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Ripe are the fruits that hang low on the tree of romantic desire. Do you feel that? I’m sure you feel it all around you, online, offline, spiritually. Everyone is morphing into a court jester. Symptoms include yearning for an autistic girlfriend to the point that it gets creepy, casting judgment on people for having a boyfriend, and declaring “I need someone who can match my freak” in your Hinge profile, when your “freak” is just enjoying leaving the house. It is thrilling and addictive once you start, but going back seems like a Sisyphean task. I am referring to our collective inability to be sincere, earnest, and honest with ourselves and potential romantic partners. DAZED’s Angel Martinez recently penned this compelling article, investigating an alleged influx of men fetishising autistic women on dating apps — they say men, but let's be real, this issue supersedes the gender spectrum. The presumption that DAZED seems to offer is as integral to a viral article in 2025 as baking soda is to a cake rising: it's all men’s fault! They desire autistic women because they are vulnerable and easy to manipulate. It couldn’t possibly be because autistic women can be wonderful partners, or that maybe this is a sign of netizens’ well-meaning but misguided attempts to normalize neurodivergent romance. The piece paints autistic women as lacking agency and emotional depth, likening them to “people with youthful interests and colorful outfits.” What is most fascinating about this whole issue is not what is being said, but rather what is not being said. I’m not sure if it's AI, chronic irony poisoning, plummeting self-esteem rates, or a combination of all of the above, but our collective phobia of sincerity is only getting worse. Fetishizing autism is one piece of the puzzle, but this points to a larger problem, a communication breakdown that leaves us disjointed and maladjusted. Perhaps autistic people are being sought after because there is an illusion, to no fault of their own, that they are the last remaining sincere people on earth. To have faith in this myth is to do a misdeed to yourself and others. Stating that you’d like a partner with a specific neurodevelopmental condition needs to be taboo again. It’s not even about having “standards”; it’s that the premeditated inner scheming that goes into choosing partners is increasingly based on repairing complex shame systems that no one except oneself can fix. I’d love to travel back in time to 1970 and tell people that in 2025, youngsters are wearing T-shirts that say “girls love my autistic swag” with an image of the Grim Reaper on a motorbike. It didn’t originate with evil intent, but has snowballed into something monstrous after rolling down the long, debris-ridden slope of cyberspace. “Situationships” are another sign (though this is often rooted in insecure attachment) that people have a romantic drill sergeant inside them, whacking them with a wooden stick to stand up straight whenever they have thoughts of beginning a serious, devoted relationship. Art across space and time shows us this drill sergeant has always lived in us. Countless films, music, and other media depict women “playing hard to get,” not wanting to be tied down, and mediating their desires. As art and communication have migrated to digital spaces most accessible to young people, those ideas are amplified and much harder to ignore. Short-form content on TikTok prompts women not to settle for less (if he wanted to, he would), and gives us access to a host of advice on the pseudo-psychology of love. The perpetual nagging on social media for girls to stop chasing men and instead use the power of their mind to make one appear is a crude example of the psychological warfare we are encouraged to engage in for love. Videos like this instruct women to take a laissez-faire approach to dating, insisting on the part of men, “If they don’t want to work for it, they don’t want it.” Lying down and basking in the sun like a lizard waiting for a cricket to crawl by, brushing off all attempts at vulnerability or sincerity, might have worked wonders in the 1950s; nowadays, if you ignore men's assertions of romance, they will simply stop contacting you. Nobody has the time and energy to play the dating chess game anymore. Young couples are just trying to make rent and put food on the table for their cats. Even simple features, such as a push notification lighting up your phone and hailing your attention to somebody “liking” you on Hinge, have effectively rewired our reward systems. We’re conditioned into believing that, when navigating dating, you’re home free as long as you avoid stepping on broken glass or making too much noise. But romantic desire is programmed to be ritualistic, and quite frankly, irritating. The heterosexual dating gap is exacerbated by women’s ability to be financially independent and pursue post-secondary education; while this may not feel new, across millennia of societal adaptation and evolution, women’s lib is still fairly adolescent. Social scripts that have existed for thousands of years tell us that men should pursue, so it's no surprise that women are confused by the apparent lack of assertiveness. Could it be, perhaps, that social norms are finally changing? I thought we wanted men to embrace their emotional side, their inner tenderness, and that it’s OK not to be OK. We neglected to consider that, with these positive leaps in mental health care, we cannot cherry-pick the emotions we are encouraging people to connect with. When their machismo is unmasked, men likely feel a newfound discomfort. Pouting and using passive aggression online as a tool in hopes of inspiring women to leave their partners instead of communicating their needs is a lost cause. Needs boil down to the individual. Not everyone wants the same things from their partner, regardless of gender. And not everyone wants sincerity anymore. The addition of technology to mediate our relationships also changes the way we think about the distinction between childhood and adulthood — nonchalance signals maturity. A generation whose youth is intimately immortalized on Tumblr and the like tends to reject classic markers of childhood, including joy, naivete, risk, and play. They want to grow up fast and leave their potentially embarrassing home videos collecting dust in the attic (I guess they wouldn’t be on VHS at this point — iPod Touch videos, perhaps?). And yet they have the gumption to exclaim, “I’m a minor, you know!” when a man breathes too close to them. I don’t say this to disparage young women; the urge to run as far away as possible from your past self is real. Even just thinking back to your childhood can feel scary — we cannot imagine existing in a world where irony flies over our heads. Admittedly, my peers and I have uttered similar yearnings for an “autistic” partner more times than I can count. Sometimes, we’d even say “a little bit” autistic — this was years ago, however, I still see it online from time to time. We knew that it was utterly bizarre to think like this, yet it was everywhere, so it didn’t mean nothing. It’s helpful to reflect on earnestness as intrinsically linked to childhood. To remove the term “inner child” from its obsolete, pop-therapy context of today, and just leave the bones of the words stripped clean to their origin: what do you see when you envision her? Maybe you see innocence. Is it truly innocence, per se, or is it just the absence of shame? She might be sporting a Hannah Montana tee, whom she adores. It’s not a “guilty pleasure” to her; in fact, the very notion that deriving pleasure from something might spark guilt or shame is absolutely mind-boggling to her. In her book Cook, Eat, Repeat, celebrity chef Nigella Lawson stresses that guilt should play no part in pleasures. Of course, she was referring to food, but the same goes for desire. Digging deep, I realized that what I wanted when throwing around the term “autistic boyfriend” was to love someone who I could learn endlessly from, and have them love me so much that they would want to learn from me, too. I wanted devotion, an intellectual fortress, substance that fueled my rich inner world, and the ability to give back to theirs. “There are few greater pleasures than sharing your enthusiasms.” — Nigella Lawson via CBC Radio Desire begins at a cellular level. We are all wired to seek out mates that have healthy immune systems, reproductive fitness, all that sexy stuff. Someone with no hobbies or