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We are in a new era of cake, according to Bella Castillo. You heard it here first: all the cool girls are baking. A plated slice of cream cheese pound cake or a glut of frosting on the fingertip has overtaken what used to be pictures of boots, newly-threaded brows, or Canal Street Birkins. Surprisingly, this hasn't been a pandemic impulse, but rather one that's come quite recently — over the past few months, I've watched former style influencers put down Depop ripoffs and pick up rolling pins. Is it a tradwife RETVRN thing? The end result of young influencers moving into domestic adulthood? Or simply just a cute moment in culture? Whatever the answer may be, you are already late, because we have entered a NEW CAKE ERA: Naturally, I had to talk to New Cake Era theorist Bella Castillo — a 27-year-old social media coordinator out of Austin and the creator of the best cake recipe of all time. SB: First off — let’s talk your theory. Ugliness in response to twee has always been an aesthetic impulse, but I find it interesting that baking seems to be embracing both, now, with that stuffy-cute idea you talk about. Olive oil cake piled with a mountain of chantilly cream, something antiquated and romantic. Do you think people miss that kind of decadence? BC: I do! I think, culturally, there's this craving for this old-world sense of romance and luxury. Italian summer, aperitivo hour, silver dessert cups, white lace, tinned fish and caviar, etc. To Americans, especially, I think this sort of European motif has a "simple fancy" appeal. I also think stylistically there's been this big return to classic femininity, the whole "girl economy thing," coquette, Sandy Liang-core, [and] these things get mirrored in the food world, too. SB: When do you think baking styles hit their saturation point? Was there a certain trend or vibe you can pinpoint? BC: I think baking trends are like any other. When it gets to a point where you're seeing new bakers with near-identical styles popping up left and right, it's clear we've hit a point where something that began as original has become completely reductive. That's what prompted my tweet, was just seeing these squiggly flower cakes everywhere from people who didn't even bake in that way or have that sort of aesthetic before. It feels transparent to me when people are baking a cake, or designing a dress, or creating branding in a way they think they should be creating it and not in a way that comes from any sort of personal place. SB: Can you give some insight into the evolution of your personal style in and out of the test kitchen? BC: I think my style bleeds into all areas of my life. My ceramics, my illustrations, my cooking, my outfits, even my movements, it's all characterized by a sort of soft, delicate precision. I couldn't get away from it if I tried. SB: Do you have a certain baking/decoration style you follow, or is it based on instinct? Do you have any specific muses or sources of inspiration that consistently influence your work? BC: It's largely based on instinct, but I'm just as impressionable as anybody else! Certainly it's referential, though I don't usually try to recreate or emulate anyone else's style in particular. My most consistent inspiration is Paris Starn. I love the frivolity of her plating combined with her sort of playful approach to flavors. SB: Another thing that’s been incredibly pressing is baking as a kind of accessory — something that poxes people’s Twitter and IG feeds in lieu of what used to be fashion. There’s a fashionable element, there, to baking. Why do you think it’s become such a phenomenon? BC: I agree there's a big fashion crossover with baking! I think there's this newer concept of an it-girl cook/baker. People like @tenderherbs, @gabbriette, @paris.starn, @sophia_roe, @imogenkwok, @stolzes, @suea, they're chefs and bakers of skill, certainly, but they also lead these fashionable lives, catering parties for Chanel, doubling as models, running advice columns. I think social media has made this sort of visibility and branding possible, and I also think we're in this moment of re-girlifying the kitchen. For a long time, the most visible "serious" chefs were men with tattoos or [they had] a science-y angle on cooking, but as I mentioned, this sort of trad-feminine cultural moment has allowed these women to create their own unique niche that's half-chef, half-girlbloggeresque. SB: Beyond the visual, how do you hope bakers explore and incorporate sensory elements like taste and scent into the stuffy-cute era? BC: I'm hopeful that if this is the direction things go, it will lead to more thoughtful baking! I actually find it deeply frustrating when baking serves more of an aesthetic purpose than a sensory one. Food should taste good, and where we're at with the current hyper-decorated style, I think many of these "bakers" are more interested in decorating than in making something delicious. And while there's certainly a market of people who want a cake to decorate their table more than anything else, I really just like to eat a good dessert. 🌀

For better or for worse. “…but anyway — if you’re not in the mood to cry, here’s how to get the look with makeup,” says one of TikTok’s most popular beauty trendsetters, Zoe Kim Kenealy. With more than 4.8 million views on her Crying Makeup tutorial, Kenealy goes into detail and points out the desired results: puffy-soft lips, flushed cheeks, and glistening eyes. Even if the name gives a negative connotation, it's still glamorous — the outcome is blurred makeup and a serene glint we seem to only appreciate after a good crying session. As of today, videos under the hashtag #cryingmakeup have 141.7 million views. Kenealy is known for not only giving an overarching vibe to each look but defining them as part of an overarching identity: ‘I’m cold’ makeup, white (and red!) wine looks, 90s icon edition, end-of-the-day makeup, grocery store hottie look, romantic-nostalgia inspired — even doing tutorials on makeup that reflects your Myers-Briggs type (I’m still waiting on ISFJ). Her newest series based on different birthstones already has commenters bursting with requests for Emerald and Opal; some of them add they need the versions for Ruby and Sapphire, when it’s highly likely that before Kenealy began this series, they had never thought of birthstones as inspiration for a look. Makeup artist Bronte-Marie thrives on this approach as well. In her series The Wildly Beautiful, she breaks down ten looks that seem minimal, but all have a common throughline: perfect, effortless ethereality; a smooth, healthy complexion; and a timeless variety of blush and highlight placements. These looks are simple at first glance but contain distinct narratives. Bronte-Marie takes inspiration from modern phenomena, like Jennifer Lawrence’s recent appearances and fictional 70’s it girl Daisy Jones. The Movie Star Lips is another heavily sought-after tutorial — with 2.2 million views! — designing perfectly-kissable, naturally-structured lips usually found in period dramas. “So, you want to look like you popped out of the most ethereal, fairytale portrait. That’s a makeup look! I can help with that,” Bronte-Marie says in another niche tutorial. That’s the essence of Bronte-Marie’s (and other makeup artists in her echelon) appeal: descriptions alone make a deep impact —even before any makeup is applied to the face. The words preceding the tutorial are the selling point. The most important tool in any makeup kit today: energy. Pop culture, books, films, art, and even contemporary imaginary scenarios have always had the power to define beauty looks, and they’ll continue to do so. But as of today, the specificity of context is the biggest influence in how to craft a niche energy that prompts a reimagined look. VS Angel Makeup, Unapproachable Makeup, etc. It’s all in the energy, and naming that energy before doing your face adds a layer of imagined context — and an X factor that is deeply personal. When discussing trends and the names that make them viral, the conversation around lack of individuality is always present. Tying these new inspirations to a piece of identity is not inherently wrong, but the crisis comes when no personal element is added to these recreations. The point is not to copy the look exactly how Kenealy or Bronte-Marie made it but to take that spark of inspiration and attach it to your own personal context. The rage comes when it’s so obvious that some attach themselves to a certain aesthetic while claiming originality. The first niche look I consciously followed was the fertile edible amniotic fluid lip look originated by Nicole Rafiee (@nikkinasty) on TikTok. Even though the name gives me the ick, I loved the way this lip made me feel — and how attainable it was. I can see how these concepts could look flimsy and how this could add to the current online conversations about our collective lack of individuality. But niche makeup trends could also be a harmless evolution of the everyday contexts we know and love: first-date makeup, a look for a concert, fresh off vacation, etc. In a way, these looks are more honest and affirming — here are looks that can be adapted, personalized, and are more subjective to the applicant. When people find their niche, borrow esoteric elements, or modify steadfast beauty concepts, the search for a unique look becomes less daunting. These imaginative looks are actually doing something radical: suddenly, beauty — through the creation of narratives — is available to everyone. A new beauty future could emerge, where people find a niche look to accommodate their personal features, style, and overall essence. Why not make up some context? “There are ways you can do your makeup to make people feel things, like give them serotonin — like a Hallmark movie,” Zoe says in her "I’m Cold" tutorial. Her videos (as well as Bronte-Marie’s) already have comments asking for different, even-more-specific looks —the woman Hozier sings about, makeup to go to the museum, Aperol spritz energy, and looks for every other setting you can think of. Niche looks aren’t a generational lack of originality — they recognize that, in beauty, a story is always being told. 🌀

