-based author and ﬁrebrand Arundhati Roy delivers the follow-up we’ve been longing for. By Daphne Beal. Photographed by Rena Effendi.
n the top floor of a small building on a quiet lane in central Delhi, the writer Arundhati Roy greets me at the door of her apartment, accompanied by two eagerly barking dogs, whose names, she tells me, translate as Mrs. Filthy Darling and Beloved of the Earth. “Filth and Dirt,” Roy says cheerfully as she welcomes me into her large, sunny kitchen and starts making coffee in an Italian moka pot—“It’ll be weak, South Indian–style, OK?” she says with a laugh. With its high ceilings, bookcase-lined walls, and political posters (one shows a bobby with a beat stick: sedition protects democracy), her apartment has the airy yet lived-in feel of an artist’s loft. I take a seat at a farmhouse table, near a vase of exceedingly tall, bright-orange lilies. Roy is wearing a crisp, cream-colored salwar kameez with matching dupatta. When I comment on her stylishness she says, “I run away from tradition, I run away from modernity, and then—you find your own space.” IN THE PINK Arundhati Roy, photographed in a quiet corner of Delhi, to which she retreated often while writing her new novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness.
It’s been fifteen years since we first met—I came to Delhi in 2002 to write about Roy’s fearless political activism for this magazine—and at 57, she seems virtually unchanged. Her curly hair may be grayer (“Gray pride,” she likes to joke), but her wide eyes, lined lightly in kohl, remain merry, and her easy laugh is the same. She’s in a fine mood, having been up much of the night overseeing “the comma wars” between her American and British copy editors at Knopf and Penguin UK over the proofs of her second novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, her first since 1997, when The God of Small Things was published. To say Roy’s latest venture into fiction has been long awaited is an understatement. An instant best seller, The God of Small Things—which Junot Díaz calls “one of the single most important novels written in English”—won the Man Booker Prize and quickly went on to become a global literary phenomenon. After working on the new novel for ten years, last August Roy texted her British agent, David Godwin, with one word: “Done.” Godwin got on the first plane to Delhi. He was nervous when she handed him the manuscript. “But then I read the opening,” he says, “and thought, Yeah, we’re back.” When The Ministry of Utmost Happiness comes out this month, it will be published in 30 countries. From the novel’s beginning—“She lived in the graveyard like a tree”—one is swept up in the story. “She” is Anjum, born a hermaphrodite in Old Delhi, who, after being raised as a boy named Aftab, goes to live as a woman in a nearby home for hijras (the South Asian term for transgender women). Headstrong and magnetic, she becomes the spokesperson for the hijra community. But after barely surviving a Muslim pogrom in Gujarat, Anjum renounces everything to set up a solitary new life in a cemetery, where she builds a guesthouse among the gravestones that gradually becomes home to a colorful cast of characters. More than 400 pages long, The Ministry is a densely populated contemporary novel in the tradition of Dickens, Tolstoy, and García Márquez. If The God of Small Things was a lushly imagined, intimate family novel slashed through with politics, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, though primarily set in Delhi, encompasses wildly different economic, religious, and cultural realms across the Indian subcontinent and as far away as Iraq and California. Animating it is a kaleidoscopic variety of bohemians, army majors, protesters, police chiefs, revolutionaries, and lovers. “She has the instinct of sympathy for the underdog,” says Roy’s friend the writer Pankaj Mishra. “It’s a rare gift. She’s always with the people who are powerless.” With her exquisite and dynamic storytelling, Roy balances scenes of suffering and corruption with flashes of humor, giddiness, and even transcendence. In one poetic passage a baby is found “on the concrete pavement, in a crib of litter: silver cigarette foil, a few plastic bags and empty packets of Uncle Chipps. She lay in a pool of light, under a column of swarming neon-lit mosquitoes, naked. Her skin was blueblack, sleek as a baby seal’s.” To read the book is to hear Hindi, Urdu, Sanskrit, and all kinds of English, and to be flooded with impressions of India right now. As Díaz says,
“If you really want to know the world beyond our corporatesponsored dreamscapes, you read writers like Roy. She shows you what’s really going on.” At 1:00, Roy’s neighbor, the literary editor in chief of Penguin India, Meru Gokhale, knocks on the door with homemade ravioli and tomato soup for lunch, and cover proofs. Spreading them out on the table, they decide on matte rather than glossy for the off-white cover, inspired by a Muslim marble grave. “Everyone is fucked over in the story, so it’s OK if the book gets fucked up,” says Roy, who curses frequently, the words in striking contrast to her musical voice. She seems to have taken the same sly delight in peppering the new novel with a spectacular array of obscenities—“I swear by your mother’s cock” is one—that punctuates her flowing prose with adrenaline jolts. On either side of the apartment is a terrace full of potted plants, an oasis. Roy seems to appreciate her aerie and be aware of the need to leave it. “You can get insulated,” she says. “I made sure that didn’t happen.”
wenty years ago, in the wake of her best-selling debut, many assumed that Roy would get right back to fiction. But while she enjoyed being feted for GOST and still lives off the royalties, she was uncomfortable with the ways that India was shifting politically. Although technically the world’s largest democracy, India has witnessed the rise of an all-toofamiliar strain of nationalism, religious extremism, and censorship that threatens freedom and minorities. “I found it hard to see what you see around you,” she says, “and just splash about enjoying your own good fortune.” Then, in 1998, India conducted nuclear tests in the desert bordering Pakistan; its neighbor responded in kind. “Unexpected people were celebrating it,” she says. “I knew if I didn’t say something, it would be assumed that I was part of the celebration.” The result was “The End of Imagination,” a searing essay about the high-stakes risks of nuclear saber-rattling that was published in India’s Outlook and Frontline magazines. The piece “immediately got me kicked off the pedestal of the fame goddess,” Roy says. “And I began a journey into worlds that I’ve spent the last 20 years writing about,” referring to her many political essays, subsequently collected in more than a dozen nonfiction books. When I met Roy in 2002, the country was in a renewed standoff with Pakistan, and she had taken on the role of political critic. Through provocative articles and lectures around the world, she responded to the rise of Hindu nationalism, the ongoing war in the Kashmir Valley, the oppression of Dalits (formerly Untouchables), environmental degradation related to mining and dam-building, and the perils of economic globalization. “With each piece, I’d think I didn’t want to do it, because I’d get into trouble again,” she says. “But you can’t help it.” As she turned into an unapologetic public intellectual in the vein of Susan Sontag and Noam Chomsky, some dismissed
When the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, paid a state visit to Delhi, she requested a meeting with Roy
her as a polemicist who should get back to novel-writing. Others held her up as a much-needed agent of change. I asked Roy then if she thought she would write more fiction, and she said, “I hope so. It’s difficult living in a time like this. . . . Whatever I write next, all that will go into it.” Her platform continued to broaden. She was invited to sit on a war-crimes tribunal in Istanbul in 2005 after the U.S. invasion of Iraq, and when the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, paid a state visit to India in 2015, she requested a meeting with Roy. “Sister Roy really is an internationalist connecting what’s going on in one corner of the globe with what’s going on in another,” says the philosopher and activist Cornel West. “She is bearing intense moral witness.” It comes at a cost. Roy has been brought before the Supreme Court of India on charges of criminal contempt of court (for the second time) for protesting a friend’s brutal arrest. And while people regularly stop to take selfies with her, she has also been burned in effigy. Another friend, the Pulitzer Prize–winning author Siddhartha Mukherjee, compares her to George Orwell. “Goons have smashed chairs on the stage where she is speaking,” he says, “and spies stand at the edges of the room taking notes on what she says.” But Roy has no desire to leave India. “As a writer,” she says, “I’m just in the paws of this place, and this place is in the paws of me.” It’s hard to imagine Roy’s new novel existing without her nonfiction. “I’m pretty sure that I’m fundamentally a fiction writer. Nonfiction is the fretwork,” she says. “Politically, whatever positions I’ve taken, I’ve taken. That was a march. This is something else. This is a dance.”
goats,” she says, as we pass one dressed in a burlap sack eating from the gutter. Walking under a tangled web of electrical lines, we pass storefronts straight out of her novel, selling saris, jewelry, cell phones, glasses, hardware, and legumes. At dusk, we climb the stairs to her landlady’s apartment and flat roof, where we are served butter cookies and tea from white china cups as the landlady’s family gathers around. Clearly at ease, Roy says, “You don’t find this in the First World—where you walk through shit and into love.” Across the way, Roy’s “refuge” is a clean and simple room of plain white walls with blue trim around the windows, a desk, and a single bed with a dark-red coverlet. The kitchen is a floor above, along with a wall-to-wall bookshelf crammed with everything from The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire to Alice Munro. On our way down, Roy walks out onto the narrow balcony overlooking the busy alleyways and rests her forearms on the wooden railing. This, she tells me, is where she dreamed up the novel. “I was disciplined, writing during the weeks at home, and coming here only on the weekends,” to think and plan. I ask, “So no country house for you?” She laughs. “People offer me all sorts of nice places to work, but pristine places scare me.” As we leave, weaving through the noisy traffic, she asks, “Isn’t it a good sound track to write a novel to?” “Why?” I ask. “Because it drowns out all the doubting voices?” She looks back, surprised. “No, because it reminds you that no matter how much you think things should be put in order, all is actually chaos.”