passions, especially as an adult, is not very likely to fit the bill for that kind of health. The undesirable basement-dwelling neckbeard gamer archetype has taught us this for decades. Depression takes an unspeakable toll on our bodies, and loneliness automatically increases our risk of death. These neuroses are often temporary and come in phases, though our primitive ape minds suck at remembering that. Having clear-cut interests serves as an indicator for cognitive focus, stability, and sociability, all of which are paramount in child-rearing — sorry to be that guy, but at the end of the day, we are all driven to seek partners because our biology wants us to have babies. I don’t condone fetishizing neurodivergence, but to put all our eggs in the basket of misogyny is not productive in this case. The aforementioned DAZED piece includes this statement by Milly Evans, an autistic sex educator, referring to the burst of “I’m looking for an autistic partner” in online dating profiles: “I’d like to have a conversation with these people to understand what they’re hoping to achieve.” Asking this question with the intention of waving a finger, like the article seems to do, is useless. Posing it as a rhetorical question, however, might yield fruitful revelations. When swiping between Hinge, Instagram, YouTube Shorts, and your inbox full of millennial marketing quips, the lack of linguistic code-shifting becomes increasingly palpable. Most people prefer to wade in the dialect of the masses; the warm, familiar waters of memetics, which is the smartest way to attract a mate, at the end of the day. Why wouldn't one make their dating app prompts as funny as possible? This language is universal. Women love a silly, goofy guy, right? Our species’ mating ritual is performed on iPhones, so it’s important to evoke a visceral emotional response in potential mates. Igniting laughter in someone is the most streamlined option — it creates an intimate physiological reaction, your face blushes, and you might even vocalize laughter. Have you ever laughed out loud at a flirty text and felt somewhat violated? I mean, what can I say — if food is the way to a man’s heart, laughter is the way to a woman’s heart (and bed). These intricate patterns are what make insincerity an easy fallback. When fishing for love on the apps, post-ironic humour is placed like sticky fly traps. It allows users to be easy to respond to, to be entertained, and then be kicked to the curb. Hinge bios that say “I need a woman with a touch of the ‘tism” are now as ubiquitous as live laugh love signs in TJ Maxxes. Historically, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl archetype is a classic example of a widely desired partner who puts aside her own desires to fix the male protagonist’s life. She’s full of whimsy and is not afraid of sharing her eccentricities with the world. Contenders in the dating marketplace that express a similar passion to MPDGs and people on the spectrum are very attractive, no doubt. I tried to illustrate this in a MS Paint project, shown below. Ripe, juicy, red fruits of sincerity hang from the tree of romantic desires’ weary branches (they taste like Swedish Berries gummies). Most notably, these fruits are low-hanging. These are three distinct examples of cultural byproducts produced by skirting around sincerity in any way we can. I’m sure they won’t be the last. The obsessive focus on maintaining nonchalance can also be seen as a nihilistic response to our capitalism fatigue. It’s a penetrating, bleak reality, and no wonder it’s so easy to roll our eyes at everything. A member* of a group chat I’m in recently unleashed their feelings at another user, stating: “idk how u dont see the actual active harm nonchalantism, brainrot, and insincerity does to you and the world at large. Anti-intellectualism is why tf this stupid ass country is bland, corrupt, (...) Especially for artists and creatives like me who care and will not conform to a hateful and disenfranchised world.” The palpable frustration shown by this individual is something I think many people feel, and the medium of this message, Discord, is a perfect snippet of irony. Being ambiguous is a useful skill, especially as women, in that we are often asked to be absolutely obsessed with something or, inversely, hate it (see this stellar Substack post by Liv Jarrell). It gets dangerous when ambiguity becomes a self-defense mechanism. Don’t get me wrong — I love ironic humor just as much as the next person born in 1999. Wearing a cloak of irony as armour prevents us from developing meaningful, complex relationships with one another. We’re constantly doing this balancing act of channeling our sense of childhood whimsy and our “adult” demeanor. I fear the muscles that allow us to do this meaningfully have atrophied, all at the hands of the fear of appearing naive. Harnessing the power of irony takes vigorous practice, akin to climbing the tree of romantic desire. The branches may look intimidating, but you do have the strength; your muscles have memory, too. Being a jokester can help us grow closer to those we love by offering a simple touch of vulnerability. Verbal irony can also help us regulate our emotions. But have you ever had a friend ironically enjoy another person? Forget about the ironic enjoyment of art, that of which we typically analyze through the lenses of camp and kitsch — this is human to human; sort of like bullying, but permissible, for some reason. It’s that one friend who leaves you bewildered when they say things like, “He’s so hot, I really like him, we had an amazing date, but I’m going to ignore his texts and maybe just hook up with him with a paper bag over his head.” Lying to yourself about your desires isn’t a new phenomenon, but the reckless ways we deploy irony and sarcasm (especially online) have waterboarded our last few breaths of conviction. This sort of rhetoric drives a wedge in all directions — towards our own needs, and towards our friends and family who are grasping at straws to give us the benefit of the doubt while we stumble through the outrageous, carnivalesque exhibition of modern romance. Biz Sherbert recently gave this golden advice in a Substack post: “Do not undercut your work, do not be self-deprecating. You did not 'write a thing.’ You wrote something.” I say: Say it with your chest. Write it on a cue card and tape it to your bathroom mirror. Throw your arms into a self-embrace, and say, It’s okay to want somebody who I find interesting. It’s OK that I don’t have the right tools to convey that on Tinder right now. I am scared, and I am willing to get better at this. The line between irony and cruelty is thin. The leaves on the tree of romantic desire carry toxic dewdrops leftover by an ironic storm. It’s truly poisoned the whole tree — once we accept nonchalance as a learned behavior, and stop denigrating autistic people (or anyone) in the process, a veil will be pulled back, revealing full individuals that deserve love and inquiry. Let’s leave having a crush on someone as a joke in elementary school. As bell hooks reminds us in All About Love, “If you do not know what you feel, then it is difficult to choose love; it is better to fall. Then you do not have to be responsible for your actions.” This book is a must-read, assigned to you by us. There will be no quiz, but please take notes. We are living in a mental health crisis; debilitating anxiety and depression make it even harder to say what you mean, and in some places, you’ll even go to prison for it. Sincerity is vulnerability. You don’t have to have it all figured out, but take a stab at it. Post that cute picture of you and your boyfriend. Write a long, enthusiastic blog post about your vintage clothing haul; people will love it. Commit to treating post-ironic humour like it’s nuclear, and practice discipline to wield it with clarity and consequence. We need to spread the fruits of sincerity and share them with the less fortunate. People are starving, and the fruit is inches from the ground, about to drop and rot into nothing at all. This is an excellent opportunity to practice uplifting each other as citizens of the web, and, dare I say, set an example for the next generation. In a world where it seems like your only communication tools are the skull emoji and fire emoji, practice dipping your feather into the inkwell of earnestness — hey, it might feel like an old friend. 🌀 Lauren is a writer and archivist based in Canada. She is the editor-in-chief of Heart Note Press, the perfume magazine.