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Contemporary style or successful digital campaigning? Coco Gauff wore a hot pink Ganni set after winning the US Open. Everyone wants to be Coco Gauff. And everyone wants to be a Ganni Girl. The Danish contemporary ready-to-wear fashion brand best encapsulates the modern age of fashion. An authentic-but-targeted social media presence, a more tasteful influencer strategy, an ethos of sustainability, and clothes people actually want to wear have transformed the brand into an omnipresent force of fashion. Ganni is a genius that utilizes both sides of the fashion brain: the left side powers the social media marketing powerhouse and the right side is the whimsical fashion lover who pairs cowboy boots with peplum-sleeved blouses. In the new world order of fashion, just as many eyes are on Copenhagen as they once were on New York. Ganni has certainly been a force in generating global interest in Scandi Style. Initially founded in 2001 as a cashmere brand by a Copenhagen gallerist, the label we know and love today emerged like a butterfly when the creative husband-wife duo, Ditte and Nicolaj Reffstrup, took over the company in 2009. When the Private Equity Firm L Catterton acquired majority stake in the brand in 2017, the quest for Ganni as a global style superpower had actualized. Balancing ultra-feminine details with sportier, sometimes more masculine silhouettes, Ganni captures the essence of the working woman — or, at least, the working woman who can afford to splurge for luxury fashion. The Ganni Girl works in marketing and only buys secondhand designer bags. The Ganni Girl is training for a marathon and bikes to get her iced matcha latte. The Ganni Girl treats perfume like fine wine and reads what the TikTok girlies tell her to. What came first, the chicken or the egg? Contemporary style or successful digital campaigning? Distinguishing between what we personally find tasteful and what the world (i.e. Instagram and TikTok) finds tasteful is becoming increasingly difficult. Is the Ganni Girl truly an original in her own right, or is she a product of mass social media marketing spoon-feeding her what it means to dress like a cool girl? Ganni’s price point is likely most attainable to Zillennials (anyone born between 1990 and 2000) and those older, in terms of spending power, but the brand is still mostly shaped with Gen-Z in mind. They’re upfront and earnest about their sustainability. They’re young and fresh, a departure from the stodgy world of couture fashion. And they’re fun! Their accessories are reimagined, abstract classics, such as their Chelsea or Western boot, and are as frequently spotted online as they are on the streets of New York. Brands like Ganni feed themselves with the bread and butter of socially discernable products; their brand strategy never leaves them hungry. It only leaves the consumer hungry, and we can’t ever seem too full or sick of Ganni’s flouncy sleeves and statement boots. I’m not proposing that Ganni’s success is only due to their ability to translate fashion from the studio to our fast-paced, digital world — that only explains the wheels behind their success. They have built an efficient machine that produces interesting, wearable, and stimulating objects of style. I don’t doubt that I would gravitate to their designs, even if I stumbled upon their store by chance, even if I had no idea that cool people wore Ganni. Even in the age of infinite fashion options, I’d still choose Ganni. 🌀

And Lana Del Rey, obviously. If you scroll for a moment on Instagram — or dare to have a Pinterest account — you've probably seen Emma Rocherolle Pryor (@emmakrocherolle) cross your feed, even anonymously re-uploaded from a different account. An originator of vintage, slightly coquette, Americanized-European Girl style, she's become a force to be reckoned with in the ways we present ourselves online. I remember seeing her iconic gas station angel photos a la Alana Champion and instantly being hooked. She's one of the few content creators I am genuinely inspired by, and her ultra-romantic wedding in France has caught the attention of thousands of new followers, subscribers, and It Girl acolytes. Here, I sat down with Pryor to talk about the ceremony, the dress (a short-sleeve Dioresque dream), and her plans for the future. SB: In an era where both micro- and macro- influencers tend to have very large, lurid weddings, I thought you having a more intimate ceremony was pleasantly surprising and very tasteful. What was the thinking behind that? And why France, in particular? EP: My husband and I had both decided that we wanted a very small ceremony early on so that we could really enjoy it with minimal stress and get to spend time with our families. The family and bridal party was just shy of 30 people in the end, so we got to spend a lot of lovely quality time with everyone. Since it was such a modest affair, it was easier to focus on a lot of the little details that made the whole event simple yet very luxurious. We hosted the wedding at my family chateau in France, so this made it easy to plan a wedding overseas since I have lots of family who live there! SB: You can definitely feel the French influence, there — you know, I absolutely adored the short-sleeve gown you chose. What drew you towards that classic, Grace Kelly-esque silhouette? Did you have a designer or did you choose a vintage piece? EP: Hilariously enough, as a girl whose whole life revolves around designer and vintage pieces, I would end up finding my dress online. I was not expecting to, but when I saw it, I knew it was the one! I absolutely love classic gowns. I wanted something really timeless; something that when you looked back on pictures, it would be hard to pinpoint what era it was. I absolutely adore a lot of the new-age bridal that is coming out — there are some really unique dresses that I love. I just feel like 20, 30 years down the line, we could look back on some of those dresses and be like, “Oh, that is SO 2020’s!” But I mean, that's part of all the fun, right? SB: Yes, yes, yes. With that in mind: how did you ensure your personal style was reflected in the wedding decor and details? EP: I think just trying to keep things as authentic as possible. I love drawing inspiration from Pinterest and other forms of social media, but I think it can be really easy to copy and paste someone else's aesthetic. I felt it was important to make sure — even if I had drawn inspiration from another source — to put my own spin on it. Also: my husband has absolutely fantastic taste, and he is not on social media. So it was really nice to have his style and ideas for our day outside of any online influence. And I seriously couldn't have done it without him. He was so involved in all the planning and made it so easy for me. It was his idea to get an old clawfoot tub we had in one of the barns and fill it with ice and Veuve Clicquot. Genius! SB: Speaking of genius choices: a wedding magazine is such an inspired idea. What led you to that? EP: We originally wanted to do a coffee table book, and I had been looking at different places to do so. But the more I looked, the more uninspired I felt — it was just starting to feel a little boring and overdone. So, I decided to try a magazine layout, and it was perfect! It was so much fun to design, and actually super easy to get made. It was such a pleasure to be able to write small captions and just really make it my own, instead of just a book full of photos. Although since I was so excited to make it, I did it before I received all my wedding photos, so I might have to make another... SB: You’ve definitely been a progenitor in vintage-inspired photography and editing styles making a comeback online. How did that filter into your overall wedding design? EP: Oh, it was an ordeal for sure! Since I love photography, and especially vintage-inspired [photography], I was SO picky in choosing a photographer. I went through countless photographers' work and nothing was clicking for me. It was important to me that a lot of the shots be