COU RT ESY OF P E NGU IN RA N DO M HOUS E
Though her life there comes at a cost,Roy has no desire to leave India.“I’m in the paws of this place,”she says, “and this place is in the paws of me”
Roy’s social world in Delhi is interwoven with friendships from the 30-plus years she has lived in the city since she arrived here to study architecture. Her writing has brought her into contact with authors far and wide, including John Berger, with whom she was very close before he died; Naomi Klein; Eve Ensler; and Wallace Shawn. One night as we part she tells me she is headed out with a group of friends from her days teaching aerobics in her early 20s. “I never let go of anyone,” she says. “We can speak in shorthand, a kind of code, in movie dialogue.” She is strongly connected to those who share her sense of mission. “I’m a person who’s been very much a part of concentric rings of solidarity.” Despite her numerous circles, Roy sees herself as a creature of solitude. “The most un-Indian thing about me is how alone I am,” she says. She keeps a place to write in the winding alleys of Old Delhi, about a half-hour’s drive from her apartment. “Don’t call it a writing studio,” she says as we head there one afternoon. “That sounds so New York. Call it a refuge.” Leaving the car at Turkman Gate, one of the original portals to the old city, she pulls me deftly through an oncoming barrage of auto-rickshaws, motorbikes, and cars. “These streets are in me, and these
She may have an affinity for chaos, but Roy nonetheless finds ways to step back from it. A few days later she takes me to the birthplace of the thirteenth-century Sufi saint Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, which adjoins a Muslim cemetery. It’s not the invented graveyard of the novel, she says, but a peaceful place she returned to over and over in the course of writing. From there we go to the nearby Old Delhi neighborhood where she lived in her 20s while working at the National Institute of Urban Affairs. “Each day, I would rent a bicycle for a rupee and cycle to work,” she recalls. “At the end of the day I would cycle home, and all the beggars sitting out in the street would greet me: ‘So you survived another day, too?’ ” It was at this job that she met Pradip Krishen, a film director who cast her as a tribal girl in his film Massey Sahib, and with whom she would go on to collaborate on two movies. One, In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones, is a cult classic about “stoned architecture students” that she wrote and he directed. They eventually married. When a third film project fell through, Roy, who had started writing GOST, turned to the novel full-time. These days Krishen and Roy are friendly. (Though not officially divorced, they keep C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 5 9 133
CLASH MOB FROM NEAR RIGHT: Faretta, Ansley Gulielmi, Ellen Rosa, Samile Bermannelli, and Wallette Watson. All clothing and accessories by Marni. Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.
Fıngers On the Prınts A new designer—the largely unknown Francesco Risso— makes his mark atMarni.
By LukeLeitch. Photographed by CraigMcDean.
Marni’s expansive, columned show space on Viale Umbria in Milan was dense with expectation on the morning of February 26: After 22 years, Consuelo Castiglioni had retired from the house she’d founded and nurtured, one with an almost cultishly devoted fan base, and her assembled fans and the attendant press were gathered to see how Francesco Risso—a 34-year-old designer barely known outside Milanese fashion circles and the newly appointed creative director of Marni— would add to her legacy. Castiglioni made Marni by translating her own instinctively hewn, unconventional femininity into modernist, faintly bohemian, and utterly anti-bourgeois furs, florals, extravagantly casual silhouettes, and accessories that subverted the gaze of the male eye. These were pieces for women who didn’t look to define themselves by sex appeal—who were sophisticated enough to play with both feminine and feminist stereotypes. How would this man handpicked by Marni owner Renzo Rosso to succeed Castiglioni articulate his own voice within this heady framework? The collection started in ebb, eventually flowed, and then, near the finale, flourished before Risso emerged to take his post-show bow wearing an artfully frayed 1940s cowboy shirt, baggy straight-leg pants, and the Jack Purcells he lives in. Afterward, with no shortage of opinions from the gathered crowd, perhaps only one thing was certain: At first glance, Risso’s Marni seemed a different beast entirely from Castiglioni’s. A few weeks earlier, Risso is seated at a table in his favorite pasticceria, Cucchi, on Milan’s Corso Genova, alongside a vitrine displaying a pair of high heels and a handbag made of chocolate. We are around the corner from the apartment he has shared with Lawrence Steele, a Virginia-born designer, since they got together in 2008: a 1930s penthouse with a sprawling terrace furnished with exotic plants and trees—a “beautiful jungle,” as Risso puts it, twisting the ringlets of his copper-hued hair, before launching into his almost cinematically baroque backstory. Risso was born in Alghero, Sardinia, in 1982, and until he was four lived and meandered across the Mediterranean with his mother and father on their sailboat, the Tartar. “I was a baby on a boat—my crib was tied between two masts,” Risso says. A love of adventure—or a kind of free-spirited wanderlust—seems to run in the family: Later, Risso shows me a blurred photo of his father, also named Francesco, 136
galloping down a beach on horseback, dragging a boy (Risso is not sure who) on water skis behind him, while Risso’s grandmother on his father’s side was found—only after her death—to have owned a secret house in Jamaica where she’d run off to every August, telling anybody who asked that she’d been in Europe with a friend. Eventually the family settled on dry land in Genoa, where they lived a big, rumbustious life. Risso was enthralled by fashion early: When he was eight, he began cutting up his parents’ clothes to see how they were made, and at the age of sixteen he left home to study fashion—first in Florence at Polimoda, then at FIT in New York, and finally to London and Central Saint Martins for his masters. Once graduated, he worked for Anna Molinari at Blumarine in Carpi for two years before joining Alessandro Dell’Acqua in Milan. In 2008—four years after he arrived in the city—Risso transferred to Prada, working first as a knitwear designer before being promoted to a kind of senior lieutenant of womenswear. His eyes widening, Risso describes working with Miuccia Prada for nearly a decade as “surfing for the mind”—which is why taking the decision to accept an offer from Renzo Rosso to replace Castiglioni was, he says, so profoundly jarring: “It was very deep, and very emotional—especially when it came to telling Mrs. Prada. I burst into tears! Working there was the most stimulating, intense, creative adventure.” When Castiglioni told Rosso that she wanted to step away from Marni, Rosso began a broad search for her replacement. “I was looking at some very important names in the fashion industry,” Rosso says, “but the more I looked, the more I knew I had to find someone really young and modern. Francesco and I started to talk—for a long time—about a vision for Marni: line by line, including shoes, accessories, bags, ready-to-wear, the stores, the advertising. And we started to feel together—we were in love with what we wanted to do for the future of Marni.” Risso brings to his own adventure at the house an energy and an eccentric spirit that jibe nicely with its history. “I was always a passionate client—I love the sense of playfulness and dynamism in the colors, the prints, and the decorations,” he says. “To me, Marni is a temple of playfulness—and I love that it is intelligent and against stereotypes. I want to fight to keep that—it is so important.”
N AC HO A LEG RE . G ROO MI N G, FRA N CESCA A N G ELO NE . P RODUCE D BY M A I .LON D O N.
COMING UP RISSO Marni’s new creative director aims to infuse a kind of youth and vigor to the storied house known for its abundant flora.
“Marni is a temple of playfulness—I love that it is intelligent and against stereotypes,”Risso says.“I want to ﬁght to keep that” Fast-forward a month to the morning before Risso’s runway debut. Head tilted, ringlets askew, the creative director appears at home pacing the runway while listening to the proposed sound track for the show created by Frédéric Sanchez. A disembodied echo of Erykah Badu’s “On & On” pulses across an abstract synth backing track. “Obsessed!” Risso mutters exaltedly to himself, lost in his work. “Obsessed!” He claps his hands. “Genius!” I stand nearby with Steele, whom Risso has just appointed associate creative director of Marni; henceforth, they will work together as well as live together. I ask Steele about his first meeting with Risso.
“That depends on which first time you are asking about,” he replies. “Francesco tends to change, physically, a lot—the first time I met him, he was blond with very long hair. The second time”—a year or so later—“he had very short hair, almost no hair at all really. In fact, I didn’t remember having met him before.” Which is not to say, Steele is quick to note, that their first meeting wasn’t revelatory. “Oh, it was—a real sparkle-in-the-eye, connection-made moment. It’s just we had that moment once, and then time passed, and then it happened again.” I ask Steele if he has concerns about becoming a work partner with his life partner of the last ten years. “Oh, no,” he 137
replies almost instantly. “Working together is easy, effortless. We know each other’s minds instinctively.” It’s a knowledge honed by a decade together exploring the city both designers chose to adopt as their own. Although Risso says his first impression of Milan was sorely lacking— “It felt gray and cold and hard to live in”—he has learned to understand it and love it. “Blood is pumping through its veins again,” he says. One might even say that the city’s jarring admixture of arte povera grayness and unabashed luxury informs both Marni and Risso. He and Steele spend spare moments trawling the artists’ editions in Libreria Bocca and agonizing over purchases from the impeccably curated furniture in Nilufar, owned by his friend Nina Yashar. Milan is also close enough to Genoa for jaunts down the autostrada—Risso is soon to take delivery of his “dream car,” a spectacularly beautiful old peacock-blue Citroën DS—to his favorite store in the world, Pescetto. “It is one of my highest obsessions, where I buy half of my vintage clothes,” Risso says. “It was very popular in the sixties, and on the top floor they still sell treasures from that time—they used to make editions of clothes in Harris Tweed or, with Hermès, amazing sweaters in cashmere or alpaca.” The designer’s mania for collecting extends down to his socks: Risso lifts the hem of his pants to show me today’s Pescetto-bought pair in 1960s Filo di Scozia. “The fine-gauge cotton from that period is very, very good,” he says, “but expensive!” More expensive than
