At the top of the Google Doc I write in, there is a small magic pencil that offers me AI assistance:

For just a moment, let’s try to divorce AI from its circumstances. Forget about the environmental impact. Forget about the money the Sam Altmans of the world are making. Forget about the threat to your personal privacy, the evil eye of capitalism seeing your most embarrassing moments, the plagiarism and idea theft from vulnerable artists. Forget it all. What you are left with is a genie that offers limitless answers for every question. Isn’t that nice? The human condition is that we all want answers, but nobody wants to think.

This past week the New York Times cut ties with a freelance journalist over undisclosed AI usage. My take on AI usage amongst journalists, even the barest amount, is best summed by The New Yorker’s Becca Rothfeld, “Fact-checking, generating ideas, and shaping questions for interviewees are not ‘grunt work.’ They are at the heart of the journalistic process, and if you cannot do them yourself, you should leave your coveted full-time writing position to someone who can.”

I’ve always been interested in the brand Reformation. Founded in 2009 by Yael Aflalo, the initially mission-driven brand (deadstock fabrics only!) has become a one-stop shop for wedding guest dresses, office appropriate slacks, and “this is technically a dress” summer frocks. Despite past allegations of both racism and greenwashing, Reformation pulled in around $315 billion dollars in revenue in 2025. More revealing than its revenue is how they’re making it: Through the use of clever, simple, clickbaity copy. The brand’s name, a general nod to institutional reform, also references one of the most significant theological movements in Western history. Its newsletter and commercial content features sleepy photos of faux-Jane Birkins with text that feels ripped from Fleabag. The day-one tagline: “Being naked is the #1 most sustainable option. We’re #2.” What’s most perplexing about such provocative language is how nothingburger the clothes are.

Fashion has always been an easy way to signal what you stand for. Miucca Prada called it an instant language. As we move culturally away from thinking for ourselves and replace thoughtfulness with AI and quick answers, fashion will splinter into one of two categories: Succumb to irony (the Office Siren aesthetic or Demna’s Gucci) or embrace a sort of safeness through clothing that maintains the illusion of thought (from Reformation to The Row) without substance. It’s dressing like Jane Birkin without any of Jane Birkin’s politics, wearing bland clothing because it was sold with provocation and the promise of individuality. Remember, a global brand that makes billions every year cannot afford to be truly provocative. (The eventual outcome of the Protestant Reformation was the creation of the Protestant Church, a branch of Christianity that nearly half of the U.S. population belongs to—the message: even revolutionary movements can become the status quo.)

To be truly stylish is to be intentional, meaningful. Personal style says something about the person wearing the clothing, not about the manufacturer. The current over-reliance on technology (from AI to the Tiktok algorithm) has created mental laziness. People are ignoring what their aesthetic choices mean, in fact, refusing to make meaningful aesthetic choices entirely. This hands power to the brands and designers, who, in turn, look to the consumer for what to do. We are stuck in an aesthetic groundhogs day of intellectual virtue signalling. Rothfeld’s AI analysis applies to fashion too. The journey to the answers, through research, thought, and trial and error, is what makes style.

• Last night I watched Louis Theroux’s Inside The Manosphere. My main takeaway: These men want to be women. This is obviously reductive, but there’s an eye-opening moment in the doc where one of the influencers is explaining that women are born with value (being beautiful, desirable, having the ability to create new life) while men are born without value and have to create it and prove their value to other men. One, it’s beyond tragic that these men have convinced themselves that they’re worthless. Two, the “attention economy” has made men bitter that women can so easily make money off of their looks, and the influencers of the manosphere have emerged as a reaction that—men are capitalizing off of a fundamentally feminine profession. The bottom line is these men are just evil lifestyle influencers depressed that they weren’t born beautiful enough for a billionaire to fly them out on a jet. Sad! (And don’t get me started on the Manosphere’s adopting The Matrix red pill paradigm, a movie famously created by two genius transwomen.)

• Love Grace Byron, love this Grace x Maya Kotomori big brain link up.

• Justice for Elaine May’s Ishtar in Lena Dunham’s recent New Yorker piece (I could drink her prose through a straw; it’s so smooth).

• Cortis is on i-D’s latest digital cover! K-Pop!

Fashion is famous for reckoning with its dead. An awareness of the past is the difference between a brand and a house—you can start a brand, but a house must have a hallway of framed portraits of dead forebears.

I could write 5,000 more words about whether or not that’s a good thing for creativity and/or for business, but that’s not my point today. I wanna talk about Glenn Martens’ Maison Margiela show in Shanghai during Shanghai Fashion Week, which my friend A Magazine editor Blake Abbie texted me was “fucking amazing.”

In 75 looks, Martens made Maison Margiela his own without totally vanquishing the ghosts. On the creative director reverence-to-revolution spectrum, I think Martens always gets it right. Instead of re-doing what Martin Margiela did, he’s using Margiela’s anti-establishment spirit as a ticket to do, mostly, whatever the fucking hell he wants. And it’s so fun and outlandish. The Martens’ signatures are there in the hulking shapes and the oversize pret-a-porter, something he has made his personal motifs at Y/Project and Diesel—the other two heritage brands he resurrected before Margiela. It’s also there in the wild fabric experimentation and trompe l’oeil techniques, two more Martens-isms.

But it’s not allllllll Glennnnnnn. The real Martinists experts can identify the Martin Margiela breadcrumbs Martens uses that nod to the past without turning a fashion show into a full resurrection—cotton string ties knotted across blazers, the drawstring head-coverings, the carpet and tapestry work. He’s managed to upcycle a vibe rather than create an entire tribute brand.

As a self-identified Glenn-head, what I love about the collection, which I watched on livestream, were the dresses dripping in beeswax, flaking off crust on the catwalk. The metallic-looking armor gowns made from bolts of warped fabric. A knitted gown tucked into a corset and turned into a shroud, all wafty and ghastly in its beauty. A dress made from gluing vintage dresses to a base and then ripping them off, violent in its romanticism. A leather vest-dress that looks hammered on a form. Martens is pushing design forward using the Margiela tactic: Be weird, upcycle, recycle, and make new. It’s something we try to do at i-D—get in the Terry Jones mindset without creating an homage. Around the office, we always joke that if Terry founded i-D in 2026, it would be a Substack. And if Margiela invented red carpet dressing in 2026, it would probably be a dress made of smashed up porcelain. Blake, again, had the best take when I asked him if he’d wear the dinnerware look out: “I would have someone eat off me and then I’d serve.”

Obviously I had to ask Blake some more questions—here’s what he texted me:

How did Margiela vibe with the other shows at SFW?

It was a really great way to end the week. What I thought was really great is that Glenn was looking at different material references that might call upon some Chinese inspirations.

What were your favorite looks?

I would be hard-pressed to not say the porcelain dress. When the model was walking, there was almost an anxiety in the air, which really called upon the first season of the Artisanal collection that Martens showed last year. I think that all the masks were incredible. The first ones that had those doll faces printed on them were so haunting. Also, the beeswax dresses—the one that looked like denim that had beeswax poured all over it. How insane was that?

How was the show received? Describe the vibe in the room.

When we got driven to the port, which is about 45 minutes outside of the center of the city, there was a palpable excitement. We walked into this shipping container area, through a kind of a maze, which then brought us out to the show venue. It was a great crowd of friends and celebrities, but it really felt familial. It felt warm.

When the show started, it might’ve been one of the quietest shows I’ve seen in a while. We were all holding our breath as models slowly walked through these containers. 75 looks—but it didn’t feel long at all. You could feel people breathing, like shallow breathing, as these incredible creations walked past us.

• And in beautiful sneaker news Versace and Onitsuka Tiger just launched TAI-CHI Sakura — a reimagining of the classic tai-chi trainer. Produced in the Onitsuka Innovative Factory in Tottori, Japan, where Japanese precision meets the unmistakable energy of the Versace house, and shot through the lens of Frank Lebon, the campaign is all about the body in motion. Available at select Versace stores and online today.

• José Criales-Unzueta at Vanity Fair secured the interview to end all interviews with Miguel Adrover.

• Rachel Tashjian did the most fun video interview with Daniel Roseberry about Elsa Schiaparelli visiting him from beyond the grave that got me started with this whole fashion resurrection thing. Daniel is a genius and also so cavalier about talking to ghosts.

• I’ll never stop thinking about how Doug saw this movie and thought, “you know what… that rock is gay.”

• I’ll also never recover from how cute everyone looked at the Betsey Johnson pop-up, captured by Flora, our associate editor.

• Lastly, does anyone have some non-cringe recommendations for summer sandals? I need something that is not a Birkenstock. I need help! And arch support.

No one really wants to make an explicitly gay movie in space because sci-fi is expensive and queer media is niche. That’s not without some people trying: Codependent Lesbian Space Alien Seeks Same, an indie movie from 2011, was one director’s dogged attempt to hurtle some sapphic divas into the cosmos on a tight budget. That said: Gay people love space even if an openly gay person has never been to space. It makes sense we’ve colonized just about every other spot—we just need to find a planet with a bad dancefloor and a public bathroom. In the meantime, shall we just accept the new Ryan Gosling blockbuster, Project Hail Mary, as the closest thing we’re getting to gays in space? It is, I think, an interplanetary love story between two masc-coded kings.

Based on a best-selling novel by Andy Weir (who also wrote The Martian), Project Hail Mary arrived in cinemas around the world last week, becoming 2026’s first bonafide hit. It nearly matched the opening weekend of Oppenheimer—making $80.5 million this weekend, which is a rarity for a non-franchise film. In it, Gosling plays a molecular biologist-turned-school teacher named Ryland Grace. He’s enlisted by a group of researchers to solve the mystery of a microorganism that’s dimming the sun, threatening to wipe out life on earth entirely, because of a thesis paper he wrote years before that no one, at the time, really believed attention to.

It’s pretty standard sci-fi fare until they reach the surface of the one star in the solar system that’s not been ravaged by the microorganism, called Tau Ceti. There, he realizes he has company, and it comes in the form of an alien he calls Rocky: a five-legged, spider-like alien made of stone. The two learn to communicate and realize that—far away from their home planets—they have no one but each other. Thus starts a really beautiful kinship between them.

I know what you’re thinking. You think it’s problematic to see two guys queening out on a spaceship and automatically assume there’s something else going on when the cameras stop rolling. But we’d be foolish to ignore the signs. Initially, the only thing Rocky and Grace can really share is hand gestures (heard of voguing?). Then, thanks to Grace’s technological wizardry, he learns to translate Rocky’s echolocation into language, and they share stories from their pasts. From that point, the pair have a tear-jerking chemistry. You really get the sense that there’s something cute between them. Rocky doesn’t have a face, Gosling has the ultimate face. It’s a deep attraction, heightened further by the fact that the two can’t breathe the same air. What if they could? What might happen then?

This all happens in a film that stars Sandra Huller as one of the head honcho research people in charge of the earth-saving mission. We (gay people) know her best for doing that really iconic monologue in Anatomy of a Fall, which went viral on X several times during awards season (inherently gay). In Project Hail Mary, her standout moment comes when she delivers a profound karaoke (🏳️‍🌈) performance of “Sign of the Times” by Harry Styles. That was Styles’ lead single from his self-titled album which, after Fine Line, might be the record that earned Styles the most queerbaiting accusations. Plus, Ryan Gosling’s character wears hot boy vintage tees for almost the entire film, one bearing the iconic insignia of the musical Cats. (👀) He looks good. But who is he dressing for if no one can see him? Could it be that gay little alien Rocky?

Back in 2023, as Saltburn slurped up all of the internet’s attention, I wrote an article that explored that core friendship between Barry Keoghan’s posh family interloper, Oliver Quick, and his aristocratic bestie, Jacob Elordi’s Felix Catton. I argued that, in between the layers of that tight-knit kinship, was a distinctly queer energy. Maybe it was the grave fucking (camp!) or Oliver sucking up the remnants of cum-laced bathwater, but it proved to me that there’s nothing more gay than straight male friendship.

That feels present here: An unrivalled, stop at nothing to be together closeness. But while Saltburn’s brotherhood had a lethal undertone, Project Hail Mary feels more like Call Me by Your Name to me: two people from different worlds who see each other, and have to face the idea of what it might be like to be apart because of what society demands of them. Ryan Gosling is Oliver and Rocky is the twink.

This is a bit brief because I am currently flying by the seat of my pants—literally. I’m in French Polynesia for something you’ll all hear about soon. So far, I’ve learned how to say Nouveau Riche in four languages and played “212” on the aux.