in film, and I wanted virtually all candids. It was also hard finding someone I liked in France, which was kind of necessary. But, finally, I found my photographer, and she had the exact style I was looking for. She was so excited to work with me and she really made magic — she captured such sweet moments in such a timeless style and I couldn’t be more thrilled with the results. SB: How would you describe your everyday style outside of your wedding? EP: I would describe my style to be modern-classic, vintage, European? I always struggle to explain my style, and I feel like it can change drastically day-to-day. SB: Precisely — I feel like you have an incredibly defined stylistic identity while still embracing a wide range of textures. How do you see your personal style evolving in the future — and will those vintage textures continue to play a prominent role? Is there any era/piece/designer/aesthetic you’re feeling particularly drawn to right now? EP: I think vintage inspiration will always play a huge role in my style. As much as I love some of the new styles and trends that are coming out, I really love to stick with the classics. And don’t get me wrong, I will definitely participate in a trend or two (one being my most favorite red tights) but I try not to fall victim to the constant push-and-pull of consumerism. I grew up thrifting and going to second-hand stores, so I find it really difficult and hard to justify dropping a large amount of money on clothes. The only time I ever do so is on nice shoes — and that's because I know they should last me a long time. And recently, I’ve been on a huge Audrey Hepburn kick. I just absolutely adore her and her style. She is such a timeless beauty, and I would love to emulate the same energy as her — beautiful inside and out! SB: I’ve definitely seen you blow up online across the pandemic to now, and a broader audience is seeing much more of your work, particularly on Pinterest and TikTok. How does that feel? EP: Oh, it's very surreal. I never, ever thought that anyone would care or like what I have to post, and I’m truly grateful for it. There is something so thrilling (and a bit scary) about putting your work and your art out into the world and people appreciating it. And even with the following I have, I still don’t really see myself as an influencer. People will send me the sweetest messages (or make art of me, etc...) and every time it surprises me and makes me feel like a rockstar. And there's so much negativity online — I’m very lucky to have such amazing, creative, beautiful supporters. I love getting to talk to people and answer any questions they have. SB: Now, moving offline — what’s your current job now? Do you see yourself ever starting your own brand or developing creative projects? EP: I’m fortunate enough right now to be doing online work and content creation. I quit my full-time job at a lingerie boutique in the summer and since then have been able to work fully on content creation. It is such a luxury, and as someone who has been working jobs since I was 15, getting to do this kind of work is a dream I do not take for granted! I’m currently working with Moonkissed Collective — an amazing, all-female-owned and run brand. It is so refreshing to work with and for women, who are so patient, kind, and hardworking. SB: The last (and obviously most important) question I have is: rank your top three Lana songs. EP: "Off to the Races," "Black Beauty," and "The Blackest Day." (Hardest question in the world.) 🌀 Savannah Eden Bradley is a 22-year-old writer, fashion editor, gallerina, Gnostic scholar, reformed it girl, and future beautiful ghost from the Carolina coast. She is the Editor-in-Chief of HALOSCOPE. You can stalk her everywhere online @savbrads.

SS24 was an augury of a new industry — one that’s more commercialized, caustic, and afraid to look at itself in the mirror. IT’S FINALLY ABOUT CLOTHING AGAIN, ISN’T IT? I predicted a placid season, and my instincts were correct — as long as you replace placidity with intentional equivocation. After a decade of capital i-t Important Theatrics, from faux severed heads to grocery stores to Copernian robots, all delicately arranged to make Important Statements about Important Issues, the 2020s have ushered in a new, unopinionated era in fashion performance. Creative directors are tired of debate; time to make pretty dresses again. A double-edged sword, no doubt about that; for all of the interesting (though occasionally aggravating) navel-gazing that came from what I call Issue Collections — like last year’s Imitation of Christ, for example — garment construction became secondary to theatre, event production, dry ice at the ankles. When designers get lost in the footlights, we get unstudied collections, and, in turn, we become unstudied viewers. But when designers become fully apolitical, we also lose the one thing fashion has always been good at — a glimmer of the unexpected. That glimmer was gone this season, from New York to Paris and beyond. While there were a few collections that sussed it out and marshaled the magic into something skillful, the rest opted for measured indifference. Gucci and Loewe et al presented deeply commercial collections, removing any wisp of imagination in trade for happy returns (both brands are owned by Kering and LVMH, respectively). Amid that controversial profitmaking, other brands announced disappearances: CD Sarah Burton was out at Alexander McQueen, and CD Nicola Brognano was out at Blumarine. Burton’s replacement was announced as Seán McGirr, an ex-JW Anderson menswear designer — a move by Kering to increase profits and decrease creative potential. With that in mind, SS24 is somewhat of an augury of a new industry — one that’s more commercialized, caustic, and afraid to look at itself in the mirror. While I can’t cover every single show (even the ones I loved!), here’s my final score, influenced by the shows that made the biggest impression on me and other audiences alike. THE GOOD ELENA VELEZ I wrote about Velez in-depth earlier this month — but her über-contentious collection, hosted in a mud pit, was my absolute favorite of the season. Velez is a sly, unapologetic garmentista who understands, however intuitively, that the best theatrics come from debauchery, not polemics. UNDERCOVER Set to the soundtrack of Wim Wenders' 1987 film Wings of Desire — and influenced by the German pseudo-surrealist painter Neo Rauch — models glissaded down the runway in gauzy robin’s egg blouses, slightly sheer suits, and structural naked dresses lit from within, whipping femininity into a subtle, sensual blush. There is such a gift in seeing a designer making their best work, at exactly the best time, with the exact measurements of genius and grace. Thank god, indeed, for Jun Takahashi. HERMÈS Hermès does not set trends — nor do they follow them. Instead, the brand, led by CD Nadège Vanhe, shepherds luxury as an abiding, impregnable soul-god, one that cannot be created or destroyed, only changed. That steadiness is what keeps each collection refined and relieving in equal measure, and is often mistaken for drabness. Here, Vanhe blocks out the noise and does what she does best — garments, beautiful and unobtrusive, that speak for themselves. BLUMARINE The hyper-Y2K schtick was not creatively sustainable and frequently got on my nerves, but this gorgeous, gilded collection was a glimpse of a young designer finally coming into his own. Axing Brognano at the beginning of his blossoming? That’s a decision that’ll no doubt haunt Blumarine for years to come. But I’m glad he got to go out with the angels. BALENCIAGA Don’t call it a comeback — if you’re Demna Gvasalia, last year’s teddy bear media circus is nothing but a boring, blasé memory. Poxed with sibling rivalries, glorious trenches, and an appearance by fashion critic-legend Cathy Horyn, the show was the one thing that I’d been so desperately craving: actual, unironic fun. TORY BURCH There’s a certain disease that can infect a brand that I call T.J. Maxx Death (though I am a dearly devoted Maxxinista). Diffusion lines from the likes of Michael Kors and Kate Spade get slapped between racks of H&M rip-offs, and the entire cachet of the brand begins to crumble. I’ll admit it: I thought Burch was headed for that same fate. But her past few seasons have been so sexy and surprising that I am very happy she’s having a renaissance, especially as one of the few female designers getting major billing. THE BAD MIRROR PALAIS It was only a short time before influencer-association would become a blight on a brand, not an asset. It truly is unfortunate that a brand as rising and romantic as Mirror Palais has become patient zero. Cheap fabrics, bizarre soundtracks, front rows filled with influencers, throwing the only plus-size models they’ve got in unassuming baby tees — this is a major misstep for the brand, but I think (and hope) they can bounce back. HELMUT LANG Peter Do’s long-awaited collection was beautiful in theory: a love letter to New York, braced by contributions from poet Ocean Vuong and legendary textual artist Jenny Holzer — and a re-examination of the European brand’s