partly inspired by Claes Oldenburg’s soft sculptures. “Marni has always been about making sculptural pieces,” he tells me after the show. Next, a twisted and layered heaping of ikat and floral on fitted dresses sometimes punctuated with external bralets (something that clearly builds on his time at Prada) and two pieces in a subtly crackled, high-shine black finish—a strapless, balloon-skirted dress and an overcoat—with their strictness subverted by asymmetrical panels of teddy-bear fluff. At the climax, a series of drawstringcinched dresses in a spongy synthetic are peppered with beads, stones, studs, and shards of recycled CDs. As for traditional Marni tropes, there is a lot of floral, for sure (but none from the archive), as well as a carefully irreverent use of fur both faux and real on wide-brimmed hats, in off-kilter stoles, or in Muppet-hued coats. One of these coats—also incorporating tiger stripe—is, Risso reluctantly concedes, one of his favorites, something he calls “the wild personality.” The look reminds him of Edie Sedgwick and sixties experimentalism, which he says is “something that I love and which is close to the generation Consuelo is part of—but seen through the eyes of my generation.” Reviews from the press were mixed, though Ken Downing, senior vice president and fashion director of Neiman Marcus, was bullish. “The quirky, existential, individualistic spirit of Consuelo was there, along with the interesting technological fabrics, the color mixes, the unique silhouette, the juxtaposing volume over volume,” he says. “But anybody
“I’m learning a lot, and that is part of the process,” Risso says. “You make mistakes; you learn” the shoes, I ask? Risso laughs and—only momentarily— stops twisting his ringlets. Paola Bay, a designer and brand consultant, first met Risso through Lawrence when the couple got together. “He’s much more than an amazing fashion designer,” she says. “His creativity extends 360 degrees—whether it’s an art gallery or a flea market, wherever we go out together he can find and appreciate beauty. I think he has the outlook of a Renaissance man, one who’s open to experimentation with everything. In a way, he is exactly Marni.” Back at Viale Umbria on the eve of the show, Risso is staring up at a complicated rig of lanterns tethered by a mile of cable and 81 switches that looms above us. He is unhappy at precisely how these lanterns are casting light on a model wearing a tuftily tactile aquamarine sweater in nylon, a flocked woolen pink skirt, and a pair of neutral not-quite-to-the-knee leather boots topped with tufted fronds of feathery mohair. “It is not beautiful to see that girl so completely lit,” he says. “They have to come from darkness into light—because this is the other world. Let’s go back to work!” Risso calls out, fiddling with the resin beads on his wide-linked golden chain necklace. The next day dawns. By mid-morning, the Bubble Wrap– upholstered plywood benches that border Risso’s meandering runway are packed to capacity with editors, buyers, and friends sitting in dimness before Risso’s lanterns flicker slowly to life. The collection reveals itself in stages. First come a series of oversize padded outfits in gray and taupe followed by a cocooning bright blue coat, all of which are 138
that knows Francesco’s lineage and his work at Prada recognized the seventies sensibility and the pattern play. I think he was very respectful to Consuelo and to the house, but as with any first collection, everyone’s lens was laser-focused. Every nod forward is a new chapter.” Two mornings after the show, I meet Risso back at Cucchi. Coffee is ordered, ringlets are twisted, and I ask him about first impressions. “Certainly people still need to know me,” he says. “There was—there is—such a crowd that is so much in love with Consuelo, and that is normal—I understand that. She decided to go, and this is hard for people to digest.” I ask Risso if he’s been in touch with Castiglioni, who is now 58. Did he meet her? Ask for advice? “I met her, and we write each other letters,” he says, though he’s unwilling to discuss the content of those letters. “We are in touch—she is an extremely lovely person. I have a very high respect for all she has done. I’m learning a lot, and that is part of the process. You make mistakes; you learn.” But learning, Risso clarifies, does not mean changing course in the face of criticism. “It’s not about making adjustments,” he says. “It’s about a process: the expression of visions, myriad stimulations. That’s what I would love to achieve.” For Marni’s resort collection, that vision, those stimulations, translate into “a lot of prints and clashes of prints, and the idea of having a romantic edge applied to very formal wear,” Risso says. “Mainly, though, it is about making beautiful objects. Eclecticism and surprise are the core of this brand—and I feel that in myself, too.”
P RO DUC ED BY LU IG I FI LOT I CO FOR MA I . PH OTOGRAPH ED AT H EAD QUARTERS 5VIE. SET D ESIGN, CH AR LOTTE MELLO TEGGIA.
TWO FOR THE SHOW Faretta (FAR LEFT) and Ellen Rosa model Rissoâ€™s debut fall collection. All clothing and accessories by Marni. In this story: hair, Duffy; makeup, Erin Parsons. Details, see In This Issue.
MASTER OF CEREMONIES
LEGENDARY ROOTS DRUMMER,TONIGHT SHOW MUSICAL DIRECTOR,AND...DINNER-PARTY HOST? TAMAR ADLER MEETS QUESTLOVE,THE MAN CHANGING CULINARY CULTURE ONE FOOD SALON AT ATIME.
he plush rec room in Questlove’s Manhattan apartment tower is full to brimming. Over by the open kitchen is Olivia Wilde in a Stella McCartney bomber jacket, chatting with Chris Rock. By the swimming pool are Rosario Dawson and Jimmy Fallon. There at a cocktail table is Matt Lauer. And Pharrell. Chefs—Kwame Onwuachi of the late Shaw Bijou in D.C., Amanda Cohen of Dirt Candy on the Lower East Side, and Bryce Shuman of New York’s recently departed Betony—compose bites of crab with uni, carrot sliders, and tête de cochon. Misty Copeland stands by the window in a canary-yellow dress and four-inch heels like a mystical bird guarding downtown Manhattan at dusk. Towering above everyone is Questlove, né Ahmir Thompson, ever recognizable in the extravagant Afro he’s had since he was a child. He’s dressed in his uniform: a black hoodie, custom-made black jeans, Nike high-tops, and a Dee and Ricky Lego brooch. Questlove is, of course, cofounder and drummer of the Roots; musical director of The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon; Hamilton Mixtape producer; and DJ for everyone from the San Francisco 49ers to Balenciaga to the Clinton Global Initiative to the Golden Globes. His position in the food world is more nebulous—he’s part impresario, part creativity evangelist, part entrepreneur. Whatever he is finds its expression in these high-wattage culinary jam sessions. He calls them salons, a quaint, Enlightenment-era term that he deploys with some irony. You might call them dinner parties, but that misses their accessibility and unaffected exuberance. His ascension to a place where chefs such as Daniel Humm, David Chang, and Dominique Ansel value his culinary opinion—and moreover consider him one of them—is, for lack of a better term, a little weird. He doesn’t cook. “No, no, I’m a very good eater,” he explains when I make my way to him through the crowd. “Except, actually, for carrots and beets,” he adds, as we taste Amanda Cohen’s carrot sliders. “Which I didn’t like until tonight. But now I’m converted.” Nor is Questlove a restaurateur, though he briefly owned a very good fried-chicken stand at the Chelsea Market with Philadelphia restaurant scion Stephen Starr. And he isn’t a 140
food journalist, though last year he wrote a cerebral romp through culinary creativity called Something to Food About (Clarkson Potter), and he’s developing a documentary on black chefs with filmmaker Lyric Cabral. What Questlove is, in a traditionally parochial, rule-bound, white field (has there been #gastronomysowhite yet?), is a glimmer of a better future. Around Questlove, hierarchies dissolve. The salons are notable for their mix of colors, ages, occupations, and there is an almost palpable absence of ego. That’s part of the point. “Nobody here has status above another person,” he says. To be sure, his guests are mostly celebrities (not all; there is a token segment of civilians, like me), but they’re the celebrities one tends to fantasize less about being than having as friends. Questlove strikes me as that rare breed in preadolescence—the cool kid who makes schoolyard life harmonious. Fallon agrees with me. “Questlove has this childlike innocence. When we booked Phil Collins, he sent me a text, freaking out. It’s that level of excitement.” It helps that Questlove has star power enough on his own— and is such a serious artist—that chefs know their fame isn’t what attracts him. “Questlove isn’t trying to join a club,” says Wylie Dufresne. “He’s genuinely excited about what we’re serving—but he also contributes. He adds to the conversation.” Part of that contribution is bringing exposure to chefs who don’t look like Jacques Pépin and Alain Ducasse. “I don’t think he’s playing with favoritism in terms of color,” says Onwuachi. “But he is aware. He makes it easier for me to get on the radar. He’s saying: ‘Where are the African-American chefs out there?’ He can identify with me, and that helps.” When I meet Questlove a few weeks after the salon, backstage at The Tonight Show, he’s with his friend Lin-Manuel Miranda, here from SNL. They talk in the half sentences of a married couple. “You know,” Lin says to him as Questlove mulls something over, “you look just like Stephen Sondheim when you scratch your chin.” Questlove lets out a characteristic half-snort, half-chortle, and the two huddle over rare R&B 45s that Questlove’s buyer has found at a dealer in Pennsylvania. Eventually Questlove’s assistant tears him away. We have a reservation at Sushi Seki on First Avenue. Fallon told me that Questlove is the most fun person in the world to eat with. But I find myself nervous. Questlove
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PHOTOGRAPHED BY STEVEN KLEIN
WITH THE BAND Questlove turned to food when his love of music started to dim. â€œFood is the thing that inspires my utter elation,â€? he says. Hair, Maisha StephensTeacher; makeup, Maria C. Scali. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
