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Abel founder Frances Shoemack talks natural perfumery, pop art, and why consumers are increasingly drawn to fragrances with personality. Burnt caramel, green banana, white oud. The notes of Miami Split read more like ersatz fragrance pitches from the depths of Fragrantica than the architecture of a luxury scent. The newest release from Abel Fragrance — the Amsterdam-based natural perfumery founded by former winemaker Frances Shoemack — opens with almost absurdly bright, creamy fruit before collapsing into darker territory: smoke, resin, leather, heat. It is, fittingly, inspired in part by Maurizio Cattelan’s 2024 piece Comedian, the infamous Art Basel banana duct-taped to a wall, sold for six figures, then eaten by another artist shortly thereafter. Like Comedian, Miami Split seems interested in asking if good taste comes from the sticky feelings we rebuff, like sincerity, irony, and provocation, or the lacunae between all three. It’s not for nothing that the most compelling perfumes are not the clean, algorithmically pleasant skin scents dominating FragranceTok, but stranger, more specific compositions — fragrances with texture, contradiction, and even (shockingly!) a sense of humor. For over a decade, Abel Fragrance has challenged the idea that natural perfumery must feel austere, crunchy, or overly precious. And with Miami Split, the brand doubles down on something riskier instead: the proposition that sophistication and playfulness can be dance partners, banana split and cigarette waiting at the table. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. SAVANNAH EDEN BRADLEY: Miami Split carries a winking tension. Sweetness and smoke, that pop of brightness with all the darker depth. Was contradiction the starting point for this fragrance, or did it emerge during development? FRANCES SHOEMACK: Contradiction was always the premise, not the accident. I'm drawn to things that don't fully resolve, that sit in the gap between opposing ideas and just live there. Miami itself does that. It's this place of total maximalism and strange sophistication, real heat and a kind of performative cool. The sweetness in Miami Split isn't decorative, it earns its place against the smoke, the leather, the weight underneath. I wanted something that smelled like a good time with a dark sense of humour. SEB: The reference point of “Warhol-esque banana” is fabulous. What drew you to pop art as a scent-language, and how do you translate something visual and cultural into perfume? FS: Pop art interests me because it took the vernacular, the soup can, the banana, the tabloid image, and asked you to look at it differently. Not to elevate it into something it wasn't, but to hold it up to the light until you saw its inherent strangeness. That felt like exactly the right lens for this. A banana in perfumery is almost a dare. The Warhol reference wasn't self-conscious, it was instinctive. There's something in that flat, almost graphic quality of the note, the way it reads as image before it reads as scent, that felt genuinely pop. The cultural shorthand becomes the material. SEB: Banana is a note many people associate with novelty or nostalgia. What interested you in reclaiming it as something sophisticated, sensual, or even subversive? FS: Banana has this incredibly loaded history in fragrance, mostly in the context of things you wore as a child, or novelty items, or things that smell of something rather than simply being something. Which is exactly what made it interesting. There's real subversion in taking a note with that kind of baggage and placing it somewhere unexpected, somewhere with depth, with edge, with intention. The sophistication isn't in sanitising it, it's in trusting it. Letting it be a little strange, a little funny even, and finding that the darkness underneath actually makes the sweetness more interesting, not less. SEB: Abel has long challenged the idea that natural fragrance must feel somber rather than luxurious or playful. Twelve years in, how do you think the conversation around natural perfumery has changed? FS: When we started, natural perfumery was largely positioned as wellness-adjacent, virtuous, gentle, a little apologetic. The conversation has genuinely shifted. There's now a generation of wearers and creators who understand that natural materials are not a constraint, they're a starting point with extraordinary range. What's changed is confidence, I think. The best natural perfumery today isn't hedging. It's not saying For a natural fragrance, this is quite good, it's just saying This is good. Miami Split exists in that space. The upcycled banana note we work with is green, sharp, and pithy. More evocative than its fossil fuel counterparts. There's nothing compromised about it. SEB: There’s a growing appetite for fragrances with personality; maybe they feel strange, or hyperspecific, or a little mischievous rather than broadly pleasing. Why do you think that is? FS: I think people are exhausted by the algorithm. The inoffensive option, the thing that was risk-managed into acceptability, people can smell that lack of conviction, quite literally. What's happening now feels like a correction. Fragrance as actual self-expression rather than background noise. When something is hyperspecific, when it smells like a very particular memory or a very specific idea, it creates this strange intimacy. You either recognise it or you don't, and both responses are interesting. The people who get it, really get it. That's more valuable than broad appeal. SEB: Fragrance is invisible yet intensely tied to identity and style. What do you hope someone communicates, consciously or not, when they choose to wear Miami Split? FS: That they understand a joke can also be serious. The reference point for this fragrance is Maurizio Cattelan's The Comedian, the banana duct-taped to a wall at Art Basel Miami, sold for a remarkable sum and then eaten by another artist. What that work does so brilliantly is ask where the value actually lives. Is it the object? The idea? The provocation itself? Someone wearing Miami Split is asking a version of that same question. The banana is the first thing you encounter, bold and almost absurdly present. But it's a facade. Underneath is something much darker, more resinous, more complex. Choosing to wear it signals a comfort with that kind of layering. You're in on it. You find the contradiction interesting rather than unsettling. SEB: Looking ahead, what feels most exciting to you right now in the natural fragrance space? And what's up next for you? FS: Dave, my husband and long-time collaborator, has just stepped into the CEO role, and that shift has been clarifying in the best possible way. Having him lead the business means I can move closer to the creative again. We're also back in Amsterdam, where Abel started, and returning here has felt like coming home to the original idea. It's a city that takes design seriously [and] values substance over spectacle. As for what's next, the ingredient conversation is only getting more interesting — upcycled materials, biotech-derived molecules, a level of precision that simply didn't exist when we launched. We're not done. 🌀 Savannah Eden Bradley is a writer and fashion editor born in 1999. She is the Editor-in-Chief of the fashion magazine HALOSCOPE. Her first book, Ladies of the Canyon: Fashion and Fear in Los Angeles, is forthcoming from University of Texas Press. You can stalk her everywhere online @savbrads.

The artist on her inspirations, heritage, beginnings in the craft, and what beauty truly means. L-R: Art by Alexandra Yvette; Yvette shot by Phillip Graybill. Known online for her whimsical, vintage-inspired portraits in pastel and pen, Los Angeles–based Puerto Rican illustrator Alexandra Yvette finds beauty in all things. Her drawings often depict an elusive, wide-eyed woman with an almost mystical quality. With her prominently colored cheeks, all of Yvette’s girls exude an air of mischief and effortless charm that makes her a complete enigma. Details such as hair color and lip hue, as well as what these intriguing characters are holding, all come down to the clients' specifications. But underneath it all, it doesn't matter what they're holding, how they're styled, or whom they represent across the globe. One thing always remains: a certain nonchalant air and timeless attitude that hails from old Hollywood movies, roaring ‘20s jazz clubs in Paris, and now your mood board. As her drawings take over more and more corners of the feminine visual realm, one day at a time, HALOSCOPE sits down with the artist to discuss all things portraiture: her beginnings in the craft, her inspirations, her heritage, and her musings on what beauty really means. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. Ana Beatriz Reitz: Growing up, were there particular images, magazines, cartoons, movies, celebrities, or artists that shaped the way you saw faces, art, and beauty? Alexandra Yvette: I loved Y2K beauty product packaging, it was so fun and whimsical and made being a woman seem exciting. I always was drawn to unconventional, quirky beauties like Helena Bonham Carter. Ever since I can remember, I noticed people’s features and unique quirks and took note. ABR: Before starting to sell your portraits, what did your early drawings look like? Were you always drawn to portraiture, or did that interest emerge over time? AY: My early drawings didn’t look too dissimilar from what I create today. I was always drawing portraits of girls. Women [and] girls have always been my favorite subject. The bones were always there; I just refined my style to better align with my vision. ABR: Do you remember the feeling of the first portrait you ever drew? And when was the first time someone wanted to buy one of your portraits? What did that feel like? AY: My friend had asked me to draw her profile picture for Instagram, and I felt so honored. Re-sharing that portrait started my commission process, and I was excited to see how many girls wanted one of their own and resonated with what I was creating. ABR: I see that you are from Puerto Rico. I wonder how your Puerto Rican heritage shaped the way you see art? Are there any cultural memories or family traditions that find their way into your artistic process and illustrations? AY: My Puerto Rican mom always had colorful, vibrant pieces of art scattered about my childhood home, so I grew up around art that centered women and our culture. I’d say that my paintings are really where you can see the Puerto Rican influence at play. I’m constantly homesick for the island that was never really my home. Lots of tropical themes of women enjoying life. I also love to draw different women [who] reflect how diverse Puerto Rican heritage is. We really do come in all shapes and colors. ABR: When you begin drawing a face, what are you most attentive to first: the expression, the mood, the color palette, or something more intuitive (like the energy behind it)? AY: I look at the eyes and mouth! My work is obviously quite abstract, but I’m always focusing on those features to really highlight a woman’s unique beauty. ABR: Do you think of the women in your illustrations as characters with stories, or more like emotional portraits from the photos customers sent you? AY: I draw a lot of my own characters [whom] I assign stories and personalities to, but commissions are definitely more emotionally charged with the descriptions my customers give me. Whether it’s a commissioned piece or something I create for fun, I like to think all my girls exist in the same whimsical world. ABR: Regardless, there is always a romantic quality and a classic charm running through your work, not just in the imagery but in the feeling evoked. So, how do you define romance and timeless? AY: For me romance and timelessness is displayed in colors like burgundy and classic red. I love adding gold accents and pops of contrasting colors. Add a glass of red wine or a coffee cup and we’re forever timeless. ABR: In a time when beauty is often hyper-perfected online, what does it mean to you as an artist? AY: I don’t subscribe to beauty standards or limitations to what is beautiful. I find beauty in every single woman; we are all unique in our own ways, features, personalities, style — that is what I define as ultimate beauty. ABR: What kind of emotional space do you hope your work creates for women? AY: Safe & celebratory. ABR: After all these years [of] drawing so many portraits, what keeps it exciting for you? AY: Each person is unique, and I love meeting and illustrating new people. They inspire me with their stories and perspectives. There is nothing more exciting than heading to a live drawing event and not knowing who I’ll meet! I always learn something from my conversations in the artist chair. ABR: As you look ahead, what kinds of stories, moods, or visual worlds are you curious to explore next? AY: I love the little whimsical world I’ve created and am looking to expand that world by creating more products with my art and pursuing more collaborations with like-minded brands and artists.🌀 Ana Beatriz Reitz Gameiro is a Brazilian freelance journalist covering fashion, entertainment, beauty, and culture. Her work has appeared in publications such as FASHIONISTA, V Magazine, Polyester, Teen Vogue, and Business Insider. She is also the voice behind The Devil Writes Fashion (previously For Fashion’s Sake), a weekly newsletter where fashion is dissected, celebrated, and occasionally roasted with humor, heart, and just a little bite.