eternal, carefully-tailored tether to the sensual American spirit. Sadly, though, theory is no replacement for the real thing. Do didn’t quite understand what made Lang so revolutionary in the 1990s. Here are cotton t-shirts and jeans, Uniqloian button-downs, boring ribbons swaddling suits. You can’t be angry about a collection with such a deep lack of identity — only sad. CHRISTIAN DIOR Disappointing, as Dior is one of the few brands I would put in my all-star firmament. But, in the words of Horyn, we’re seeing a poverty of imagination, here, influenced too hard by archives and too little by modern proclivities. These are not ugly or ill-constructed pieces, not at all, but Chiuri’s emphasis on nostalgia-necromancy weighs every garment down. Looking at these cobwebby looks en masse, it’s hard not to feel like you are trapped at an endless wake, each “Remember when?” a barb in your side. WHO FUCKING KNOWS GUCCI I wrote about Gucci’s Gucciness Quotient earlier this month, too — what happens when a brand resists interpretation and forces you into intellectual acquiescence? You get Sabato de Sarno’s new Gucci, replacing former CD and ringleader Alessandro Michele. Here is Gucci at its most relentlessly professional, serene but soulless, following the likes of brands like Bottega Veneta into the quiet luxury (sorry) market. Weeks later, I still don’t know how I feel about de Sarno or the new Gucci — but, to be fair, I don’t think he does, either. LOUIS VUITTON Louis Vuitton is the tidy encapsulation of Who fucking knows… but in a good way. I will say that a runway has no business being orange, so I asked our darling web editor to change the backdrops. It’s my house and I live here! Anyways — Louis Vuitton has spent the past few years being unilaterally ugly, so it was a welcome shock to be kicked out of stasis. These layered fabrics and tartans are undeniably gorgeous, presented with a wink. While there are some blunders (skinny jeans?), I feel like Ghesquière finally knows what he wants out of Louis Vuitton, and that’s more than fine with me. CHANEL Another good (I think?) entry into Who fucking knows. For the first time in what feels like a long span, Virginie Viard has embraced the spirit of the young woman instead of trying to corral it into assumed, prim maturity. Suddenly, these tweeds do not skew grandma or reek of mothballs and Esteé Lauder dusting powder. You can imagine the Chanel girl on a St. Tropez yacht; thrifting vintage rings; getting a table easy at Carbone. While Viard reverts to some of the aesthetics that have never worked — the monogram logo feels too garish, now, in comparison to the brand’s contemporaries — modernity is, at last, ready for re-appraisal. THE ROW Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen have always known what The Row is: cool, disaffected minimalism, though not hard or inured to bliss. In that, I’ve never had to second-guess or distrust their choices — though maybe that should’ve been a red flag, in retrospect. I didn’t hate this collection, I didn’t love this collection, and I really didn’t know how to feel about it at all. I found the bedroom slippers and spa-like ambiance dastardly chic, but the drowsiness was abundant. Any slip at hope is blanketed by thick ponchos, long hoodies, head-covering bucket hats. This is The Row entering the 2020s in gummy depression, and I hope that, by spring, they can find their breeziness again. 🌀

We're chasing after fleeting aesthetics in the hopes that one day, simply looking the part will be enough. Cottagecore. Old Money. Tomato Girl. If you are a daughter of the Internet and vaguely into fashion, you have most probably heard or even deigned to use these terms, even if ironically. From any -core aesthetic to the infamous blueberry nails or the Paltrownian quiet luxury, terms like these are being coined on the daily in every fashion and beauty internet community. But what makes all of these terms be — and why are our sartorial choices based on such nebulous concepts? As members of the online generation, we are perpetually exposed to photographs and videos in which we see people taller than us, prettier than us, better than us. Or so is our perception of the self from digital reality. We then find ourselves chasing after these relatively attainable online ideals; a quest that, however feasible, comes with consequences. Do not get me wrong: beauty standards have always — and will always — exist. But as the Tomato Girl hijacks the Mediterranean Girl and hyper-specifies its core characteristics, one cannot help but wonder about the cultural consequences of hyper-specific aesthetics. Debates around aesthetic culture are of great importance — insofar as photography is concerned. The Internet is not only filled with images produced by professional content creators but with pictures taken by whoever has access to a smartphone and wifi connection. The democratization of the medium is also what maintains it — since influencer culture and jobs such as content creation have been proven to be very lucrative. This is not necessarily bad thing, though; art curator John Szarkowski, in his book The Photographer’s Eye, expresses the necessity of any photographer or critic to look at pictures — a lot of them, in order to understand them, since “...it is, strangely, easier to forget that photography has also influenced photographers.” The mere act of taking a picture, putting it on the Internet, and getting 1.5 million people to see it is a very revolutionary act on its own — even if it has been bizarrely normalized. And so one poses the unavoidable question: what moves someone to take a picture? To paraphrase Szarskowski again, this time in the catalog accompanying his 1978 exhibition Mirrors and Windows: American Photography Since 1960, there is a fundamental distinction between those who use photography as “a means of self-expression” and those who think of it as a way of exploring and contextualizing the world around them. Influencers and the chronically-online community, obviously, are using both photography and their platform as a means of self-expression. However, in doing so, they are not only expressing themselves at that moment in time but projecting — and thus creating — the person they want to be. They have the kind of control over their image that, say, Hollywood stars in the 1950s lacked; they get to choose the kind of person they want to be. Anyone can be a Classic California Girl, even if they’re located in Toledo, Spain; anyone can be an Italian Summer Girl, even if they’re located in rural Canada. What's more — these dichotomies influence one another, each of them actively choosing to fall into their respective category as a means of identity expression and aesthetic decontextualization. After all, who would reject being a rich girl and leading the Sofia Richie life? Who would not want to be forever-clean, or to live in a cottage outside of the city, never having to worry about work or money? Step one: look the part. Cultural writer Susan Sontag, in her essay On Photography, states that: “...the omnipresence of cameras persuasively suggests that time consists of interesting events, events worth photographing. This, in turn, makes it easy to feel that any event, once underway, and whatever its moral character, should be allowed to complete itself—so that something else can be brought into the world, the photograph.” She goes as far as to say that we can no longer experience life without photography and the compulsion to photograph. We would now be in constant need to “turn experience itself into a way of seeing”, and to equalize participating in events to photographing them. This might act as a tentative explanation as to why online communities work the way they do—coining so many terms to denominate such a wild variety of aesthetics. One might never be able to live in a Mediterranean country — but, during 3 glorious seconds, they can take a picture in which they embody the idealized, ultra-curated version of a Mediterranean girl that we have already seen in pictures of other people. In fact, just as Sontag vaticinates, the photograph might be better than the reality, and you can enjoy the feeling of looking the part in the middle of Nebraska. It is then easy to understand why, after adopting the Clean Girl aesthetic, one’s life does not suddenly snap into place — a green juice appearing magically in one’s hand and a yoga mat extending itself in your perfectly-tidied bedroom at 6 AM. Or why Quiet Luxury, its younger and lovelier sister, does not include outlandish or colorful outfits. You do not want light blue nails; that is too imprecise, the color name and concept too vague to refer to the exact shade of wild blueberries mixed with the perfect amount of yogurt — and you dream that this choice will allow you to embody the essence of the summer. Life imitates photography, and we chase after these fleeting aesthetics in hopes that one day, merely looking the part will be enough. 🌀 Paula Luengo is a freelance writer and current fashion columnist at Delude Magazine. Her interests draw from music to fashion and media analysis, with special emphasis on all that’s old and battered.