Ari, who I profiled at the beginning of this year, texted me, telling me it’s officially the one year anniversary of the story i-D ran on her and the other amazing girls we scouted across America in our hunt for our first cover star. Timekeeping isn’t one of my strong suits—I’ve always felt I was born with inherited nostalgia I didn’t particularly want—and I typically hate thinking about endings or beginnings, no matter if they stir up doom or sunshine. Her text, though, gave me pause. Right now we’re in the middle of rolling out our Lore issue (unbelievably excited for something juicy we’re running next week so watch this space CLOSELY), but I wanted to take a moment to go over some of my favorite stories we’ve run at i-D in the past year.

To quote my spiritual big sister Liana Satenstein’s recent Substack, “Although it was a magazine, jesus christ i am so happy i worked in an office for years, had bosses and coworkers, and understand how things work. i am also happy i got proverbially spanked when i needed to be.”

Feeling that acutely right now, and also how god damn lucky I am to work with some of the brightest people I know (and get proverbially spanked by them! It’s excellent! And I am very proud!)

• Girls in America!!! But you know that!

• Alex Kessler’s story about Poppy, a couture client, at fashion week. This is very fab because VICs rarely share their experiences—and it’s a bonkers experience.

• Also Alex’s piece on being a brave man and wearing shorts!

• This is so recent, but our fab contributor Taryn Segal went to the Rapunzel Hair competition and photographed the lovely locs.

• Steff Yotka on Rick Owens…

• Pastry Chef Tanya Bush on cloying taste of virality!

• Marley Wendt’s sweet debut piece on her roommate Lucila Safdie

• 19-year-old Dylan Law saving the world

• The baddies of Love Island UK

• Doug’s “Wuthering Heights” take, which I absolutely don’t agree with, but has given me a new appreciation of Emerald Fennell. And that’s on collaboration!

• And Doug’s exceptional piece on gathering for Palestine

• Sarah Pigeon and Chase Sui Wonders’s teen camp romance.

• My favorite new rapper Lil London, who also wears a tiny tie.

• The sub dog from Pillion.

• Morgan Maher slaybootsing the Chateau Marmont.

• Gay Talese core forever.

• And finally: The Big Dog explaining all the Lore…

See you next week with a little Lore of my own :)

I have a newish Substack and they invite me to participate in a Spelling Bee hosted by Cazzie David.

En route to the Spelling Bee, I mourn not having prepared a good outfit. My fellow Chris drives so I can collect myself with an energy drink. I grab a plastic ziplock bag full of makeup and a pair of Patou closed two platform shoes (I wore to the Emmy’s two years ago) on the way out the door to spruce up my look. I’ll see how slippery the stage is when I get there. It turns out to be carpeted…it’s the Bob Baker Marionette theater.

I look up various Skarsga(a)rds en route because I heard from Matt Starr of Substack that the bee will be ‘fun’ and some of the words might be pop culture related, like McConnaghey. Chris assuages my concerns, points out that being good at spelling is not cool. The most embarrassing thing that could happen, he argues, would be to win.

Notably, I hadn’t met Cazzie before this Spelling Bee. I assumed she’d be intimidating. She wasn’t. I knew from 15 feet away. She was kind and welcoming, and claimed to be a fan of my work (one of the greatest qualities in a person). I flagged down a photographer to ensure our debut was captured for our future remembrance and the world’s. Later we reflected on how the images turned out. We thought “Grand.”

I put on the Patou heels before this photo and then changed out of them when shit got real because it’s time to go on stage to spell. I feel I need my sneakers to spell.

Because Cazzie’s book comes out this week, I had assumed the entire Spelling Bee was a creatively themed book party that Substack was throwing for her. I thought a round of the words we’d spell would be related to her book and so on…so I was confused when there was almost no book-related signage on arrival. I became fixated on forcing the issue, and after I saw a copy of her book in the back, I decided I should get her some useful promo pics out of it.

I run into Lisa Gilroy and Zoe Lister Jones and insist on securing a selfie for my i-D diary. They oblige. I note they made stronger outfit choices than me, and they weren’t even going on stage. I tell myself a good outfit would come off rude; I aim only to be known for my mind.

The contestants take our seats on stage. I’m on the far end, where I meet fellow contestants: writers Brontez Purnell and Karley Sciortino. We chat in the back throughout. Camaraderie amongst spellers was genuine. Matt Starr told me after we looked like Team USA, cheering each other on.

When I’m called up as the first speller, I expect to banter about the book with Cazzie. I finally accept that this is truly a Substack Spelling Bee hosted by Cazzie and not her book event. I’m asked to spell moisturizer in the practice round and pomegranate in the first real round. I spell those correctly and look at Chris, in the back, embarrassed for getting them right. I beam to him the message ‘Sorry I gotta be me.’ Shortly thereafter I misspelled both cunnilingus and hemorrhoid. And, Skarsgard! I couldn’t remember which Skarsgard was which.

Post Spelling Bee, Chris and I poke around backstage (with permission) and I’m overcome with how much I love marionettes, and how every time I decided against pursuing a marionette life, and I didn’t, I was betraying myself. My go-to Halloween costume is an escaped marionette. Dress up like a doll, or anything…and attach some strings to your limbs. Sometimes I carry big scissors suggesting I snipped the strings. Other times I simply carry the cross-brace myself.

The next morning I begged Substack to take down a video in which I was misspelling hemorrhoid, explaining that I didn’t realize video would live on from the event. What magic I employ for a live audience might not translate to video and vice versa. I have a rep to protect.

Age: 21

Location: London

Profession: BA Philosophy and French Student

Oldest thing in your closet?

Probably a completely unwearable 200-year-old raw silk Nepalese jacket my friend Sofia convinced me to buy at a vintage fair in London. It’s beautiful but I’m slightly afraid of it. I fear that if I actually wore it outside, a strong gust of wind would cause it to disintegrate into dust.

Where do you source most of your stuff?

Mostly Vinted. It makes for an excellent doomscrolling alternative to AI slop reels on Instagram. Also, my mother’s wardrobe. I owe everything to her wardrobe.

How do you describe your style?

The best description of my style is probably a willingness to wear objectively abhorrent clothing, combined with an equal willingness to try to make it look good.

How did you start modelling?

It’s quite a funny story. I’m half Serbian and go back fairly often to visit my grandparents. I have this hairdresser I’ve been going to since I was a kid, who cuts the hair of my entire extended Serbian family. My grandmother, being the Serbian matriarch that she is, was showing photos of me to everyone in the salon, including a photographer who happened to be there. He said he had a job coming up and wanted to shoot me for it. What I didn’t realise was that the job was for a Serbian shopping mall campaign in which I was a skater girl with crazy lashes and intense contour…I have never ridden a skateboard in my life.

Tell me about Gucci!

Gucci was legendary.

I had followed Demna’s work at Balenciaga and always thought that even if you don’t personally like the clothes, you can’t deny he’s bloody clever. Much of his work operates through a sociological lens which is often neglected in fashion. What people wear says a lot about how they see themselves and how they want to be seen by others. Recognizing that clothes don’t exist in a vacuum is what makes them more than pieces of expensive fabric. Without that awareness, they’re simply clothes. Beautiful perhaps, but still just clothes.

I was initially contacted to do styling for VIP attendees. Usually brands dress guests in full looks from previous collections. They obviously look good, but they rarely reflect how someone might actually wear those pieces in real life. So they wanted someone to create cross styled looks that shows how someone might actually wear Gucci.

After one of the fittings Demna came in to review everything. He looked through the looks, asked a few questions, and later asked if I would walk the show.

Working with him at Gucci and then being asked to walk was an incredible experience that I’ll never forget. Fashion is often (unfortunately) a very hierarchical and sometimes dehumanising industry. People rarely enter it that way, but over time they become accustomed to the culture and begin to internalise it.

That’s why I have a lot of respect for people like Demna who seem to consciously resist that, and remain very human in how they work, how they treat people and what they create. In fashion, that’s rarer than it should be.

What are your dreams about the future?

Ah, that’s a tough one! I’m honestly still trying to figure that out. I do have bucket lists and goals, but as the saying goes, if you want God to laugh, tell him your plans.

I think the phrase ‘Dreams about the future’, rather than plans or goals, actually captures how I think about it. Whatever I end up doing in life, I hope I remain a bit like a child. Not in an immature sense, but in the sense that children are endlessly curious: They know nothing and are willing to learn everything.

And most importantly, children have fun! I suppose that’s reflected in how I dress as well. Not taking everything too seriously, but having fun.

After all this hearsay of Sinners gaining late stage momentum, with potential to sweep in and win the top prize, One Battle After Another ended up being our Best Picture. We learned that pretty early in the broadcast, when the inaugural Casting prize that was widely expected to be picked up by industry veteran Francine Maisler (Sinners) instead went to Cassanda Kulukundis, who discovered Chase Infiniti for her part in One Battle. Even she looked surprised. Then came the love for One Battle in most major categories: Sean Penn—despite not showing up—won Best Supporting Actor, and the big precursor award, Best Editing, was won by PTA go-to Andy Jurgensen.

Still, Sinners found its triumphs: We got a Ryan Coogler speech, who won Best Original Screenplay, and Autumn Durald Arkapaw made history as the first woman ever to win Best Cinematography.

As i-D’s resident awards expert, here are my highs, lows, and surprises from the Academy Awards.

Perhaps the biggest takeaway of the night is that the Academy is finally cool with straight-up horror movies after a decades-spanning allergy to awarding scream queens. This year, two of the four acting winners had scary roots: Michael B. Jordan’s twin performance in Sinners and the spunky, strange turn by Amy Madigan as Aunt Gladys in Weapons. After snubbing some really remarkable people from that late 2010s cool-horror boom—Lupita N’yongo in Us, Toni Collette in Hereditary—the Academy has gone right for the jugular and made up for its mistakes.

But it comes at an interesting inflection point: After those really great horror movies that carried us through the late 2010s, I feel that genre is, for the most part, on a downward trajectory. The indie horror movie is almost too easy to get financed, so we’ve entered its slop era. I’m one of the folks who thought Weapons was pretty good but tonally inconsistent, who thought Madigan’s turn was fun, if a little hammy…

Did the right person win?

Madigan’s Best Supporting Actress category was surrounded by some of the best performances that category has had in some time. The fire-bellied brilliance of Teyana Taylor in One Battle. The two sides of Sentimental Value’s complex familial coin with Elle Fanning and Inga Ibsdotter Lilleeas. Wunmi Mosaku, who is, in my opinion, Sinners’ real deserving Oscar winner. Madigan reaches for the freak, sure, but is that really the performance to crack a decades-long spell of no horror wins? It makes more sense when you realize how much the Academy loves a physical transformation: Charlize Theron becoming serial killer Aileen Wuornos in Monster, Jessica Chastain practically doing drag to play the titular tele-evangelist in The Eyes of Tammy Faye. To lack vanity, and be unrecognizable, is a surefire way to get their attention. But it also bulldozes over the less obvious, and thus more interesting work.

Third time is not a charm when you’re Timothée Chalamet. In the end, the Marty Supreme star became too bullish amongst his peers, and Michael B. Jordan did the thing that the Academy sort of wants you to do, which is meet it at its level. After plenty of “will he won’t he” discourse, Jordan won Best Actor for Sinners. Chalamet’s whole awards campaign was built around prestige: In every country, a legendary filmmaker came out to host post-screening Q&As with him. At the American Cinematheque, he literally lined up Christopher Nolan and Denis Villeneuve to talk to him for a career retrospective—he has barely turned 30. That’s real movie star bravado.

But as I wrote, our most prestigious performers sometimes have to wait until middle age to win Best Actor. Chalamet tried to short the system by acting like he was already mid-career, but while Chalamet was racking up the marketing gags for Marty’s release, Jordan’s movie had already smashed the box office. He had the time to be almost everywhere else. There are luncheons that exist solely for the purpose of hand-shaking, and Jordan was at nearly all of them. Alongside Coogler, he was the beating heart of a film about unity in the face of fear. He plays characters that you root for, and he embodied their spirit in the real rooms where it mattered. Chalamet’s channeling of Marty—a driven, if antagonistic lone ranger—had maybe ostracized him by the time it came for the Academy to tick those ballot boxes.