Against the tired transgression of East meets West. The Adidas Lunar New Year jacket launched in 2025: the track jacket reimagined with traditional Chinese pankou, or frog knot fastenings, in place of a zipper closure. Often referred to as a Tang style jacket, the design superimposes tangzhuang (昂装) onto Adidas’s classic tracksuit design. This jacket was made available in Asian markets in 2025, and was met with rabid enthusiasm; the jackets quickly sold out, sought by a barrage of overseas buyers via resale sites like eBay and Danezon. This year, Adidas launched a Lunar New Year collection in America on January 31st, 2026, in collaboration with CLOT, a Hong Kong based streetwear brand, likely due to the rabid popularity of the jacket with overseas buyers this previous year. It sold out on the Adidas website within a day. Contemporary Western culture is experiencing perhaps an unprecedented level of sinophilia, from its cultural exports in food/drink and cinema to reverence for its growing infrastructure and economic power. The fusion of traditional ethnic clothing motifs with Western clothing has also become increasingly prevalent; plays on the Qipao have been popular in the West for over two decades. These garments are a type of magnet especially for diaspora audiences, for whom representational politics are often a chief concern. To see clothing visibly reference a minority ethnic culture in the West, especially if it was designed by a designer of one’s same ethnicity, can elicit an easy sense of recognition and belonging. This particular jacket, often misattributed to the Tang Dynasty (618-907) due to the name tangzhuang, is instead a derivation of the Qing Dynasty magua (1619-1911), a waist length jacket consisting of five buttons and a high mandarin collar. The Zhongshan suit, a tunic-style suit consisting of four pockets, five buttons, and a high standing lapel, was introduced by Sun Yat Sen in the 1920s and marked an emergent and explicit Westernization of Chinese clothing. Chairman Mao would continue to popularize this suit, to the point that he eventually became its namesake. Mao era clothing wholly departed from traditionally Chinese design of the past in favor of austere and purely utilitarian construction. In the post-Mao era of economic liberalization, clothing from the West became even more prominent as the Mao suit appeared alongside Western style suits in gatherings of high ranking officials and politicians. My father, who grew up in Mao-era China, tells me that the pankou buttons were long a relic even in his childhood. The closures on his shirts were the same round buttons that we see in the West today; this Qing era style of dressing has now been outdated for a century. Adidas’s adoption of this arbitrary, historically ambiguous style marks a shift in the landscape of modern ethnic dressing. The incorporation of decontextualized ethnic motifs here responds to the market substantiated appetites for clothing that announces its exoticism and visibly Others itself. The popular culture of the West is no stranger to accusations of cultural appropriation, perhaps most aptly elucidated here in bell hooks’ essay “Eating the Other”: “Cultural appropriation of the Other assuages feelings of deprivation and lack that assault the psyches of radical white youth who choose to be disloyal to western civilization. Concurrently, marginalized groups, deemed Other … can be seduced by the emphasis on Otherness, by its commodification, because it offers the promise of recognition and reconciliation.” The ease with which contemporary Western youth adopts the mores of nonwhite cultures reflects a potent appetite to engage in disloyalty to American culture. The groups that are deemed Other enjoy a sense of pride that they embody this Otherness that’s ultimately unattainable by the dominant culture. hooks argues that when the political and cultural landscape shifts, “it invites a resurgence of essentialist cultural nationalism” that must manifest in a recognizable form, often evoking “a ‘glorious’ past.” Pankou, this archaic element of Chinese dressing before Western influence, is nostalgically reinvoked and offered up to consumer culture. Though Asian Americans have rehashed the cultural appropriation conversation to a litany of goods that have been popularized in the West, this jacket manifests a more overlooked aspect of hooks’ analysis. Various designers involved with these Adidas campaigns are Chinese themselves, with the collection available in the United States being a collaboration with Canadian born Chinese actor Edison Chen. If Chinese people are the group that has been deemed Other as hooks says, there is no shortage of ethnically Chinese individuals that are eager to embody this Otherness. This line suffers no victims of cultural appropriation, ready and eager to capitalize on the appeal of Chinese culture via self-orientalization. The literary critic Som Mai Nguyen writes of a tendency in diaspora literature that she terms “blunt force ethnic credibility,” in which the writer relies on linguistic coincidences in tonal languages and foreign words to essentially gesture towards some “exotic cultural knowledge” that only the writer is privy to. One levies the audience’s unfamiliarity with this language as an opening for imprecision; in X foreign language, “words are like spells,” two completely different words are just one with a double meaning, my foreign language is imbued with “ancient spiritual wisdom.” Diaspora writers’ eagerness to reaffirm adjacency to their exoticism as a means of claiming authority devolves into essentialism. Nguyen is especially frustrated with the careless imprecision of translated texts; white translators repeat these linguistic inaccuracies to the endorsement of diaspora writers– if the person of color has endorsed it, it gains automatic credibility with Western audiences. Nguyen cites Kristen Warner’s term “plastic representation”: the ecstasy at seeing “characters on screen who serve visual identifiers for specific demographics in order to flatten the expectation to desire anything more,” the identity politics of representation become gimmick and clichéd the more they are relied on. A tracksuit is certainly a distinct entity to literature, but I cannot help but read the usage of this symbolism as the fashion analog to Nguyen’s prescription. These pankou adorn an iconic garment of the West with an explicit racialization that allows the consumer proximity to a foreign culture. In contemporary China, pankou are rather more prevalent at tourist attractions where people dress up in traditional hanfu for roleplays and photoshoots; this jacket strategically incorporates an archaic but recognizable design. Both the presence of these recognizable ethnic motifs and that these projects are helmed by ethnically Chinese individuals lend these campaigns credibility that may be unearned. White and ethnic individuals alike are prone to the allure of exoticism. Perhaps I am cynical, and this is an earnest ode to the heritage of our long departed Chinese ancestors. The design simply reads as a gimmick to me, pandering to audiences’ appetites for exoticism and authenticity. Its rabid popularity is understandable, especially with the peculiar global appeal of anything recognizably Chinese in the current zeitgeist, but I sense that multinational corporations are just beginning to recognize the dollar value implications of commercialized ethnic clothing. As hooks’ essay denotes, the fashion industry “has also come to understand that selling products is heightened by the exploitation of Otherness.” The consumer market proves to be enthusiastically responsive to these formulaic fusions of East and West. Chinese-American designers have long incorporated motifs of ethnic garb into new designs. Vivenne Tam’s design ethos is perhaps the most akin to the symbolism of the Adidas Tang Style jacket, incorporating various Chinese fabrics, patterns, and designs; qipao silhouettes, brocade embroidery, and her infamous MAO collection. The MAO collection can be considered in the legacy of Andy Warhol’s series of silkscreen paintings of the same name, which reimagined Mao’s formal portrait with bright colors and iconography that blur the line between celebrity worship and political propaganda. Tam’s collection, made in collaboration with Chinese artist Zhang Hongtu, similarly uses Mao's image as “a kind of mental therapy,” subverting his stern image and complex legacy with humor and playfulness in the wake of a sobering era of Chinese history. A subsequent collection reimagines the Mao suit in a print of Mao’s face in black and white, which Tam intended to symbolize both the "positive and negative effects Mao had on the Chinese culture.” This collection was met with strong backlash, her stores met by protestors and readers decrying insensitivity in Vogue. While Vivienne Tam’s designs can be considered a precursor to this wave of fusion between commercial and ethnic clothing, her ethos is absent in the mass produced Adidas collections. This is not to say that culturally informed fashion design must be explicitly political; Chinese American designer Sandy Liang, perhaps known best for her Mary Jane pointe shoes and incorporation of bows into her designs, was first known for her nostalgic line of colorful fleeces inspired by the clothes worn by grandmas in Chinatown. There’s intention and emotion behind these designs, drawing from personal backgrounds and influences in the synthesis of something new. Designers in China and its diaspora today are also making names for themselves without explicit references to Chinese clothing of the past; Anna Sui’s works are inspired by various American subcultures from punk to bohemia, Uma Wang is known for her intricate usage of textiles and tailoring, Shushu/Tong for their feminine explorations of nostalgia and popular culture. An increasingly globalized world undeniably allows for a greater exchange of ideas and traditions, clothing being one of many forms of culture manifesting multi-ethnic influences. Garments that express multiple cultural influences and inspirations and garments that incorporate ethnic symbolism to signal exoticism may not even be mutually exclusive; fashion, after all, is a base manifestation of performance. The existence of these Adidas collections are simply a predictable development of a tendency that has existed for decades in the design and manufacturing of clothing. If usage of decontextualized ethnic motifs by multi-national corporations ushers in a new market for clichéd cash grabs, it’s up to consumers to remain dubious of how meaningful these visual markers of exoticism really are. 🌀 Jade Gu is a writer and tech worker living in Brooklyn.

Five Los Angeles writers — Lore V. Olivera, Shy Watson, Brittany Menjivar, Belinda Cai, and Maryze — and the bedrooms that have shaped them. In Los Angeles, the literary scene is currently thriving, with readings, book launches, and endless Partiful invitations. These events are always dedicated to showcasing work, sharing finished pieces that take time, dedication, and inspiration to complete. The writing itself is done in cafés or behind closed doors — in the bedrooms of the Los Angeles Writer. The interior decor of the writer is, by necessity, multifunctional; a writer’s room must be aesthetically pleasing and functional, but it also has to inspire. To understand what is inspiring these writers at home, we spoke to five writers living in Los Angeles and working across mediums. Lore V. Olivera Lore is a screenwriter and director who’s written for Netflix (WEDNESDAY), MGM/Amazon (VIGIL.A.NTE), and collaborated across film and television with companies including Blumhouse, Atomic Monster, and 21 Laps. BH: How long have you been in L.A. for? And how long have you lived in this particular space? LO: So I just moved to this house [three weeks ago]. Like, I just wrapped decorating. But I’ve been in Los Angeles since 2022, on and off. BH: What are you drawn to when you’re looking at pieces for decor, or overall, how would you describe your aesthetic or interior design sensibilities? LO: It’s a lot of retro style or things that have a story… I have a photo of nuns [smoking], because I went to Catholic school, and it feels a little transgressive religiously. Anything transgressive I’m always drawn towards because I’m like, “Oh, this would make [the nuns] so mad.” BH: It seems like you’re drawn to pieces that speak to cultural ideals flipped on their head? LO: Yeah, exactly. I think storytelling-wise, that's definitely something I gravitate towards. Like, I love looking at something that's normal and common and that you've seen a hundred times and [now] there's something odd about it. There's a twist. BH: Are there any items in your room with a strong sentiment or meaning attached to them? LO: I [also] have to mention my altar. [It has] my mom playing the guitar… My grandma gave me two saints because she thinks I need the Bible… I got a Talavera [bowl] in Puebla that I use for candles... My friend gave me The Witch’s Spell Book, which I thought was really cute. I got this [figure] in India…It's like literally all the religions that you conjure up to balance the energies. Again, I think that this is something that would freak out the nuns from high school. Shy Watson Shy Watson runs Triptych readings at Stories Books & Cafe, has authored two full-length poetry collections (Horror Vacui, Cheap Yellow), and is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing & Literature at the University of Southern California. She has recently completed a novel and is represented by Mina Hamedi at Janklow & Nesbit. BH: How long have you lived in L.A. for, and how long have you lived in this space? SW: I moved to L.A. in May 2025, and I moved into this apartment on August 31st, 2025… I really love this little alcove area between Echo Park and Chinatown. There's Alpine Court down the way, which has little bungalow businesses… and there's a really good view of downtown, too. BH: The view is amazing. I'm wondering, since you've moved to L.A., have you noticed your style shifting at all? SW: Actually, it has changed. When I lived in Virginia, we had a collage style of paintings, an array in the living room. There were all these paintings everywhere, very “cottage-core.” And since I moved here… well, I work at Night Gallery and just being surrounded by a contemporary art environment has made me want something more clean and adult… So I've kept my decor more sparse. and minimalistic and simple since I've moved [to Los Angeles]. BH: Are there any particular pieces that have significant meaning to you in your home? SW: I bought a painting from an artist who was having a show at Night Gallery recently. It was my favorite show that we've had at the gallery. Her name's Kayla Witt and she's based in Los Angeles…. She did a psychic shop poster series as part of the show, and I purchased one of those [paintings]. It's my first piece of fine art, and it means