But maybe that's a good thing. Previews of the Spring 2024 collection showcased vibrant colors and florals decorating the sleeves and skirts of sketched-out designs at Badgley Mischka. I know — I don’t want to say it either. Being as it's a celebration of the brand’s 35th year, no expectations were held for gowns that broke out of the satin mold. After all, anniversaries are about honoring what has worked for so long — and the relationship between designers Mark Badgley, James Mischka, and efflorescent dresses is no exception. Pastels, monochromatic ensembles, puff sleeves, and balanced skirts headed down the runway at Delmonico’s in the Financial District on September 13th. In what the Badgley Mischka website self-describes as a collection of glitz and glamour, these ready-to-wear pieces are certainly cocktail party-appropriate. My favorite look was a rich, navy-blue gown with long sleeves that drape to the ground, embellished with an ornate silver neckpiece. Badgley Mischka has always delivered elegant promises and memoirs of tradition. The recipe is simple, unchanged: comfort in impersonal-yet-expectedly-proper gowns, more often than not composed of a singular shoulder strap and embellished with jewels; refined-yet-dated glittering bodices reminiscent of eras past their prime. There is no more artifice and nothing left to convince audiences of — Badgley Mischka knows who they are designing for and will continue to celebrate that audience, signature sparkles and all. 🌀 You can view the whole collection here.

What daddy's little Episcopalian princess teaches young women about love, Beauvoir, and the myriad of reasons why Sex and the City has endured as a cultural touchpoint. Before I watched HBO’s romantic comedy-drama Sex and the City, I will admit, I had a number of preconceptions. Something like the American import of French Girl style – a Baudrillardian map of nonchalant, vaguely metropolitan It Giirl-ness with no real territory. This was the which-pretty-girl-are-you? media on which the first cash cows of modern content creation nursed themselves: listicles on how to dress like Carrie Bradshaw; how to manage your finances like Miranda; how to fuck like Samantha; and, most importantly, how to live your life like Charlotte. While pretty much everyone in the original series ends up with their own happy ending, there’s no denying that Charlotte made out the best. Part of why this is — the most disillusioned among us might say — is because she already had it the best. Working what clearly seems to be an extremely low-stress job at a trendy Upper East Side museum, she admits multiple times — often at Carrie’s terminally broke freelancer behest — that her position is financially more like volunteer work. People have a tendency to write off her character as the most “regressive” of the bunch. She’s WASPy (until she converts to Judaism), she’s sheltered, and her idealistic outlook on life reflects the fact that she hasn’t really had to struggle in any meaningful way. And yet, when I talk to my friends about the show, I hear that magic phrase more often than any other character: “I’m such a Charlotte.” I get it — identifying with Charlotte signals that you value the traditional things in life, that you want love and marriage and family, and that you’re not ashamed to put those needs at or near the very top of your hierarchy of goals. Most of the fandom surrounding her character seems to be a projected reaction to modern feminism knocking the stars out of young women’s eyes. I get the sense they feel it is somehow taboo to want a husband before you want a job, to rely on a doting father, to love and rejoice in your own femininity. Herein is my thesis: Charlotte York-Goldenblatt is far more than a trad calling card, and the character nuances developed over the show’s 6-season run prove that, quite frankly, not everyone has what it takes to really be a Charlotte. Some of you are Carrie-Miranda cusps at best. And as Southeast Regional Chapter President of the Such a Charlotte Fanclub, I feel called to set the record straight on a few important matters. Firstly: Charlotte may be sheltered, but she is no prude. People neglect the fact that while she is certainly the most conservative girl in the Fun Girls Gang, she is still a part of that gang. She goes to the same parties as the rest of them do, hooks up with just as many guys, and wields her sexuality deliberately as not only a mechanism for her own pleasure but also towards a second goal — one that comes to define not only her character but its evolution throughout the series: love. Where Samantha fucks for sex’s sake, Charlotte is ever-hopeful that at the end of some mediocre Meatpacking District liaison with a man — well, packing meat — there is the hope of a future husband, one which she has already envisioned spending summers in Cape Cod with. That said, even from the show’s very beginning she is realistic about her own desires; even if acknowledging them directly proves uncomfortable, she is always able to act on them. Then there is the notion that Charlotte is the most prejudiced of the quartet. Firstly, have you heard the soundbites Samantha gives? And secondly — more seriously — something interesting happens when Charlotte, the beacon of repression and upper-class nicety, is confronted with social situations she finds uncomfortable: she keeps her mouth shut. She is a silent salad-eating observer when Carrie bemoans her dreamboat bisexual boyfriend not picking a side, or Miranda complains about Samantha sleeping her way to the top. Hell, Samantha calls herself a try-sexual, but Charlotte was the only character on the show to willingly do drag. She hangs out with the lesbian power elite. She might not eat pussy, as Patty Aston points out, but after a day or two of social clubs, she was ready to embrace the fluid nature of the human spectrum of sexuality and go on a big sapphic ski trip. It is this version of Charlotte York that we are introduced to in the show’s first few seasons, and that is challenged by perhaps the biggest source of development for her character: the completely ineffectual and annoyingly cute Trey MacDougal. It’s really hard for me to not like him, given the casting of Kyle Maclachlan. He is introduced as the embodiment of her wishes: a wealthy cardiologist of the proper pedigree, social standing, religious affiliation, and romantic inclination. A whirlwind courtship turns into a whirlwind engagement turns into a surreptitious drunk premarital encounter turns into a whirlwind wedding, and then — albeit fussily and confused — Charlotte is a wife. She is given what everyone thinks she wants, and yet something troubles her. It’s played off as somewhat of a joke at first, but it soon becomes clear that she is utterly sexually incompatible with Trey. The specter of Bunny – Trey’s austere and withholding appearance-obsessed mother — looms too large in this man’s oedipal center to ever see Charlotte as anything other than a demure virgin. She is essentially forced via the project of maintaining her marriage and upholding the family values she longed for to confront one of the principal perceptual issues of modern feminism: the Madonna-Whore complex, nestled inside her husband’s psyche. Sex has been taken out of the city or even the bedroom, and into the battlefield of the mind. If Sex and the City is to be considered one of the first post-feminist case studies in American media, with women portrayed as active subjects in a landscape forever affected by Women’s Lib, I would argue that Charlotte – not Carrie – in her existential struggle to navigate her own personal path through sexual tradition and the