Around mid-May of last year, we started predicting the movies that would go all the way in the award’s race. Some of them succeeded, dozens didn’t. Hearing the names of those which failed to take flight makes September 2025 feel like it was five years ago. Like:

1. After the Hunt

2. A House of Dynamite

3. Jay Kelly

4. Christy

5. Wicked: For Good

We celebrate our wins so we must recognize our flops too. <3

Pour one out for the nation of Brazil today. They had high hopes that, in amongst all of the hoo-haa of the Hollywood battles, their homegrown talent from The Secret Agent would sneak in and pick up some prizes. Alas, no juice. This morning, I spoke to the Brazilian film critic Rafa Sales Ross, while still in mourning, about what happened.

“Once The Secret Agent won the Globe and the Critic’s Choice, while Sentimental Value struggled to land any wins at major awards, a delicious atmosphere of hope and possibility was established in Brazil,” she tells me. “Then, when Timothée Chalamet misstepped on his very boisterous, all-or-nothing campaign, something that seemed even more unlikely started to reveal itself as a maybe: Wagner Moura as Best Actor.” The gregarious people of Brazil started their own guerrilla campaigns online, and leaned into their skills as meme masters to lift up their own stars. “Brazil has long struggled with what the writer Nelson Rodrigues coined Stray Dog or Mongrel Syndrome: this post-imperialistic reverence to everything foreign (especially North American and European) at the expense of valuing our own national output and cultural identity,” Sales Ross pointed out. “But Brazil’s last two years in cinema have been a truly beautiful balm to that notion.” Though it doesn’t look like we’ll get a 2027 Brazil Oscars comeback quite yet, there’s enough talent in the pool there for the prize to Come to Brazil™ in future. “Those films have opened up major doors for Brazilian filmmakers and producers,” Sales Ross thinks. “We’re savvy people. I’m sure we’ll find a way to get in once more.”

One of the early winners at last night’s ceremony was Frankenstein’s costume designer Kate Hawley, and sat next to her was her daughter, the photographer Ruby Hawley. She was wearing a custom look by Abadi, the Buenos Aires brand helmed by young designer Sofia Abadi. After seeing Abadi’s first take on evening wear, Ruby reached out to Abadi directly, asking if she could wear the dress herself on what would become her mom’s big night.

Hey Sofia! Congrats on the Oscars look. Can you talk us through what the preparation was like, getting the gown ready for the ceremony?

It was insane, between Ruby hopping on and off 16-hour flights and opposite time zones, all while managing the entire process without in-person fittings. My team and I worked through the night for a week to meet the strict deadline for shipping from Buenos Aires to LA. Despite the stress and the sleepless nights, Ruby was an absolute pleasure to work with. It was an honor. I can’t wait to hopefully meet her someday!

Your work feels like it’s in continuous conversation with your home city. Do you feel like that feeds into what you’ve made here?

Buenos Aires is a constant inspiration for me, but not necessarily in my design aesthetic. Rather, it’s a fuel source. I see my hometown as a beacon of light that the world is turning a blind eye to. This opportunity may bring me the spotlight, but it may also give it to Argentinian designers and our creative community as a whole, and that’s something I strive for.

How does the context of dressing someone for the Oscars affect how you approach it?

We had to make some tweaks for it to be protocol-appropriate—the bust had to be covered and the hemline had to be lowered. Still, even if it’s slightly more conservative than the original design, I believe it carries the feminine, punk, yet playful aura that I want the Abadi woman to radiate.

It’s exhilarating to think about my first-ever dress being seen by so many people; of course, it made the entire team annoyingly detail-oriented during the construction of the garment. Even the 17-year-old son of my modéliste (pattern maker) looked at us and said, with the most dead-serious face: ‘It’s the Oscars—the gown must be perfect.’

Do you have any filmmakers that inspire you?

This might sound really strange, but anyone who knows me knows that I don’t watch movies at all. There’s just something about having to commit to sitting down for two hours… I get too anxious at the thought of it. A friend of mine once said, ‘Sometimes I remember Sofia doesn’t watch movies and I think, “Woah, she’s just rawdogging having ideas.”’ I loved that, but it also made me realize how films have inspired every great designer ever. So, one of my goals for 2026 was to get over that movie-induced anxiety. I watched 15 films in January—more than I have watched in my entire life. Hilariously enough, I always feel alienated during awards season. All my friends discuss the movies and nominees and I never know what they’re talking about. There’s a tweet of mine from 2023 that says, ‘How can I make the Oscars about myself?’ I wish I could travel back in time to tell her: ‘Guess what? You finally did it.’

The best time to start your Oscar predictions for next year is right now. The movies that should be on your radar for 2026 are:

• Project Hail Mary: Out this weekend, a sci-fi studio epic in the same vein as Sinners.

• The Odyssey: The One Battle of 2026. Large scale auteur cinema from past winner Christopher Nolan.

• All of a Sudden: A dour-sounding nursing home drama set in Paris, from the director of Oscar nominee Drive My Car.

• Fjord: Renate Reinsve’s next movie is a tough-sounding family drama—this time with Palme d’Or winner Cristian Mungiu.

• Wild Horse Nine: A CIA comedy-drama from The Banshees of Inisherin director Martin McDonagh.

• The Magician’s Nephew: The Academy loves Gerwig, so don’t be surprised if her foray into kids movies still manages to hit.

• Dune: Messiah: If Dune: Part Two was mostly snubbed, expect a more embracing response—a la Return of the King—for the final instalment in the franchise.

• Jack of Spades: Josh O’Connor klaxon! He leads the new movie from the serious Coen Brother, a gothic mystery movie co-starring Frances McDormand.

• Digger: Tom Cruise best actor sneak?

There are many verbs that could summarize PFW for me: work, run, laugh, cry. But one thing I noticed this season is that fashion is more than just something we look at, it’s an activity we’re immersed in. Fashion is a verb. Attending my first PFW as associate editor at i-D I was doing exactly that: fashioning. Between fighting paparazzi for the best front-row video of Olivia Rodrigo, you quickly realize something: PFW really is Fashion, capitalized. And that’s what makes it great.

For a long time, I’ve been obsessed with the clichés of fashion. Let’s admit it: I probably ended up with this job because growing up Andy Sachs was injected into my veins. The dream was simple—work to the point of exhaustion, but do it wearing cute shoes. Finally, I arrived at the ivory tower of Paris fashion. Quite literally. When I showed up late to the Zomer show, Pascal Morand (yes, the president of french fashion) actually convinced a PR to let me in by lying saying, “She’s with me.”

Paris is where these clichés come to life. Everyone steps off the Eurostar in hopes of living out their own fantasy of fashion. And that’s what I kept seeing among the indie guard: fashion as action. Fashion as something you do.

To begin with, if you’re only looking at the runways, you’re missing some of the best of what PFW has to offer. August Barron held a launch for their publication Real Housewife at Dover Street Market. Which, to be fair, might be the most PFW thing imaginable: a packed, no-RSVP room filled with hungry assistants. The brand is known for playing with hyper-feminine fashion tropes and exaggerated gestures of glamour. Their installation inside the store leaned right into that—a mannequin, the ultimate symbol of fashion display, placed at the center of it all.

Similarly, if you had no idea what Vaquera was and wandered into their show at Église Protestante Unie de l’Étoile, you might think: “yikes, fashion is weird.” The collection they presented was extravagant, playful, and slightly absurd—silhouettes pushed to the brink of parody. Which is exactly the point. The IYKYK factor is strong. Vaquera treats fashion like theatre, exaggerating the codes until they become a beautiful tribute.

What emerging designers do so well is present fashion as a spectacle. They’re still having fun. It goes without saying that they’re often less tied to the commercial pressures shaping the big houses. ABRA attached pouf chairs to dresses, while Hodakova sent a model down the runway wearing teacups as a bra. Graduates from IFM paraded duvets and pirate hats. Not to mention LVMH Prize semi-finalist De Pino’s blown-out, Ghesquière-esque proportions. Across the city, independent designers were embracing the grandeur of it all—because beneath everything, we’re still the same kids obsessed with the drama of fashion. And maybe that’s what brings us to Paris in the first place.

There was also a sense of motion across many of the collections this season. Designers seemed to be dressing someone on the go.. Models at Kiko Kostadinov strode past clutching their handbags like they were already on their way somewhere; Betsy Johnson’s girls had their trousers half-buttoned. At Cecilie Bahnsen, dancers left their puffer jackets on stage, revealing embellished dresses underneath. Mid-show at Hodakova, models transformed Persian rugs into skirts. Jenny Fax presented “panty bags”, as if someone had rummaged through a closet on the way out the door. At Fidan Novruzova’s showroom I was even allowed to try on the Tamara de Lempicka inspired collection myself. Maybe we’ve just entered the post-Lotta Volkova styling world—with her vision for Miu Miu being both highly commercial and influential—but designers increasingly seem interested in presenting the activity of dressing itself. That’s when fashion really starts fashioning.

And a verb never stands still. At Paloma Wool, confetti scattered across the runway slowly drifted with every step the models took. By the end of the presentation the set looked completely different. A small reminder that things change, even over the course of a single show.

Speaking of change, something new in the Paris ecosystem over the past few seasons is Lyas’ LA WATCH PARTY held at Théâtre du Châtelet. Here, anyone can watch the shows—to live out their promised fashion-world fantasy—just like me. I attended the Betsy Johnson show in the same building, and during the finale the curtains suddenly lifted to reveal an entire audience of screaming teenagers staring back at us editors watching from the stage. I’m sure that I’ll sit next to many of them in a few seasons.

So if you have yet to experience your first Paris Fashion Week, I’ve gathered some key tips from indie designers on how to survive it:

• Vaquera says… “Go see a a shower show at Le Raidd Bar.”

• Julie Kegels says… “Leave early.”

• Matières Fécales says… “Cover your under eye bags with more eyeliner.”

• Zomer says… “Ginger shots, comfy shoes, and holding your breath till the last show.”

As Alex said to me as we drove over Pont Alexandre III from Courreges to Caroline Hu: “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Andrea. Everybody wants this.” And he’s right. If this is Paris Fashion Week—fantasy, youth, blisters and all—then bring it on.

And yet Paris waits for no one. The city simply opens its gates and says: “You thought that was fashion week? This is fashion week.”

Paris this season was a full family affair for i-D. At the table we had our father, EIC Thom; fashion director Clare, my seatmate; fashion editor Ch’lita, my chaotic sidekick (see also: the two of us causing a scene at the Chanel store); my daughter, associate editor Marley; and our fabulous market editor Sam. Missing was mother, Steff, currently in India.

Thanks to Mercedes we also had a secret weapon. Claudio, our driver, who somehow delivered us across Paris with the calm patience of someone watching a group chat come to life in real time. Fashion week schedules look manageable on paper. In practice they resemble a Mario Kart track designed by someone who hates editors. Claudio simply smiled and drove, and slayed the playlist (Thom and Ch’lita approved).

Which brings us to the matter at hand: what exactly did Paris feel like this season? In a climate where designers are increasingly cautious, a select few houses seemed newly interested in surprising us. Or, as my colleague Ch’lita likes to put it when the room needs energy: wake that up.

Across the week, the houses that landed best weren’t necessarily the loudest, they were the ones that remembered something simple—luxury works when it believes in itself.

Chanel might be the best example. Matthieu Blazy’s show explored a classic Chanel paradox, something Gabrielle Chanel once described as the tension between the caterpillar and the butterfly. Clothes for crawling through the day and clothes for flying through the night.

The collection moved through that idea elegantly, beginning with the familiar language of Chanel tailoring. Tweed suits reworked in knits and textured fabrics that looked almost weightless. The Chanel suit remains one of fashion’s great design platforms: endlessly stable, endlessly mutable. Then the show shifted. Metallics began to appear. The light changed. Hair and makeup turned iridescent, almost mermaid-like, as if the collection had suddenly dipped underwater and emerged glittering.

By the second half the energy in the room had lifted completely. Michel Gaubert’s soundtrack dropped Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” and the audience started quietly bopping along. Last season, he scored the show with the Dawson’s Creek theme. Clare put it perfectly afterwards at the Grand Palais. She loved “the layers of sparkle and shine, the shimmering bouclé, the technicolor glitter hair. It could be too much, but combined with the wonderful casting, which represented a modern woman of varying ages, it felt fresh and easy.”

Teyana Taylor told me afterwards she wanted to buy everything, although she refused to say what in case it sold out. After watching the girlies lose their shit at the boutiques this week, and seeing every VIC and editor decked head to toe in new Chanel at the show, that’s probably sensible.