On the runway, Whimsicraft — ephemeral design with a bric-a-brac, Boy Scout feel — has taken over. Now, it’s showing up everywhere else. When you see the phrase "coming of age," your imagination might drift towards themes of purity or rebellion: Lady Bird or "1979" by Smashing Pumpkins. For decades, conceptualizations of teenage experience have been squeezed like a natural wine bar on Galentine's — the well is dry. In an attempt to reconcile with the spiritually-beaten dead horse birthed by media, depicting alabaster young virgins learning tough life lessons via mentally ill men, a new phenomenon is now being wrung out by fashion designers, stylists, and artists at large. This coming of age is not the run-of-the-mill Lolita story we all know and (mostly) love, but rather stems from the specific, awkward process of identity formation and the construction of a personal worldview that occurs from early adulthood to middle age. Instead of feeling longing for our childhood, our nostalgia has only naturally shifted towards our early twenties. Our love for childhood whimsy is taking the form of a more mature fantasy story — one that suggests scarcity and a primal drive for survival, à la Moonrise Kingdom. This pertinent cultural shift is being embraced by an aging Gen Z, as it trickles down from trend-setting fashion houses like Prada and Loewe. Whimiscraft is huge on the runway this season, with ephemera all pointing to a bric-a-brac, Boy Scout feel. This harkening to wistful crafting stands in the way of the clean girl, reminding them it's okay to get a little mud on your dress. Lately, the Miu Miu show has ushered in mossy tones, muted stone grays, and hints of fur that suggest Dr. Zhivago. Most notably, actress supreme Gillian Anderson walked the show in what one might call a bejeweled paper-bag princess dress. Calvin Klein also featured a canvas dress that looks like it could be made of paper, further cementing our desire for analog materials rather than chrome and plastic. It still involves repurposing old industrial materials, but the materials we consider “old” and “industrial” look very different because history shapes our perception of the meanings behind words. In speaking about materials, the tangible is key here — what we experience with our five senses: how linen feels in our fingers, the noise of industrial projects, how our eyeballs absorb visual culture, the sets, the sound stages, the costumes, the physicality of actors interacting with their surroundings. It’s a post-literate world, where there is no reading between the lines, because there are no lines. As visuals of dystopia wherein we hand our agency over to computers seem to be almost mass-produced at this rate (from Hollywood, but also other cultural engines like universities and other institutions), a collective paranoia seems to have our desires defaulting to organic matter; deep down, we know that what waits in our “future” is essentially steampunk, minus the satirical digs at capitalism. This is because we will have swallowed the toughest pill of them all: that we would be nothing without the capitalist machine. Perhaps there is no way out but through — we are somewhere in the process of mourning the privilege we once had to question the ethics of AI, as depicted in Blade Runner and other classic sci-fi productions. Sheet metals, plastics, glass, and rubber are now our old materials. In garment production, natural materials like wool, cotton, bamboo, and silk are a luxury. They are the new. “It is easier to imagine the end of the world than to imagine the end of capitalism.” — Mark Fisher The first bouts of this phenomenon were seen in a sudden influx of paper crowns, the kind one would pull out of a Christmas cracker. Historically, they were first worn by peasants during Saturnalia, an ancient holiday when the lower class essentially cosplayed as the bourgeoisie, and vice versa. The servants were fed delectable grand feasts by their lords, just for one day. The paper crown craze borrows from that mythology, appropriating it in a personal style as a means of subverting power. I’m not saying that Adela on the cover of NYLON wearing a crown and nude tights is a profound act of protest, but it is a significant part of setting this trend. Enya Umanzor, a trend-setting elder and co-host of Emergency Intercom, also posted a selfie not too long ago in an adorable crown hat. More crowns are being created by artists like Maddy Dudu, who was the unfortunate victim of an all-too-common large-scale copycat production by corporations, via the distribution of her work on Pinterest. Key elements of runway Whimsicraft for 2026 include satchels, smocks, scarves, capes, jumpsuits, princess dresses, pajamas, and a general breadth of inspiration drawn from young adult fiction like Le Petit Prince and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, to name a few. The Valentino Resort 2026 collection was presented with the models all lying on a salmon-pink, silk-sheet-clad bed. I must stress that this shoot is completely non-sexual — the models are seen lying in natural sleeping positions, and they look like they’re having the best nap of their lives. One image shows the model hugging a large pillow on her side for back support, while another shows her clutching her keys, still in hand. The whole production feels like a tranquil respite from the three H’s of entering your thirties: heartburn, high blood pressure, and hemorrhoids. The visuals also borrow cues from what the Consumer Aesthetics Research Institute (CARI) terms "soft colonial wanderlust." This is a boilerplate millennial art style — think the album cover of In The Airplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel; compasses atop yellowing, decaying maps; and monarch butterflies landing on grandfather clocks with Roman numeral faces. Shinyakozuka’s recent Spring 2026 collection showcased many pajama silhouettes and cozy socks that barely clung to models’ feet. Simone Rocha also embraced bedtime, with models in princess dresses clutching fluffy pillows. The large fashion houses aren’t the only players in this game — in fact, they are just catching up. Castenada, a Paris-based house, has recently rolled out its crafty, analog collection of garments that point to illustrations in short novels for teens. The plaid balaclava with petite horns would have Max from Where the Wild Things Are salivating. The company aims to encapsulate self-expression and to encourage playful imagination to thrive through clothing. I think it’s only a matter of time before they come out with a paper crown. “Elizabeth, you are a mess! You smell like ashes, your hair is all tangled and you are wearing a dirty old paper bag. Come back when you are dressed like a real princess.” — Robert Munsch, author of The Paper Bag Princess In an interesting turn, Whimsicraft is all about fashioning androgyny in a practical, utilitarian way instead of performatively. It calls to mind the people’s American Olympic princess Alyssa Liu removing her they/them pronouns from her Instagram bio. We’re optimistic towards the future; we’re grasping at meaningless determination; we’re taking elements of fantasy fairytales and grounding them in a more natural reality, like we’re Boy Scouts rebuilding millennia after the world has ended. It’s a survival challenge, but there is no imminent threat. There are no giant robots and flying cars; there are tents made of old landfill Shein clothes fastened by jute-woven rope. Looking back at this 2020 Vogue article on embracing technology in fashion feels like warping through a time machine — the once-novel practice of designers bringing tech to the runway now feels like such well-trodden news. Though I am fatigued — many are — of dissecting Gen Z’s proclivity for whimsy, it’s hard to ignore when it's incessantly reflected back to us on our iPhones. The whimsy in this iteration of Whimsicraft takes the shape of something more harrowing: we won’t be gluing paper stars onto recycled plastic bag tunics to signal counter-culture or incendiary values; we’ll be doing it because the opossum-fur loincloth we’ve been donning for three months is falling apart. There are simply fewer and fewer things to look at, not only in terms of widespread environmental destruction, but also in traditional ephemera we use daily, going to our 9-5’s, like printers, paper cutters, fax machines, pencils (pens, even), all becoming part of the singularity. While technology helps us solve countless problems, an underlying sense of worthlessness ensues — the whole world being “solved” fundamentally erodes the formation of identity and the potential for agency. Putting questions of class and labor aside, Gen Z is living in a time when we are challenged to balance our use of personal style to signal maturity and authenticity with individuality. Just recently, Maison Margiela showcased its Fall 2026 collection in a shipping container yard in Shanghai — models in extravagant organza gowns wove between towering Temu containers. The stark contrast between waste and recycling certainly served its purpose here, with outfits made of