was inspired to write Something to Food About after a visit black-eyed peas. By the end of Saturday night they’d finally to Jiro Ono’s famous sushi counter in Tokyo, and a number finished.” Monday was earmarked for dishwashing. of his press photos show him with chopsticks and nigiri in “It was also probably food that helped the Roots cross hand. I needn’t have worried. He has an immediate, unforced over,” Questlove says. Twenty years ago, when the Roots were way of putting one at ease. It starts when we both order an still Philadelphia-based, their manager, Richard Nichols, elaborately described rice beer called Koshihikari Echigo, decided the band needed to cultivate a tribe of like-minded which we taste. “Really?” Questlove asks, raising his eyecollaborators and fans—today we have Swifties and the Beyhive, but these were A Tribe Called Quest days, and one’s brows conspiratorially above his thick-rimmed glasses—of tribe made music as well as listened to it. Nichols persuaded which, by the way, he has 600 pairs. I offer that Koshihikari Geffen Records to add a personal chef to the band’s budEchigo tastes like Bud Light. “Oh!” he exclaims. “Is this what Bud Light tastes like?” get. That chef, pilfered from a posh Philadelphia jazz club, Questlove wants chutoro (medium fatty tuna). I hazard cooked—sometimes for hours—while the Roots hosted fivea preference for otoro (the fattiest and by most standards, and ten-hour jam sessions, originally at Questlove’s Philadelthe best). “You know, let’s settle this,” he says. He suggests phia house. These evolved into the famous Black Lily jam an A-B comparison, which lasts five or six rounds—I lose sessions, where Macy Gray, Erykah Badu, Alicia Keys, and count—and quickly devolves into the kind of digressive conmany more went to practice and collaborate, eventually leadversation one has with an old friend. Which is the best brand ing to at least ten record deals. “There had been nowhere for of earplugs? Is Pluto a planet? How many episodes of Soul the neo-soul–hip-hop movement to get together,” Questlove Train has he yet to watch? He draws comparisons between tells me. “Jill Scott, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Musiq Soulchild, chefs and underground rappers. “Dominique Crenn,” he says Freeway . . . they were all there.” His food salons, he says, “are (of Atelier Crenn and Petit Crenn in San Francisco). “Domiwhat those jam sessions were in 1997.” We have a second dinner reservation—at Carbone, Rich nique is like, ‘How can I provoke? How can I move you?’ ” We Torrisi and Mario Carbone’s temple to talk about Cronuts—he’s a fan—and veal Parmesan—but we feel lazy and the fact that he first tasted wine at 23. disinclined to head all the way downWe consume great quantities of very THESALONS expensive, delicious tuna. For the record, town. We decide instead to relocate to ARENOTABLEFOR Questlove is right about chutoro. Cipriani, a celebrity clubhouse a few THEIRMIX blocks away not known for its food. OFCOLORS,AGES, Born to musician parents in Philadel“Their rigatoni is good, ” Questlove asphia, Questlove was drumming at two. sures me. “We’re fine with that or the OCCUPATIONS.THAT’S He played Radio City Music Hall with ravioli.” We enter, some time around PARTOFTHEPOINT. his parents’ band, Lee Andrews and 9:30, to a chorus of “Questlove!” Spike “NOBODYHERE the Hearts, at eleven. He and his high Lee’s wife, Tonya, is finishing dinner HAS STATUSABOVE school friend—kind of friend, kind of with a retinue of powerful women in ANOTHERPERSON,” frenemy—Black Thought (a.k.a. Tariq suits. After much hugging and kissing, Trotter) formed the Roots in 1987, at we sit, and Questlove jokes he’s surHESAYS the Fame-like Philadelphia High School prised we’re let in without a booking. “I for Creative and Performing Arts in mean, the Clooneys really like it here,” South Philly. (A bit of hip-hop trivia: The band’s early name he says. “I’m just the most celebrated second banana. I’m was the Square Roots, which is charmingly nineties nerdy.) Tariq’s partner. I’m Jimmy’s second banana. I hide behind a Questlove has a collection of 80,000 records whose tracks drum set. I hide behind a DJ booth.” The truth is Questlove he can recite at will. has any ear he wants. Our conversation turns to the astrologiWhen did he turn his attention to food? It happened when cal possibility of a thirteenth zodiac sign (Ophiuchus the serhis love of music dimmed. “I had a good fifteen-year period pent). “I have to ask Neil deGrasse Tyson about that,” he says. with hip-hop, when it was upping the ante all the time,” he For help scrambling an egg? “Chang or Ansel,” he says. When says. But at some point, “I traded in the romance of music he is in Minnesota, he goes cereal shopping at the General for the technicality of music.” He references John Coltrane to Mills factory. His favorite sneakers are a pair of Yeezys sent explain: “A lot of people hear A Love Supreme and they have to him by Kanye with a note: from k west 2 q uest. an epiphany. But I hear it now and I wonder what the mic setup was. It’s become technical for me.” His tone is slightly The only subjects we don’t broach during our night on the forlorn. “I’m the only person I know who likes the engine town are race and politics. I know how politically active he better than the car. But now, food is the thing that inspires is—he worked on both of President Obama’s election cammy utter elation. You ever see the baby elephant discover the paigns and makes pointed comments on social media about ocean?” (I have, on YouTube, as has much of the rest of the racial profiling, President Trump, and LGBTQ rights. As world. Several times.) “That’s me with food.” a food writer whose work rarely covers any more sensitive It’s not as if he didn’t love eating before. When he was topics than whether shrimp should be peeled, then cooked, growing up, preparations for a Sunday meal at his grandor cooked, then peeled, I don’t know quite how to steer the conversation in that direction. mother’s house—“the most exquisite soul-food dinner But when we meet a few days later at his apartment, where ever”—were a four-day affair, beginning on Thursday his personal chef makes me a salad of Bushwick-grown arumornings. “They would make this cake soaked in brandy, which took a few days. Saturday afternoon they soaked gula with Shishito peppers, grilled pears, and citrus dressing, 142
I do my best. I’ve read that Questlove has been pulled over at least 20 times for Driving While Black—including the night before he won a Grammy. He got a car and driver because so many cabs were turning him down. Once, he had to fit his six-foot-four-inch frame into a pedicab to get from a Roots rehearsal to The Tonight Show because no cab would take him. I ask if he sees himself as an instrument of change. “Dude,” he answers, “I don’t even believe I have impact in my own field.” At the same time, he’s actively working for greater equality in food access. He recounts having learned, years ago, from Magic Johnson that when Johnson opened a TGI Fridays in Harlem, it was the only place that you could get a fresh salad within a fifteen-block radius. To that end, he joined the advisory board of the Edible Schoolyard NYC, whose goal is food education in inner-city schools. Kate Brashares, executive director of Edible Schoolyard, tells me, “He’s the real deal. He really understands the importance of getting healthy, delicious food to everyone.” She adds, “He’s opened doors to us we never could have opened without him.” Some of that may be the color of his skin. Some is Questlove’s talent for collecting ideas and people to the mutual benefit of both. He tells me he loves that Daniel
Fuel, shares billing with Hugh Acheson’s lamb with fava beans and Tom Colicchio’s smoked monkfish. On a cocktail table near a bar serving cognac and gin concoctions by Nitecap’s Natasha David, guests write anti-hunger slogans on paper plates (food is fuel for my family; food is fuel for my mind) and photograph them. Minton’s Joseph “JJ” Johnson—whose upgrading of the junk-food classic Frito pie is a masterwork of rice and cassava chips, peanut sauce, braised goat, and edamame beans in a bespoke Mylar bag— is here for his culinary cachet and his food-justice work. JJ is an adviser to the Food Bank for New York City. Once a week, the Minton’s staff feeds the 89 tenants of a nonprofit that houses the homeless in the building above the Harlem restaurant. And yet: The night isn’t heavy with the cause. Champagne and Rémy Martin flow. Guests gather around the chefs and cluck and ooh. “You, the chef, are really the star of this show,” Johnson tells me in a kind of daze. “It’s this no-judge zone, too, where everyone really cares about food in a cool way. Plus, Tom Colicchio helped me plate.” As we stand by the open kitchen, surveying the chefs and guests—an astoundingly beautiful crowd, in every hue, of
CE N TE R LE FT: A M Y LOM BA RD. CE N TE R RI G HT: @W I L LA JEA N N EWO RLE A N S/ © I N STAG RA M. A LL OT HERS : @ QU ESTLOV ESFO O D/ © I NSTAGRA M.
MOVEABLE FEAST Questlove uses a dedicated Instagram account to post shots of dishes that inspire him.
Patterson and Roy Choi opened LocoL in the middle of Watts. It’s a direction he can see himself taking, though he can’t say how yet. He can say, with characteristic humility, that he’s starting small. “I’m going to do the documentary about black chefs and hopefully expose some people and start some scholarship programs to culinary schools.” His approach is shaped by a lesson he learned from President Obama: “You’ve got to believe in small. No pebble splash starts with the outer ripple.” When he teaches classes about Prince at NYU—he’s also a professor—he likes to limit the number of students to nineteen so that he can connect with each. “I mean, right now,” he says, “before I go in the grave, I feel like if I can really affect the course of 20 people’s lives . . . maybe 50, then I’ve succeeded.” Questlove’s food salons play a growing role in his activism. He’s planning one in Washington, D.C., in honor of Earth Day, which will be, rather pointedly, at the home of George Washington University’s president, across the street from the White House. The one I most recently attend here in New York has a social-justice theme. The Food Policy Action Education Fund’s anti-hunger campaign, Food Is
every age, all talking about food—Questlove tells me his new obsession is Impossible burgers, which are faithful simulacra of meat made from plants. I tell him I haven’t tasted them yet, and he shakes his head and grips my arm. “Dude, you’re going to freak out. You will not be able to tell the difference between it and a burger!” He tells me about “the blood element”—which makes the wheat protein, coconut oil–and– soy based burger juicy, like . . . meat. He’s investigated the soy content. “It’s low,” he tells me. “Because I worry about soy.” Questlove tells me that Impossible meat is going to be a big deal. “It literally addresses all the problems we have.” The environmental cost of animal farming, endemic health problems, hunger. He has to move on, give bear hugs, taste Aquavit’s Emma Bengtsson’s banana split, talk to CNN’s political gadfly W. Kamau Bell. About . . . comedy? Politics? Food justice? The banana split? Or maybe more about the future—a subject Questlove manages to keep lightly on his mind. “I fear for the Impossible guys the way I fear for the makers of the electric car from the gas companies,” he tells me as he breaks away. “That’s how on the cusp they are.” 143