Dior approached luxury from another angle entirely. Jonathan Anderson’s collection explored the idea of the promenade. Historically, spaces like the Tuileries were places where people went specifically to be seen. A public stage, essentially. “There was a period where you go to your garden to be seen, to walk,” Anderson told me at a preview ahead of the show. “Nearly like a Seurat painting, you would go to be seen in different sort of class systems.”

The collection played with that tension between structure and freedom. Strong tailoring and sculpted silhouettes anchored the looks, while softer pieces introduced movement and looseness. It felt thoughtful rather than nostalgic.

One of the week’s most joyful moments happened at 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday when Junya Watanabe staged what Thom later described as “a postmodern cabaret for the ages.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. The show had the loose theatricality of performance art but the technical control of couture. Models marched out in complex constructions that twisted tailoring, leather and engineering into something rebellious yet precise. “During a season when so many designers were playing scared and trying too hard to sell clothes,” Thom said, “Junya Watanabe put on a life-affirming runway show.”

I almost hit the snooze button and missed it. Thankfully I did not!

Over at McQueen, Seán McGirr leaned into theatrical tension. Ch’lita summarised the vibe with: “Delicious.” Which, translated from fashion editor dialect, means the show delivered drama in exactly the right amount. The set carried a slightly eerie domestic energy, with hair and makeup that made the models resemble porcelain dolls.

The clothes mixed Savile Row precision with strange romantic flourishes. There were low-rise trousers nodded to McQueen’s infamous bumsters. Quilted bombers and textured lace layered intimacy with structure.

Across the rest of Paris, the biggest houses all seemed to be solving the same equation. Louis Vuitton delivered another expansive Nicolas Ghesquière collection that blended futurism with travel fantasy—and fab, huge hats!

Saint Laurent continued Anthony Vaccarello’s mission of making sharp, sensual tailoring feel inevitable. I wanted everything at Celine, which is usually a good sign. Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez proved they have the chops to give Loewe the rebrand it deserves. Isabel Marant did what it does best, nailing its Parisian cool-girl vibe with a rocker edge. Very boots the house down.

Balenciaga, now navigating a new chapter under Pierpaolo Piccioli, felt it’s still merging Demna’s cool-kid energy with Piccioli’s elegance. A Sam Levinson film and Euphoria-coded soundtrack added drama, but new eras take time. Luxury houses are enormous machines. They do not turn overnight.

Few moments this season felt more emotional than Pieter Mulier’s final show for Alaïa. The collection was beautiful in the quiet, sculptural way Alaïa does best. Bodies wrapped in fluid knits and architectural forms that seemed to float rather than sit on the body.

And yes, Alicia Silverstone was there. The Clueless star who once delivered the most famous Alaïa line in cinematic history had come to watch the designer’s swansong. “It’s like a totally important designer.” Not no.

Meanwhile at Miu Miu, Miuccia Prada returned to the idea of clothing as something deeply personal. The collection pulled garments closer to the body. Soft fabrics, washed textures, and shapes that felt protective rather than performative. The set inside the Palais d’Iéna resembled a strange indoor forest (touching grass lol).

“Somehow Miu Miu turned everything I love about Miu Miu into one collection. No notes,” Marley texted me post-show. Her first fashion purchase, she reminded me, was a pair of Miu Miu Fall 1999 bubble shoes. Seeing Chloë Sevigny back on the runway alongside Gemma Ward felt like a full-circle moment. “If ghosts haunt the world in the clothes they died in,” Marley added, “I hope I go in Gemma Ward’s embellished Miu Miu dress.”

Marley is chopping up an indie brand recap as we speak. For now? Mercedes king, Claudio, has kindly shared his fave Paris food spots—cause you know I love to EAT.

• Nouilles Ceintures (Poissonnière) – A great spot for Chinese noodles where you can choose the thickness and spice level.

• Jim’s Corner – A relaxed neighborhood café that’s perfect for brunch, with good coffee and an easy Parisian morning vibe.

• La Taverne de Zhao – A lively Chinese restaurant with lantern-filled interiors that feel straight out of Beijing and big, bold flavors to match.

• Le Petit Bal Perdu – A charming Paris bistro with a warm atmosphere and thoughtful seasonal dishes that feel both classic and a little unexpected.

• Furia – A fun, slightly chaotic Paris wine bar energy with red wine flowing and small plates made for sharing with besties.

• Petit Veau (Clichy) – A well-known neighborhood spot loved for its excellent kebabs, perfect when you want something simple and seriously good.

The Lore Issue starring SZA, EsDeeKid, Bhavitha Mandava, and Martin Parr is on select newsstands today (available globally March 26th). But our online store is the only place where you can be sure to secure the exact cover you want.

SZA is a certified megastar by every measure who has achieved the rare feat of being insanely famous yet beautifully unknowable, maybe even to herself. For our cover story, we met the musician in Los Angeles to find out what goes on inside her mind. Speaking with writer Brittany Spanos, SZA opens up about her artistry, her beliefs, and her commitment to making music others can’t, from the ashram to the Super Bowl.

GET YOUR COPY HERE

EsDeeKid is a masked sensation who—despite being a child of online rap culture—has absolutely zero paper trail. In a photoshoot spanning across three countries (and featuring three rottweilers), director Aidan Zamiri follows the Liverpudlian musician on a medieval chronicle through the looking glass of rap stardom. The story features an original poem titled “Vermin” penned by EsDeeKid himself during the making of the shoot.

GET YOUR COPY HERE

Engineering student-turned-model Bhavitha Mandava became a fashion darling overnight after opening Chanel’s Métiers d’art show in New York. Her story draws so many literary comparisons—Cinderella’s slipper, Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket, King Arthur’s sword in the stone—that it feels larger than life. Photographed by Inez and Vinoodh in their home in New York, Mandava opens up to writer Iva Dixit about finding her footing in the United States and acclimating to her newfound fame.

GET YOUR COPY HERE

In this limited edition cover, we pay tribute to the pioneering photographer Martin Parr, who died as we were making this magazine. A hero of photography, Martin was as beloved behind the lens as he was beside it, mentoring photographers and promoting the art form around the world. Martin’s wife Susie Parr pens a tribute to her husband that accompanies a selection of some of Martin’s most recent and favorite works. This edition is limited to 200 copies—for the real Parr heads only.

GET YOUR COPY HERE

Also Inside.

Zara Larsson escapes the Khia Asylum. Simone Rocha and Martine Rose talk fashion. Jack Antonoff orders take-away. Hasan Piker, Joyce Carol Oates, Adéla, UFC fighters, Torishéju Dumi, mega beauty, a Burger King Birkin bag, and all kinds of lore galore.

Available now at the below stockists. Available globally March 26th.

London

Artwords
Donlon Books
Good News
MagCulture
News & Coffee

Paris

0fr
Palais de Tokyo
Smith & Son

Milan

Frab’s Di Dario Gaspari
Reading Room

New York

Casa Iconic
Mulberry Iconic Magazines
Soho News

After Harry Styles’ new single “Aperture” dropped, a series of residency concerts around the world, at locations like London’s Wembley Stadium and New York City’s Madison Square Garden, went on sale. The ticket prices were exorbitant enough to warrant headlines (aren’t most stadium and arena shows these days anyway?) but they’re selling well, with plenty sold out entirely. The single topped the Billboard Hot 100. In gross, capitalistic terms: The work was pretty much done before an album had even reached us.

Still, thankfully, here it is: Kiss All the Time, Disco Occasionally, a record that frequently feels like it’s at odds with the success of its maker. It’s an interesting artistic endeavor; one that’s noble, original, and, in an era of lore-laced songs, windingly opaque. Look, I am already a fan of Harry Styles. I’ve seen him maybe more than any other artist in my lifetime. (His best album is Fine Line.) He makes music for stadiums; the masses. When he wants to make a radio banger, he and his team of tight-knit collaborators—most significantly the pop-rock maestro Kid Harpoon and Tyler Johnson—do. “Watermelon Sugar” and “Music for a Sushi Restaurant” were dangerously inescapable. But there’s not a song on Kiss All the Time… that matches that same formula.

I’ve been trying to figure out if that’s reflective of the album’s quality or my brain trying to calibrate itself to the wavelength Styles finds himself on. He’s sold more records than he probably thought possible. He’s broken records with this new, lengthy tour—12 nights at Wembley Stadium in one year, the most of any artist ever—which seems as much like a challenge for himself as it is an offering to his fans. The album will go to number one globally—nobody has any doubts about that. I imagine he knew that when he went into making it, and so it feels like a record made by a man untethered from the expectation of convincing anyone of anything.

Throughout his whole career, Styles has been burdened by comparison: from his self-titled debut onward, he’s been accused of feeling like a lite version of everyone from Jeff Buckley to David Bowie, Elliott Smith to Mick Jagger. I see it, I hear it, and I haven’t cared much, because the resulting material feels less like a rip off of someone and more like the work of someone channeling the spirits of their idols. Kiss All The Time… has its own touch points, they’re twisted a little differently, and less straightforward, be it LCD Soundsystem or Talking Heads.

These are not exactly the kind of reference points that spawn radio hits these days, which is why the album is admirable from that standpoint. Right now, the charts are shaped by luster, grandiosity and polish: Olivia Dean’s sequined love song “Man I Need,” the bombast of K-Pop Demon Hunters’ “Golden,” even in some ways the emotional extremism of Sombr’s fuzzier “Back to Friends.” We like songs that take us from A to B in a clean and perfect line, but none of the songs on this album fit into any of those rubrics. It’s an intentional “fuck it” album, carefully crafted to his own tastes.

The album liner notes open with a quote of himself, lifting from the lyrics of “Paint By Numbers,” a plaintive beach rock song that feels like a mission statement for the whole record: “Oh what a gift it is to be noticed. But it’s nothing to do with me.” Nothing to do with me. Of course, what he’s referring to is the small group of people who made the record possible. But it also feels like what I think is the album’s only sticking point: This reticence to submit even slightly to pop’s breadcrumb culture.

I don’t need to know the ins and outs of Styles’ personal life, nor do I think that would feed into the quality of the album. But truly excellent pop music gives you a sense of someone. The album is so rich on the ears, the production ambitious, but it’s easy to tap out of what Styles is saying because it’s so hard to lay it like tracing paper over your own life.

You don’t need exposing specifics for that, you just need a clearer common ground. Take, for example, “Everything is Romantic” by Charli xcx. “Bad tattoos on leather tanned skin / Jesus Christ on a plastic sign / Fall in love again and again.” I know where Charli is, and how it’s making her feel: the sense of unbridled euphoria fuelled by beaming sunshine in Catholic southern Europe.

On Styles’ rhythmic “Are You Listening Yet?”: “It’s like your taking up arms, but the message is wet / It sounds inviting, but you don’t believe in it yet.” I’m dancing but I’m not sure I’m connecting to it in quite the same way, because I’m not quite sure what he’s talking about. And that’s not in the same unwieldy way a lyrical journeyman like Joanna Newsom puts her songs together, I just feel like there’s a conversation happening that I’ve walked into, and everyone present refuses to help me catch up.

There are exceptions to this: the feverishly catchy “Pop” (next single, please) favors a straight and simple chorus over big rock guitar twangs and a vintage synth, and it works in its favor. “I wanna take up all your time” = great, easy pop lyric. “Dance No More” is so unafraid of earning Chic comparisons that it feels like the guy is just having fun with it.

The best song on the whole thing is the most peculiar one, “Season 2 Weight Loss,” a sort of sad freak-synth drum and bass ballad with vocals from Wolf Alice’s Ellie Rowsell. It’s the closest we get to what I assumed this whole album would sound like, and would love a whole break-off project in the same vein.

My God, how many pop stars feel a sense of financial and image security and use it to churn out mass-targeted trashy slop? Most! Even if he’s not giving me much to connect with emotionally, I’m still moving my feet to Kiss All the Time, Disco Occasionally. I think that’s all Harry Styles wants.

Watching Tanya bake feels like being seduced. I’m like, “That’s a lot of sugar for a girl like me” and she’s like, “That’s what makes it taste good.” She’s so capable, frequently handling things that burn in my hands, and she’s one of my favorite writers, frequently writing things that melt into my mind! I truly don’t know anyone with a stronger sense of vision, style, and purpose. Her book launch featured a brilliant discussion with The New Yorker’s Helen Rosner and a Hojicha tiramisu that she created (She’ll be doing a book signing at Radio Bakery in Prospect Heights on Friday alongside a hybrid pastry she made) I mean….