urgency of desire is the show’s protagonist. At first, she earnestly believes her purpose lies in the facilitation of man’s purpose. She dreams of being a wife so that a man, the special man made just for her, might gaze upon himself as a husband. Then that special man comes and goes, and Charlotte realizes the joy of matrimony — and the ounce of true feeling held in the heart of the sexual revolution comes not from the complete adherence or dissolution of all sex boundaries, but play. If Beauvoir describes the body as “not a thing, [but] a situation” — we must understand Charlotte’s temptation, sacrifice, and annunciation in love as the justification for that situation’s capacity to dance happily both through and around the delicate gold rings of heteronormativity. And indeed that dance is not undertaken alone. The necessary progression of the feminist project will alter but not break the fragile, permeable, surly, and nonetheless electric bonds between men and women. As Beauvoir again writes in the flowering, hopeful speculative conclusion to The Second Sex: It is nonsense to assert that revelry, vice, ecstasy, passion, would become impossible if man and woman were equal in concrete matters; the contradictions that put the flesh in opposition to the spirit, the instant to time, the swoon of immanence to the challenge of transcendence, the absolute of pleasure to the nothingness of forgetting, will never be resolved; in sexuality will always be materialised the tension, the anguish, the joy, the frustration, and the triumph of existence. To emancipate woman is to refuse to confine her to the relations she bears to man, not to deny them to her; let her have her independent existence and she will continue none the less to exist for him also: mutually recognising each other as subject, each will yet remain for the other an other. The reciprocity of their relations will not do away with the miracles – desire, possession, love, dream, adventure – worked by the division of human beings into two separate categories; and the words that move us – giving, conquering, uniting – will not lose their meaning. The future is not gender abolition — it is merely gender collaboration. An equal collaboration inherently does not disallow the nature of each sex’s metaphysical essence. This is where I think people misunderstand Charlotte’s arc. The fan wiki for her character says and I quote: “She spends the first three seasons trying to find the perfect man who checks off all of her boxes, but as the series progresses, lowers her standards.” As the show would seemingly self-evidently reveal, I believe that her standards have hardly lowered — they simply matured. She no longer wanted a lens through which she could imagine herself in perfect happiness; rather, her dream was her and someone she truly loves in an imperfect, genuine sort of interpersonal happiness. After everything is said and done, she didn’t need her perfect fairytale princess dream to come true — she only needed a man to dream alongside her. Enter divorce lawyer Harry Goldenblatt: a messy, frazzled schlub who makes money off unhappy couples’ misery. Clearly, both Charlotte and the audience themselves would never expect this man to serve as Charlotte’s romantic counterpart — and yet, as the latter half of the show hastily unfolds, we learn that what Harry yearns for isn’t his own genderswapped Casanova to sweep him hastily off his feet, but rather, simply a beautiful woman to adore. At the risk of going on for days about their romantic dynamic, there is something extremely classical — medieval, even — about the way in which Harry devotes himself body and soul to Charlotte. In a sea of Gen-Z boys crying simp at any break in the steely facade of self-serving masculinity, Harry is a mensch of fresh air. This is not to say he is inhuman. He faces insecurity in their relationship; he is often humorously unkempt and slobby; he wonders if she would be better off with someone more glamorous; he takes his time to propose. In essence, what Charlotte needs to prove to him is that she is willing to play out the other half of their dynamic — the beloved — not out of a need to be loved, but out of a need to be loved by him. I see parallels here to a distinctly non-heterosexual form of butch-femme dynamics. (Maybe that’s too cynical. Maybe locating the erotic heart of this relationship I’ve idealized for so long outside of men is a form of heteropessimism. I don’t think I’m completely there yet.) Maybe what I mean to say is that, generally, the men I’ve found who are Harry’s aren’t men at all — they’re butch lesbians. But, then again, maybe I’m just not looking hard enough. If he wanted to he would, ladies! Never forget that for a single second. That said, Charlotte’s character is not introduced to Harry until after she has been tempered by Trey. Quite frankly, the Season 2 Charlotte wasn’t ready for Harry. She would have most likely dismissed him — even on the basis of ethno-religious identity alone. It is only after she reaffirms her values to herself that she is willing to look for love in the most unlikely of places, and it is precisely there that she finds it. This is perhaps the central plot mechanism behind why Charlotte’s character is narratively rewarded. She must, in essence, completely humiliate herself and become stripped of all her WASPy identity signifiers — her creature comforts, her social sway — before she can then be rebuilt in happiness that others may not understand, but that will matter to her. Nowhere is this more evident than in her Jewish conversion arc. Listen: I will be the first to say that Jewish American Princessdom is often envied and rarely adopted. You have to have been born in it. Molded by it. But when Charlotte realizes marrying a gentile is Harry’s one thing he can’t compromise on, she does what she needs to do for love. That said, I also think this process of her literally humbling herself, stripping naked in a mikveh, and cleansing herself of her Christian elite status is part of how her character develops to privilege the happiness of herself and those she loves over the image she projects to proper society. This is perhaps where Charlotte shows her love. She might not outwardly worship at her husband’s feet as he does to her, but she puts in the work where it counts and is willing to meet him where he’s at — even if that place is an hour-long Metro North train to Scarsdale. This brings us, naturally, to how perceptions of her character have changed in the recent reboot to the main series, And Just Like That. I think the funniest thing about that show is that it casts itself as an attempt to modernize the original show into relevance — despite currently being in a cultural moment where the original Sex and the City has never been more relevant to the lives of stylish young women living in New York. The irony is one of the main ways it attempts to modernize itself. The reboot proffers a performative and self-chastizing embrace of sexual fluidity, whereas the anxious romanticization of sexual difference in the original show is one of the biggest reasons young women have returned to it. Charlotte is perhaps one of the most emblematic examples of this mindset. She clearly wants her men to act like men, and she values girls’ time as a refuge away from not only a certain set of behaviors but a certain definite sex. And yet, her closest friend Anthony Marentino is an out and proud gay man who is anything but masculine. Indeed, in what you should know by now as typical Charlotte fashion, they start out as enemies, butting heads at fashion shows over who can out-diva the other until eventually they