Last week, I went to Liana Satenstein’s launch of her great new brand, Oksana. Part of Liana’s crowd work included flinging Fleur du Mal bras through the air into the audience’s hopeful hands, as a declaration about bras, shirts, and the mutually supportive relationship they have for the proud women who wear them. This weekend, I spent 48 hours in LA for the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Basically: boobs are on the UP—hoisted up, propped up, corseted, gorgeous small and large breasts displayed to the heavens. I didn’t grow up watching the VS show because I had a time traveler’s pop-pessimist upbringing, but even for rock dwellers like myself, the show’s cultural impact is unmistakable. It is an institution. It is the Met Gala for lingerie, and the theme is forever heavenly bodies.
The thing about spending 48 hours somewhere is that there is no time to get un-jet-lagged. There is no settling. You are set at a pace, and you must keep up! It is in these conditions—lightly delirious—that I hop in an Uber straight to the Victoria’s Secret store on Melrose for a pre-show event. My driver points at a car idling across from us. “That’s a $300k car.” He says you can tell how much a Maybach costs from its grille.
Bright and early the next day, I arrived at the Sony pictures lot. If I may open the kimono a little bit, this is what happens when you enter the Victoria’s Secret hair and makeup room: Everything is pink. Even the things that weren’t conceived of as pink are pink, and the things that aren’t pink are glitter. The blush being applied by a crack team of focused experts are in soft shades of pink and red. If you are a model walking for PINK, your makeup may be in a hotter shade of pink. Dame Pat McGrath roams around, carefully lifting faces to the light and offering feedback.
The room is massive and brimming. There is a general atmosphere of conviviality and good spirit. These women know they are going to have fun. They feel excited about being here. If they are nervous about going onstage in underwear, they don’t show it. Magazine editors and influencers roam around taking social content, in the background of which, if you aren’t careful, you will appear with posture so terrible your mother should smack you! You get up close to women so luminous you struggle to speak. Then, just as you feel you might understand what makes these women tick, as you feel you might finally get Victoria’s secret, you are whisked away.
Time flies when everyone has wings. It’s 3 p.m. and the show is starting. I, a ballet flat loyalist, decide when in Rome, and strap on a pair of sky-high YSL Tributes that I mentally stole from Taylore Scarabelli. They are equipped with a peep toe that only allows your big toe to make an appearance. (BTW, I wore them from 3-10 p.m. and had zero blisters, zero pain.) I feel like I am in costume: The costume is writer going to the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show. My dress is a bit corporate skank, and a bit conservative—I soon learn when I arrive at the breastful bonanza already underway on the pink carpet. Some audience members even wore their own wings. I find Dylan Kelly, who looks just as wide-eyed as I am, and i-D contributor Andie Kirby. We clink our pink vodka slushies in pink In-N-Out-inspired cups and vamp in front of the glitter Bombshell sign, except the sign is Hollywood-sized and we are human-sized, so it was only possible to get half the word (BOMB) in it. High behind us, a plaque announces the lot number.
Look. I’ve been to fashion shows before. I’ve never been to something like this. It was fun, like taking a ride in a cotton candy machine. Everytime an angel entered in a wash of light, smoke, and music, everyone screamed. If a woman did heart hands or blew a kiss, the shrieks would blow your eardrums out. Guests know every model by name because they are not models, they are Angels. My mouth stays open the entire time. I had to manually close it after Megan Thee Stallion performs. I only find out later, after I closely examine a video I took, that Timothée Chalamet is sitting right in front of me. I watch Nicole Kidman listen to “Nicole Kidman” by Adéla. She wears a tie, and she blushes. By the end, there are fat pink pieces of confetti everywhere the eye can see.
Then, too soon, it’s time to go back to New York, where the bras stay under the shirts… for the most part.
Unsubscribed. This uncritical coverage of a company explicitly associated with Epstein in 2026 is insane.