Earlier that day, I was part of a lucky group that got a private tour of the Visible Storage gallery with the sensational jack-of-all-trades Dolly Meckler! Armed with a microphone printed with a fun “Hello, Dolly!” insignia, Meckler led us on a scavenger hunt through the soon-to-close MET gallery, a slice of history if there ever was one. Highlights: Liana and I showed up wearing the same pair of pants (Levi’s engineered twisted seams with a whole lotta whiskering)! Three different and equally chic people had umbrellas sporting zoomorphic handles! I saw a Frank Loyd Wright chair that made me dreamily reconsider everything in my apartment!

And, high up on the Upper East Side, surrounded by lunching ladies, Jalil Johnson and I had a real melding of minds. We talked about the CBK infection that has all the young working women of New York in its grip and the concurrent—and far more interesting—rise of New Prep.

How do you define your style?

Eclectic Americana or eclectic preppy. Preppy is definitely the foundation of my wardrobe, but I say eclectic because I’m still pulling from various different styles. It could be a little bohemian, a little edgy.

What does preppy mean to you? What was your gateway into it?

I didn’t grow up with the style. It didn’t feel accessible to me. I always think about going past J.Crew and my mom being like, “Well we can’t shop there that’s not for us” and then wanting to shop at J.Crew. I also think preppy is distinctly American, because at the root of it there’s a sense of pragmatism, and pragmatism is the bedrock of American style.

What do you think people get wrong about prep?

That they cannot participate in it.

You made an interesting point earlier by pointing out the difference between prep and the clean girl aesthetic. How do you see Carolyn Bessette fitting into it all?

The American sense of sexiness is different from the European sense of sexiness because at the root of American style is the history of the Puritans. That still influences our idea of what sexiness looks like and how we dress. Everything with the clean girl is very manicured,like a calculated unkeptness. Whereas with prep, it’s just kind of how things are: the clothes are broken in because you’ve worn them for ages. You didn’t go on the hunt and search for a broken and beat up Birkin. This is just your life. Your hair is in a state because that’s just who you are. I think that’s the big difference between prep and clean girl. I feel a little sad about this CBK at all because it’s like when will she get to rest?

What are the preppy wardrobe essentials?

I’d suggest a great pair of chinos, a sensible shoe—like a nice loafer—and an Oxford shirt. There needs to be something monogrammed in the wardrobe, be it a shirt or a bag.

How would you style me personally? I need your help.

I like your little party girl look, but I also kept thinking about Katharine Hepburn and how you’d look fantastic in chinos that were slightly oversized and a great big fisherman sweater with Belgian loafers and a pencil in your hair. There’s this movie called Rich and Famous from 1981. In it, Jacqueline Bisset plays an academic type, and her fashion is fantastic. She wears a grey sweatshirt and jeans like Levi’s 501s and a watch. It’s basic but looks so fantastic. I feel like you should dress like Jacqueline Bisset Prep could be your work daytime look, and then you get to go into your party girl look for night.

Who does new prep well?

Marcus Allen who runs Society Archive, who feels like a really big part of New Prep. Also Olympia Gayot (she’s divine), Renatto Balladares, Julian Fetterman, Karen Brown Brody and Michael Rider at Celine.

But here’s the thing about Milan: If London is about ideas and Paris is about spectacle, Milan is about desire turned into product. Precision. Body-ody-ody. Client. Clothes that are meant to be worn, bought, hunted down on Vinted decades later. I handled it with the calm of someone who has survived worse for fashion. Espresso in hand. Carbonara pending. Prego!

Diesel opened the week like a hangover you secretly enjoyed. The set alone was a museum of chaos. There were around 50,000 pieces of archival Diesel memorabilia presented under bright lights. The clothes carried that same next-day energy—twisting, wrapping, creasing. Denim baked into permanent memory. Knitwear boiled down from supersized. Jeans with hidden ankle slits designed to slide over stilettos, secured with hook-and-eye closures “for extra kink.” Whether it was simply another chapter or something more conclusive (fashion loves to speculate), Martens staged it like a moment.

I arrived at Prada obscenely early, which meant I had time to reflect on my life and my sleep deprivation. The Deposito at Fondazione Prada was layered with centuries-old objects like antique mirrors, paintings, consoles. A space that felt like a dream partially dismantled. The usual pre-show hum started. Carrie Mulligan. Sarah Pidgeon. Editors craning. Then the room shifted when Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan walked in. Unexpected. Intriguing.

Then the clothes started, and the room snapped back into attention. The collection was built around the idea of layering as reality. Clothes worn through a day, transformed through life, memories embedded like hidden architecture. Mrs. P and Raf Simons said it was “an embrace of inherent pluralities,” which sounds lofty until you see it and realize it’s just… true. Tailoring layered with sportswear, embroidered satin dresses thrown into contradiction with more rational pieces. It’s the non-hierarchical mixing that felt distinctly Prada.

And the casting made the concept literal. 15 women, each walking multiple times, in four looks each. Bella Hadid appeared. Then again. Then again. The repetition wasn’t redundancy, it was narrative. A woman as multitudes. And backstage afterward? Absolute chaos. The kind where you’re shoved by a blazer and a bodyguard at the same time, and you have to keep your face neutral like, yes, of course, I meant to be pressed into this wall.

Ever the Prada optimist, Nick Tran, Dover Street Market Paris’s head of buying and merchandising, chimed in after. “Another reminder, as if you needed one, that Prada never goes out of style,” he says. “I loved the nods to some of my favorite collections, especially the embroideries and hand-knit scarves from Fall 2017, and the fur-trim sport parka I’ll now be hunting down on Vinted.”

I couldn’t get a taxi to Gucci. I couldn’t get a friend. So I walked for an hour. It’s what I do for the culture. I arrived at the Palazzo Delle Scintille drenched in sweat and immediately body-checked by social editors and paparazzi. For the love of fashion, yes. But also, can we all behave like we’ve been outside before?

Inside, the venue masqueraded as marble fantasy. Wood pretending to be stone. Statues that felt suspiciously light (read: styrofoam). The front row was cinematic. Romeo Beckham. Shawn Mendes. Steve Lacey. Demi Moore with Pilaf. Paris and Nicky Hilton. EsDee Kid, carrying a giant Gucci bag full of weed (according to him!). The internet’s favorite disruptors mingling with legacy glamour. And then the runway: Fake Mink. Nettspend. Emily Ratajkowski in a slinky silver mini. Gabbriette. Vittoria. Stella Maxwell. Alex Consani. Maria Carla Boscono. Vivian Wilson. Slouchy new Jackie bags. Faux fur. Loafer slides. Bare skin. Body as statement.

And the closer? KATE. FUCKING. MOSS. In a shimmering black dress with its back blown open to reveal the iconic Gucci thong detail with a GG emblem. The Tom Ford echo was loud and honestly correct. If you’re going to flirt with that era, you bring Kate. Post-show, The Face’s senior fashion features editor Eni Subair said, “The casting of internet rappers alongside Kate felt like a respectful remix that still had Demna’s stamp.”

Later, cutting through the adrenaline, an anonymous editor said something that lingered far longer than the bassline. Speaking about the predominantly skinny casting, they admitted: “I left the show wanting to be the new-era Gucci girl, and I hate myself for it.”

That evening, we returned to the venue for the after-party, which quickly devolved into a full-blown mosh pit when EsDee Kid, Fake Mink, and Rico Ace took over. It was feral and electric. I found myself at the very front for the sake of content, clutching my jumbo Chanel to protect it from the kids sweating out Axe body spray. I felt approximately one thousand years old.

Simone Bellotti’s Jil Sander was the palate cleanser I didn’t know I needed. I walked in with zero expectations and walked out slightly altered, which is my favorite kind of fashion week surprise. Shoulderlines lifted. Collars slipped backward. Pockets drifted. Fabric allowances swung. The skirts, especially, had details that felt genuinely exciting. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… smart.

Then Fendi. Maria Grazia Chiuri’s debut, anchored by her motto: “Less I, more us.” The front row told the story before the first look walked. Clients in head-to-toe Fendi. Women who do not dress for the algorithm, they dress for their lives. Lunches. Boardrooms. Flights. Real schedules. Chiuri understands that woman. The suiting was efficient. The palette, predominantly black. I craved a jolt of color, sure, but it made sense in that room. Milan is not embarrassed to make clothes for women who actually buy them.

MM6, meanwhile, felt like catching a train and deciding your entire personality is now a checked shirt, a horse-print fleece, and an earring still in its selling kit. Practical. Slightly odd. Completely wearable. I wanted half of it immediately.

If Prada was philosophy and Gucci was provocation, Marni was recalibration. Meryll Rogge’s debut felt tender in a week obsessed with body and product. You could sense it in the room—a softness, a return to codes rather than a reinvention of them. The first look nodded to Consuelo Castiglioni’s original Marni language, that specific funky woman-ness that feels like a secret handshake for people with taste and a job. Patterns, overt stitching, Prealps mountaineer references, sportswear fused with tailoring. Memory reshaped into something wearable. Menswear had moments, but for me it wasn’t as accomplished as the womenswear. That’s okay. Debuts are seeds, not full-grown trees.

After the show, Vogue Business features director Lucy Maguire put it plainly. “It really is good to see more women leading luxury houses,” she said. “And this was a strong start for Meryll Rogge. I can see it selling!”

Ferragamo, under Maximilian Davis, leaned into sailors and migration, uniforms undone and reconstructed. Workwear parkas in textured nappa. Slip dresses in foiled velvet lamé. A speakeasy undercurrent. Styled by Lotta Volkova, it felt cool and sharp without losing emotion.

And then Bottega Veneta, serene and disciplined, the most organized show of the week (luxury brands… take note). A red carpet that made even my exhausted self stand taller. Lauren Hutton in the room. Pa Salieu. Daisy Edgar-Jones. Julianne Moore, who was, genuinely, the warmest celebrity encounter of my week. Kind eyes. Present. She smiled for a photo.

The collection leaned into “structures, softened.” Intimacy as protection. Maria Callas and Pasolini noted as references, operatic but grounded in craft. Connor Downey, social media manager at Lyst, agreed. “It was such a delight,” he beamed. “The collection, with thin beanies, broad shoulders and that wonky-collar styling, really captured the zeitgeist.”

As I sit filing this at CDG before the shows kick off, it strikes me that fashion month isn’t a tour, it’s a relay race in really gorge jackets (I’ve brought six ofc), and I’ve just passed the Milan baton straight into a croissant.

And for my little Kesslers, because I am nothing if not generous, here are a few Milan spots to chow down.

Yapa – Incredibly chic fusion omakase with the kind of crowd that makes you sit up straighter. You better book.

Da Giacomo (the restaurant, not the Bistrot next door) – The most gorgeous meal I had all week. Old-school Milan glamour, white tablecloth energy, and lobster pasta that made me consider relocating.

Trattoria Milanese 1933 – Moody service, fabulous lunch. The tortellini and meatballs were worth the attitude.

Le Specialità – Influencers everywhere, British Vogue’s Chioma Nnadi, as well as me, Eni, and Ted Stansfield of Dazed dining together… so yes, it was extremely fashion. Food solid, service leisurely, gossip flowing.

Don Lisander – Dark wood, serious energy, and the kind of traditional Milanese cooking that feels like a quiet flex. Go when you want to feel like you’ve been in the city for years.

I was woken out of my apparent amnesia recently by Picnic at Hanging Rock. What cervine girlhood it offered up! What frocks and ribbons!

Naturally I related most to Edith Horton, one of those wonderful characters with a name that tells you immediately how annoying she’s going to be. Edith is somehow spared from being sucked into the rock or timewarping or dying of who-knows-what by virtue of being really irritating and pathetic. I too emerged from childhood unscathed thanks to a protective bubble of my own unpleasantness, bypassing the beautiful frippery of girlhood.

Generally, I feel like I have a pretty white knuckle grip on the present. Maybe that’s because the dominant aesthetic of my adolescence was Rockabilly!!!! Oh, Rockabilly, my foul frenemy. Were you a zaftig teenager between 2009 and 2017? Did you “develop early”? Do the words “fit and flair” or “tea-length dress” send a cold chill down your spine? Do you think you ought to receive financial compensation from Modcloth? Lauren Servideo, comedian, amigo and fellow former rockabilly, and I texted about it:

Nicolaia: So… Why were we made to wear Rockabilly?

Lauren: My best guess is that the silhouette accounted for well-endowed women? But truly it is a mystery. And maybe this is a me problem, but even the genuine ’50s clothes—not the mod cloth replicas—were SO TINY.