a lot to me because I think that the West Coast and California in particular [have] this lineage of “magical thinking.” There [are] celebrities who hire psychics and people who want to keep their body temple clean… It feels, like, specifically California to me. And it's something that I lean into whenever I'm at a turning point in my life, even though it's consistently failed me. Horoscopes and spells and magic… It's never worked out, but still, there's some childlike part of me that wants to have faith that I have some kind of control over outcomes. Brittany Menjivar Brittany Menjivar is the author of the poetry and prose collection Parasocialite, the co-founder of literary reading series Car Crash Collective, and the Co-Writer of the New Millennium Boyz film adaptation currently in pre-production at Muse. BH: Have you noticed a shift in your interior design motifs since you've been living in Los Angeles? BM: I used to have a very maximalist decor style when I was a teenager and in college. My dorm would be decked out with posters and all of that. I think since moving to L.A., I've been out and about to an entirely new degree and have relocated apartments fairly frequently … so I haven't had the time to settle into a place and make it look exactly the way I would want it to be quite yet. We [just moved] into this apartment and signed a 16-month lease, so I'm hoping that I will get to deck it out to my heart's content. . BH: Are there any particular items in your room that have significant meaning to you, like a favorite piece of furniture or trinket? BM: Yes... I have this scimitar-horned oryx figurine. Scimitar-horned oryx have been my favorite animal ever since I was three years old, since it was a prominent fixture at both the National Zoo and also the Natural History Museum. I literally wrote my college admissions essay about how much I love these guys. I think they're just so majestic. I call them the “unicorns of the Savannah.” And one of my best friends from college got me this as a Christmas present, and it's one of those little things that I keep on my desk to remind me of the little Brit that I'm always trying to… I don't know, impress? It reminds me of childhood whimsy. BH: Do you notice any motifs that pop up in how you curate your space and your writing? BM: Well, going back to the scimitar-horned oryx, I feel like strange animals are featured in a lot of my work. When I was a kid, I had an obsessive fascination with wildlife and zoology – and I feel like that has translated into a lot of my stories. In Parasocialite, there's one story called “Elephant Crossing” where the protagonist's neighborhood is overrun by wild animals that have potentially escaped from a local zoo. BH: Is there anything else that feels important to how you've curated the space, or maybe what you hope to include in the future? BM: I'd like to note that my room has no windows, and it has this, like, weird sliding barn door. Sometimes I refer to it as the “stable.” A lot of people would mind this, but not me. I'm kind of a vampire, and I'm often working in the wee hours of the night anyway… so I get to just shut myself in this bizarre cave and get a lot done. I love it. Belinda Cai Belinda Cai is a writer and musician who received her M.S. in Journalism from the University of Southern California. She has contributed to VICE, NPR, Tinder, Hobart, Car Crash Collective, Dream Boy Book Club, and more. BH: How long have you lived in L.A., and how long in this particular space? BC: So, I’ve lived in L.A. for nine years this September…[and] I’ve been in this apartment for about four years now. I will be moving out this summer to an apartment with my partner and then moving into a house down the road. I'm really excited to finally leave a studio, but there also is a certain charm [to it]. BH: As you've lived in this space, how have you seen your sense of style and your sense of design choices change? And do you think that you'll keep a similar style as you move into your new home? BC: When I had my first studio here in L.A. almost nine years ago, I was very “Ikea-core” both due to budget and just not really knowing the aesthetic I was going for was… [I had] a lot of minimalist, cheap white furniture. And I think over the years I've started to really be inspired by more vintage designs … I actually have this great book called “A Century of Color and Design,” and it shows really beautiful furniture pieces that I certainly can't afford… but is just good inspiration. I really like the playfulness of the mid-century modern era, just like the fun pops of color and quirky designs… I want to incorporate just a wider range of vintage, too. I really like Victorian [pieces], which are such a stark contrast to mid-century. [Victorian style] is very detail-oriented, lacy, and intricate. It’s a little feminine and kind of spooky… I'm trying to figure out how to marry multiple kinds of vintage styles together and see where that takes me. BH: I also wanted to ask you about how your curation ties into your work. Do you feel like your personal decor style is reflected in your artistic sensibilities? BC: I would say so. I am very inspired by the books that I have on my bookshelf and draw a lot of inspiration from them, [and] for my memoir that I'm working on. I use them as research. I have, here on this wall… two pieces by my mom, and this is by [my partner] Eric… and a collage I made for an album cover [for] my sister, Kelly, who passed away in 2020. So these [pieces on my wall] are all very personal, either from someone I love or of someone I love, because I write a lot about my personal life as a memoirist and nonfiction writer. I think it tracks that I have these personal pieces of art that I feel attached to and are sentimental. They’re reflective of how I convey myself as a writer. Maryze Maryse Bernard is a Canadian-French musician, writer, and model based in Los Angeles. She served as Editor-in-Chief of Recording Arts Canada, and her writing and translations have been published by the CBC, Bitch Media, and Also Cool Mag. BH: I wanted to start by asking how long you've lived in L.A. for, and how your sense of style has changed since? M: We moved here from Montréal eight months ago, and I was coming to L.A. back and forth for two years before that. I've always liked to have everything kind of appear like a whimsical, witchy garden, and that has not changed. But having an outdoor space, which I never had before in Canada, has helped bring the greenery inside… Being able to have windows that act almost like a painting… is really nice and helps me drift further into that inner fantasy garden world. BH: As you’ve been delving back into writing and concurrently building your space, are there any ways you've noticed those two processes interplay? M: Yeah, I think [it’s important] to find places that feel like my own. I've been doing art my whole life, but I always feel self-conscious, just with music, with singing, with anything, when someone else is around. But even just sitting and being like, “This is my little corner.” [I believe in the power of] making little corners that feel beautiful or inspiring, kind of, regardless of how small they are. I guess I'm superstitious, so [I believe in] having your talismans, your lucky items around and kind of locking in when you're sitting in front of them and being like, “okay, this is where I am when I come up with ideas.” BH: And then I'm also interested, what items in here, in particular, would you say you have the strongest attachment to? M: Things from my grandma, her sapphire-eyed cat [figurine]... a French music box … stuff that doesn't have any real monetary value. I've carried them in every place I've ever lived… Vancouver, Québec, Montréal, any time that I've been anywhere outside of my house for more than a couple [of] months, I've always brought them. So I've seen them kind of exist and live in all these different homes. Even if a space is unfamiliar, it just makes it feel more like home. Los Angeles writers are not a monolith, and neither are the styles and decor that inspire them. Some fill their space with spiritual protection – talismans, candles, and tarot. Some aim to achieve specific aesthetics – whether it’s midcentury modernism or minimalism. Some appreciate the California sun; others feel it hinders the creative process. Yet despite the stylistic and creative differences, each writer seeks to curate a space that feels uniquely personal; each includes pieces gifted by friends, family, and lovers. Some draw on these personal connections in the work, and others use the pieces as a continual reminder that Los Angeles is their creative home. 🌀 Becca Hochman is a writer & filmmaker based in Los Angeles; she covers media and culture, and is interested in what interests you.

As intimacy declines and images dominate, a new wave of beauty brands are reclaiming the most sensorial experience of all — sex. We’re so used to sex selling beauty that we hardly blink when it happens, if we notice it at all. Full, parted lips, fluttery eyelashes, and the pertest of derrieres construct the fantasy that the “right” products will increase the users’ (usually women’s) sex appeal. Sex is hinted at, evoked, with little care or interest for whether it leads to consummation of any kind. “ Better Than Sex ,” said a standard black mascara from Too Faced; “ Orgasm ,” whispered a blusher shade from Nars, conjuring only a timid cheek flush. A sex recession is upon us, with data  reporting that younger generations are having less sex than their predecessors. Yet we don’t need data to say with confidence that we’re living in acutely looks-obsessed times , and that Zillennials, Gen Z, and Gen Alpha dedicate much time and resources to looking styled, perfected, and desirable; an investment in pleasures visual over bodily, an embrace of the controllable over the mutable. In other words, “ everyone is beautiful and no one is horny .”  Amid this landscape – not quite neo-puritanism but more a flirtation with its features – a few beauty brands are making the case for sex again. More importantly, they’re doing so without the coy and saccharine trappings that saw a wink and a giggle as a good-enough substitute for the real thing.  When the elevated bodycare range Nécessaire  launched in 2018, the Sex Gel was part of the core offering. Presented in a minimalistic pump bottle and adorned in a cursive typeface, it announced itself and its use directly. Care for every part of your body , it seemed to say with utilitarian practicality.  Body care brand Mienne  took the idea a step further. French for mine , Mienne is interested in what is felt, not just what is seen, and incorporating this concept into the brand was essential. JR, Mienne’s marketing director, says, “Desire had to be part of it because we’re making products for the body. We’re interested in bodycare as ritual, something that brings you into presence. We wanted to create formulas and objects you’re drawn to using again and again: skin you want, scent you want, objects you want to keep close. That pull matters, it’s what makes care feel intuitive, not clinical.”  For Mienne, desire has a dual meaning; the products are objects of desire, and they work to inspire and facilitate it in virtuous symbiosis. “Desire is both the aesthetic and the function. We design the packaging and the sensorial experience to feel covetable — high design, tactile, almost like you want to reach for it before you even know why. And then the product experience reinforces that: the texture, the scent, the finish on skin,” JR continues. Mienne’s makers aren’t shying away from the kinds of acts that might follow the use of their products. “When skin looks transformed and feels inviting—when you’re more aware of your body—you tend to feel more open, more connected, more interested in touch. That’s the symbiosis: objects you desire, that make you feel more desirable, which naturally attracts desire from others,” JR says. Alongside products like body wash, body cream, and a dual-purpose massage candle is the Sex Serum. The organically shaped bottle and round cap make it look like an objet d’art,  while the travel size resides in a chrome bullet adorned with a leather tassel (or mini-flogger, depending on your disposition). Offering a lubricant “was always part of the plan,” says JR. “If we were building a brand around desire and touch, we couldn’t ignore the most intimate context for both—especially in a category that’s largely underserved in prestige skincare.” As for the name, it’s “direct because the intention is direct. We didn’t want euphemisms,” JR states. No other fragrance has attended to the materiality of sex as closely as Secretions Magnifiques by Etat Libre d'Orange . The scent is an homage to sweat, saliva, blood, and sperm. I tried it once, many years ago (a sales assistant escorted me outside the shop to spritz on my wrist), and will never forget the saline, metallic, wet, musky experience. It’s a provocation few would dare wear. A subtler iteration is Pigmentarium ’s Erotikon, inspired by Gustav Machatý’s 1929 silent film of the same name and its softness of images achieved through modern American lenses, which are translated into enveloping base notes of amber, musk, and sandalwood. Scandalousness is telegraphed via a heart of tonka beans and spicy, edible top notes: ginger, chocolate, pink pepper. The effect is a playful invitation to lean in a little closer.  While many individual perfumes have flirted with sex and desire to inspire scent profiles, few brands have dared to base their modus operandi around them. When I discovered Jouissance  and Discothèque  last year, I was struck by how boldly both embedded sensory pleasures into every touchpoint.  Jouissance’s connection to pleasure and the erotic is most direct, and underwriting it is a statement of intent: “Literary passions, distilled into scent.” The founder and creative director, Cherry Cheng, draws direct inspiration from female writers and thinkers who embraced their desires and helped others do the same. “I was drawn to female writers and thinkers who spoke openly about desire because they gave language to something that has so often been muted, distorted, or claimed by others. Their work didn’t treat desire as something to be apologised for, but as a source of intelligence, creativity, and power. That felt radical, and still does,” she says. The philosophy is inscribed in the brand name as jouissance,  a term the French feminist writer Hélène Cixous used to discuss a particular form of pleasure interweaving spiritual, mental, and physical aspects unique to women.  