ceramics, cashmere, paper, leather, and other upcycled novelties. A 90-kilo porcelain dress was the showstopper, with onlookers reporting the sound of the glass chiming and clunking down the runway was both eerie and inspiring. The model struggling to walk (and breathe, probably) emphasized the haunting, Silent Hill nurse-esque spirit of the show. What’s really fascinating is the reception — on social media, commenters express how it feels apocalyptic, like the dresses are intergalactic, essentially a horrifying reflection of the “times we’re in.” The garments are certainly aligned with paper-bag chicness. One comment states, “It's giving futuristic royalty / anime / horror movie.” I would love to know what about it specifically feels futuristic, and why horror. If the models weren’t anonymous, would these sentiments change? “Reality has turned a bit too sharp around the edges, and with the world growing less hospitable by the hour, who isn’t tempted to bury their head under a pillow and call it a catnap?” —Vogue critic Tiziana Cardini on Valentino Resort 2026 Though it may not appear so, paper bag princess chic stands apart from any notion of “trad”. When we think of “natural” materials and minimal frills, cottagecore or its various offshoots might come to mind. Tradwife style upholds a subservient form of femininity, while the femininity we see here is reminiscent of playing dress-up as a child — it’s pretend, unassigned. The power hierarchies signaled by the costumes are muddled; the garments call back to cultural scripts like gender and class, but it’s more like we’re cosplaying as a society that upholds those norms. Just like the festival of Saturnalia, the mythology behind clothing pieces is deceiving. So ladies, get out your burlap sacks and strap yourself in. Part of maturing in this era is biting the bullet and accepting that a lot of things suck and that there is not much we can do about them, so we should focus on taking care of ourselves. Chin up, princess, your paper crown is falling.🌀 Lauren is a writer and archivist based in Canada. She is the editor-in-chief of Heart Note Press, the perfume magazine.

On the perfume of Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides. Do you ever spray the bathroom with Febreze to cover up the horrifying scent you left behind? In Sofia Coppola’s 1999 film The Virgin Suicides, Cecilia Lisbon uses Dana’s Heaven Sent Eau de Parfum as an air freshener to mask the fact that her life is a burning heap of garbage. If you’ve ever been a 13-year-old girl, you know that your beauty products and knick-knacks become an extension of your physical body, a tangible safety net to cradle your fall into pre-pubescent despair. I recently got my hands on the 2001 version of Heaven Sent from FragranceNet — however, in the film, the bottle that Cecilia (Hanna R. Hall) has is a vintage bottle by Helena Rubinstein, originally launched in 1941. Both the modern and original bottles look almost identical, highlighting Coppola’s intense eye for authenticity. (This was confirmed by World Wide Aura, an awesome digital archive of beauty products in TV and film.) On Cecilia’s vanity, designed by Coppola and production designer Jasna Stefanovich, beside Heaven Sent lies a bottle of Jovan Musk cologne from 1972, among other delicate girly accessories — Cecilia has good taste. Sociologist Erving Goffman’s dramaturgical theory of impression management provides a useful lens to peer at Cecilia through. In his 1956 book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Goffman theorizes that we have a “backstage” and “frontstage" self, and we perform them differently according to each circumstance we find ourselves in. Putting the ubiquity of curating a persona nowadays (like with social media) aside, real-life intimate social micro-interactions are where observing impression management can be useful. This goes much deeper than simply being “real” or “fake.” It is often more instinctual, dare I say, primitive — we want our tribe to accept us so we can hunt together and not die of starvation. Humans have learned we can attempt to manage how other people perceive us, and in the modern era, consumerism makes it incredibly easy to control that external perception. You can order a new persona on Amazon and have it at your doorstep in 24 hours. In the film, Cecilia uses Heaven Sent as a prop in the tragedy that is her life. Maybe she purchased it herself; maybe it was a gift from her evil mother (Kathleen Turner) — we don’t know. Regardless, it’s really quite meta: Coppola uses the perfume as a prop to tell the story in her movie, while Cecilia uses it as an instrument to embellish her short fictional life. People use fragrance as camouflage all the time — like most commodities, this is what makes buying things fun (for example, I wear Angel by Mugler at times when I feel like a goblin). If you take an introductory acting class, the teacher will most likely ask you Stanislavskian questions about your character, such as: “Who are you?” “Where were you born?” “What does this character do in their spare time?” Every speck of detail is paramount to building a robust narrative. Similarly, knowing what a movie character smells like, or what personal products they use can enhance the story’s reality and texture through olfactory exploration. The Lisbon sisters’ accouterments strewn about their home, art on their walls, and more stuffed animals than books on their shelves is an unforgettable vignette for most tweenage females — as biological and psychological emotional turmoil ensues, like the shock of reconciling with not being girl nor woman, but rather an excruciating third thing, the only way to survive it is by retreating to your bedroom dwelling. The bedroom and its contents are the safety mats placed for your first gym class cartwheel; if it’s not just right, the fall will hurt. Hanna R. Hall has the perfect face for melancholy. She effortlessly evokes the boredom, dissatisfaction, and indifference that is mandatory to feel like a Lisbon sister. Her permanent half-smile suggests she spiritually passed away years ago, and her physical body is staying awhile just to mess around — but she is looking forward to leaving this dimension entirely. The peak of Cecilia’s palpable discomfort can be pinpointed to the birthday party scene, when she has a front-seat view of the forced theatrics her mother and father (James Woods) orchestrate for her party. The gathering, prescribed by a therapist who thinks Cecilia just needs to socialize with males her age, is quite literally the nail in her coffin. After the teen boy with Down syndrome is brought into the party and cruelly paraded around like a circus clown by the other boys and girls, Cecilia excuses herself to her bedroom and attempts suicide once again, finally with success. In that brief scene, her empty glare sends a very clear message — this life is a joke. She longed to be heard by her mother, for her to express genuine interest in her life — endangered animal species, for example — but yet her mother is incapable of that connection. She is gone, leaving a cloud of honeyed flowers dipped in powder behind. Each sublime element in Heaven Sent plays a crucial role in this tragedy, from the exposition to the denouement. Let’s dive into a breakdown of the composition of this fragrance, as listed on the box: TOP Apple blossom, bergamot, mandarin, lily of the valley (muguet) MIDDLE Iris (orris), jasmine, heliotrope, rose BASE Amber, musk, oakmoss, patchouli, sandalwood It’s violet petals crushed into a powdery elixir dripping with desire — the desire to be loved, accepted by parents and peers, or just to get through grade school in the suburbs before your excruciating Catholic home life drives you to kill yourself. It follows the precise formula for a chypre, down to the subtle oakmoss bottom note. As it dries down, it is pure baby powder thanks to the orris and heliotrope blend, bearing striking similarities to Heliotrope Milkbath by Universal Flowering. Add a splash of almond milk, and it will be difficult to make out which is which. This baby powder is so saccharine it borders on gourmand — and has me wishing for a Pixy Stick full of it. Heaven Sent serves as a tool to mask Cecilia’s angst as the youngest sibling and is a piece of the desperate bridge extended to her mother in longing for emotional presence. Heaven Sent is pure powdery innocence, made with the tears of angels, a protection spell against all evil — which ultimately contrasts with her miserable life. The ornate bottle is a direct pathway from the Earth to the clouds, a holy grail that ushers her toward mortality. There is something Rumpelstiltskineqsue to it; an imp-like deity surely weaved this perfume out of gold just for her. In all seriousness, please don’t make Cecilia your role model — get help if you need it. But do yourself a favor and buy a bottle — not only to honor the inner Lisbon sister in all of us but to reconcile with our desire for a scent both feminine and prurient. 🌀 Lauren is a writer and archivist based in Canada. She is the editor-in-chief of Heart Note Press, the perfume magazine.