Nicolaia: I don’t think I ever knowingly was like deliberately buying rockabilly. I feel like older women in my life were insistent that I wear tea length dresses. Do you have any memories of any specific items?

Lauren: YEP!!!! Esther Williams bathing suits. Ring a bell? Nowhere in person sold big- boob bathing suits so we had to turn to the web and order it from her directly? Like possibly send a check. I remember the bright red polka dot suit arriving with IMPOSSIBLY high waisted bottoms and being like welp…this is it. It might as well have been a one piece. It’s also weird because Rockabilly is a sound too, so to some it’s signaling that you’re into the music and the lifestyle (old cars lmfao). I only got the Rockabilly bangs when I went through my intense second wave feminism era in college. I had already won the superlative of “born in the wrong decade,” which I assumed was for my mature thoughts about culture but I think it was the clothes.

Nicolaia: I can’t believe you did a second Rockabilly moment!? The first wasn’t enough?

Lauren: The second moment was rooted in Janeane Garofalo in Reality Bites. And Traci Lords in Cry-Baby. I think I have a few years on you so this was like 2009, and I had survived the early-’00s body image moment. This was on the heels of Rookie Mag. It wasn’t rockabilly, it was riot grrl—but still bangs. But back to the body image thing: Y2K is low-cut in every way, super thin, sexy, all things that just weren’t me anymore (I went from being super underweight my whole life to being busty and kind of thicc in what felt like overnight). Rockabilly seemed to present a wholesomeness I had been looking for and something that would actually fit/look good. I haven’t thought about this in so long. I’m also trying to dig out pictures. Why do you think it happened? And when was your phase?

Nicolaia: For me, there was this element of “dressing for your body type” and “flattering.” I was also not comfortable in my body, but looking like a 30-year-old Williamsburg dweller at 16 was not helping things! With all the nostalgia, do we think we’ll see a Rockabilly revival? And do we feel like trad wife edges on Rockabilly?

Lauren: I kind of feel like Lana tapped into it a bit back then…siphoning from the fountain of trad which seems never ending??? Rockabilly is fake ’50s and we are living in a fake world obviously: fake president, fake images, fake lips. When these things circle back, we take less and less each time so they work. The way Gen Z did Y2K this time was WAY better than when we had it initially.

On the topic of nostalgia, Beata Rydbacken is taking it to new and bold proportions. There’s a massive barrette that looks like a fastener. A hat pouf so large it basically has its own moon. And of course…the schairf, a scarf made of thick plaits of hair. She gave me the 411

Age: 25

Profession: Fashion designer and marketing lead at Gustaf Westman

Nicolaia: How did you get started designing? I know you work at Gustaf Westman!

Beata Rydbacken: I’ve been sewing since I was little, but I started designing and selling my work in 2020. That’s when I also got really into SoMe marketing, and the importance and power of it. Doing the instagram thing led me to meeting Gustaf, and then to us working together!

Tell me about the inspiration behind the Schairf.

I saw a girl with two long braids and thought wow that’s so beautiful it almost looks like a scarf, and then…..the idea just struck me.

What currently brings you inspiration?

Being online and hanging out with my very creative friends. Shared pinterest boards and living life <3

Who would you like to see wear one?

I think Adéla or Pinkpantheress or Rosalia.

I love the Tumblr-ness of the Schairf and the Beanie Bun. On your website you also reimagined the classic Abercrombie/Hollister bag with your logo…What do you think is so appealing about mid-aughts culture right now?

It’s a style so many of us genuinely had and loved. I think as the cycle comes back around, a simple Abercrombie shopping bag just carries so much nostalgia, and makes us feel so good and young and free.

Were you an active Tumblr girl? What was your first username?

Yes! My first username on everything was LiljaEva2001, a mix of my middle name and my hamster’s name, and the year I was born. I still think it’s a very strong username and might actually go back to that soon.

What would you say your design philosophy is?

I think “simple but genius” is what I strive for.

What other things do you want to enlarge?

OMG so many things. My friend Frida recently came up with the idea of a giant pin, like those flat plastic badge pins, so I think we might make that soon.

You don’t have to look hard for the proof. Who, that you follow, is posting about the actual garments shown on the runway? Now who’s posting about street style, about models doing silly things backstage, about a celebrity answering silly questions in the FROW, about the weather, about the invite, about the free gift, about the brand dinner, about the ambiance in the showroom, about the afters, about the red carpet, about the car ride, about the well curated brand activation? Personal style discourse, the closest thing to writing about fashion that survives, thankfully, here on Substack, is also not really about the runway—but about what the runway means for you. That’s good. But I still care about F-ashion as a form of design. And I think you should too.

London Fashion Week started, for me, at Chopova Lowena, but for my colleagues it started two days earlier at the Central Saint Martins MA show. (Unlike everyone else, whose flights from London or to Milan were cancelled, it was actually my flight to London that was randomly cancelled, getting me on the ground a day late.) Looking at the images, I am especially enamored with Pranajali Menaria’s boxy jackets and “bloom” miniskirts—that shape, something stylish but oversize and a bizarre little skirt, was all over the streets in London this week. A similar silhouette from Zeina Issa, too, made from upcycled belly dancing chains. Ennis Finnerty-Mackay’s ultra-cinched jackets and full skirts for men are just gorgeous, with an almost period-piece energy. I’m gobsmacked by what Mie Mie can do with tulle—layered pieces that become “jeans” paired with a rugby shirt of hand-cut stripes. I appreciated the casual spirit of the work, anyone can make a gaggy ballgown, but it takes a bit of cleverness to make something people could wear everyday, to integrate into their lives and behaviours. That, I’m gagged by.

By the time I set foot in London, I was already late to the Chopova Lowena presentation. I zoomed over in our i-D branded Mercedes (thank you Mercedes!). Here are two women who can’t help but make clothes for people to really wear. The gags and the charm at Chopova Lowena is sublimated to the joy. Even in a hip-padded skirt with ball-piercings or a boned jacket made golf-bag pockets, you feel emboldened to stomp through the city, not just stand and pose for a photo to post on grid. That ruggedness, mixed with a ceaseless eccentricity, is what keeps the Chopova Lowena customers, fangirls, and wider clan coming back season after season.

The lucky of us had a preview of the collection in Paris during men’s fashion week, where Emma Chopova and Laura Lowena run a sales showroom themselves, with their small team of equally bold women. Golf and the Regency Era were the inspirations, but in the designers hands those ideas morphed into collaged knitwear, argyle bomber jackets skirt suits, and tiered frocks with embroidered butterflies made from old Chopova Lowena fabrics. The heroes were the faux fur carriage boots. And the wide necked coats. And the tiered plaid cape. And the pearl-strung cameos featuring a girl lifted from a Bulgarian postcard. I am the most biased observer of the Chopova Lowena world, but what I am consistently impressed by is Emma and Laura’s eagerness to move on without losing a sentimentality for what they have loved. They started as “the skirt brand” and in this collection, the carabiner skirt was almost the least interesting element. They can modulate their language to go anywhere, even into scents. The room was perfumed with a mash-up of fresh cut grass and their Rosa is Queen fragrance by olfactory duo Denim Sykes.

• Happy to run into Rian Phin at the presentation, who actually meditates on theory and design.

• Also happy to run into my friend Harmony Tividad, who is playing a series of shows throughout Europe this month and has an adventurous and adorable sense of style.

• Moira Gonzalez showed up in an outstanding black-velvet-ribboned Ellen Poppy Hill jacket. That’s the other great thing about London: Friends really wear emerging talent’s clothes.

• My favorite couple in London: Martha Somerfield and Joel Wilson. Martha is the brand director at Chopova Lowena and the pioneer of cool-top-and-miniskirt. A style North Star. Joel designs the world’s most incredible bags, which he hand-sews in his studio himself. He had just done a drop of 10 styles earlier in the week that I am kicking myself for missing. The ultimate IYKYK accessory of 2026.

  

Erdem doesn’t get enough credit for being not only a gifted designer but a world-builder. At his 20th anniversary show, which Alex attended with Laura Weir in the VVVIP section, he flexed so hard with exquisite ribboned dresses and patchworked reduxes of his Barbour jackets. He knows his history—Lady Troubridge’s illicit affair with Radclyffe Hall, anyone?—but isn’t mired by it. I sat next to Susie Lau, who was reminiscing about all the Erdem shows past, a testament in itself that an inspired dresser like Susie is just as enamored with Erdem’s restrained exuberance as with Molly Goddard or Simone Rocha. The strongest looks on the runway mixed propriety with insouciance: a falling off point d’esprit tulle dress over an ivory slip, a regal red ribbons on a drop-waist gown, pleated bulbs around Kiki Willems tiny frame. I don’t think he needed the jeans to make the point that cool girls can wear Erdem.

Simone Rocha, hehehehehehehehehehehehehee. That’s my girl, obviously, and what if I told you that my first ever fashion show in London was Simone’s one at the Ally Pally 7 years ago! She was back in North, overlooking the city, to talk about Irish folklore and British Pony Kids. I was pleased to see her Adidas Originals collab not hew too hard into sportiness. She made a taffeta dress and tackies with thigh cut-outs trimmed in ruffles. But more importantly for the pagan It Girls of Clan Rocha, are the metal-linked dresses and pop-on split hood dickies, two things I could never have imagined in the Rocha universe, but that she deftly adds to her oeuvre like a master chef adds zest to a sauce. Many of us were wooed by her prize ribbon dresses, which Simone giggled as she told me after the show: “We’re done with ribbons! That’s the last time we’re going to do ribbons on the runway.” Everyone, the time is now to shop!

Everyone in London was quickly obsessed with The Vxlley (“The Valley”) by Daniel Della Valle. He was described to me as a “botanist-artist” (okay) and I was told this was to be his only-ever fashion show. He feels like someone who could either win the Loewe Craft Prize or win the Loewe job in a future round of musical chairs.

Everyone’s also obsessed with Derrick, a Savile Row-esque brand of menswear by Luke Derrick. I was impressed by everything he could do with a lapel: Cut it into a hood, a cowl, a up-tight, swooping low. The jackets and knits were the stars… some of the pants shapes read clunky, but were helped by his fantastic cast of models, including The Crown’s Khalid Abdalla.

Petra Fagerstrom needs to get on the catwalk, and stat! I missed her presentation because of a meeting (ew, honestly), but find her brand of sportiness and c*ntiness to be unique in the market. She manages to make corseted blazers or pencil skirts not look dowdy or nostalgic, and manipulates fabric to be holographic or trompe l’oeil without feeling gimmicky.

Marley and Alex covered the Ewusie and Selasi shows—read more on i-D.co.

A Letter is probably theeeee brand of London but the designers “weren’t doing press.” Okayyyyyyyyy. Their crisp, weird pieces don’t necessarily need to be shouting to get appropriate cred, but I do appreciate when designers are eager to open their worlds.

Fantastic Jawara collection and lookbook.

Conner Ives is already the purveyor of vintage tapestry coats to the right women, and he’s about to get one million more orders after Tish Weinstock opened the show in a caot with embellished jeans. His great strength as a designer is not overthinking things—he’s got big ideas but executes them with ease. The wedding dress that closed the show is a perfect example.

Rick Owens fav Leo Prothmann is doing stuff with leather you literally cannot imagine.

Burberry went spy-after-dark with oil slick clothes and a rainy runway. Nora Attal in a faux shearling was the hero look to me, sexy and unfussy, but you could imagine the beaded trousers on red carpets.

Did I miss anything? Other than the JW Anderson party and latest edition of Singing With My Friends (cancelled flight!), both which I heard ended in 3 a.m. dancing, and the Nothing dinner (sick!) where a cute new pink phone debuted? Message me please and let me know!

A notable cultural convergence happened last week: New York City Fashion Week, the arrival of Ryan Murphy’s salacious new TV show about John John and Carolyn Bessette, and the premiere of Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights adaptation. All three of these things have been battling allegations of infidelity to source material, to reality, and to fans. Notably, it’s never been more en vogue to dress like you know your imminent and tragic fate. From runway to screen, the doomed heroine has been exhumed.

You can’t scroll anywhere without bumping up on a photo of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, resplendent in Calvin Klein and Yohji Yamamoto. She is contemporary fashion’s ultimate muse: forever gamine, made compelling by tragedy, and never subject to the unchic parts of life like aging, divorce, childrearing, career failure, or being forced to talk on camera.