A FEW MONTHS AGO, SOLANA ROWE WAS meandering through Hollywood in search of vintage clothing and a chunk of the iridescent mineral called labradorite. She stepped into a crystal shop on Melrose and was pleased to hear one of her favorite songs by Little Dragon, the Swedish electro band, piping through a small speaker. Perhaps that’s why she let the shopkeeper sell her something called an energy reading. “I always run into some wild-ass psychic shit in L.A.,” says Rowe, who performs under the name SZA (pronounced like the cutting implement). The energy reader told her that her purpose on the planet was to empower women, to be a force for their good. This came as both a relief and a bit of a burden. “I’m like, OK. That’s not something I signed up for, but I definitely get that vibe from my life, and now that someone’s confirming this, I’m like—I have a responsibility.” We’re sitting at the Cactus Taqueria in Sherman Oaks as a hot spring wind whips through the San Fernando Valley. Diminutive and big-haired, SZA initially brings to mind the ebullient Chaka Khan of the mid-1970s (with baggy sweats in place of the bell-bottom jumpsuit). She moved to Los Angeles a few weeks earlier, and so far there are only three landmarks she knows: Runyon Canyon Park, which she hikes with her French bulldog, Piglet; Cactus Taqueria,
a battlefield. “After 9/11, it went from, Oh, there’s this girl who wears a hijab sometimes, but she’s cool and normal, to, Oh, you worship the devil,” SZA recalls. “They would snatch my hijab off and follow me home. My dad would be outside waiting for me.” She detached socially, finding a place for herself among the bad kids who drank Bacardi Gold and saved their money for tattoos. “My parents are both from the ’hood, and they got out of their situations by minding their business and being excellent. That’s what they wanted for me.” But instead, Rowe had some vague ideas about a career in fashion and settled in New York, working as a bartender at a strip club. She attended three colleges and never managed to graduate. And then her older brother, Daniel, a rapper, asked her to sing hooks on a few of his songs. Rowe had no musical aspirations. “I hated how nasal I sounded,” she recalls. “I had no experience at all. I wasn’t one of those girls who sang at church. But it lit a little fire.” She started writing her own melodies and lyrics, stole prefab beats off the internet, and occasionally rented studio time when she saved enough money making cocktails with names like Bubblegum Surprise. “I thought that everybody just did it all themselves,” she recalls, pulling down her hoodie and shaking out sheaves of long braids. “Do you know how
Cutting-edge neo-soul meets raw vulnerability in the sensational, hard-to-categorize music of SZA. Rob Haskell meets the most exciting new artist of the year. Photographed by Patrick Demarchelier. a Mexican chain where she favors the California Burrito, distinguished by the French fries within; and Sky Zone, a trampoline park where she has lately been revisiting the aerial moves of her high school gymnastics career. In fact, we are heading to Sky Zone in a few minutes, which calls into question our choice to have lunch first. “I make bad decisions frequently,” SZA says. “They’re fun.” It would be wrong to call her music career a bad decision, considering that SZA’s first full-length major-label release, out this month, may be the most breathlessly anticipated neo-soul album of the year—though to call her neo-soul is to ignore myriad counterstrains in her work: synthpop, trap, chillwave, indie rock. Like other millennial artists (Jhené Aiko, Tinashe, and Sky Ferreira come to mind), SZA defies easy categorization. Kendrick Lamar—also a confrere at her label, the L.A.-based Top Dawg Entertainment—calls her a visionary. “She’s the only person who inspires me in music today,” he goes so far as to say. “She’s a true storyteller.” And yet her career began by accident just a few years ago. Rowe, now 26, was born in St. Louis but grew up in suburban New Jersey, where her mother and father worked as executives for AT&T and CNN respectively. Music played little part in her childhood, though in the mornings her father would turn on the house speakers and play a record by John Coltrane or Miles Davis while he made his daughter oatmeal. She was raised Muslim, which turned school into
mad I was when I found out that people were getting songs written for them?” She branded herself SZA—an acronym built from the Supreme Alphabet of the Nation of Gods and Earths, a derivative of Elijah Muhammad’s Nation of Islam. (S is for savior, Z is for the zigzag toward self-knowledge, and A is for Allah.) Then she recorded some songs that grabbed the attention of Top Dawg. Her first full-length album, called CTRL, debuts this month, and it is anchored by the single “Drew Barrymore.” On the face of it an oblique homage to one of her favorite actresses, the song upends R&B balladeering by the plaintive, exposed-nerve, and frankly neurotic content of its lyrics. “Why is it so hard to accept the party is over?” she asks as the song opens, over a languorous, grimy rhythm. “You came in with your new friends/And her mom jeans and her new Vans/And she’s perfect and I hate it, oh so glad you made it.” There is nothing particularly catchy or easy about this or any of SZA’s songs. They invite you to yield to them over time, and they reward repeated visits. She is an exciting singer, not a blandly gorgeous one, bending and perverting notes, permitting her voice to get as tense as an overfilled balloon. Her off-kilter melismas suggest an ear for jazz as much as for soul. Pharrell Williams, a longtime idol (one of SZA’s first jobs before college was as an intern at his clothing label, Billionaire Boys Club), produced a track on the new album. “She’s one of the most talented C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 5 9
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PITCH PERFECT SZA counts Pharrell Williams and Kendrick Lamar as collaborators and fans. “She’s the only person who inspires me in music today,” Lamar says. Gucci jacket, shirt, and skirt. Hair, Garren at Garren New York for R+Co.; makeup, Emi Kaneko. Details, see In This Issue. Fashion Editor: Sara Moonves.
APPLY YOURSELF Model Sarah Fraser channels screen-star glamour and the spirit of resilience in a Polo Ralph Lauren robe and scarlet Dolce & Gabbana lipstick. Hair, Julien d’Ys for Julien d’Ys; makeup, Diane Kendal. Fashion Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
L OUD Mouth
For generations of polished, conﬁdent women, red lipstick has been a fashion statement—but also a call to action. Lena Dunham reports on the color’s return to the spotlight. Photographed by Patrick Demarchelier.
y first memories of my mother are redlipstick memories: her smearing it on as we headed out the door on a Saturday night to an art opening, the color so bold against her slate-gray Yohji Yamamoto pantsuit; her cleaning out the cupboard under our sink where she kept her lipsticks (all varying Chanel and Revlon reds) and nail polishes (same); and the time she let me draw it on my face in concentric circles like a Yayoi Kusama installation gone deeply wrong. My mother’s style wasn’t overtly feminine. She was one of a group of women (Cindy Sherman, Sarah Charlesworth, and Marilyn Minter, to name a few) whose emerging presence in the male-dominated art world in the late seventies and early eighties signaled a tidal shift. Being a woman wasn’t an easy space to occupy then— it required strength, precision, and fearlessness. Maybe that’s why, growing up, I remember a lot of menswear: crisp white shirts, J.Crew khakis, desert boots, shoulder pads. But always red lipstick, reminding the powers-thatbe that their femininity was an asset rather than an albatross. Nearly 40 years later, we find ourselves asking similar questions about our rights that we never thought we’d have to revisit. This has galvanized a new generation of women, women who never considered themselves political, to engage in a dialogue about what we want, what we deserve, and what it will take to get it. The exciting news? The second-wave sense that taking up this call to action means denying your femininity (see: images of oversize T-shirts, corduroy pants, and unmascara’d lashes at the protests of the seventies) has been replaced with an anything-goes, all-encompassing idea of what womanhood can be, reappropriating makeup as a simple pleasure that allows a moment of private joy for even the most public activist. The revolution will wear red lipstick. We saw it on the fall 2017 runways, from Topshop to Prada, Jason Wu to Preen: lips in every shade of vermilion, from just-sucked-lollipop to vampire assassin. As the world reeled following the surreal circus of the U.S. election season, it was hard not to see the connection C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 1 6 0 147
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MOMENT THE MONTH
Between the Lines Oh, stripes. Considered “demeaning, pejorative, or clearly diabolic” in the Middle Ages and restricted to prisoners’ garb in the nineteenth century, they needed some combination of Breton sailors and Coco Chanel (an early adopter) to resuscitate their respectability. And judging from the winning streaks that surfaced on the fall runways—from Phoebe Philo at Céline and Jonathan Anderson at Loewe to Alberta Ferretti—stripes in bright, bold, and wildly optimistic Pop Art palettes are clearly the stars of the season. “Stripes are a powerful flag of female confidence and power,” says designer Duro Olowu, who took his unwavering love of lines to the trench coat. “In these trying times, that’s quite the statement.”
THE DETAILS FROM FAR LEFT: On Mayowa Nicholas: Céline dress ($855) and sandals; Céline, NYC. Alberta Ferretti pants, $1,030; Barneys New York, NYC. On Lineisy Montero: Loewe top ($1,290) and skirt ($1,290); Loewe, Miami. Proenza Schouler sandals. On Katie Moore: Duro Olowu coat, $3,950; matchesfashion.com. Nehera dress, $610; Opening Ceremony, NYC. Proenza Schouler sandals. Bracelets by Proenza Schouler and Jochen Holz for Peter Pilotto. Hair, Tamas Tuzes; makeup, Jen Myles. Details, see In This Issue. Photographed by Tom Johnson. Fashion Editor: Alex Harrington.
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JAM ROCK SWEET NESS Summer’s got a brand-new vibe: Imaan Hammam lights up the paradise around Port Antonio, Jamaica, in the season’s best skimpy separates, seductive prints, and sheer sheath dresses. Photographed by Oliver Hadlee Pearch.
LITTLE SISTERS A PLAYFUL POLKA-DOT BIKINI TOP BECOMES AN ITTY-BITTY STATEMENT. MODEL IMAAN HAMMAM (WITH, FROM FAR LEFT, HARMONY, KHALIA, KAEJAH, AND KAMOI) WEARS A MARNI BRA, $650; MODAOPERANDI.COM. OSCAR DE LA RENTA SKIRT, $3,390; OSCARDELARENTA.COM. TOME HAT. HERMÈS BAG. FASHION EDITOR: SARA MOONVES.
LIVE AND PROSPER HIT THE RIGHT NOTE WITH GRAPHIC PRINTS AND BOLD BIJOUX. LEFT: PROENZA SCHOULER DRESS; PROENZA SCHOULER, NYC; STUART WEITZMAN SANDALS. CÃ‰LINE BAG. BOTTOM RIGHT: FENDI BIKINI, $570; NET-A-PORTER .COM; MERCEDES SALAZAR EARRINGS. BOTTOM LEFT: ETRO BIKINI ($390) AND BAG; BIKINI AT ETRO .COM. PRADA HAT, NECKLACE, SOCKS, AND SHOES.
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FULLJOY YOURSELF A CROCHETED BIKINI AND A WHERE-THEWILD-THINGS-ARE NECKLACE GET THE PARTY STARTED. STELLA MCCARTNEY SWIMWEAR BIKINI, $350; STELLA MCCARTNEY, LOS ANGELES. NECKLACES BY GRACE GIVENS FOR BEADS OF PARADISE AND PRADA. JIMMY CHOO ESPADRILLES. BEAUTY NOTE BOOST YOUR SUMMER GLOW WITH A DOSE OF MOISTURE. GUERLAINâ€™S TERRACOTTA HUILE SOUS LE VENT NOURISHING DRY OIL IMPARTS A NATURAL SHEEN.