truce. Charlotte amends and updates her values, and privileges friendship and love over public appearances. This is one of the purest distillations of Charlotte’s character in my mind: drinking Diet Snapple through a straw in Central Park, having a kiki with Anthony about closet queens off the street, and ending with a mediation on mutual romantic experience and the true nature of love. If this is not a testament to how her character has developed over the years, then nothing is. The Charlotte I love and relate to is not defined by her shelteredness, but rather by her capacity to learn and grow from it, while never sacrificing or apologizing for her traditional values. She isn’t trad in the completely image-based way that has received popularity today — but rather in the way that is willing to sacrifice image for heart. This is why Samantha works so well as her foil; her provocative, self-serving experimentalism is as much of a facade as Charlotte’s prudishness. What each of these girls value is love. Samantha just values carnal love, and Charlotte spiritual love. Their opposing acts are just that: ways to camouflage their valuable vulnerability, only offering up their unfiltered hearts to people who truly matter. For reference, Carrie and Miranda are perfect foils because of their differing views on success, and thus complete the cube of influence for young girls looking to assert themselves in the world. The oft-asked question of the second-and-a-half wave: If women can truly have it all, is demonstrated herein to be a false dichotomy. Work and love are not things that need to be divorced for the sake of integration into a male-dominated society, but rather, things that inherently strengthen each other, making women of the city into both stronger business partners and stronger wives. It is not a matter of whether or not a woman should be considered capable of having both love and success — instead, it’s a matter of whether or not you specifically are willing to work for it in ways that are vulnerable, humiliating, sometimes unfair, but ultimately rewarding. In this respect, Charlotte York remains a model to women everywhere. You don’t need to sacrifice your values in order to achieve your dreams, but you will have to be open to reconsidering what those values are — especially when the stakes are nothing less than true love. 🌀

The fix is clear: Lannone must position Ferrari away from wheels and instead run parallel with them — cousins, not twins. At the heart of every brand is an intrinsic necessity to generate a distinguishable identity. This obligation may be needed nowhere more than in the strident and oversaturated fashion industry. From the creative directors and marketing executives to the CEOs and sales associates, brand identity is a primary concern. Injecting a signature offering to a desired audience often means diversifying your contributions and, for Ferrari, this has meant venturing into the high fashion enterprise. Presenting their Spring 2023 Ready-to-Wear collection against the dazzling backdrop of Milan Fashion Week, Ferrari has continued on an admirable and evergreen endeavour — keeping the Forza Ferrari spirit alive outside of simply supercars, the prancing horse, and motorsports titles. Here’s where it all started: it’s June 2021, and Ferrari’s creative director of “brand diversification,” Rocco Lannone — of previous Dolce & Gabbana and Giorgio Armani encounters — is showing his first rendition of Ferrari: the luxury clothing company. Make no mistake; this is a newborn cut from the same cloth as its mother. Reminding audience members and potential consumers of an illustrious automobile history, Lannone chooses to show in Ferrari’s hometown of Maranello — where mechanical artisans work tirelessly to forge the ultimate motor for the uber-rich. Utilitarian, with one foot set firmly in streetwear and the other in quintessential Italian maximalism, Lannone assembles a respectable debut. It’s no 312T, but it possesses the potential of the SF-23 (in layman’s terms: it isn’t winning multiple world championship titles, but it could carry off a win here or there.) Using the brand’s universally-recognisable IP as a recurring motif, Lannone demonstrated through further Fall and Spring cumulations his wish to “enlarge [our] fan base.” Building upon notions of speed, passion, and sheer determination, bold tones, patterns, and daring silhouettes were too intensely commonplace. Desirability, however, was notably absent. One would be hard-pressed to uncover an automobile institution or motorsports troupe without some variety of branded merchandise on offer to consumers. What would entice a Ferrari enthusiast to squander £420 on a branded crewneck jumper comprising 82% viscose, when similar styles are obtainable via official F1 merchandise routes for a fraction of the cost? The fix is clear: Lannone must position Ferrari away from wheels and instead run parallel with them — cousins, not twins. For Spring 2024, luxurious cohesion at last abounded. Away from the vermillion and lemon race suits that preceded, restrained innovation took the steering wheel. “Power and eroticism” are the very essence of Ferrari — noted by Lannone, now working from logical feeling and not just on-the-nose iconography. Sleek opulence was heralded in with elegant displays of white leather cropped shirts, pleated mid-length skirts, and sweeping dusters. Followed, naturally, by nods to sensual luxury in neutral tones and sheer knits — moderately revealing. A sextet of double denim takes charge before reserved navy and black take the lead in this sartorial race. Deconstructing prior race suit silhouettes proves especially triumphant in this phase, manufacturing a pragmatically stylish proposal. A somewhat random smattering of purple finally allows for Ferrari to, once again, be Ferrari in the form of bold, cherry red leather ensembles that entice, excite, and energise. Lannone has finally discovered his race-winning artistic formula — understanding the heritage of what he is nurturing while fleeing the familial nest. Broadening a brand can prove an uneasy task, and so it is no wonder that brands place focus on collaborations in order to ingratiate themselves with a wider, often younger, audience. Mercedez-Benz and Moncler voyaged into the G-Wagon in a certainly intriguing art piece — marrying Moncler's signature puffer and the Mercedez G-class in an alliance which, in their own words, “walks the line between sculptural and multi-functional.” A decade later, Fiat 500xGucci remains a successful fashion and motor partnership. Of course, it is not just vehicular conglomerates that seek teamwork; McDonald’s was keenly aware of the possible profits at hand when they signed a license agreement with Moschino. Coca-Cola, feasibly one of this world’s most recognisable logos, joined forces earlier this year with laid-back footwear designers Brunch. The mutual relations were clear: “Coke is a leisurely staple. When you go for brunch, you have a Coke, and at Brunch, we create footwear pieces that also have that leisurely quality,” founder Daniel Sitt said of the evident alignment. Collaborations on any scale, however, pale in comparison to an unabridged separate operation. Contracted under the Giorgio Armani Group, stationed securely in the luxury Italian market, Ferrari has taken a potentially costly gamble. At last, Lannone has unearthed a bankable artistic angle. Now, unfortunately, the real work begins. Marketing to a profit. 🌀 Molly Elizabeth is a freelance fashion writer, commentator, and media producer. She is also the founder and Editor-in-Chief of fellow online fashion publication Eternal Goddess.