When creating Jouissance, Cheng “initially thought that the brand would be read as deliberately provocative and expected a degree of backlash.” The three scents in the range capture the writing of Catherine Millet (En Plein Air ) , Anaïs Nin (Les Cahiers Secrets), and Pauline Réage’s The Story of O  (Bague d’O). Cheng says she was “ prepared for that tension,” especially since The Story of O  and its depiction of total female submission have long been a subject of criticism in some feminist circles. Instead, what Cheng has seen is a response of “recognition rather than resistance” with customers describing the fragrances “as intimate, personal, even affirming – an invitation to reconnect with desire on their own terms. That reaction has clarified something essential for me: people aren’t rejecting the erotic itself. They’re rejecting reductive or externalised versions of it, and are gravitating toward more nuanced, reflective, and inward ways of experiencing desire.” Discothèque locates its inspiration in some of history’s best clubs and unforgettable nights out. It pulses with references to the bodily, the pleasurable, and the possibilities unleashed in losing oneself on the dance floor. It’s unapologetically sexy and very much by design, according to founders Jessie Willner and Hanover Booth. “Fragrance is such an intimate experience: it lives on skin and is noticed at close range, to pretend it’s neutral or polite just doesn’t feel like Discothèque,” says Hanover of the decision to address desire directly. “The brand leans into that freeing feeling on the dance floor, where you feel most alive, a little undone, but completely yourself. Scent is incredibly evocative, and it can bypass logic or conscious thought and instantly transport you back to a memory. It’s physical and tactile and undeniably sexy.” And Discothèque is having fun about it, too. Its scent sample pack looks like a cigarette packet, while individual 2ml samples are packaged to look indistinguishable from condom wrappers. (To be on the safe  side when going out, I’d double-check you’re bringing the right one.) Willner didn’t think Discothèque would resonate with quite so many people, attributing the continued success to making and saying things “that others may only be thinking.” “People want things that embrace and celebrate what can sometimes be the most inhibited parts of themselves, and the experiences we're inspired by are so universal, but sometimes taboo. Most mainstream brands would probably not have approved me designing a condom-wrapped 2ml sample or calling a fragrance Baise Moi on the Dancefloor.  To think that these luxury retailers that we’ve partnered with have signed off on everything we've made is so special: we've been allowed to bring subversive design into the world of luxury, which is rare,” says Willner. It does feel subversive to see a fragrance brand state the quiet parts loudly. We wear perfume to smell good to those who get closest to us; clubs are sexy, intimate spaces where you might just find someone to baise , on the dancefloor or not. Language is central to how Jouissance and Discothèque embody their positioning to embrace the sexy and the erotic. Cheng drew on Nin, Cixous, and Audre Lorde’s ideas about what desire can look like when it’s perceived as an open horizon, free of predetermined concepts and images. “These thinkers offered a framework where desire is not spectacle, but authorship. Jouissance grew from wanting to honour that lineage – creating fragrances that act as a personal language, inviting the wearer into a more conscious, sensual, and self-directed way of being,” explains Cheng.  Every fragrance and candle by Discothèque comes complete with a sultry description courtesy of erotic short story writer Jessica Garrison, animating the scents with heady, aesthetic prose that delights the senses. It’s not product copy but a way to experience, albeit briefly, the scent world. Take Body Heat . It’s 1974 in Monte Carlo, and the wearer smells of cardamom and coffee to start before the fragrance shifts to reveal orris, suede, and dark chocolate, wearing down to an intimate base of amber, oud, and cedarwood. Garrison’s words ask us to imagine the encounter that took place. “Her amber eyes lingered, her palm on his arm. They were pressed between bodies, dripping in sweat and suede fringe. [...] Their wrists intertwined as they started to move. A tryst that began in a cedarwood booth on the French Riviera on a hot night in June. His hands grabbed her waist, his breath warm on her neck, like soft-burning sage. From first song to last, they danced through the night, their skin flush from a crush and marked with a bite.” Working with a range of references like music, scent notes, historical photos, and stories of clubs, Willner and Booth give Garrison an open brief to write what feels right. “Jessica has such a natural understanding of tension and restraint in her writing, and it's never literal; it captures those feelings you associate with the best nights out. It reads like a half-remembered moment you recognise instantly, even if you can’t name it,” adds Booth.  Joussance closes the circle on its literary inspirations, commissioning and publishing the erotic short story publication, The Collector ; a “natural extension [because] of the brand has always been about translation—exploring what can’t fully be expressed in a single medium,” Cheng explains. “The series, like our fragrances, seeks to explore the erotic in a way that is intimate, imaginative, and provocative, inviting conversation, reflection, and the reclaiming of desire as a creative force.” Helena Whittingham, director at Lover Management , a talent agency specialising in intimacy and the erotic, has likewise observed the shift within the beauty industry, a step away from acting coy. “It’s genuinely encouraging to see beauty brands collaborating with sex workers and people who work directly with desire, like with the Urban Decay X Ari  or Levi Coralynn's recent career , and not just borrowing from the aesthetics.” Whittingham sees this reflecting a wider newfound appetite “for the physical and the sensorial right now, especially after years of digital fatigue and emotional distance. Sex has always sold, but what feels different in this moment is the confidence. There’s a sense of desire being treated as adult, embodied, and worth taking seriously, which I hope signals a pushback against the neo-puritanism we’ve seen creeping into culture. I basically live to see it! love seeing sex-positive brands and sex workers crossing into beauty and fragrance – when it feels like bridge-building rather than just branding.” “I think what we’re seeing isn’t an absence of desire, but a discomfort with how narrowly it’s been represented,” reflects Cheng. For too long, narratives about sex and desire were defined externally and disseminated through images that created a normative effect. None of the brands mentioned here deal in stereotypically sexy imagery to elicit their desired effect. Products are presented either with a degree of utilitarianism (Nécessaire) or sensuality. Jouissance’s few images of bodies appear illustrative, not prescriptive, while Discothèque insists on a sense of fun and play in a few promo images featuring a real-life couple. What desire is, what sex means, and how pleasure is defined are left for us to figure out.  “There’s a fatigue around performative or commodified sexuality, which can look like neo-puritanism on the surface,” says Cheng. “But beneath that, I think the desire for intimacy, meaning, and embodied experience is very much alive.” 🌀 Zhenya Tsenzharyk is a writer and editor living in London, covering (most) things sensory through a culturally critical lens. She loves to over-intellectualise her ever-growing perfume collection.

The secret third thing between control and surrender. Monica Vitti in La Notte (dir. Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961) For the first 30 years of my life, I was certain that I was submissive through and through. I was always ambiently searching for Daddy in lovers and art, bouncing from person, place, and thing, fantasizing about being told what to do, what to wear, what to eat, what to think. However, when I look back on how I was actually moving through the world, I came off more like a delusionally confident, moderately pretentious know-it-all with very big ideas, not great listening ears, and a 55% success rate when it came to follow-through. I was submissive in my mind's eye, but life is a cruel mistress, and she made a girlboss out of me. When it came to sex, I was fully enveloped in my inner fantasyland, crafting stories and scenarios and almost completely unable to actually be in the present moment with my lovers. This would manifest in multiple instances of partners asking, “Where did you go?” when they inevitably noticed I was so transparently Not Here. Rich for someone who is a student of Ram Dass, lmao. Some of this was trauma, some of it was shame, a LOT of it was just not being fully acquainted with my real  desires enough to even articulate them. Yet, on the rare occasion of truly transcendent sexual experiences, so much of the “wow” factor was a product of either surprise and mystery, or my partner seemingly being able to read my mind so that my fantasy became a part of the reality without my having to exert any effort at all (which we cannot ever truly expect of our partners). Of course, we often hear that people who are submissive in bed are often dominant in life and vice versa, but this binary is reductive. There was this secret third thing, this ebb and flow of longing and turning away, something akin to a hunger pang… not exactly painful, not exactly pleasureable either — this dissonance that I noticed arising in my late 20s. So what is this dissonance? Carolyn Elliot (PhD and author of Existential Kink ) would say having is evidence of wanting.  I thought I wanted to be told what to do by others in art, life, sex, whatever. But what I actually wanted, craved, and starved for was the tension   of being told what to do — seeing how it could be the right thing and not listening. Getting good, solid advice, and going “Nah! I’m gonna do it my way. Thanks though!” I was creating scenarios that were ripe for people to tell me, “You can’t do that,” “Are you sure?” “Shouldn’t you get a real job?” just so I could prove them wrong. Or, rather, just so I could try, fail, feel that hot sting of embarrassment, and try again. In other words, I’m a big fucking brat. To be a brat is to be a bit of a fucking pain in the ass to yourself and others at all times. This translates in and out of the bedroom. For me, it’s not being whiny or petulant in the traditional sense. It’s more like a subtle but constant jockeying for position with whoever is the most powerful man in the room. And I always, always win. Even when I “lose”, I still win, because on the rare occasion that I’m losing, that means I’m rubbing up against a man who is smarter, stronger, braver, and altogether more together than me. He knows better than I. There are very few of these men in the world, and when I meet one, or more to the point, allow one in my bedroom, I am more than happy to lay down my arms and my panties in kind.  The thing about these men is that they are truly dominant. Not Andrew Tate-style, tiny man in a suit-dominant, which is actually just controlling. These are the men who can look at a little boy throwing french fries in a restaurant, walk up to him and his friends, shake his hand, and strike the fear of God into him with his presence alone, no words required. We can learn much from these men. Being dominant (sexually or otherwise) isn’t about telling anyone what to do — dominance is responsibility, and taking that responsibility for the entire situation. It’s not “bEnD ovEr I’m GonNa hAvE mY Way WiTH You.” That’s a sub pretending to be a dom. True dominance involves preparing the environment, gathering the tools, and existing in the flow state to execute. In other words: the dominant focus = responsibility. The submissive focus = pleasure. More specifically, pleasure and trust in being in good, reliable hands that will not Fuck It Up. This dynamic can be applied to creative work, making money, personal responsibility, and all facets of life, really. It’s important to get very well acquainted with the dom and sub within you, and to know when it’s time to wear each hat. This is especially true if you consider yourself an artist, which, as we’ve learned, most of you secretly do. In the boudoir of creativity, when it’s time to be the dom, you create all the conditions needed to produce great work: studio setup, time blocks, limiting distractions, and saying NO to anything that takes you off course. When it’s time to be the sub, you are flexible, open to making mistakes and embarrassing yourself,   embracing the full expression of the inner sanctum, with no holding back, and are ready and willing to try new things. Consider, if you will, how you can be a better dom to yourself — to money (money, like ego, is a wonderful servant and a terrible master), to your work, to your art, etc. Perhaps a re-calibration of your Google Calendar is in order? Perhaps it’s time to start going to bed before 2 A.M. If it’s the sub in you that needs attending to, maybe it’s time to turn the phone off and go for a long walk to get some ice cream. Perhaps it’s time to throw away the underwear with holes and buy something lacy. Maybe what you need is self-directed yoga in a very hot room. Only you can know what you need, and I encourage you to be your own scientist and find out for yourself.  If any of this hornyspeak triggers the prude in you, consider the fact that creative energy is sexual energy. Same energy, zero differentiation. The only difference is the end result, i.e., what is born. But you can be pregnant with a painting the same way you can be pregnant with a baby. That old adage, “Everything in life is about sex except sex, which is about power,” is very true. These are truly secret codes of the universe that, when adopted and practiced, will inevitably change your entire life. There is much to still be discovered here for me personally — let alone for us as a collective. This monologue is less of a deep dive and more of a treading the shallow end, but I’d be curious to hear how this lands for you, dear reader. As it happens, in last month’s Reading Room , we dug into Gillian Anderson’s 2024 collection “ Want ” , a selection of anonymous letters written by hundreds of women from around the world, revealing how women feel about sex when they have the freedom to be totally honest. This month, it’s J.G. Ballard’s Crash , a provocative and surreal masterpiece that explores the visceral fusion of human experience and modern technology through the lens of high-speed car accidents as erotic playgrounds. I would love to see you there. The sub in you desperately wants a dom with a PLAN and the willingness to EXECUTE. The dom in you desperately wants a sub that will DO WHAT SHE IS TOLD and RELAX. And the dog in you wants to go fetch. Arf arf! 🌀 Sophia R.K.  is a musician, writer, artist, ex-thinker, and intern for God on the weekends. She is the creator of the members-only book club Reading Room.  You can acquaint yourself with her musical alter ego here . You can find her on Twitter @kaliyugacowgirl.