BASHY VIBES TO ADD TO AN EVER-EXPANDING COLLECTION OF BAUBLES: STRANDS OF SEASHELLS THAT WASHED UP IN VARIOUS PERMUTATIONS ALL ACROSS THE FALL RUNWAYS. MAX MARA TOP, $495; MAX MARA, TROY, MI. TED MUEHLING EARRINGS. NECKLACES BY BEADS OF PARADISE AND DRIES VAN NOTEN.
P RODUC ED BY WA LTE RS P RO DUCT IO N S. SP ECI A L TH A NKS TO KA N O P I HOUSE .
GET UP, STAND OUT IN BRIGHT, LIGHT IVORY. A COAT OVER TROUSERS HAS THE UNSTRUCTURED EASE OF A ROBE OR WRAP DRESS. THE ROW COAT ($1,990) AND PANTS ($590); THE ROW, NYC. SAMUJI HAT. BROTHER VELLIES SHOES. IN THIS STORY: HAIR, JAWARA; MAKEUP, EMI KANEKO. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.
Index EDITOR: EMMA ELWICK-BATES
Light, bright swim style is making a big splash! Serve—and savor—the tones of your favorite gelato.
VOGUE JUNE 2017
1: COURTESY OF MODA OPERAND I. 2: COURTESY OF SANTO. 3: COURTESY OF J OH N D ER IAN CO MPAN Y. 5: COU RT ESY O F S HIS E ID O. 7: STUART T YSO N . 8: COU RT ESY OF R EBECCA D E RAVENEL. 9: COURTESY OF MATCH ESFASH ION.COM. 10 : COURTESY OF H ER MÈS. 1 1 : COU RT ESY O F PRESS E D JU ICE RY. 1 2 : COU RT ESY O F TACO RI. 13: COURTESY OF MIU MIU. 14: COURTESY OF LISA MAR IE FER NAND EZ . 15: LIAM GOOD MAN. 16: COU RT ESY O F O N E KIN G S LAN E . 17: COU RT ESY OF RAY- BAN .
12 13 14 1. KHAITE DRESS, $1,050; MODAOPERANDI.COM. 2. SANTO NECKLACE; SANTOBYZANI.COM. 3. ASTIER DE VILLATTE X JOHN DERIAN SAUCER, $130; JOHNDERIAN.COM. 4. MODEL CAROLINE TRENTINI, VOGUE, 2017. PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARIO TESTINO. 5. SHISEIDO SUN PROTECTION LIP TREATMENT, $22; SHISEIDO.COM. 6. PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDREA GENTL (GENTL AND HYERS). 7. KARL LAGERFELD PARIS FOR LORD & TAYLOR X VOGUE 125 DRESS, $198; LORD & TAYLOR STORES. (VOGUE RECEIVES A PORTION OF THE PROFITS FROM THE SALE OF THIS DRESS.) 8. REBECCA DE RAVENEL EARRINGS, $345; REBECCADERAVENEL.COM. 9. MAISON MICHEL
HAT, $588; MATCHESFASHION.COM. 10. HERMÈS BEACH TOWEL, $630; HERMES.COM. 11. PRESSED JUICERY VOGUE LIMITEDEDITION LEMONADE; PRESSEDJUICERY.COM. (VOGUE RECEIVES A PORTION OF THE PROFITS FROM THE SALE OF THIS LEMONADE.) 12. TACORI RING, $790; TACORI.COM. 13. MIU MIU SLIDE, $890; SELECT MIU MIU BOUTIQUES. 14. LISA MARIE FERNANDEZ SWIMSUIT, $445; LISAMARIEFERNANDEZ.COM. 15. SALVATORE FERRAGAMO BAG, $1,150; SELECT SALVATORE FERRAGAMO BOUTIQUES. 16. WAYUU HAMMOCKS HAMMOCK, $299; ONEKINGSLANE.COM. 17. RAY-BAN SUNGLASSES, $165; RAY-BAN.COM.
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We are sitting under the awning of Café du Monde, eating local delicacies: a café au lait (me), chocolate milk (her), and beignets—doughnutlike fried dough piled high with powdered sugar. As I gingerly lift one to my mouth, trying to avoid getting the sugar everywhere, she tells me not to overthink it, then adds, deadpan: “Just don’t breathe.” Fanning is funny. On the set of The Beguiled, she and Dunst dreamed of starring together in a comedy. (“She’s hilarious,” Dunst says. “I’d like to see Elle host SNL.”) The girls’ school exterior was shot at the Louisiana plantation that Beyoncé used in Lemonade, but interior scenes were filmed in the exquisite, rambling New Orleans home of the comic actress Jennifer Coolidge, whom Fanning knew best as Paulette from the legendary bend-and-snap scene in Legally Blonde. (“We didn’t ask. We were too scared.”) Coolidge has a famous Halloween party every year, and Fanning and Dunst went as, respectively, a fairy and a nurse. They felt as if they’d missed a memo. “Everyone was in Marie Antoinette Gothic garb,” Fanning says. “We really stuck out.” She didn’t care, though. Since a period of early-adolescent effort to blend in (skinny jeans, neutral tops), she has tried to embrace doing things her own way, with proud Elle-ness, even if it strikes others as strange. For instance, senior prom. Fanning and her best friend, Cassio, had planned for weeks to be each other’s dates. Then Fanning learned she had to go to Cannes and wouldn’t be able to make the dance. She had a crazy notion: What if they both went to France and made it their own version of prom? They did, and Elle wore her prom dress to the red carpet, and Cassio wore his prom tux, and it was a great time—actually, the greatest time—a time so good they do not like to talk about it, because they think they’ll never have so much fun again. A number of Fanning’s friends are of a different generation, encountered through work. Aside from her close bond with Dunst, she often gets dinner with Mike Mills; she spends a really surprising amount of her life chatting on the phone with the 80-year-old Bruce Dern. She also leans on her school friends—many of them have parents in the movie business, so they understand her long
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absences to shoot—and, now that some have left for college, worries about her social world thinning. She’s single at the moment, although she daydreams of being swept off her feet. “I’m superromantic,” she says—and then, as if worried I didn’t hear, throws out her arms and shouts it on the Café du Monde patio: “Superromantic!” Still, she doesn’t really know how you meet people, at least the right people, outside school. “Will I be in Café du Monde? Will there be a spotlight on someone? I don’t know where to find these people. But I also don’t want to screw with the magic of organically finding someone.” She wants to have a family, but to be eighteen, nineteen, is not to be there yet. “We’re just going with the flow. We haven’t learned, you know, the hard ways of the world.” She considers for a moment, and adds, “We’re not humans yet.” Well, one of us, anyway. Having just gobbled up two plates of beignets with Fanning, I am feeling all too human, and we walk off the pastries around the Quarter. It’s a warm, clear day, and Fanning is dressed for spring: a lovely, full, white shoulderless dress by The Row, sandals by Chanel, a big white Rochas bag. As we step into the sunlight, she pulls a blue-and-pink Chanel sweater over her shoulders. (Another thing that Elle Fanning does not do: tan.) We stop by the costume-wig store where she found the perfect hair for her fairy costume, and then a vintage shop. In The Beguiled, the women wear period attire, but without the usual hoop cages. “The silhouette looks like something you could wear now or in the seventies,” says Coppola. “These long floral dresses. . . . It’s this kind of dusty-pastel world.” Fanning has made her last three movies for female directors. Following The Beguiled, with Coppola, she went to Savannah, Georgia, to film the crime thriller Galveston, directed by Mélanie Laurent. And she’s just about to fly to upstate New York to shoot a new Reed Morano film, I Think We’re Alone Now. (“Basically, it’s just me and Peter Dinklage,” she says. “He’s the last man on Earth—and then I show up.”) She has been receiving vocal coaching in preparation for Teen Spirit, a movie about an American Idol–like competition, made by the same team that produced La La Land. “That will be challenging, for sure,” she says.
The really big challenge that Fanning dreams of is directing. “I definitely, definitely want to do that,” she says. “As an actor, you’re exploring someone else’s vision. I’d like to be able to create that vision instead.” Refn, the director of The Neon Demon, strongly supports the idea, she reports. And as she talks, I realize that there’s little in the world I want to see more than an Elle Fanning– directed film. She’s in Aries mode now: focused, businesslike, confident, full of urgent vision. “I know it’s hard—so many people asking you questions all the time,” she says. “It’s a huge challenge. But I want that.”