We have strayed so far from the sensual light of Tom Ford’s Gucci. The ephemeral notion of “Desire” is slipped into the crevice of every product, campaign, and consumable — it is a call-to-action, an attempt to grasp sex itself. Desire acts as an emotional salve to soften the blow of parting with a hard-earned lire. In fashion, it awakens a scarcity mindset that threatens to spew open and erupt in the form of late-night Tiktok trawls, rabid wishlist spiels, and digital fawning. Arguably the greatest architect of this is the bona fide bon viveur Tom Ford. Capital “D” Desire has become his signature code. Since Haider Ackerman debuted as Creative Director for the Tom Ford brand last March, Ackerman has sought to imbue the label with the same raunchy witticisms seen from the namesake designer’s Gucci tenure. Ackerman’s SS26 campaign imagery, shot by Drew Vickers, spotlights leather goods, including a smackable corporate bag delicately clutched to obscure a nude model’s rear. Susie Cave smolders, partially masked by the erect collar of a mesh, pine-green trench. Prior to the va-va-voom luster regaled for its sexed-up commercialism, the Gucci company was atrophied by immoveable piles of duty-free stock, a conservative reliance on its bygone greats (John Wayne’s penchant for moccasins can only get a company so far), and familial power struggles. In 1989, retail executive Dawn Mello helped to restructure the company amidst financial crises, and cast Tom Ford into a ‘jack of all trades’ creative director role. Ford, inextricably driven by ambition, welcomed the challenge — after all, he is the same man who cut his teeth at Cathy Hardwick by harassing the designer until a job offer was made. It was the ultra-sleaze of Tom Ford’s Gucci that revealed the perverse underbelly of a neglected house, and catapulted it into a $4 billion valuation by the turn of the century. His FW 1995 collection was an undeniable turning point for the brand. An amalgamation of hedonistic, jet-set glamour had editors frothing at the mouth. Marrying the 70s Halston girl, a beguiling reference considering Ford’s own Studio 54 trysts, with Ford’s own tantalising optimism created a high-octane debauchery. Amber Valletta sauntered out in velvet hip huggers and a plunging chartreuse silk shirt, dipped indelibly to the navel. Punctuated by a horsebit belt, its Hepworthian curves mirrored the hard-edged areas of the body. It was a sure-fire hit. Madonna snatched up a runway look for her appearance at the 1995 MTV VMAs, much to a tipsy Courtney Love’s envy, who hurled makeup paraphernalia at Madonna during a post-show interview with Kurt Loder. The appearance marked a spike in Gucci loafer sales. Desire is most visceral in the tactile and sensorial. Ford never shied away from titillating his audience, using “music as a tool” and an extension of his provocative arsenal. Calling on the Fugees’ rendition of “Killing Me Softly with His Song” for FW96, a lusty atmosphere was heightened by the throbbing soundtrack. A flush of skin-skimming, jersey dresses were stamped at the pelvis and sternum by circular cut-outs emblazoned with Gucci hardware. The slinkiest red velvet suit was followed by swathes of ostentatious fox fur. Katherine Betts reported for Vogue that “the effect was Pavlovian. By the end of the show, breathless editors and reporters were panting “Gucci, Gucci, Gucci,” whilst Tim Blanks quipped the designer had “lit the fuse of the sex bomb”. Tom Ford’s early days at Gucci are in some ways parallel to Anne Bancroft’s portrayal of the sultry cougar Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate (1967). His collections fronted by oil-slicked models louchely clad in fabrics coyly ask, “Would you like me to seduce you?” aware of their sensuality and knowing that refusal is futile. Imagery headed up by Mario Testino and Carine Roitfeld fortified this vision. The SS03 campaign of a male model grasping the heel of Louise Pederson’s silver peep-toes mirrors the oft-parodied shot through Mrs Robinson’s legs of the hapless Benjamin Braddock. Whilst all of Ford’s campaigns carry a throughline of voyeurism, not one did it quite as explicitly as FW 1997. This campaign toys with it on an industrial, governmental scale. Lo-fi, grainy effects mimic surveillance footage from CCTV cameras. We watch unconsenting on the orgiastic piles of people, breathy mid-make-out close-ups, and zoomed-in shots of varnished pumps whose concrete-splitting steel heel cast unforgiving shadows. In a culture on the precipice of unbridled internet access, this imagery “caught that tension early”. Subjects of the SS 2000 campaign were entirely aware of the observer. Luridly saturated, a scene depicts multiple models decked out in a sizzling python print. One male model is suspended in a water tank à la Damien Hirst, palm pressed to glass, peering above the rump of a Jackie 1961. Another model stands accusingly next to the vitrine in shocking pink tights and a deep-slit turquoise python dress. Ford fortuitously dubbed the collection as a mash-up of “Farrah Fawcett, Blondie, and a little bit of Gwenyth Paltrow” to speak to its glimmers of a late 70s glamfest (The Goop meister slithered into the blue python dress for a 1999 Tommy Hilfiger exhibit at The Met). All subjects lock eyes with the camera lens. Eros lies in the suggestive. Nowadays, Gucci to me is synonymous with the Sloane Rangers that slip into twee, horsebit loafers for £800 a pair, as flaccid in their style convictions as their Gail’s pastries. Authors Ann Bar and Peter York attribute the uniform to a hunger for a “military equine” look (Official Sloane Rangers handbook, 1982). It feels a cruel end for a brand that sold desire with scandalous pubic hair logo-mania (thanks to Carmen Kass), or shoulder bags so racy they were penned as “car-paint-slick vermillion”. Let’s hope Demna can bring back sex. 🌀 Flora Ivins is a writer and armchair critic based in London. You can often find her plumbing the depths of eBay or online @flosivie.