Thanks to Love Story, men and women alike are biking around the city, dyeing their hair platinum, and scavenging for vintage Calvin Klein. But how long can we play pretend? “Please don’t get so close to me.” Carolyn Bessette never gave a single interview. Fewer than 100  photographs of her are in the public domain, and even fewer of her audio clips. Rare footage reveals , in just seven words, that she had a voice and certainly wasn’t afraid to use it when necessary — oval sunnies and tortoiseshell headband in place.  The first-season release of Ryan Murphy’s FX anthology series Love Story  has prompted a whole new generation to rediscover the 1990s It Girl, whose high-profile romance with John F. Kennedy Jr. captured the public imagination in a way few, if any, other couples have. America’s Prince has found his princess,  the tabloids crooned. Only the much-anticipated engagement of then-Lady Diana Spencer to Prince Charles and the ensuing public frenzy could rival that of these American royals, though the gap in their individual appeal was only too obvious.  “Diana didn’t just upstage Charles,” commented Tina Brown, former Vanity Fair editor-in-chief and author of The Diana Chronicles, for a 6-part CNN docuseries  on the British Royal family . “She eclipsed him, actually,” adding, wry as ever, “I mean, she made him nothing, is the truth.”  The “golden couple” of the ‘90s, though, were glamorous and disarmingly evocative in their own right, each a star in its own firmament. Murphy’s show, filmed largely on location, has sent waves of tourists  flocking to Manhattan restaurants and other businesses of which John and Carolyn were reportedly patrons, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of what their life together might have looked like. America’s uncrowned prince and princess have undoubtedly been imprinted on the cultural consciousness. The question that nobody seems to be asking, among the style guides  and tourist traps , is: Why?  Well, why  do famous people enjoy enduring popularity decades after their deaths? Looks and money come to mind, certainly. Good posture and immaculate tailoring probably help. As does that awful cliché of a word, charisma.  John and Carolyn possessed all of these attributes. But attractive couples have surely lived and died long before their time; as far as I’m aware, we aren’t still producing movies and television shows about them decades later, or trying (and failing) to emulate their very essence . Just last week, hundreds gathered in Washington Square Park for a “JFK Jr. Lookalike Contest.”  The men of New York City are nothing if not audacious.  Of course, an analysis of the unofficial royal couple can’t be done without unpacking the raw magnetism of the Prince’s better half. While John had grown up in front of the cameras, Carolyn was plucked from obscurity and catapulted into the public gaze. Parallels between Carolyn and Princess Diana have inevitably been drawn. Sunita Kumar Nair, author of CBK: Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy: A Life in Fashion   and a consultant on Murphy’s show, noted that both women married royalty, either literally or figuratively.  "Neither…could foresee or empathize with the sheer magnitude of their partner's public status," Kumar Nair told the BBC .  Unlike Diana, who openly chronicled her triumphs and struggles, Carolyn was and remains an enigma. How did a girl from the Connecticut suburbs grow up to snag the most eligible bachelor in United States history? Her ascent to New York high society and then into the arms of a Kennedy fueled decades of speculation that have raised more questions than answers. You see, Carolyn had personal lore when having lore actually meant something. If Diana and John understood the power of images and public statements, Carolyn leveraged silence and discretion for the same reasons. In keeping a low profile, she mastered the art of visibility without familiarity, remaining elusive without being cagey. Carolyn was ahead of her time and projected exactly the kind of emotional unavailability en vogue today, though she has been characterized by those close to her as a warm and compassionate figure, much like her husband. Whichever version was her true self, the one facing the cameras understood something her modern-day mimics can’t quite intuit: proximity is often best enjoyed at a distance.   In keeping a low profile, she mastered the art of visibility without familiarity, remaining elusive without being cagey. Part of the fascination with John and Carolyn, I think, is also rooted in the serendipitous origins of their doomed romance. If sources are to be believed, their story began in 1992 with a chance meeting in a VIP showroom at Calvin Klein when John came in for a fitting. The premise alone sounds simply implausible today. COVID-19 made pretty much everyone start doing all their shopping online, for one thing, not to mention the steady surge in online dating. By 2022, over 30% of adults  under 35 reported meeting their significant other online. Whether John really flagged Carolyn down at work is irrelevant; it’s the thrill of pursuit — of being pursued — that feels anachronistic and therefore so covetable. The short explanation is that smartphones ruined everything. Rapid technological developments since the turn of the century have fundamentally reshaped social norms, triggering a cascade of downstream effects that promote endless optimization at the expense of genuine lived experience. Think about it: pre-cell phones, pre-social media, walking down the street with headphones on would have been considered terribly antisocial. Third spaces were commonplace, and plans could be made with a quick phone call instead of weeks of lukewarm ping-pong over text. People used to actually talk to their neighbors and engage with members of their community. Now, they can’t even manage the supermarket checkout without their AirPods in. Omniscience and convenience have reduced us to spectators in each other’s lives rather than participants, and, on some level, we have accepted all of this as normal.  No wonder ‘90s nostalgia is once again all the rage. I would give anything to be able to experience New York City then, even for a day. It just seemed like a simpler time, one where readily available technologies like telephones, computers, and cameras, as well as modern modes of transportation, helped reduce some of the day-to-day load without eliminating the need for intention, effort, or curiosity. I once described the feeling to a friend as a kind of homesickness for a place in time that I never inhabited, at least in any meaningful way. As Gen Xers stumbled through the Meatpacking District (braving the erstwhile slaughterhouses) to hit the clubs, I was probably dodging the umpteeth “two more bites”. Despite the generational gap, I shared at least one quality with those girls: I didn’t know what was going to happen next. That’s all I want, not to know. I want to not know what others are doing every minute of every day. I want to know what it's like to go a whole day without being asked for a username and password. I want to come home to a Panasonic answering machine and listen to my loved ones’ voices on the tapes. John and Carolyn’s story will always resonate because it evokes imagery of what, in retrospect, might just have been the last halcyon days of modern life. Sarah Pidgeon as Carolyn Bessette Kennedy in Love Story (2026) An identity crisis plagues young adults today. They don’t know what to wear, what to eat, or even what to say without consulting TikTok or ChatGPT. A year ago, on a fine day in the West Village, you could hardly move for white tank tops and sambas . For a demographic with no discernible self-concept yet an ironic desire for main character status, Murphy’s show has reintroduced a brand new protagonist on whom to mold this season’s personality. The Internet did as the Internet does and sent thousands clamoring for “ the CBK look ,” from her exact shade of blonde to the apothecary reported to have sourced her tortoiseshell headbands, down to the Egyptian musk scent she was rumored to have worn. Men’s publications also seized their opportunity for a quick commission, offering readers a blueprint for achieving John’s “uniquely preppy” style .  It wouldn’t be the Internet, though, without rumblings of dissent. Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy Is Not Your Unwitting Brand Ambassador ,  Allure magazine hissed. Even Cosmopolitan engaged in a bit of finger-wagging: JFK Jr. & Carolyn Bessette Kennedy Don’t Need  To Be Your Fashion Icons , a recent Instagram post scolded. What people fail to realize is that their fascination with John and Carolyn is less about the clothes than the context in which the couple wore them. By showing restraint against a backdrop of extravagance, their union represented a higher yet still accessible ideal that the layperson could aspire to, one in which normalcy and simplicity reflected personal values rather than mere branding.    John and Carolyn's lives have left an indelible mark on contemporary history, yet their deaths are often reduced to footnotes. Mining these figures for content further robs them of their humanity. Perhaps this relentless, wholesale glamorization explains why the reimagining of the couple’s romance could represent yet another welcome if clumsy distraction from the prolonged violence and civic decay flooding viewers’ feeds. To the more skeptical onlooker, though, Love Story is more of a cautionary tale; a dark reminder that the premium we place on youth, beauty, and idiosyncrasy remains lucrative, despite the devastation they leave in their wake, time and time again.  John and Carolyn continue to haunt us because they were palpably, fallibly, unflinchingly human. Nearly three decades have elapsed since television cameras recorded  Carolyn Bessette telling a ravenous press to back off, and three decades since she and her husband departed on what would be their final journey together — yet the memories linger. Though Love Story  takes a fair few creative liberties, we all know how the story ends: John’s ill-advised flight to Martha’s Vineyard, with Carolyn and her sister Lauren on board, cost all three of them their lives when he lost control of the plane and plummeted into the Atlantic.  “In the US, the Kennedys occupy territory somewhere between the British royal family and Greek tragedy, a tale of impossible glamour pierced by spectacles of public mourning,” writes  David Smith in The Guardian. For generations, misfortune and sorrow have haunted one of the 20th century's most illustrious families. Their associates, too, tend to suffer collateral damage. John and Carolyn’s untimely departure from this world seemed to confirm that the so-called “Kennedy curse” had struck once again. The couple’s relationship was turbulent from the start, and the plane crash occurred at a crossroads in their marriage. Intense public scrutiny, alleged drug use, and murmurs of infidelity on both sides conspired to tarnish their reputation.  “We must not let in daylight upon magic,” the 19th-century British historian Walter Bagehot once warned. And towards the end, John and Carolyn's spellbinding public image shone in the most lurid light imaginable. By the spring of 1999, numerous outlets had reported that the couple was hurtling toward divorce. The sensationalism of their private lives and the extraordinary circumstances under which they perished proved cataclysmic. Humans can’t help indulge a morbid curiosity about death, and mortality is particularly fascinating when it comes to young people who appear to have it all. Fairytales are supposed to have happy endings. But that’s the thing about fairytales and main characters — they aren’t real. John and Carolyn continue to haunt us because they were palpably, fallibly, unflinchingly human. Through good times and bad, their lives glossed a cultural moment unjaundiced by the trappings of the digital age, spontaneous and brimming with possibility. Therein lies the eternal magic. Their legacy lives on, and that’s why we still care. 🌀 Neha Ogale  is a clinical psychology PhD student, relapsed coat hoarder, indie film lover, and occasional writer based in New York City. You can find her on Instagram @urbangremlin .