For the recent FIT exhibition “Dress, Dreams and Desire: Fashion and Psychoanalysis” Lacanian psychoanalyst and curatorial consultant Dr. Patricia Gherovici told The Guardian that “fashion is a way of dressing up the death drive.” Originally conceived by Sigmeund Freud, the death drive is a subconscious longing for death that finds its relief in forms of self-destruction and aggression towards others (why someone smokes, or engages in a sadomasochistic relationship).

Cathy’s costuming in Wuthering Heights is exactly that drive manifest, treated with a distractingly libidinal attention: blood red latex, pink pearlescent tissue paper. The fashion conveys exactly what is happening at any given moment—a black mourning veil and white satin shroud make for a ghoulish subversion of the bridal veil. Even if you haven’t read the book, even if you have been sitting in a padded room with wax stuffed up your ears, you already know her fate through her fashion.

Meanwhile at fashion week, there was Sandy Liang’s take on Marie Antoinette, Anna Sui’s offerings of ghostly heiress chic and Edie Sedgwick bohemian, and Andrew Curwen’s corseted collection “Nocturnal Conditions” where models sported smears of black eyeshadow and purple lipstick. Some designers even took on the death drive literal. At Calvin Klein (the sartorial home of Bessette) designer Veronica Leoni focused on “the cult of the body”—a controlled, thin body, of course. At Elena Velez, where interest in clothing is secondary to stunt casting, the death drive walked the runway: Clavicular, a streamer best known for injecting himself with various substances (like meth) in the name of good looks, and anorexia nervosa influencer Liv Schmidt.

For i-D’s last spring issue resident Rickophile Steff Yotka wrote what will become known as a defining profile on Rick Owens. Declared the “Lord of Darkness” by fans, Owens’ work happily resides in the ghostly otherworld. In the interview he tells Steff, “My gloomy pursuit of transcendence has been part of the Symbolist culture of Paris since Gustave Moreau’s time.” Unlike other designers, Owen’s approach has always been one grounded in symbolism (central to symbolism is the exploration of death as a way to escape the world), and an earnest pursuit of immortality. Is that what this preoccupation with resurrecting the dead is actually about? Achieving one’s own immortality…or at least attempting to have some type of control over legacy.

This relationship between fashion, photography, and social media, interacting with life primarily through a medium preoccupied with death, isn’t necessarily new but does happen to be reaching a boiling point. In “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” Walter Benjamin references the nature of early photography as a way to capture and preserve the dead. In the same text Benjamin writes of “aura”, the insubstantial quality that makes something significant, and the way photography degrades it. (Aura happens to be the word of the moment—“aura farming,” the act of cultivating it, was shortlisted for Oxford Dictionary’s word of 2025, losing out to “rage baiting,” though why the word of the year would be two words is beyond me.)

Everything today is conveyed to us through images—we don’t experience the world directly. Not only are we working in a dead medium, the images themselves evaporate almost instantly on creation. (What is an Instagram story, but a memorial to a good time?) Before the creation of digital photography there was, at least, something physical to hold on to. Benjamin’s point is particularly apt, and this whole system is particularly frail.

As an image based society, we are faced with our own image and legacy in ways inconceivable to past generations. We are always thinking about what others think of us. What will they post when we’re gone? How do we dress when we are effectively creating our own obituary? How do we dress for our own death? How do we dress when we know our children are going to record TikTok hauls of our closet? If photography preserves death, fashion lives—it is a conduit to the other side, an Ouija board connecting us to the past and the future. Acknowledging our specter, and dressing for its preservation, becomes the next step in the lineage of image.

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In the 2007 mockumentary series Summer Heights High, the titular school’s imaginative drama teacher Mr G showcases the litany of shows he’s masterminded. They include IKEA the Musical (A Furniture Song and Dance Spectacular), and Bali Nine, a jaunty show based on the trial of suspected heroin smugglers.

The joke is that these creations are so farcical they’d never actually exist. I thought of this sketch while watching the anomalous, awesome musical revival of American Psycho this week. It’s one of those batshit endeavors that, when it first premiered at London’s Almeida Theatre back in 2013, probably felt like its own far-fetched fever dream.

And yet, in the decade since it was last staged on Broadway, this whackjob show has become a cultish object amongst those too young to catch it the first time around. It has company: Insane, shimmering satires like Titanique and Oh, Mary! have become part of the fabric of Broadway and the West End. American Psycho’s legacy has survived thanks to so-called slime tutorials—that’s theater speak for bootleg recordings shared online—featuring a then-unknown Jonathan Bailey. Bret Easton Ellis’s novel and the 2000 film that it inspired have become totems for problematic men who see hotness, arrogance, and a thirst for wealth as a streamlined route to success. These same admirers carefully tiptoe around the misogynistic violence that gives the novel its name. Both the film and the novel are alpha catnip for those dumb enough to not see what’s right in front of them… so there’s something doubly subversive about turning it into a musical, an inherently campy medium.

This is the kind of culture that I like: Big swing material about shallow, vapid, narcissistic people. You can fit a few things into that subgenre, across all mediums. Gay cuspers remember the rush of Marina & the Diamonds’ sophomore album Electra Heart, for which she created its titular character to talk about the proud artifice of fame. Nicolas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon, the Elle Fanning-starring thriller about an aspiring model landing in Los Angeles and superseding her terrifying competition, was mostly dismissed as surface-level slop when it first came out, yet it feels as severe and fascinating as the people it represents.

Our kneejerk reaction is to judge art based on the emotional complexity of the characters we’re presented with, so it’s easy to mistake the ditzy behaviour of the people it portrays for a kind of shallowness in the text. Purely decorative—all look, no touch. But I think the artists who scratch away at society’s self-obsession are doing the lord’s work.

Those grim, gorgeous people sit at the center of the new movie Rosebush Pruning, the dastardly new film from Brazilian director Karim Ainouz. Based on a screenplay by Efthimis Fillipou, the Greek guy known best for writing The Killing of a Sacred Deer, it’s like Saltburn-meets-The Cement Garden. A Piz Buin-slathered story of a wealthy American family who move to Spain and have little concerns beyond the four gilded walls in which they live. The movie gains steam when their tight-knit life is ruptured by the arrival of the new girlfriend Martha (Elle Fanning) of their eldest son Jack (Jamie Bell). Callum Turner plays Ed, the middle child and the film’s narrator, Riley Keough is Anna, the weirdly sexual sister (“I know what turns all of you on,” she says to her siblings), while Lukas Gage is Robert: the frantic, horny, gay baby, who’s sort of got the hots for his eldest brother. Tracy Letts’ patriarch character is simply named Father, and is blind. Pamela Anderson, playing The Mother, is dead.

They are all concerned exclusively with two things: Each other and fashion. In a newly released clip, we see Father ask Anna to describe Martha—specifically what she is wearing. That she has a Bottega bag is important to him. The idiocy of these characters is highlighted by their knowledge of Dover Street Market and Gianni Versace’s murder. It feels ludicrous, but also gripping and sexy and hilarious, which makes it great. Shot by Hélène Louvart, the GOATed cinematographer behind Beach Rats and La Chimera, it looks like a fluro-slush cocktail melting in the sun. That makes the nasty turns—if you wanted Wuthering Heights to go harder, maybe look here—easier to stomach.

But what is it saying exactly? That insular families are likely to destroy themselves? That knowing every DSM location makes you a moron? Maybe there’s little sprinkles of both in there. Rosebush Pruning premiered last weekend at the Berlinale, and some critics have been harsh on it, and taken the film at face value. After all, it’s so pretty. Wouldn’t you?

If someone said you gave Patrick Bateman vibes, would you take that as a compliment? Arty Froushan clearly does, in some way. He won the part of the iconic character in the aforementioned American Psycho musical (currently running at the Almeida until 21 March).

I asked him: What’s something other people consider shallow that you find really interesting?

“UK Garage gets a bad rap. I think people see it as a flash-in-the-pan, gimmicky genre—annoying, sugary, commercial, Capital FM fodder. To me, it’s a cool, fascinating patchwork of UK musical and cultural influences that captures the glitz and shimmy of turn-of-the-century London and its murky underbelly. At uni, some friends and I ran a garage night called LoveShy and we’d give out candy necklaces and use mascots like Jigglypuff and Tracy Beaker to promote it. Shallow, but also: Millennial Cultural Heritage! Before PinkPantheress, there was Sunship, Wookie, and Groove Chronicles.”

• Soon to come: Isabelle Huppert’s favorite vampire movies.

• It’s our turn with the Jack Antonoff!

• If you have any Christopher Nolan blindspots, the time to start filling them is now. His movies have been transferred onto 70mm prints and are playing at London’s BFI IMAX—aka the biggest screen in the country—from now until July, when The Odyssey hits theaters. I stand by Interstellar being his masterpiece, and you can catch that next month. All the details are here.

With Valentine’s Day upon us, we’re dialing into Love Buzz—Substack’s favorite advice column for love, sex, and everything in between. It’s helmed by writer and anthropologist Esra Soraya Padgett, who brings a decade of research on sex and the porn industry to the table. In other words, if you’ve got love troubles, ask Dr. Padgett (who does in fact hold a PhD in Linguistic Anthropology).

For those of you new to Love Buzz, Padgett invites a rotating cast of guests—ranging from porn stars to musicians—to jointly tackle reader-submitted questions and dilemmas. Sometimes they’re experts. Sometimes they’re just gloriously opinionated. So far her repertoire of co-hosts has included the likes of Asa Akira, Martine Syms, and Jae Matthews, who light up the conversation with their own stories and hot tips.

From the vulnerable to the smutty, people write in about it all: from fears of losing themselves in motherhood, to how to have phone sex. Padgett calls it “advice 2.0,” which is less about dispensing commandments from a mountaintop and more about circling the questions together. There’s no single script for sex or relationships, and pretending there is has already gotten us into enough trouble.

Maybe not all great stories are love stories, but all the stories on Love Buzz are great. We caught up with the Q&A master to hear what the buzz is all about.

Marley Wendt: What first drew you into that world?

Esra Soraya Padgett: I’m a millennial, so I grew up with porn being this huge inescapable piece of pop culture, yet no one was allowed to talk about it. Especially girls, which I think has changed a lot now. There was this attitude that it was only something boys participated in and that pornography was grotesque media for men only. I’m drawn to what’s taboo, so the idea that there was something I wasn’t supposed to be looking at or talking about really bothered me. Inside the industry, things couldn’t be more different—there’s an openness about sexuality that is really freeing and intoxicating to be around. I didn’t expect to be still talking about it ten years later. I’m constantly telling myself that I’m ready to stop writing about pornography and then something new draws me back to it. I’m like Liam Neeson in Taken.

How did Love Buzz begin?

I have a bad habit of giving unsolicited advice and was looking for a harm-reductive solution, haha. But seriously, it felt like a natural growth from a lot of different strains in my life—including the community that I cherish. I had been the editor of Richardson Magazine for several years, and had just finished my PhD, so I was ready to make something that was mine, and also something that was far away from academia. My two best friends, Chloé Maratta and Flannery Silva (formerly of Odwalla1221) were with me from the beginning—they make the graphics for Love Buzz, which is a huge part of the vibe.

You describe Love Buzz as “advice 2.0.” How does that differ from the way advice columns have been delivered traditionally?

Advice 2.0 means advice from the collective rather than the individual. The structure of Love Buzz is what makes it different from traditional advice columns, you get the opinions of more than one person via an unfolding conversation. It’s not monolithic advice, but multi-directional with many perspectives. The other thing is that we hardly ever give any real advice at all. It could almost be called anti-advice instead of advice 2.0 because nearly every question is unpacked to the point of us asking: Is there really a problem here at all? It’s become a joke that Love Buzz is just me gaslighting people into thinking their problems are just in their head. But really, isn’t that true of most of our issues? It’s existentialist advice.

You invite both experts and “non-experts” as co-hosts. What does this inclusive approach make possible?

We are all experts in our own experience, especially when it comes to love and sex and relationships. Anyone who comes on speaks from that place, but of course some have more expertise in certain arenas than others. Also, after working adjacent to the porn industry for so many years, I find it kind of insane that porn stars are never included in conversations about sex—of course these people are experts in sex, it’s their job!

How do you think the internet has changed the way we talk about love, sex, and desire?

In a lot of ways it’s made us more open—if you’re not being shadowbanned, or censored. We have access to so much more information now, which makes an advice column really novel—what would you ask Love Buzz that you can’t Google or ask ChatGPT? At the same time, people crave connection the more our lives are dominated by being online.

Although you’re trained as a scholar, Love Buzz can be very fun and anecdotal. How do you balance the two?