Against the rising tide of AI, four knitwear designers speak about the joy, craft, and ritual of tactile art. All images courtesy of the artists. Nothing gets between you and your knits. Well, maybe a few underpinnings and layers, but for knitwear designers, what’s more personal than building a wardrobe with their own two hands? Knitting allows one to construct a textile and, in turn, a garment that allows one to become the body in their “body of work.” Speaking with four knitwear designers, ranging from professionals to hobbyists, writer Hannah Black aims to untangle the threads among self-expression, self-care, the body, the domestic, creativity, craft, hobby, and perfectionism in the age of AI. This interview was conducted via e-mail in March 2026 and has been edited for grammar and clarity. Hannah Black: How did you learn to knit? How long have you been knitting? Amelia Gillis: I had a roommate when I was 21 or 22 who taught me how to cast on and knit (just the knit stitch, I wasn’t ready to purl yet). After we moved out of our house, I didn’t have any materials of my own, so I pretty much lost that knowledge. I taught myself to crochet at 29 after getting a WFH job. I’m a physical person; I like to move. Working from home is great in a lot of ways, but it does make me restless, so keeping my hands busy helped. After about a year of crocheting, I felt up to the challenge of reintroducing myself to knitting; this time with more focus. It’s been three expansive years, I’m obsessed. Ciara Joy: I learned [by] watching a lot of YouTube videos in slow motion and on repeat. I have memories of my grandmother trying to teach me when I was a kid and not having the patience... I learned to sew in first grade and always knew I loved making clothes, but knitting never really factored into my imagination as a real way to make anything other than sweaters. So much has changed! Michelle Nia: I learned to knit in school and also by going to a knitting club with my mom as a child. I was instantly in love. The first thing I made was this fuzzy white scarf that had rainbow pompoms intertwined with the yarn. I remember it so well, but it's long gone now. I've been knitting on and off ever since. Hannah Siegfried: I taught myself how to crochet in spring 2022 after my friend Amelia took it up. [I] mostly [taught] myself by watching YouTube videos. After I got the hang of crochet, I wanted to expand to knitting, so I got one of those circular Sentro knitting machines in winter 2023-2024. I don't know how to knit properly yet, as I've been able to do everything I want to do with the Sentro so far, but I will probably learn how to actually knit at some point! HB: What does your practice look like? Do you use a machine or any form of technology to create garments? Do you go into a studio/work in a specific area of your home? AG: I tried getting a hand-crank knitting machine, but it felt like more hassle than it was worth. I love a good tinker, but I felt awkward and disconnected from the work. I like the gradual, tactile nature of hand-knitting. I like to learn that way. I’m a double earth sign, and I think that manifests through my hands. When I bake, I’m usually using my hands to form a dough or a crust. When I shop for clothes, I shop largely by touch. In terms of tools, I use a notebook to keep measurements, plans, rough sketches, and math I do by hand. Solving for x is tea! It looks cute on the page and keeps me sharp. I’m a writer, [and] I’ve kept a diary since middle school. Now that I’m older, I have a planner, a to-do list notebook, a diary, and a knitting notebook. Physically writing things and seeing [them] on the page is essential to me; otherwise it’ll float away with all the other balloons of things I can’t remember. CJ: I like to knit by hand and with a machine. I find working with the machine more fun, engaging, and challenging, but hand-knitting is very grounding and restorative. Most of my time on the machine the last couple [of] years has been in production for other people, but I try to keep a hand project going in the meantime. That will usually live in a little silk lingerie pouch bouncing from purse to purse for months on end, letting myself have something to pick up without much expectation on the result or timeline. When I'm working by hand, I almost exclusively use the straight bamboo needles (I'm so bad at working in the round), usually in a larger gauge because I'm still a bit impatient, and freehand it in pieces, leaning on my sewing background to build it out. These steps keep the process as simple as possible in my mind, so I stay unbothered in the long process before a final result. The machine I have at home is a chunky domestic flatbed (SR150) that is much older than [I am] and has certainly seen better days... It lives on my desk in my tiny bedroom, surrounded by an irrational amount of yarn. When I need a crisper, more reliable experience for a project, I am lucky to have access to other machines in community studio space [or] friends' studios when they're not in use. MN: I prefer to knit by hand, but I also love playing with my knitting machine. I like to combine different mediums when making something. Sometimes, starting a project on the machine and switching to needles or vice versa. HS: Yes, I use the Sentro machine when I want to knit something! I usually crochet or knit in my living room so I can sit at a table for the knitting machine, but sometimes I will crochet or sew my knit pieces together on my bed if I want to switch it up and be in my bedroom. HB: What does the perfect time to knit look like? Would you wear a specific outfit or fragrance when getting into the kitty gritty? How does the fantasy of the “perfect time to knit” differ from the reality? AG: The perfect time to knit is when I feel like knitting! My favorite place to knit was in public when I lived in New York, usually on the train. Like most train activity, no one usually cares or pays much attention, and you can get a lot of progress done on your morning commute. The best was when someone would take an interest in my project and I could have a nice little moment with a stranger. Once I was knitting outside a cafe and a girl walked by and said, “Exactly,” in her stride. Like, exactly!!! It’s so inspiring to have those interactions with people, even in passing. A guy actually gave me his business card once because he wanted me to give him knitting lessons! I loved watching other people knit in public, even if I didn’t have my project on me. It’s mesmerizing. Everyone has their own way; I love seeing different hand placements and techniques and color choices. CJ: I have very different answers between [using my] machine [versus] hands. My perfect hand-knitting scenario is as cozy as possible, with a nice beverage, some music or Housewives, and a good yarn that I can look forward to touching for a long period of time. I'm imagining my mom's old painting hoodie, no pants, leopard print blanket, "stress" incense, and a bit of my jasmine essential oil room spray. [A] perfect machine-knitting scenario is lots of free time ahead, a sturdy chair with a good back, lots of caffeine, and a loudspeaker. Sometimes it's meditative, and sometimes it feels like a high-speed chase... I'm usually working with others when I have machine access these days — so pants on, but comfy — and a top that won't get me stuck in the machine... The best time to knit is whenever I get the chance, in reality, but there's definitely a perfect cocktail of motivation, inspiration, attention span, and easy access somewhere in between. MN: I knit whenever I can. At home, I turned a portion of my living room into my studio, and it works nicely. Normally, I like to knit in the morning if I have time, but often it will be at night. I'll light some candles, put a show or movie on, and just chill. But in reality, most of the time I'm knitting, I'm surrounded by a mess of yarn and tools. HS: Anytime I'm feeling really inspired to work on a piece! Whenever I'm excited about something I'm making, I naturally gravitate towards spending my free time working on it. Bringing to life a garment that I imagined in my head helps me bring my fantasy world to fruition in reality, so I see it more as a bridging of both worlds. I definitely like wearing cozy clothes so I can be as comfortable as possible, especially when working with the knitting machine, as the movements for that can be really repetitive and hunched over. HB: How does the process for a garment begin? What guides your choice of material? Does the textile/tactile feel inform your design process, or does design beget the material type? Are there any particular techniques you enjoy employing? AG: The planning has always been fun for me - making gauge swatches, measuring, math, etc. It helps me visualize the finished product (though I do accept that nothing I plan will ever look exactly like I envisioned). After that, I mainly feel out a color or texture scheme that seems cute or appropriate for the project. The weight has little to do with my choices unless I’m following a pattern. I usually do this as I go, especially with scrap projects, which