The Chicago-based perfume label’s debut scents dabble in the art of confabulation, from Band-Aid accords to the smell of cereal milk. All photos courtesy of Domestica Domestica  has managed to create an impressive debut introduction for themselves amid the ever-rising scene of independent American perfumers. Heralded by Chicago-based couple Marty Schissler and Alvaro Lozano, their scents capture the joys of the domicile, without being stuffy or relying on ironic archetypes. In fact, all three scents are very accessible, capturing three distinct moments: playing outside, eating a bowl of cereal, and having a sick day with a loved one.  These are intimate and youthful fragrances rooted in the concept of confabulation  —  a neuropsychiatric disorder where the patient produces false memories unintentionally. It can include small details, entire events, or broader dynamics, as a way to integrate an aspect of self and fill gaps in memory. Some psychologists speculate that such false truths are due to low-grade forms of amnesia or a post-traumatic response to protect one's sense of self.  Domestica has a playful take on confabulation, calling it “honest lying”. A creative language this clear is rare for a brand as new as they are. The team behind these scents has rejected the common marketing tactic of exotic escapism; Domestica’s brand of escapism isn’t about retreating from the material world but about escaping towards what is right in front of you. Their perfumes want to remind you it's okay to be grounded. And where better to land than home?  The first fragrance I had the opportunity to smell was Yard , a fresh, green, slightly aquatic fragrance. At first spritz, I sense lemon mist, a touch of mint, and water. It’s like drinking from the hose as a kid. Once it settles, a strong chlorophyll emerges, finished with a touch of tomato leaf rolled in the earth. It’s reminiscent of a long day playing outside while your mom manicures a garden bed. A couple of hours later, I still detected the chlorophyll and mint; however, it's sweeter and blends into a fresh skin scent, likely due to the vetiver and green pepper base. Fans of Mandhi Rhubi from Isabelle Larignon  will appreciate the vegetal base, and those who crave something more complex from their aquatic scents will cherish the longevity. In the emerging ranks of independent midwestern perfumers, Yard is a wonderful entry into the canon of scents that capture youthful summers spent outside. Wearing Yard made me feel like anything is possible; the most divine thing may be in my backyard, or running through the sprinkler. Its balance of effervescence and earth feels right at home next to cult favorites like Clue’s Dandelion Butter  and Pearfat’s Kewpie Doll .  Domestica’s second scent in the trilogy is Reckless Baby . It is the clear standout of the three, featuring a delicious fruity cereal accord, followed by a pang-in-your-chest nostalgia loaded with a dose of colored pencil shavings. I have never smelled anything like it; Schissler and Lozano have achieved the perfect balance of fruity, lactonic, and woodsy without relying on any of the trendy fruity gourmand tropes flooding the market. The opening includes a synthetic pear accord paired with a strong pink pepper, keeping ripened fruit from leaning overtly sweet. As the pink pepper fades, Fruit Loops take center stage. On my skin and a test strip, this lasted hours. The sleeve of my sweater even smelled like cereal milk the next morning. The cereal accord never fully fades, eventually inviting in the pencil shaving note. It brings back distinct memories of walking up to the pencil sharpener in elementary school during craft time, right after eating an individual serving of prepackaged Fruit Loops in the cafeteria. Reckless Baby moves like a memory, seamlessly shifting between notes no matter how long it's been. Sometimes it's a ripe fruit, sometimes cold milk brings you to the breakfast table. Just when you think you’ve figured it out, a whiff of something new comes out, pulling you back in.  Home With You  is the first fragrance developed for their debut collection, inspired by a sick day at home with a loved one. Some of the listed notes include cherry cough drop , Band-Aid  accord , and someone to hold . This perfume is less wearable than the other, more playful fragrances, yet it has the strongest projection of the three. The traditional mix of white flowers and resins tends to create sexual, voluptuous scents that veer matronly. Domestica’s take on an animalic white floral has the medicinal quality pumped up to the max, with a mentholated cherry dominating the composition. At first, I was repulsed and turned off, possibly because of the stark contrast with the other two. However, I kept coming back for more. As it evolves, the cherry dissipates, and a note I can only describe as penicillin emerges. I imagine this is supposed to be the band-aid accord, supported by carrot seed and orris. Carrot seed keeps the composition energized, trying to bridge the gap between sterile and animal notes. The menthol never truly fades, overpowering the coziness of opoponax. Home With You is an incredibly literal interpretation of a sick day. It brings to mind the cravings one has when sick: someone to hold, a medicine to take the pain away, and the slightly vile sweetness of retreating from the world.  Connotations of domestic environments evoke images of nuclear families, 1950s housewives, a pristine lawn, an apron-clad worker. Instead of leaning on traditional evocations, Domestica goes inward. They open up memories, small moments of bliss and tenderness. For queer people, especially those who grew up in traditional American domiciles, these memories either don’t exist or become overshadowed by a culture of fear surrounding expressing one's identity. Smelling these perfumes offers a way to redefine that relationship through the honest lie of ephemera. Suddenly, playing in the yard as a carefree child is not a fantasy, just something you forgot you did. Domestica’s version of a home is one of color and self-expression. You can have sugary cereal for dinner and a mess of drawings on the coffee table. It’s undone, the sweetest mess to bathe in for your moment of respite.  Domestica is sure to be a welcome addition to the collection of independent Midwest perfumers selling nostalgia in a bottle. The first three scents are available for $140 a bottle on their website ,  as well as Everything , and the Center of Order and Experimentation , both in Chicago. They will also be at Fumed , an exposition for independent perfumers and consumers, set to take place on March 28 in Chicago.  By returning to the home, a place that can be a site of tenderness — or painful beginnings for queer people — is reframed as one of play, comfort, expression, and nostalgia. Marty Schissler and Alvaro Lozano offer their customers an opportunity to reclaim a space that, for many, holds complicated feelings and disjointed memories. The magic of Domestica lies within leaning into that memory gap, holding a place for a simpler world that the wearer can always return to. In queering the domestic, they allow the wearer to engage in this honest lie. And it's addicting. 🌀 Ruby Robison  is a multidisciplinary artist originally from rural Oregon. She has lived and worked all over the United States as well as in Amsterdam as a writer, model, actor, and media researcher. Her creative process includes Socratic seminars in the back of an Uber and sleeping 10 hours a night. Currently, she serves as the art editor for Sabr Tooth Tiger Magazine  and has perfume column on Dirty Magazine . Links to a variety of her work can be found on Instagram @darlingmsbaby .

An announcement. When we sat down to create the new HALOSCOPE almost three years ago, we did so with a single question in mind: what would happen if we took fashion as seriously as any other art? Since then, we’ve published stories on everything from perfume as a weapon of the fascist imagination to how cowgirl fashion invokes our shared national mythology. These stories have sparked platform-spanning conversations, debates, and friendships across the globe — all united by a shared passion for more thoughtful, critical, and joyful engagement with fashion. Now, we’re building our own corner of the Internet where we can do just that. Coalescing the best of our site, exclusive newsletters, and more, the HALOSCOPE Substack — also called the Salon — is our brand-new members-only club for friends, thinkers, obsessives, aesthetes, and readers both old and new. Launching tomorrow, Substack will be the new home for our STAR⟡MAIL newsletter and The HALO* Report, alongside additional exclusive essays, quizzes, conversations, podcast episodes, shopping roundups, and other experiments we can only do in a more intimate, direct-to-reader space. Our main priority is and always has been to honor the work and intellect of our incredible writers and readers, and that means meeting you where you’re at: your inbox. That said, our main site is not going anywhere ; haloscope.org will always remain live and active, and as the main portal into our little world.  On behalf of the entire team, we are deeply thankful for your continued support of HALOSCOPE over the past few years, and we are deeply energized by the opportunity to continue our expansive, playful, and essential work, now closer to you than ever before.  🌀 With love and gratitude,  Savannah Eden Bradley Editor-in-Chief

Arabelle Sicardi’s new book, The House of Beauty , reminds us that care is resistance. I began reading Arabelle Sicardi ’s debut essay collection   while I waited to get called back for a mani-pedi at the nail salon. I spent the next hour trying to keep the pages on my lap, stealing glances as I placed my painted fingers under the fluorescence of portable UV lamps. I  read it in between getting my legs waxed and my eyebrows threaded. Their book followed me around on errands, crammed between makeup and skincare purchases from Sephora and Ulta, restocks from my favorite K-beauty store in Chinatown, and samples from the niche perfume stores in SoHo. I reached for it when I grew impatient waiting for my dyed hair to process and when I procrastinated on putting on a full face for a night out. Equal parts historical epic, investigative journalism, and memoir, reading The House of Beauty: Lessons From The Image Industry   means you’ll never see your hauls, your daily routines, or local salon services the same way again.  From the beginning, Sicardi is determined to show the very real blood, sweat, and tears that underpin the beauty industry. In a chapter titled “Choose Your Own Disaster,” readers begin their dangerous journey at the source of two popular cosmetic ingredients found in 70% of the world’s beauty products — mica mined in India and palm kernel oil harvested in the peatland forests of Malaysia and Indonesia. Sicardi guides us across oceans and continents through the perspectives of these exploited laborers and the journalists and NGOs risking their lives to document these dangerous, often illegal operations. We become a child dying in a mining cave collapse, a cargo ship deckhand held hostage by pirates, a migrant plantation worker with their passport locked away in an administrative office, desperate to return home. We eavesdrop on a Malaysian government lawyer bragging about convincing Indigenous villagers to sign over the rights to their land. We sit in boardrooms where bribes are exchanged, and the destruction of communities and ecosystems is negotiated through corporate meetings. We even become the purchased product in the shower, on the counter, shown off in review videos, and restocked on a shelf by an underpaid retail employee. By following the money from these places to people like Estée Lauder heir Ronald Lauder, noted for his Republican mega-donations , and the under-resourced innovations in foundation shades by Black cosmetic chemist Balanda Atis  (of L’Oreal’s Women of Color Lab ), Sicardi puts a face to the workers whose suffering is overlooked in the name of globalized commercial efficiency — and a name to those in the industry both perpetuating its violence and trying to solve its thorny problems.    In sharp contrast to the previous chapter filled with the accounts of unnamed workers, Sicardi turns their attention to one of beauty’s most recognizable names: Coco Chanel. Despite the House of Chanel’s best efforts at suppression, the designer’s collaboration with the Nazis  has become well known in recent years, complicating her legacy in fashion and beauty. Still, Chanel No. 5 remains one of the most popular perfumes in the world . Despite what little I already knew of Chanel’s biography, I didn’t expect to learn about the Wertheimers , the Jewish family who became responsible for producing and manufacturing the fragrance, inadvertently helping to sustain Chanel’s lavish Parisian lifestyle during World War II. Nor about how quickly Chanel began to associate herself with the Nazis to maintain her wealth and prestige. Sicardi confronts how her selfishness and hatred helped her not only survive, but thrive, in Nazi-occupied France. Behind the iconic fragrance, Sicardi locates a monstrous history of greed. “And it makes sense, really,” they write, “because power appears beautiful, and beauty makes time feel conquerable. Beauty makes cruel choices so easy. Beauty makes empathy a political tool.”  Of course, beauty is more than just the products we use or the ideas of how our bodies should look. It’s a history and culture shaped over generations by economies, geopolitics, conflict, and the movement of commodities and people. Sicardi chooses to explore beauty’s connective tissue first through hair, then through the nail industry. Through hair, Sicardi wrestles with how styles and textures have signified resistance, forced assimilation, opportunities for entrepreneurship, and materials for self-empowerment. Biographies of Haitian-American barber Pierre Toussaint  and activist business mogul Madam C.J. Walker  intersect with the violent cutting of Chinese men’s queue  braids in San Francisco jails as part of the Pigtail Ordinance of 1878 ; the rise of South Korea’s wig industry in the 20th century, fueled by U.S. embargoes after the Vietnam War; and the emergence of synthetic extensions and hairpieces. By following each strand of this braid, Sicardi untangles the politics that underpin our beauty supply stores and hair salons. Through manicures, Sicardi wrestles with the complicated legacy of actress Tippi Hedren , credited with building America’s nail industry by offering training to Vietnamese refugees. Billed as an opportunity for the disenfranchised, Sicardi unpacks the racism, classism, and exploitation these manicurists experienced: “The reality of a miracle is that it is also a story of devastation.” Yet there are also opportunities for solidarity, such as the founding of Mantrap , a Black- and Vietnamese-owned salon, in the 1980s, or collective organizing by cooperatives like the New York Nail Salon Workers Association  and the California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative . Sicardi describes learning how to care for their hair and do their own nails as part of this journey, carrying on these living histories through the work of their own hands rather than merely being a passive consumer.          