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have patience for,” Jalbert says. “Except dogs.” It was almost a decade ago that Jalbert crossed the apricot-colored Loretta Lynn Van Lear (his own creation) with Julia Child (a popular, fragrant yellow rose). “I remember when that rose was born,” he says; the young plant caught his eye—and nose—and held it. The breed, which he labeled Jal-011-2-10, was an English-style rose with leaves of an unusual, glossy bright green. It seemed to resist most diseases, such as black spot. It bloomed, and bloomed again, and then again, from spring to fall. It could thrive as an “own root” rose (not a graft onto another root system), which meant that it could freeze to its base in winter and reemerge, in spring, as itself. And it “trimmed” its own flowers, growing into a lush, leafy bush of knee height. A breeder normally hopes to find the rare rose that brings together two or more desirable qualities: color, blooming habit, fragrance, resistance, shape, maintenance. A breed that combines all is a moon shot. By some cosmic turn of destiny, Jal-011-2-10 was reaching its debutante age just as Vogue was scouring the country for its perfect rose. Jalbert sent the magazine several of his new breeds, but there was never any competition. This was a match made not in heaven but deep in the earth: Jal-011-2-10 was the long-sought-after Vogue rose. By late afternoon, Francis and I are careering toward the Phoenix airport, on our way to the next outpost on the path of rose production. He’s on speakerphone, making an adjustment to his flight. When a customerservice rep breaks through the hold VOGUE.COM
music—“Hel-lo!”—he asks her, as he often does, what she knows about roses. “A lot!” the woman exclaims. She has kept Mister Lincoln, Cécile Brünner, Veterans’ Honor. “I like Queen Elizabeth, Sterling Silver, Apricot Nectar——” “Yup!” Francis says, and smiles. (Later, he tells me he can guess at her age from this list.) “Do you know there’s going to be a Vogue Anniversary Rose?” “Oh!” the customer-service woman exclaims with delight. “For heaven’s sake!” After landing in Dallas, we drive to Tyler, Texas, the self-proclaimed rose capital of America. Today it’s home to Certified Roses, which packages the Vogue Anniversary Rose in containers for sale. (It will be available through Jackson & Perkins on its release this month.) Certified is also the final proving ground for roses approaching market. The East Texas climate is harsh—it can be 100 degrees in summer, sometimes with up to 100 percent humidity—and only the best plants escape blight. This is the final edit, and a crucial one: Even after years of winnowing, a new breed will be abandoned if it doesn’t perform. I drive out to the greenhouses with Francis and the head of Certified, Lawrence Valdez, who stroll between small potted rosebushes, snapping off blooms, ruffling the petals, huffing the perfume, and crumbling the flowers in their hands. At this stage, they are studying fragrance, “inner nodes” (the gaps between leaf clusters, which should be minimal to avoid a tall, scrawny plant), and “habit” (does the bush grow in a pleasant, symmetrical way, or does it shoot off in bizarre directions?). As with the length of a dress or the height of a heel, it’s a call of experience and eye. “So you see all of this weirdness,” Francis says, tossing an unsatisfactory flower aside. “Then you come to the Vogue Anniversary Rose, and you’re like, Oh, yeah.” We have reached four sawed-off barrels where the new bushes have been planted. The foliage is tight and orderly. There are buds everywhere. The plant is thriving more than 2,000 miles from home—and that is just the start of its new life.
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separate homes and lives.) Roy is funny about her love life, telling me she has VOGUE.COM
many sweethearts, including the one responsible for the tall orange lilies on her kitchen table. “My harem,” she jokes, saying mysteriously, “They are all in The Ministry’s acknowledgments.” When she was at architecture school, she says, “my name on the roster was S. A. Roy, so a lot of people called me that.” (Her given name is Suzanna.) “My sweethearts call me Roy. Almost no one calls me Arundhati.” She laughs her easy laugh once more and adds, “None of the simple things in my life are simple.” That includes her relationship with her mother, Mary Roy. A Syrian Christian from Kerala, Mary scandalized her conservative community not only by marrying outside the faith but then by leaving her Hindu husband and returning home with two small children in tow. Atypically for her generation, she raised Roy and her older brother, Lalith, on her own. Roy tries to return to Kerala (where The God of Small Things is set) every couple of months to see her family. She says she feels “delicious vengeful feelings toward that parochial community that excommunicates you before you’re three years old because you don’t have the right pedigree. . . . And yet the minute I see the rivers and the coconut trees, I know that this is my landscape, my geography. It’s a very strange contradiction.” A lot has changed since Roy was a child, but the old houses and the Meenachil River—where she would catch fish for lunch with a bamboo pole—remain much the same. Roy clearly developed a strong sense of self-reliance from her mother, who, 50 years ago, founded a school in two rooms rented from the local Rotary Club with just five students— two of them her own children. After flying down to Kochi and driving two hours south to the town of Kottayam, I find Mary Roy in a sunny office at the heart of the verdant hillside Pallikoodam campus. With extensive grounds—including a swimming pool, playing fields, and gardens—Mary’s school now serves some 470 students, from nursery to twelfth grade, some of whom have matriculated to Harvard or Johns Hopkins. With short salt-and-pepper hair, Mary, at 83, is physically frail, yet regal in a charcoal salwar kameez and three strands of silver pearls. “I didn’t want to start a school. The inspiration was my children,” she tells me. Advised by two nuns, Mary decided her students wouldn’t be burdened by excessive amounts of homework, would play
sports, and would learn about “nuclear weapons and the pyramids,” she says. Teaching social awareness was a priority, and she herself took on the Supreme Court of India in the 1980s to successfully overturn an inheritance law that discriminated against women. Armed with this unconventional education and example, Arundhati and her brother left when they were nine and ten to attend Lawrence, a prestigious private boarding school in Chennai, where Lalith says “Suzie” excelled as student, orator, and athlete. At Lawrence, “you had to fight for yourself,” says Lalith, who works in seafood export (Roy calls him a “prawn broker”). “She was very independent. My mum had groomed her to be tough.” It was a challenging relationship, and not long after arriving in Delhi, Roy had a falling out with her mother and cut off all contact for the next four years. “My mother’s such a fabulous influence in my life, not motherly and nurturing in that way,” says Roy. “She’s the calcium in my bones, the steel in my spine, from warring with her.” Mother and daughter eventually reconciled. “But there was no Bollywood moment,” Roy says. “I was a writer when I was three years old. Even when she was raging at me I could see she was in pain. As a child, to be able to understand an adult is a terrible thing.” On my last visit to Roy, I find her at home in a meeting with a young leader in the Dalit-rights movement. The Supreme Court has met to say it will discuss Roy’s case in a month’s time but later postpones it. (“The process is the punishment,” she says wryly.) And she is about to go to the London Book Fair to give a reading from The Ministry to 1,000 Penguin UK employees at the Barbican Centre, to deliver 26 carefully marked proofs of the book cover to her publishers with all her notations, and to meet with her many translators to discuss the nuances of the prose. “You end up thinking in so many languages and dialects,” she says. “We are living in Babel now.”
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singer-songwriters at the moment,” he says, “a master of relatable simplicity.” And yet SZA tends toward the cryptic when she discusses her music. She cites no particular influences, though the shadows of Billie Holiday, Björk, Lauryn Hill, Amy Winehouse, and Rihanna pass C O N TIN U ED O N PAG E 16 0 VOGUE JUNE 2017
over these songs. At home, she says, she listens to nothing at all. “I just think I have too much anxiety to listen to music,” she explains. “Sometimes it feels like noise, and sometimes it’s so affecting that I can’t recover from it.” CTRL, she adds, “is the product of the realization that I have none.” In fact SZA’s life has felt decidedly out of control of late, and her eyes fill with tears as she lists off the people she has had to bury in the last year: three friends, the mother of her longtime boyfriend, her own grandmother. The album is informed by these hard lessons but is also, she says, an exploration of feeling at all times out of place, permitting others to make decisions for her. She digs out her phone and plays me a snippet from an unfinished collaboration with the hip-hop artist Travis Scott, which addresses the theme of dependency with bone-dry humor: “Give me paper towel/Give me another Valium/Give me another hour or two with you.” In interviews, SZA has hinted that this new album may be her last. Today she hedges a bit. “I’m always hedging,” she explains. She can imagine setting
music aside for film. She’d like to take a whack at environmental science and maybe get lost in the Brazilian jungle. But she also confesses to wanting to win a Grammy. If SZA’s music finds a mainstream audience, it will be on account of its refusal to posture and its invitation into the fraught inner world of its author. One of the most trenchant pop lyrics of 2016, emerging out of that ambivalence, can be found in a song that SZA co-wrote for and recorded with Rihanna, called “Consideration”: “Let me cover your shit in glitter/I can make it gold.” What most pop princesses might wish to dress up, SZA prefers to lay bare. “I learned everything the hard way—like, literally everything.” she says. “I know that God does that to people that he has lessons for. I just wish that I had learned less extreme lessons. I wish God would chill the fuck out.”
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between the complete Pantone palette of carmines and scarlets and the
In This Issue Table of contents 23: Dress ($1,290) and hat ($650); Loewe, Miami. Cover look 28: Dress, price upon request; select Valentino boutiques. Talking fashion 62: Bag, $2,180; Le Bon Marché Rive Gauche, Paris. 64: Sneakers, $65; puma.com. Beauty 76: Manicure, Yukie Miyakawa. PATA 81: Trench coat, $2,861; Emilio Pucci boutiques. Top, $475; shopbop.com. 82: Casa Cabana carafe set, $447; 1stdibs.com. SWEPT AWAY 87: Jacket and skirt; loewe.com. Boots, $1,495; manoloblahnik .com. 88–89: Dress, price upon request;
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gucci.com. 92–93: Dress, $43,000; select Dior boutiques. 94–95: Dress, price upon request; select Louis Vuitton boutiques. 96–97: Valentino dress, $23,500; select Valentino boutiques. 98–99: Dress, price upon request; Alexander McQueen, NYC. 100–101: Dress, price upon request; givenchy .com. Special thanks to Friends of City Park and Jennifer Coolidge House.
MOONLIGHT & ROSES 102: Coat, $9,495. Rose at jacksonandperkins .com. 104: Dress, $5,395. On Fazal: The Frye Company boots, $298; thefryecompany .com. 109: Suit jacket
($1,350) and trousers ($470); select Salvatore Ferragamo boutiques. Shirt, $165; A.P.C., NYC. Tie, $60; jcrew.com.
IN FULL BLOOM 115: Belt ($790) and boots ($1,390). Belt at Barneys New York, NYC. Boots at Neiman Marcus stores. Earrings, $530; Céline, NYC. 117: Earrings, $425; oscardelarenta .com. Retrouvaí signet ring, $1,025; Broken English, Newport Beach, CA. Pascale Monvoisin rings, $825–$880; net-a-porter.com. 118: Coat ($9,000), earrings ($975), and rings ($350–$450). 119: Dress, $6,995 . Earrings, price upon request, Twist, Portland, OR. GOLD STANDARD 120–121: Coat ($5,990 for similar styles), shirt ($990), and pants ($990); The Row, NYC.
sense that many dissatisfied women were collectively demanding more. Maria Cornejo, long admired for her collections of strong, inventive womenswear, collaborated with the makeup artist Dick Page to send models down her fall runway with clean skin and a warm, glossy brick lip. It was as much a colorful complement to her velvet dresses in chocolate and crimson as it was a purposeful statement. “If you’re just wearing red lipstick, you’re usually not wearing much else, and I think that shows confidence,” says the Chilean designer, long a devotee of Shiseido’s matte bullets. “You can still be a feminist if you wear lipstick and look pretty.” These days, feminists are recognized as coming in all shapes, sizes, and shades, and there is no fashion prerequisite for membership—or at least that seems to be the message echoing from voices like Sarah Sophie Flicker’s. The performance artist, activist, and a leading organizer of the Women’s March is rarely seen without her go-to bow of MAC’s Ruby Woo, the classic orangey-matte pigment that she and
Tabitha Simmons shoes, $895; tabithasimmons .com. 124–125: On Sturridge: Burberry shirt, $295; burberry.com. On Birney: J. Mueser suit, $1,950; J. Mueser, NYC. Boss shirt, $175; Hugo Boss stores. Silver Lining Opticians glasses, $245; silverliningopticians.com.