are my favorite! CJ: I almost always decide what I want to make based on the materials I have on hand, and then if there's a technique I want to practice or something I've been feeling is missing from my wardrobe, I'll shape the results from there. I only use either repurposed materials or natural fibers, and depending on the texture of the yarn and the knitting methods I have access to, I'll decide if it's best for something wearable or more decorative. I definitely feel very inspired by textures and excited by the variety you can play with when making your own textile; there's so much room to experiment. I'm also very interested in transformation and repetition when I'm feeling inspired, so drawing from things I see in my everyday, shapes and spaces and textures, and imagining them translated into something knit. MN: When I get an idea for a knitting project, I immediately start thinking about what yarn I'm going to use. To me, the material is the most important and is what really makes something special. I love finding vintage or discontinued yarn online, and I've also been experimenting with dyeing my own... It's so fun. There's an emotional layer to the things I make, too, which reflects my own life. The clothing has a secret story. HS: The process usually starts with the colors and textures of the yarn I pick out. I decide if I want to use certain colors together or use just one color of yarn, and [letting] the thickness of the color(s) I've picked help guide the shape or style of garment I want to make. I'm also really lucky to get all my yarn now from the thrift store where I work, but it can be hard to know the exact make of the yarn I pick. As for the designs of garments, if I don't immediately envision something in my head, I’ll look through my likes on Poshmark or Instagram for silhouette inspiration. I also love combining both knitting and crochet in one garment. I make all my garments freehand to fit my body and don't follow patterns, which makes the process kind of like a fun puzzle. HB: Do you usually go into a new knitwear project with a goal of progress to accomplish? How much of creation is relaxation and repetition, and how much feels like a product is the end result? Is it unwinding or is it work? AG: I was a competitive figure skater growing up, and one of the biggest things I took away from that time was learning how to have fun doing the same thing over and over. Performing at a competition was nerve-racking and scary. But the months, sometimes years, developing that program repeatedly in preparation for hours a day, changing little things here and there, and having fun exploring was what brought me the most joy. The product is the end result, but that is just one aspect of it. That’s the conclusion, which to me is far from the point. The act of creation is more valuable and satisfying than the finished result. It’s work, there’s no denying that. But the goal is to find the play in that work, to find difference and opposition in repetition. All of that is there to appreciate. The fact that it is work and you make time for it and show up is the fun part. CJ: I try to learn something new or practice a skill with every new project, even if it's something really small. I rarely set big goals for myself in knitting unless it seems entirely feasible because I like to be as free with knitting as I can. I put a lot of pressure on myself in so many other parts of life, so in order to have this be a part of my life for as long as possible, I've been trying to keep the practice a bit protected. I like learning new techniques, but because I'm self-taught, there's always lots of catching up to do. I mostly find knitting relaxing and restorative, letting myself enjoy the process and taking my time, knowing that so many moments and so much work [go] into anything knit. What I love about knitting is also how it's so forgiving. A lot can go wrong, but also a lot can be recovered between the time you start and having a finished garment. HS: I like trying new silhouettes or putting garments together in a new way with everything I make. That doesn't mean I won't make the same silhouette twice; I just think it's more fun for myself to continue to try new things and test my limits of what I can do. It also makes every piece super one of a kind, which is fun. Because I'm always kind of switching it up in that way, and again because I generally gravitate toward making things when I'm inspired. Making garments hardly ever feels like "work." There’s some kind of unknown force (probably just creative energy) that gets me through making each piece. It doesn't necessarily feel like unwinding, either, though. I definitely have to take a break from making things sometimes to truly rest and recharge. HB: How does knitting intersect with your occupation or other creative outputs? AG: I work in luxury retail, so I’ve been able to research fabrics and garment construction as part of my job. It’s made me a more exacting knitter, a better planner, and a know-it-all when shopping, lol. Knowing how certain fabric behaves solves a lot of issues I would have otherwise had to learn through trial and error. HS: As I mentioned before, I work at a thrift store. It's a nonprofit creative reuse thrift store focusing on arts/craft supplies and bringing materials back to the community. Everything in the store is donations-based, so all the yarn I get is second-hand, which I love. Sometimes we get really nice quality, unique vintage yarn that you can't find anywhere else, which is super interesting and inspiring! It's also fun to meet people who come in to donate or shop wearing stuff that they've made and chat with them about that process. I’m also a photographer, so I love documenting myself in the stuff I make and finding different ways of doing [self-portraits]. HB: How does knitting factor into your self-care practice? Do you see knitting as a healing, meditative practice? Is there a layer of perfectionism to combat in the process? AG: It’s therapeutic. It lets my mind wander while keeping me focused and sitting still, something I have a hard time doing. It does heal me, even in those perfectionist moments. It’s all in the pursuit of beauty. The activity while resting. The repetition, the counting, the recounting. The doing and undoing. If you knit, you purl. You’re showing up at every angle, and somehow it calms you down. Sensational! CJ: I used to be better about dedicating in-between moments to hand-knitting. It was always very grounding and helpful for me. Knitting is such [an] amazing exercise for your brain, and I definitely feel a difference when I am more in the groove of things... Again, I love how forgiving the process is because it helps remove that layer of perfectionism to some degree... I spent ten years only making clothes with the cut-and-sew process, which is its own incredibly complex and interesting world of crafting, but it required a level of precision and structure that I noticed turned me off from creating a lot of the time. I am very grateful to be able to try things out for the sake of trying them, making sure that I'm putting care into what I'm doing and avoiding pressures [of prioritizing] producing [over] creating for as long as I can. HS: Getting to make something that I want to wear is definitely a form of self-care. I've always been very sure of my style, so being able to create things from my imagination that no one else is going to have is very healing and fun for me. I definitely have perfectionist tendencies, but because knitting is tactile, and I've never felt super gifted in making things with my hands, I've found [a bit] of acceptance that each piece isn't going to be perfectly made. [Imperfection] adds a little magic and uniqueness to each piece anyway. I feel like my perfectionism lies more in how the garment ends up fitting over if it's perfectly constructed. Since [most of my projects] are for myself, I'm pretty forgiving if there's a hole somewhere or something. That’s mainly why I don't really like making pieces for other people. I would go crazy trying to make the garment perfect and get anxious about it not being well-made enough. HB: What does creating slow garments and tactile experiences mean to you in the digital age? Does crafting feel particularly poignant alongside the era of AI? Do you think knitting as a trend is indicative of our culture’s swing towards physical media? Is it a way to move forward/fix attention spans/create community? AG: Working with your hands is a skill everyone should learn, regardless of technological advances. I believe that it’s a positive step forward... Those who take the time to learn a skill will always be able to pick it back up in some capacity; it will always be there. Start a club! Talk to people! Hang out! This is how to shift our attention toward community. Learning something as complicated as knitting or crochet means you may need help. AI is not going to help you correct your dropped stitch five rows back. CJ: I think it's incredibly important. Having a way to slow down and be with your mind and body while also doing something that brings you joy is invaluable and