Only Sicardi could write a book about beauty as incisive and thoughtful as this one. They are, after all, a veteran of the very industry they set out to critique. Perhaps their name rings a bell from their Rookie Mag  days. You’ve probably clicked on one of their articles for publications like Allure , Teen Vogue , The Cut , Harper’s Bazaar , or The Verge . In 2015, Sicardi made headlines when they resigned from their role as Buzzfeed ’s beauty editor   following the censorship of an article criticizing a misogynistic ad by one of the site’s advertisers, Dove. In the introduction, Sicardi recounts how that moment shaped their perspective as a critic: “It is hard to live under the specter of what bodies are supposed to be. It gets even more complicated when you are getting paid to articulate those rules — when your job is to give voice to the rules at the same time that you have to make it seem like you’re pushing against them.” Today, Sicardi continues to carve out their own space in beauty, offering their services as a brand consultant and as a judge for the Art and Olfaction Awards . In 2022, they founded the nail art culture nonprofit, the Museum of Nails Foundation  — a fitting evolution of their activism, given how they write in the book about the empowerment and precarity of the nail industry. As a tastemaker, critic, journalist, consumer, and self-described “beauty world builder,” Sicardi has built their career on negotiating beauty’s complex networks of power. The House of Beauty isn’t just a call to expose the industry’s harms to themselves and others; it’s a call for readers to learn, resist, and advance positive change.  The House of Beauty begs the question, “What’s the state of beauty criticism today?” It’s a thought I kept pondering as I made my way through the book. Like many twenty-somethings today, my formative understanding of beauty was shaped first by magazines, then the meteoric rise of beauty YouTubers, Instagram influencers, and TikTokers. It’s hard not to drown in a sea of whitewashed sponsored content, shady brand deals, and profit-motivated recommendations. Sicardi is one of the few beauty creatives who continues to challenge the status quo, drawing attention to companies’ bad behavior while also providing much-needed education on how our culture of beauty and wellness today is shaped by political histories of race, class, immigration, disability, gender, and sexual identity. The House of Beauty ’s hybrid intervention situates Sicardi among fellow critics like Fariha Róisín , Sable Yong , Tanaïs , Mimi Thi Nguyen , Moshtari Hilal , Chloe Cooper Jones , and Ellen Atlanta , who coalesce their lived experiences into the industry’s systemic injustices.  As much as Sicardi’s book is concerned with the past and present of the beauty industry, The House of Beauty also looks to its future. Sicardi wrestles with how beauty’s production actively contributes to the climate crisis : through the harvesting of natural resources, the waste produced by packaging, and polluting emissions; its use of fossil-fuel by-products; and companies’ push to displace Indigenous peoples from their homelands . They unpack how greenwashing buzzwords like “clean,” “organic,” and “sustainable” aren’t enough to address the industry’s systemic issues with extraction and over-consumption. When they visit a conference for bodyhackers and transhumanities, Sicardi identifies body modification technology as the beauty industry’s sinister new frontier. Obsessions with self-enhancement and optimized perfection find institutional support from tech companies , the military , and universities . Yet these futures of beauty hardly acknowledge the cost, feeding into the capitalist drive for continuous growth while overlooking the harms that such technologies and ideas have on the disabled, working class, and communities of color. In a chapter about activists mobilizing to distribute hygiene kits in places like Los Angeles’s Skid Row during COVID lockdown, community hygiene during police brutality protests, and the precarity of beauty store and salon closures, Sicardi finds a way to turn these daily anxieties into a roadmap of new possibilities. “Beauty as an ethical act means understanding you have the duty to use it responsibly,” they write, “We are given imperfect choices. We must force better ones.”  Through The House of Beauty, Arabelle Sicardi holds up a mirror to the beauty industry, inviting us to look, listen, and learn about this world that has shaped how we perceive ourselves — even if we don’t like the ugliness we see. Beauty becomes a method, a tool, a weapon, a bridge, a form of survival, a guide through which we can understand the world, an archive of deeply personal and expansively global histories. Sicardi confronts beauty’s behemoths, from individuals like Coco Chanel to the multinational corporations monopolizing the industry, but also makes sure to recognize the life and legacy of industry heroes whose stories are overlooked and whose contributions remain underappreciated.  A project that was years in the making, I found myself craving more and reflecting on what I felt to be missing: further teasing out of the linkages between the beauty industry and the military industrial complex, deeper explorations of beauty’s historical intersections with disability, how beauty has functioned in queer communities as forms of self-affirmation and political resistance. The House of Beauty  is a comprehensive guide, yes, but it also reads as an invitation for others in the industry take Sicardi’s kit off the vanity counter and learn more for themselves. “When the world tells you beauty is not your bounty, not your legacy, not your place, not your home, when the world tells you that you are not deserving of care,” they instruct us: “Don’t believe it. Write yourself in.” The work of understanding beauty—its mechanisms, its materialities, its evolutions, its trend cycles, its capacities for world making, knowing, and undoing—is never finished. In 2026, the stakes of Sicardi’s project feel more urgent than ever. The House of Beauty  ends with a section titled “Heart Chest,” a collection of resources highlighting organizations that provide services like hygiene for unhoused communities, gender-affirming care, financially-accessible bodywork, wellness support for chronically ill and disabled people, beauty industry worker advocacy, and climate justice activism. For all of the ways beauty hurts us, Sicardi shows how its rituals, skills, and products can help us care for each other and ourselves in times of crisis. As they put it, “I am crawling my way out of the rubble with very manicured hands.” 🌀 Eleonor Botoman is an art historian and culture critic based in Brooklyn. They are currently a PhD student at the CUNY Graduate Center studying environmental art, material culture, and design. When they’re not experimenting with perfumery, you can find them curating multimedia wonders for their Substack newsletter, Screenshot Reliquary .

Who wouldn’t want a Victorian-era edge to their look? In a world so painfully minimalist, populated by mantras like ‘‘less is more,’’ few pieces of jewelry really catch one's eye. Having mastered the art of ‘‘more is more’’ beautifully, designer Mia Vesper — whose mother was an antique collector and textile designer — stands at the vanguard of challenging this. Founded in 2017, Vesper Obscura is the type of brand that tries to defy industry norms.  Although the founder started with clothing, her defiant and timeless jewelry is its true star. But whether they’re garments or ornaments, Vesper is dedicated to making relics that flirt with the past, the present, and ultimately the future as well.  Ahead, we sit down with Mia to discuss Vesper’s newest collection, her creative process and influences, and how she continues to build a company that stays unapologetically true to its values in an era ruled by fleeting trends and relentless speed.  This interview has been edited for length and clarity. ANA BEATRIZ REITZ: I’m very curious about how all of this began for you. Could you walk me through the founding of the brand?  MIA VESPER: Vesper Obscura was founded the way a lot of honest things are founded: out of necessity; mild terror, really. The clothing line was burying me financially, and I needed an escape hatch that didn’t feel like surrender. Jewelry offered salvation. The margins are real, the object is permanent, and the ethical math is different. I started making jewelry in 2024, during one of the most difficult periods of my life. But it was followed, almost immediately, by a far better one. Jewelry didn’t just change the business; it changed my nervous system. For the first time in years, the work felt viable. ABR: Now, Vesper Obscura feels like a breath of fresh air amidst the same staleness that rules fashion. Did you set out in the very beginning to position the brand with that slowness, sustainable charm so different from the current speed, or did that ethos reveal itself naturally over time? MV: Made-to-order began as a financial constraint. I didn’t have the luxury of making inventory and praying for conversion. But it also turned into a kind of discipline, because it forced me to treat each piece like it had to earn the right to exist. And yes, the rejection of sameness is intentional. I’m not interested in half-hearted design integrity, especially not in a world already overflowing with objects. In a capitalist society, making something is a moral act. If I’m going to produce, it should be good, it should be considered, and it should feel scarce for a reason, not for marketing theater. ABR: How would you describe your creative process, from the first spark of inspiration to a finished piece ready to be sold? MV: I start with a sketch. Sometimes I’ll prototype, but usually my job is to draw the idea clearly enough that it can be translated into a real, wearable object. Then I work with production partners to engineer it into something that has weight, structure, and presence. I’m not precious about the mythology of suffering –  my part in the assembly line is fairly low lift to be honest – I’m precious about the object. ABR: What guides your choice of materials when developing a new collection?  MV: Materials are chosen for integrity and endurance. I’m drawn to metal and stone because they’re stubborn materials, old materials. They refuse to be disposable. ABR: Your work feels both ancient and futuristic at the same time. How do you manage to create and equilibrate this tension, and why is it relevant for you? MV: Because I’ve spent so much time looking at what already exists, I’m interested in the gaps, the missing artifacts. I’m trying to design things that feel like they should be found in a velvet-lined drawer in 1890, or unearthed in 2090. Ancient and futuristic aren’t opposites to me; they’re the same impulse, just aimed at different directions in time. ABR: For so long, jewelry has been connected to power. Do you see your designs as a form of armor of their own ? MV: Yes. Everyday armor. Not costume, not occasionwear. The kind that changes your posture. ABR: Vesper Obscura’s latest collection has a distinctly Victorian style with a modern twist. Which aspects of the Victorian era interested you most in reinterpreting them through a contemporary lens? MV: I’m obsessed with body jewelry because it’s still strangely underexplored, and when it is  explored, it often gets trapped in a bohemian vocabulary that I personally cannot tolerate on my own body. I wanted to take something that’s usually coded as “earthy” and make it feel architectural, sharp, and intentionally styled. The Victorian influence shows up in restraint, intimacy, and a kind of ornamental severity. But I wanted the end result to feel now: clean, sporty, slightly confrontational. I always want a jarring juxtaposition, and then I edit it down until it becomes wearable instead of theatrical. ABR: Many of the pieces feel truly like talismans, with a life of their own. When creating, do you imagine histories or characters or this is something that comes later? MV: The character is me, which sounds unbearable, but it’s simply honest. I design what I want to wear. I’m a purveyor and obsessive appreciator first, and a designer second. I like objects to a slightly dangerous degree. The histories come later, or sometimes they arrive automatically. If something is built like an artifact, it starts generating its own mythology whether you write one or not. ABR: What do you hope someone feels when wearing one piece from this collection? MV:  Cool. So so so cool.  ABR: In an industry obsessed with speed, slowness can be a radical act. How intentional is that pace for you, and what does working slowly allow you to protect? MV: If I’m honest, the slowness has mostly been structural rather than ideological. It’s what happens when you don’t have unlimited cash. In clothing, sustainability felt like a constant ethical negotiation. With jewelry, the moral math is cleaner for me. I avoid questionable stones, I work in materials meant to last, and I’m making objects that can actually be kept. Working slowly protects quality control, cash flow, and my sanity. Creatively, though? I’m not attached to scarcity as a personality trait. If I had unlimited resources, I would design constantly. I don’t worship slowness.  ABR: As the brand continues to grow, how do you protect its integrity and values while allowing it to evolve? MV: The integrity is the design rigor. As long as I’m still making things that feel necessary, I know the brand is alive. The moment I start repeating myself, I’d rather stop. I never want to make the white t-shirt of jewelry. Growth is exciting if it supports the work instead of sanding down its edges. I’m very at peace with the vision. ABR: Why do you think there’s a deep appetite for ornament, nostalgia, and symbolism right now? MV: Because reality has become aggressively unromantic. Life feels a little hellscape-adjacent, and people are hungry for atmosphere. We don’t write letters beside a babbling brook. We have Slack. We have doomscrolling. We have the bright fluorescent lighting of modern existence. Ornamentation is a way of taking your life back aesthetically. It’s cinema you can wear. I also think we’re watching individualism get morally complicated. We’re watching a shift in how people relate to status and identity. There’s a growing desire to flatten hierarchies and question what matters, but we still want beauty, theater, and self-mythology. Jewelry is one of the places where it’s socially permissible to be the main character. ABR: What advice would you give to emerging designers who feel caught between honoring their vision and keeping pace with the algorithm? MV: It’s a terrible predicament. Not everyone is built to be a content machine, and treating that as mandatory is a great way to kill art. If you’re naturally suited to posting constantly, leverage it. If you aren’t, don’t force it. Build alternative engines: trunk shows, email, collaborations, a collector base, real community. There are ways to sell that don’t require turning your life into a feed. And my biggest advice: don’t build your business around a daily practice you hate. Entrepreneurship has endless work baked into it. Take the easiest, most enjoyable avenue whenever morally plausible.  ABR: Finally, when you think about the legacy of Vesper Obscura, what do you want it to leave behind in the jewelry world? MV: Objects that feel immediately understood, but not predictable. That’s the line I care about: clarity with surprise. I want to leave behind future heirlooms, pieces that can be passed down with pride. Consumable surprises, built to outlast the era that created them. 🌀 Ana Beatriz Reitz Gameiro is a Brazilian freelance journalist covering fashion, entertainment, beauty, and culture. Her work has appeared in publications such as FASHIONISTA, V Magazine, Polyester, Remezcla, and NSS. She is also the voice behind The Devil Writes Fashion (previously For Fashion’s Sake), a weekly newsletter where fashion is dissected, celebrated, and occasionally roasted with humor, heart, and just a little bite.