FINGERS ON THE PRINTS 134–135: On Faretta: Dress ($3,920), earrings ($1,300), and boots ($1,390). Dress and earrings at select Marni boutiques. Boots at modaoperandi.com. On Gulielmi: Dress ($4,200), earring ($440 for pair), socks ($120), and shoes ($980). Dress at select Marni boutiques. Earrings at Neiman Marcus stores. Socks at modaoperandi. com. Shoes at Hampden, Charleston, SC. On Rosa: Dress ($2,460), earrings ($470), socks ($120),
and shoes ($890). Dress, socks, and shoes at select Marni boutiques. Earrings at Saks Fifth Avenue, NYC. On Bermannelli: Jacket ($5,660), top ($860), scarf ($320), skirt ($1,440), earrings ($1,210), socks, ($100), and shoes ($980). Jacket, scarf, earrings, and socks at select Marni boutiques. Top and skirt at Tender, Birmingham, MI. Shoes at Hampden, Charleston, SC. On Watson: Dress ($4,050), top ($860), earrings ($660), and boots ($1,390). Dress, top, and earrings at select Marni boutiques. Boots at modaoperandi.com. 139: On Faretta: Dress ($1,870), hat ($2,820), and shoes ($1,420). Dress at Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Hat and shoes at select Marni boutiques. On Rosa: Dress ($2,250), hat ($710), and stole
her fellow march organizers, Tabitha St. Bernard and Janaye Ingram, wore like war paint in Washington, D.C., in January as they helped wrangle and energize the millions gathered at the National Mall. “But there’s room for everyone who shows up,” Flicker explains, “red lips, hijabs, long hair, no hair, natural hair, dressed up, and pared down”—binaries and boundaries that were once upheld largely to “police, contain, and shame women,” according to trans activist Janet Mock, who wears red lipstick to amplify her words during speeches. Culturally, a well-lined cherry pout has always sent a certain message: seductress, femme fatale, devilish lover sure to leave a mark. Watch Ryan Murphy’s Feud for a full catalog of red lips and the women who made them legendary, then move on to Sid and Nancy. But they’re not just the man teasers Marilyn Monroe believed them to be. Symone Sanders, the former national press secretary for Bernie Sanders, sees hers as an essential part of a duty to highlight diversity. “I don’t think there are a lot of bald black girls on the
A WORD ABOUT DISCOUNTERS W HI LE VOGU E TH OROUG HLY RESE A RCH ES T HE COMPANIES ME N TI O N ED I N I TS PAGES, W E CA N N OT GUA RA N TE E T HE AU TH EN T IC I T Y O F ME RC H AND ISE SOLD BY D I SCOUN T ERS. AS I S A LWAYS T HE CASE I N PU RCH AS I NG A N I TE M FRO M A N YW H ER E OTH ER THAN THE AUTHORIZED STORE, THE BUYER TAKES A RISK AND SHOULD USE CAUTION WHEN DOING SO.
($3,450); select Marni boutiques.
IN CONTROL 145: Jacket ($4,980), shirt ($2,200), and skirt ($2,900); select Gucci boutiques. In this story: Tailor, Leah Huntsinger for Christy Rilling Studio. Manicure, Kana Kishita. MOMENT OF THE MONTH 148–149: On Nicholas: Sandals, $780. Proenza Schouler white cuff, $260; Proenza Schouler, NYC. Jochen Holz for
political scene, at least that the American people get to see every day, so I want to represent for brown girls, all shades of brown,” explains the CNN talking head, who has no qualms about showing up on air with a pop of MAC’s Carnivorous, a blood-wine that is not trying for subtlety. And that’s its charm. Sanders is quick to pay homage to Huma Abedin—“She is always rocking that lip”—Hillary Clinton’s chief adviser, who has (to government knowledge) never been seen red lip–less. “Anytime is red-lipstick time,” says Abedin, who depoliticizes her early love of Clinique’s Vintage Wine, which was inspired by pictures of Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, and glossy tear sheets from Vogue. “Red always feels confident, fresh, bold, and simple to me,” she continues, explaining that while she never “properly” learned how to apply makeup, a quick slick of Yves Saint Laurent’s matte red 201 or Huda Beauty’s Heartbreaker allows her to explore a love of color while boosting her confidence, something her job demands. “Red goes with everything, and it just feels right whenever you wear it.”
Peter Pilotto glass bangle, price upon request; peterpilotto.com. On Montero: Sandals ($910) and black cuff ($260); Proenza Schouler, NYC. Jochen Holz for Peter Pilotto glass bangle, price upon request; peterpilotto.com. On Anaïs: Wolf & Rita dress, $83; wolfandrita.com. Happy Socks; happysocks .com. Stella McCartney Kids espadrilles, $166; stellamccartney.com. On Moore: Sandals, $910; Proenza Schouler, NYC. Jochen Holz for Peter
Pilotto glass bangle, price upon request; peterpilotto.com. In this story: Manicure, Eri Handa.
JAM ROCK SWEETNESS 150–151: Hat, price upon request; tomenyc.com. Bag, $10,900; hermes .com. 153: Dress, price upon request. Sandals, $398; stuartweitzman .com. Bag, $3,900; Céline, NYC. Earrings, $173; Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. Bag, $2,025; Etro, NYC. Hat
I ask my mother about the dawn of her own red-lip allegiance, and we remember my grandmother, whose diminutive stature belied the steely will of a woman who raised three Jewish girls in the shadow of the Holocaust, keenly aware of the radical act of purely existing even as she attempted to melt face first into suburbia. “My mother absolutely would not leave the house without it,” she says of what for her has become at once a cosmetic enhancer as well as a disguise, an art project, a photo op, a suit of armor, an invitation, and a do not disturb sign. I have one more red-lipstick memory of my mother: a photograph of hers that hung in our downtown loft of a small doll in a housedress pushing a lipstick as big as she is across an ideal 1950s home. That perfect tube, bright and angry, possessed me. “In hindsight,” she says, unpacking the piece, “I think I was saying my femininity is as big as me. I’d gotten the feeling that historically women needed to imitate men or renounce their femaleness to be ‘real’ artists. I wasn’t buying it.” And neither am I.
(price upon request), necklace (price upon request), socks ($640), and shoes (price upon request); select Prada boutiques. 153: Grace Givens for Beads of Paradise necklace, price upon request; similar styles at Beads of Paradise, NYC. Prada necklace, price upon request; select Prada boutiques. Espadrilles, $475; jimmychoo .com. 154: Earrings, $1,200; Ted Muehling, NYC. Beads of Paradise choker, $22; Beads of
Paradise, NYC. Dries Van Noten necklace, price upon request; Barneys New York, NYC. 155: Hat, $330; samuji.com. Shoes, $380; Nordstrom stores.
INDEX 156–157: 2. Necklace, $3,500. LAST LOOK 162: Slides; select Dolce & Gabbana boutiques. ALL PRICES APPROXIMATE.
VOGUE IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF ADVANCE MAGAZINE PUBLISHERS INC. COPYRIGHT © 2017 CONDÉ NAST. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. VOLUME 207, NO. 6. VOGUE (ISSN 0042-8000) 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; Robert A. Sauerberg Jr., President & Chief Executive Officer; David E. Geithner, Chief Financial Officer; James M. Norton, Chief Business Officer & President of Revenue. Periodicals postage paid at New York, NY, and at additional mailing offices. Canada Post Publications Mail Agreement No. 40644503. 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 37617, Boone, IA 50037-0617. FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, ADDRESS CHANGES, ADJUSTMENTS, OR BACK-ISSUE INQUIRIES: Please write to VOGUE, P.O. Box 37617, Boone, IA 50037-0617, call 800-234-2347, or email firstname.lastname@example.org. 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 email@example.com or call Wright’s Media 877-652-5295. For reuse permissions, please email firstname.lastname@example.org 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 37617, Boone, IA 50037-0617, 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.
VOGUE JUNE 2017
Dolce & Gabbana slides, $995 Crafting a sandal that manages to be both highly casual and indulgently opulent is no mean feat. For their Tropico Italiano collection, Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana blended la dolce vita values with a millennial ease and irreverenceâ€”think terry-cloth hotel slippers with gilt-thread embroidery. The pale-pink rubber sole is offset by a jacquard strap festooned with a wreath of plastic roses on a bed of raffia with periwinkle-and-champagne crystals. Somewhere along the way, the whole enterprise hits that delicate sweet spot between kitsch and chicâ€” kind of like summer itself, now that we think about it. PHOTOGRAPHED BY ERIC BOMAN
VOGUE JUNE 2017
D ETA I LS, S EE I N T HI S I SSUE .
EDITOR: VIRGINIA SMITH
chuyên sỉ đồ bộ cotton giá rẻ có giá sỉ tận gốc và cạnh tranh nhất thị trường, cung cấp cả số lượng lớn và nhỏ với các shop quần áo muốn lấ...
Published on Jun 24, 2017
chuyên sỉ đồ bộ cotton giá rẻ có giá sỉ tận gốc và cạnh tranh nhất thị trường, cung cấp cả số lượng lớn và nhỏ với các shop quần áo muốn lấ...