something everybody should have access to! All creative outlets are important for connection, stimulation, exploration, learning, feeling... Being able to snap in and out of the big picture and really understand what goes into making something happen, stitch by stitch or however it may be, is essential when we're so flooded with constant consumption / instant gratification / same day delivery / short form media, etc. [It’s important to] remember the fact that everything around us requires energy, water, labor, materials, time, preparation, and thought instead of acting like things just appear out of thin air and onto a shelf... Crafting is, of course, an incredible resource for the mind and a way to connect with others, and has been for thousands of years! Whether it be out of necessity, for survival, or for leisure or pleasure or both, the creation of textiles and other crafts and handiwork [has] been and always will be a part of our lives, our homes, our communities. MN: Creating in these times means a rejection of the fast-paced and hollow consumer culture we live in. It means creating your own world instead of letting someone else create it for you. I always think about the Lana Del Rey lyric, "No one's gonna take my soul away..." HS: I love being able to make stuff for myself and being self-sustainable in that way for sure. I also love using second-hand and thrifted materials for my garments. I'm someone who is strictly anti-AI, so being sustainable and pushing for autonomous creativity is really important to me. I also have experience working in the fashion industry… work[ing] for an independent brand in NYC for 2 years. Even though they were making smaller batches of products and it wasn't fast fashion, I really saw the waste and lack of care that goes into the fashion industry. It pushed me to want more independence in the sources of the clothes I wear. As someone who thrifted for most of my life and still has many clothes that I thrifted 10+ years ago, I've always made sure to be as sustainable as possible in that way, and creating my own garments sustainably is just another facet of that. I definitely think the popularity of knitwear and crocheting on the internet is an indication of culture's swing towards physical media and nostalgia for something tactile and unique, and I hope it continues to move in that direction! The community that people create around knitting and fiber arts is super inspiring and encouraging to see, and I love feeling supported by other knitwear designers! HB: How do you feel about sharing your work online/feeding the algorithms vs. protecting your peace/creating for creation’s sake? AG: I don’t think about algorithms while in pursuit of my creative projects, and I don’t have much in common with people who do. CJ: I think crafting and social media have become intertwined in so many ways [over] the last few years, but I feel the pressures particularly around using social media as a framework for starting a small business. It's clearly been an incredible tool for some people to be able to support themselves and share their work with the world, but I'm not sure it's the path for me, yet at least. I'm still trying to learn and play as a way to develop a skill and learn more about a technique that intrigues me, and I am indebted to social media for the community it has brought me in terms of learning. I wouldn't know how to knit or use a machine or do any part of this without social media! The machine-knitting community has grown so much in recent years, and social media played a huge part in reviving people's understanding of and interest in the craft. Domestic knitting machines weren't being produced or used much in the twenty-first century, but now there's such treasure troves of passing on knowledge and tips and tricks for such a finicky practice all over socials, and it's really sweet how much knitters can lean on each other in that world. I'm so lucky to have learned from so many amazing people and to be able to pass on what I've learned with friends new and old! I think it's a great way to connect with others and to connect with yourself, and I'm so glad I've found people and spaces to share that with. MN: Sharing my work... I try not to put so much pressure on it now and look at it more like a visual diary. Letting go of expectations makes it easier. I've given up on the algorithm. I take my breaks and disappear for a while. I think that's important. HS: As far as posting it online goes, I really just like posting what I like and what I make, and if other people see it and like it, that's awesome; if not, that's cool too. I've definitely had times where I've felt down, feeling like the algorithm isn't working the way I'd like it to, but at the end of the day, my friends and people [who] support what I make see what I post and are supportive, and that's all I care about! If more people discover me and my work, that's cool, but I don't necessarily need a huge audience or other people to like what I make. I've already decided that I like it. The reception or lack thereof from people around me doesn't really have an effect on how I feel about a garment. But again, if my intention was to create garments for other people to buy, that's when stuff like this would become a problem for me, because then I would be translating [engagement] as "Oh, this post didn't get much attention so I guess people don't like this design," and would start feeling bad about myself or put more pressure on posting. So I guess the point is I've freed myself from that pressure by just creating and posting for myself. It's my life! HB: What pieces (of yours) do you wear most often? How does your personal style reflect in your creations? What elements of yourself and your wardrobe do you see reflected in your work? How has knitting changed your style? AG: I love my accessories! I’m an accessories girl. My scarves, leg warmers, hats, etc. I love my crazy tops and scrap sweaters as well. I feel like each one of my pieces is uniquely mine based on the color scheme or pattern choice. They all seem to fit into this little world which, strangely enough, matches my apartment perfectly! Knitting has changed my style by teaching me how things should fit! It’s made me appreciate craftsmanship and sharpened my eye [for] quality garments. It’s a blessing and a curse. I miss the days when I could get a crochet shirt from Target and not feel weird about it! CJ: I wear a lot of tank tops, so I make a lot of tank tops. I used to work in [product development] for a small lingerie brand that focused on colors and materials that are meant to be shown off, not covered up, but built into an outfit. My spoils from that job really come in handy when styling all the sheer and hole-y things I seem to end up making... I only make things I'd want to wear, and a lot of times take things apart and [re-make] them into something else if they turn out as something I can't see myself reaching for. I don't think knitting has changed my style much other than strengthening my layering muscles a bit, but it's definitely representative of one of my top wardrobe priorities, which is comfort! My favorites right now are a hand-knit gray cotton top from a couple [of] summers ago. It was a random one day experiment that ended up being one of the best things in my closet; a white cotton tank in two-ply thread that you can tell is my first machine piece because it unravels a little every time I wear it from all the dropped stitches; and this super delicate tank, the first thing I ever properly produced for myself, fully fashioned on a standard-gauge machine. I swear I use color in other places. Crisp, cool neutrals are just what I really lean towards in my everyday. MN: I wear my knit socks a lot in the winter and an oversized mohair sweater that's speckled pink and grey, [which] might be one of my favorite color combos. I think for most of my work, my personal style is very much reflected. I'm drawn to the past, and you can bring glimpses of it back through fashion. I think that's soooo beautiful. There's an emotional layer to the things I make, too, which reflects my own life. The clothing has a secret story. HS: I wear the pieces I make pretty often! I really love incorporating stuff I've made into my everyday style. My personal style is definitely reflected, probably mostly in the silhouette of the garments, but obviously through being playful with color. Finding clothes that are flattering is a big part of my personal style, and luckily, knitwear garments [tend to] stretch, forming to the body nicely. I'm not sure if knitting has changed my overall style, but I definitely love exploring all different kinds of knitwear and gravitate towards more wearing knits now that I know how to make [them]. It's fun expanding the ideas of what knitwear can do and be, like trying more flirty silhouettes in contrast with the more traditional practice of fiber arts. 🌀 Hannah Black is a fragrance specialist and creative director living in Chicago, IL. Find her at the library, in North Side cinemas, or on Instagram @pinkvariegated.

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 .