The collaboration, over 25 years in the making, proves that nostalgia itself isn’t the problem — it’s how we choose to handle it. Three pieces from the Vivienne Westwood x Nana collaboration, shot by Alex Soroka. The long-awaited official collaboration between fashion house Vivienne Westwood and Ai Yazawa’s cult shōjo manga Nana (stylized as NANA) has finally arrived — but not without controversy. From confusing rollout logistics to limited stock and simplified designs, die-hard fans criticized the capsule collection as “nostalgia bait”. Is this collection really a cash grab or something more culturally complex? THE GOOD As part of the anniversary campaign, Vivienne Westwood sat down with Nana creator Ai Yazawa for a rare interview , offering insight into Yazawa's creative process, influences, and motivations. Yazawa is historically private and has seldom spoken publicly since an unspecified illness delayed the completion of Nana in 2009. Nana is a popular Japanese manga and anime series, first serialized in the early 2000s by manga magazine Cookie. It gained a cult following thanks to its unique illustration style, compelling plot, memorable characters, and iconic fashion pieces. In addition to the manga, the series inspired an anime adaptation, two live-action films, video games, and several tribute albums.  The plot centers on two women, both named Nana, who meet by chance on a train to Tokyo. They quickly find their lives and ambitions intertwined. Nana Osaki, an aspiring punk rocker, is the heartbeat of the story — and she is often adorned in stylish Vivienne Westwood pieces that symbolize her musicality and confidence. She is determined to bring her punk band, the Black Stones (aka BLAST), to the top of the music industry and chart her own path as a musician. Alternatively, Nana Komatsu (affectionately known as Hachi) struggles with self-discovery and undergoes aesthetic changes throughout the series. She seeks her purpose, often feeling lost or unfocused, and ultimately seeks validation in relationships that don’t always put her first. Hachi becomes the support system for Nana O.'s band, that is, until an unexpected romance threatens to break everything they have built.   Their style journeys reflect not only their ambitions but also their uncertainties and hesitations — an element Yazawa mentions in her interview. “For me, fashion has always been central to storytelling,” Yazawa explained. “Since manga can’t produce sound, fashion becomes an important tool to express it visually.” Before creating Nana, Yazawa studied fashion at Osaka Mode Gakuen and eventually left school to pursue her true passion: becoming a mangaka. Her reflections during the interview with Westwood revealed just how integral fashion was to Nana's story and reinforced what fans have always known: Nana’s use of style was transcendent. Yazawa used fashion not just for aesthetics, but as a metaphor for each character’s personal transformation. “I’ve loved Vivienne’s clothes even before drawing Nana, and I had been collecting them, so almost all of the items that appear in the manga are from my own collection,” Yazawa added. “For me, drawing a punk band and drawing Vivienne’s clothes could not be separated. I believe that music and fashion have always been deeply connected, no matter the era.” Her punk-inspired aesthetics, rooted in the Japanese subcultures of the 90s and early 2000s, influenced an entire generation of readers. This collaboration with Westwood, at least conceptually, felt both emotionally and artistically aligned. The collection featured thoughtful details, such as reinterpretations of the Armour Ring  with Yazawa-inspired illustrations etched on the inside panels. The Armour Ring is featured extensively in Nana and is a signature piece worn by Nana O. The collection also featured red pieces, such as the Stormy Jacket  and Puppy Corset , which can be seen as a subtle nod to Nana O., given her strong association with red clothing throughout the series.  Abandoned by her mother at four, Nana O. was raised by her grandmother, who discouraged her from wearing red and pink clothing, as they were seen as tempting to men. Her grandmother used this restriction in a warped form of protection — keeping Nana from following the path of her mother and having a child out of wedlock or otherwise making life choices her grandmother deemed as dishonorable.  After her grandmother dies, Nana wears a red dress — also known as the Happy Berry dress — in an act of defiance (and freedom). For this reason alone, pairing red clothing pieces with Nana O. grounded the collection in the manga's original visual language.  Personally, I would have liked to have seen Westwood’s interpretation of the Happy Berry dress in the collection. It is a significant outfit in the series, not only for the plot points mentioned earlier, but also for its role in sparking Nana’s relationship with Ren—her love interest and rival throughout the series. The capsule also featured familiar favorites like the Rocking Horse Ballerina  shoes and gave popular pieces — like Nana O.’s pendant orb necklace  — official recognition by virtue of the collab, satisfying a need that unofficial cosplay versions had been filling for years, often for thousands of dollars. But most importantly, the collaboration introduced Nana to a broader global audience, solidifying its fashion status and extending its cultural legacy into wider circles of fashion and pop culture. But that expansion wasn’t without its costs. Two Nana comic covers from 2000 and 2006, respectively. THE BAD Where the collaboration excelled in concept, it fumbled logistically. The rollout was undoubtedly messy.  Though positioned as a 25th-anniversary celebration, the collection launched nearly six months after Nana’s official publication anniversary on May 15. On October 6, Vivienne Westwood posted a reel on their Instagram  teasing the collaboration with no mention of individual pieces or styles. Two weeks later, Yazawa posted on Instagram , announcing the 25th anniversary edition of the manga set for release on October 31—with no clear connection or mention of the capsule collection.  On November 12, Vivienne Westwood continued teasing the release with an Instagram Reels post  featuring the updated manga set and the caption “Almost time…”. There were no teaser posts on Facebook, and their X account has been largely silent since 2024.  The next day, November 13, the house announced on Instagram  that items would be available at 10 a.m. “local time” at their boutiques . Yet, many fans discovered the pieces had already gone live online on November 12, with several items selling out within a few hours. “I'm in the U.S., and for some reason I can see it all uploaded and even shop, though I was under the impression it was dropping tomorrow. Sadly, multiple pieces are already sold out,” one Reddit user wrote. “I signed up for the newsletter and didn’t even get notified when it dropped. They really messed up the release; literally no one had a chance with how bad the organization was for the drop,” another Reddit user wrote . Beyond logistics, some fans criticized the design choices, like (presumably) Hachi’s Mini Sunday Dress and Nana’s Cigarette Trousers, for feeling oversimplified and geared toward mass appeal.  In the manga, Nana O. continually layers her outfits, sometimes mixing patterns and silhouettes, and maximizes her creative expression through distressed layered tees, belts, pyramid-studded bands, and other punk accessories. By contrast, the Cigarette Trousers felt plain.  On the other hand, Hachi is always changing her look to fit a new job or to reflect a new stage of her life. As a high school student, Hachi’s look was reminiscent of the early gyaru/kogal style, with loose socks, loafers, cellphone charms, and other accessories to individualize strict school uniforms.  As the series progresses, Hachi’s looks change. She sometimes mixes vintage pieces from the ‘50s and '60s (think Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s), and at other times, Hachi dips into coquette or Y2K styles. It is understandably difficult to adapt to such a varied style profile, but some fans felt that more options should be available that better evoke Hachi’s range of taste. There was also artificial-scarcity-fueled frustration, particularly for high-demand items like the Giant Orb Lighter — modeled after Shin’s signature piece (but not in the iconic silver finish popularized in the manga) — that were limited to just 250 units worldwide. Price was another sticking point. The Giant Orb Lighter, for example, retailed for nearly $1,800, and many fans criticized the use of brass instead of gold in the jewelry items. And yet, despite these missteps, the collection largely sold out. THE ENDEARING When asked her thoughts about Nana’s enduring legacy, Yazawa said during her interview with Vivienne Westwood: “I’ve always believed that even as times change, human emotions themselves don’t change much. Being able to have my work continue to be read is one of the greatest joys an author can have.” Her answer, in part, illuminates the reasons behind the collab selling out despite its downsides: emotional resonance. Nana shines because of its ability to communicate the exciting yet fleeting years of early adulthood. The playful mixing of styles. The rush of firsts while setting out on your own. It taps into that expansive feeling of possibility while also delivering the cold clarity of consequence. Each character in the series has an opportunity to grow from their past or choose to repeat it. This emotional resonance, paired with the stylish visual branding behind Nana, is a key factor in the collection’s success despite its criticisms. There’s also another element at play — the recent resurgence of early-2000s nostalgia.  According to Archrival, 59% of surveyed Zoomers  say they’d most like to live in the early 2000s because of its culture and entertainment. Brands recognize this selling point and are capitalizing on it: Hollister launched a dedicated Y2K capsule , Aéropostale now highlights an entire Y2K section online , and Coach’s resurgence  has been fueled in part by revivals of its classic leather and Soho-styled bags. But just because nostalgia sells doesn’t mean it feels authentic. Two pieces from the Vivienne Westwood x Nana collaboration, shot by Alex Soroka. THE MEANINGFUL For nostalgia to feel authentic, brands must do more than replicate past designs — they need to reinterpret what made them desirable, tap into current cultural moments, and innovate. Some brands are doing this well. Gap’s collaboration with designer Sandy Liang  reimagined ’90s and early-2000s essentials through her personal lens and Cantonese heritage. The result? A fun, unique, and refreshing collection that actually felt like a personal tribute to the 2000s. Similarly, ONE OF , an atelier specializing in deadstock and historical garments, transforms archival pieces into bespoke designs that honor their history while giving them new life. Both of these examples demonstrate that thoughtful, intentional reinterpretation — not mere replication — is what makes dipping into the past meaningful rather than exploitative. And perhaps that’s the real lesson behind the Vivienne Westwood x Nana collaboration: nostalgia itself isn’t the problem. It’s how we choose to handle it. FINAL THOUGHTS Despite drawing criticism for price point, a messy rollout, and certain design choices, the Vivienne Westwood x Nana collaboration helped solidify the series' fashion status, expose it to new audiences, and create buzz around its anniversary, which is invaluable. It will be interesting to see how future capsule collections from this collab (now with the benefit of fan feedback) perform and which key pieces from the series come to light. One takeaway brands can have from this collab is the importance of integrating culture, context, and history when working with artists or legacy IPs. It can’t just be about aesthetics or hype — it needs to be personal. After all, works like Nana create more than nostalgia. They define generations. They create moments that unite people across time.  As Nana once said, “People can't be just tied together. They have to connect.” 🌀 Amara Johnson  is a writer based in Philadelphia, PA. When she’s not writing, she’s reading or scrolling through Pinterest for style inspo. She loves finding the story in everything.