My belief is that if you are not communicating in a way that is accessible to the most amount of people, then you’re not communicating smartly. That’s how I think about pretty much anything I write, whether it’s an academic paper, or a Love Buzz intro, but it comes easily when you’re dealing with such fun subject matter. I’m also interested in what comes out of conversation, when two people come together on a subject in unrehearsed and unplanned ways.

What determines what you protect versus what you reveal when you’re writing about something as personal as love and sex?

I think it’s important that I hold the same standards for myself as my guests—which is an openness about our own experiences. So I share a lot about myself and my past, whenever it’s relevant to a reader’s question. After working in the porn industry, there is so much I no longer consider taboo, so talking about most sex topics comes really easily. But I think there’s a power we give to what we don’t speak about and sometimes you want to preserve that.

What’s the most unexpected perspective a co-host has brought to a Love Buzz conversation?

Margaret Cho said “cringe is life,” which is maybe expected coming from a comedian, but she explained that “cringe is just a challenge to who we think we are.” It’s about being willing to be vulnerable. Hearing porn stars talk about motherhood is also pretty wild because you start to see how our culture has a lot of stigma around both. What are two things you wouldn’t want to mention on a first date? Being a mom and being a sex worker. And then of course, Girthmasterr’s list of downsides to having a huge dick.

What patterns have you noticed in terms of how people ask questions and talk about sex and love?

Everyone wants to be told that they are ok, that who they are is enough. This is what I mean about unpacking the questions to the point of dissolving the issue completely—most questions broken down are asking the exact same things, with different context and circumstances: Am I normal? Am I lovable? Am I ok?

Since starting Love Buzz, what have you learned?

Anxiety is a disease that we are all sick with. Love Buzz is so overwhelmingly upbeat and positive, but almost every question begins and ends with anxiety and fear.

Any advice for readers who may be dreading Valentine’s Day?

Valentine’s Day kind of sucks whether you are single or in a relationship. Restaurants are booked and you can’t go to your usual favorite spots. Chocolate and flowers are a poor substitute for real love. The expectation never meets the reality. When I was growing up, we celebrated Valentine’s Day as a family because it’s also my mom’s birthday, and everyone got little gifts. It was really cozy, and that’s the Valentine’s Day stuff I love. Celebrate with your friends or family, stay in, stay warm.

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Calling all single perverts, romantics, people with normally sized teeth, and yearners. Valentine’s Day is basically tomorrow…lucky for you we rounded up the hottest, smartest, sexiest people we know…DMs are open…

Name: Alex

IG: @Internetgentleman

Age: 33

Location: Brooklyn

Occupation: Job.

Why are you single? Yes.

Where are we going on our first date? What?

Biggest turn-off: Boogers or puke.

Why should I date you? I’m not sure.

Name: Soap

IG: @soaprunsfast

Age: Not allowed to say or my agent hits me

Location: London, NY, LA

Occupation: Model, actor, painter, storyboard artist.

Why are you single? I’m not! Here because i love to cheat.

Where are we going on our first date? AncestryDNA.com - not letting THAT happen a fourth time!?

Biggest turn-off: Desiring me. My dream man wants absolutely nothing to do with me and the idea of sex with me is repulsive and scary to him. Or any guy that could reasonably be met with “what’s up haircut” when he approaches a group of people.

Why should I date you? To spend time with my cat youtube :)

Name: Harmony Tividad

IG: @harmonytividad

Age: N/A

Location: Los Angeles

Occupation: Songwriter

Where are we going on our first date? Formosa in Hollywood.

Why should I date you? Beautiful swag.

Name: Lumia

IG: @lumia.nocito

Age: 27

Location: New York

Occupation: Artist, DJ

Why are you single? Being single is great because you get to be this thing called UNBOTHERED, but if you want me to be technical, it's because I dumped him.

Where are we going on our first date? Do I look like Google to you?

Biggest turn-off: If it isn't a reservation or Balenciaga then don't text me !!!!!!

Name: Lucas

IG: @lucas_ansel

Age: 26

Location: NYC

Occupation: Director

Why are you single? Teeth too big.

Where are we going on our first date? Dentist.

Biggest turn-off: Small teeth.

Why should I date you? Normal sized teeth.

Name: Tyra Booker

IG: @tyrabookerr

Age: 30

Location: New York and LA

Occupation: Beauty Marketer, Model and Content Creator

Why are you single? There are not many straight men in my industry ;)

Where are we going on our first date? Neighborhood wine bar.

Biggest turn-off: iPhone Addict.

Why should I date you? I’m cute and smart <3

Name: Miss Dylan

IG: @missdylann

Age: 29 shhhh

Location: Brooklyn, NY

Occupation: Filmmaker + Casting Director

Why are you single? Workaholic.

Where are we going on our first date? I can't let you share that information because unlike most, I think it's okay to gatekeep my favorite spots. (It's Carbone, then it's Jack's Wife Freda for brunch the next morning if I play my cards right).

Biggest turn-off: People who chew loudly.

Why should I date you? Good cook!

Name: Sage

IG: @sageaflocka

Age: 28

Location: Brooklyn

Occupation: Creative Director

Why are you single? Most of my life has been about art and work, I think I just overfocused and didn't date a ton when I was younger.

Where are we going on our first date? Somewhere that has an activity and alcohol.

Biggest turn-off: Being rude to service workers (or anyone) weirds me out. Also tipping small especially after good service. Genuine boner killer.

Why should I date you? I’m smart and nice :)

Name: Flora Medina

IG: @planetflo_

Age: 24

Location: New York

Occupation: I work at i-D.

Why are you single? I'm shy and don't like apps.

Where are we going on our first date? Pinball speakeasy, or the zoo (weather permitting).

Biggest turn-off: Inability to communicate or a lack of awareness of the world around you.

Why should I date you? Smart and sensitive ethnically androgynous wasian, what's not to like?

Name: Tiana Randall

IG: @Sade.stan

Age: ….

Location: New York

Occupation: Writer

Why are you single? I’m figuring it out.

Where are we going on our first date? IBM quantum computer data center in Poughkeepsie, New York.

Biggest turn-off: Meek… put some base in your voice.

Why should I date you? I’m figuring it out.

Name: Sabina Habib

IG: @sabinahabib

Age: 27

Location: New York

Occupation: Creative Strategy and Marketing

Why are you single? I think I’m intimidating? But I’m actually very warm and welcoming.

Where are we going on our first date? I’m loyal to Huda in Brooklyn!

Biggest turn-off: No ambitions or unemployed…

Why should I date you? I’ll also put you on to the best music, art and literature.

Name: Sahir

IG: @sahirahmei

Age: 27 (emotionally 42, physically 19)

Location: Geographically, in NYC. Spiritually, in my friend-to-lover arc.

Occupation: Full-time romanticizer and occasional writer.

Why are you single? I’m really bad at sharing a bed but I’m willing to figure it out if you are.

Where are we going on our first date? Cafe Himalaya because the food is incredible so even if we don’t like each other, we’ll like it, and I hope you pass it on. And, if it seems like I go way back with the server… don’t worry about it cutie…

Biggest turn-off: A dirty room. If you have breadcrumbs on your bed it’s automatically a chop. I don’t care what you do on your alone time, but at least clean up if you're having a guest over. It's about common courtesy, okay. Also, not saying that I’m speaking from personal experience or anything like that, but always check under the bed!!! I pray for no unsightly surprises in your future. Not saying what you actually mean/feel is up there too… I’m not decoding adult emotions in 2026.

Why should I date you? Best case: love of your life. Worst case: character development.

Name: Jake Booth

IG: @im_in_no_rush

Age: 26

Location: Boerum Hill

Occupation: Shopkeeper

Why are you single? Because I'm really tall and have nice long hair and great style and a really pure attitude.

Where are we going on our first date? Close to the water, facing west.

Biggest turn-off: No swag, no patience.

Why should I date you? I treat others how i want to be treated.

Do you think anyone will ever have the nerve to remake James Cameron’s Titanic? I think about that question often, as we go through a period of creative stasis, relying entirely on things that already exist to make our new things. When that film first premiered back in 1997, it was so popular that it remained in theaters for 10 months. Audiences adored it, and it won 11 of the 14 Oscars it was nominated for. But it wasn’t wholly respected by critics: The LA Times said it “reeked of phoniness.” Time magazine’s Richard Corliss, maybe somewhat prematurely (and a little distastefully), labeled it “dead in the water.”

Nearly three decades and $2 billion later, Titanic is memorable mostly because you can still recall how it made you feel when you first saw it. That’s a special sauce. Big movies rarely make you feel like that anymore because big movies are mostly superhero movies that see scale as a shortcut for provoking awe and wonder. That’s maybe why I respect Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights for striving to make something both big and poignant.

According to Margot Robbie’s British Vogue interview, Fennell’s MO for her take on Emily Bronte’s romantic novel was to make “this generation’s Titanic.” Now, this is not me saying that I think Fennell’s film is Titanic, but I do think that it will elicit that same kind of headrush in the masses who turn out to see it in theaters this week. It is a movie that feels like a movie. The kind of thing that should be seen in cinemas not because of its scale—though it is, at many points, very big—but because it promises to match that kind of swooning, all-encompassing feeling that Titanic once gave you. The sort of feeling you get when you realize that everyone in the theater is on the same wacky, sexy train. I enjoyed it so much that it gave me a migraine.

I’m of the opinion that really good films should be able to trick your body into thinking, for even just half a second, that you might be experiencing one of the most evocative and interesting things you’ve ever seen. As a director, Fennell treats romance with all the sticky ugliness of body horror, so that comes easily to her. The internet seemed to shift on its axis the moment Barry Keoghan slurped semen from a bathtub plughole in Saltburn.

Wuthering Heights is a well-told story: Cathy (played by Robbie), the heir to an ailing estate, is drawn to her long-time companion Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi), the hot hunk of a pauper society won’t let her marry—despite lusting over him while wed to a wealthy man, Edgar Linton (Shazad Latif). From the moment it was announced that Wuthering Heights would be her follow-up to Saltburn, a film so outrageous that it pissed off as many people that loved it, it was assumed that this adaptation would be equally abnormal. But perhaps the most outrageous thing about it is how unexpectedly straight it’s played: Sure, there’s some BDSM play, and some anachronistic costumes and set design, but other than that it feels almost faithful to the spirit of its source material, even if (as in most adaptations) there’s some narrative omissions and redirects. At one point, the internet this Wuthering Heights would be filtered through the dreams of a contemporary woman. This isn’t strictly true, but it does feel like Fennell’s dream vision. When Cathy moves into the Linton Estate, the innards of the house feel like a shattered jewellery box, with iridescent walls and weird mantelpiece art sculptures. Cathy’s room is painted “the color of her sweet face”—veins, moles and all. Her gowns are made of PVC and cellophane. Our best look at it comes in a wild ‘passing of time’ montage set to Charli XCX’s “Chains of Love.” Past adaptations have been pastoral and modest, perhaps too respectful. Fennell’s version feels like it’s kicking out the corners of the screen.

After I saw it, a colleague messaged me, suggesting that the sex scenes felt exaggerated considering it’s set at the turn of the 19th century. But who’s to say people weren’t getting really freaky with it back then and just not writing it down? Early on, Cathy watches a couple have wild sex in an outhouse involving a horse bit, only to be shielded from viewing it by Heathcliff, who quietly cups his hands over her eyes and mouth. Later, she pleasures herself on the moors, reimagining the feeling of being wrapped in Heathcliff’s arms.

Which brings us to the film’s MVP: Jacob Elordi’s tongue. It’s doing some of the craziest shit I’ve ever seen in this movie. When Heathcliff talks to a woman he’s trying to entice, his tongue dances across the back of his teeth like a goldfish flailing out of water, ready to pounce. It literally leads a French kiss at one moment, and mops Cathy’s tears the next. This is the kind of semi-gross sensuality that Fennell knows how to transform into those burned-into-your-brain images.

Cathy and Heathcliff predate Jack and Rose in the public consciousness by a century and a half, but because the audience for classic literature is slim and Titanic is becoming its own tome in cinema history, it feels like a fair chunk of today’s Gen Z audience will be blind to both reference points. Maybe for them, Wuthering Heights will feel as special to them as Titanic did to a ’90s lovelorn teenager. I expect that, much like when that movie dropped, the critical consensus might be a little all over the place, but sometimes the ones we adore (see also Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo & Juliet) have to go through the ringer first before they’re appreciated. Personally I think Wuthering Heights is a movie its maker should be proud of: a hot, decadent, old school romance that bares all of its teeth.

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