Regardless of ephemerality, American Psycho fashion has a factor lacking in elevated basics — rage, mirth, and a hint of audacity to go beyond. The first time I witnessed the phenomenon was during my airplane wait in Stockholm. A young, tall, and attractive man was standing in front of me. He was wearing a simple suit and a pair of black headphones. Although the cut was common, there was something in it that made everything more extravagant, bolder. It was a red tie — bloody red. It was there, in the airplane queue from the Swedish capital to Porto, that I found a name for what I’d been seeing on runways and in real life: the American Psycho-fication of fashion. While some people misinterpret Mary Harron’s 2000 adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s novel American Psycho (1991) as a tale of pure violence, others find true fashion inspiration. When considering why fashionistas want to dress like the controversial Greed is Good-era character of Patrick Bateman, arguments abound — from the sense of luxury offered to the daring, conventional-yet-masculine lines of the look. But don’t discount social platforms’ influence, especially when it comes to romantic debates around fictional evildoers. From You’s Joe Goldberg to Wes Craven’s Jackson Rippner, psychopaths have become sex symbols — and the glorification of murder is part of the appeal. Aside from attraction and violence, though, the erotic nature of wealth is also an oft-overlooked factor. Fashion is a reflection of our desire to consume. See “quiet luxury” or any refined, minimalist trend on TikTok: luxe sells. That’s why, all the way back in 2000, the American Psycho costume designer saw a style potential when in contact with the book’s character descriptions. Isis Mussenden found a way to disrupt the chic Wall Street way of dressing with a hint of rage — either while using designer labels or collaborating with Italian fashion designer Nino Cerruti and his name-brand to reproduce realistic suits from the mid-1980s. From Armani’s sophisticated suits to Burberry’s classical coats, the film’s costume list evoked the excessive and disturbing luxury of the ‘80s über-wealthy. Simple but elevated, like a uniform — but an appealing one. Beige trenches there, expensive ties here, and a perceptible level of refinement that could make everyone in the room tremble a bit for not being at that level. Regardless of ephemerality, American Psycho fashion has a factor that is lacking in recent elevated basics — rage, mirth, and a hint of audacity to go beyond. Contrasting the book — and subsequent film adaption’s — graphic violence and misogynistic undertones, fashion creators are attempting to address these throughlines by diversifying the wearer. Switching the stereotyped sex roles of female and male, runways have become dominated in recent years by women walking in Patrick Bateman attire: authorial beige trenches and impacting suits, red ties, and briefcases in hand. Meanwhile, men move with tied white shirts and no pants — just underwear, á la Miuccia. Seeing this dynamic on the runway causes an instant click in the audience's brain: it’s refined, diverse, and a little bit neurotic — a perfect answer to workwear in our current times. After all, your job is fashion… and work. There is nothing more relieving in a career than this. Everything about the American Psycho style is well-calculated, just like Bateman’s methodical skincare routine and systematic process to kill. Professionalism is well-suited to neutral shades, mostly. Cleanliness and neatness are immediate while forming the appearance. The extravaganza is enough. Sewing is made in perfect conditions: form-fitting, rigorous, and polished silhouettes. Volume is strictly done. Garments are dissected, slashed, perfectly positioned, and observed. Shoulders are strong, lavish. Proportions are at the extreme — and such extremist behavior was the reason these clothes were cut in the first place. Who would have known that such a process could lead to such a sartorial legacy? Jeremy Scott’s Moschino was among the first to pull out the killer looks in his Pre-Fall 2023 collection. Even though the collection focuses on maximums, which Moschino does best — messy clothing patterns, inflated proportions, bows— the ‘80s workwear extravaganza was also revived. Scott highlighted suits and trench coats reminiscent of Patrick Bateman's office looks, and did so with finesse. The Bateman appetite has only increased since Scott — and has enveloped couture in recent years. It all happened with Schiaparelli’s 2023 Haute Couture collection, when Kylie Jenner appeared in a fake lion’s head black dress — an invention of CD Daniel Roseberry. After converting Dante's Inferno to faux-fur animal heads, Roseberry then incorporated the psycho-maniac character in Spring Couture 2023. With a surrealist and robust suit proposal, Bateman was elevated to the fantastical world of Elsa Schiaparelli. Just as Bateman’s motivations for killing were esoteric, so were designers' impulses to keep representing his style. The strict, refined movement kept going on with Luar, Philosophy di Lorenzo Serafini, and Givenchy's Fall 2023 collections — each one molding the character to their distinctive visions. Givenchy and Philosophy di Lorenzo Serafini stuck to the basics and Luar chose a bolder approach. With a bulky, oversized gray trench, the wealthy sophistication of a Wall Street broker was re-interpreted with a hint of futurism. Like this little contemporary indication wasn't enough, Pierpaolo Piccioli decided to take it one step forward in modernity at Valentino’s Fall 2023 collection. Through cropped white office T-shirts and black skirts — occasionally including minis — the creative director of the Italian label opted to take a brand new view on the proto-Wolf of Wall Street: Feed me a stray cat, Patrick. Or don't — we don’t really care. This indifference to Bateman’s beliefs — yet a keen interest in maintaining his style, dominating the creative spirit of some of the most renowned designers of this generation — gave business attire a special place in Anthony Vaccarello of Yves Saint Laurent’s heart. Either by the professional costume code or because of the ‘80s magnitude being Saint Laurent’s main incentive, it was decided that the Fall 2023 looks needed to command the room. With models walking the runway in dramatically oversized blazers effused with structured shoulder pads, an '80s-tinged office uniform was, after all, the result of that succinct commandment. Saint Laurent protocol was so established that even during the Fall 2021 editorial campaign, which featured actress Chloë Sevigny — who also starred in Harron’s film some 21 years earlier — the brand went in the Authoritative Chic direction. Since bossy sophistication can always solve problems at work, Gucci’s team, after being dislocated without their boss, decided to adhere to authorial killer looks to fill the void. Gucci’s Fall 2023 collection was all about trenches. Interpreted through long, tailored gray coats, Bateman left his mark in the yellow-mustard runway room. Across the English Channel, Alexander McQueen’s Sarah Burton also opted for killing luxe, something her predecessor helped to define. From top-heavy structural suits to refined, classic trenches, Alexander McQueen Fall 2023 was filled with timeless, bold workwear staples. Besides the essential business markings — such as le smoking, ties, and overcoats — there were also some indicative nods to the Batemanesque: black leather boots with rigid zippers resembled cadaver bags, and the same is valid for The Peak black bags, which gave the true tenebrous vibe of a body pouch. While some of the most esteemed brands’ creative heads felt the urge to deliver an elegant, sharp style in their expressive collections, it was little to no time until the inspiration took control of the minds and intellect of some colleagues. With the dominance so prominently clear, you could feel the splash of blood from across the Atlantic. Louis Gabriel Nouchi started things in basics: it was a casual menswear Fall 2023 show at Paris Fashion Week, where actor Lucas Bravo (Emily in Paris) was responsible for opening the runway of the American Psycho-inspired collection. The wealthy details were noticed, and so were the more temperate ones: here were traditional pieces of Bateman's day-to-day wardrobe, such as strict tailoring, trench coats, leather gloves, ties, and suits. Paris Fashion Week now had a busy killing boss in charge — so busy, in fact, that there wasn’t even time to clean the remnants of his victim (yet not busy enough to not serve sharp fashion). Spring 2024 Ready-to-Wear collections weren’t immune to the trend, either. The Row, Vetements, Khaite, and Luar’s collections managed to bring back Bateman style through the domination of trenches; at Alaïa, Pieter Mulier opted for latex. With safety and style knowledge, how to get away with murder looks have proved, yet again, that the brutally elegant side of Wall Street fashion deserves a reexamination. However, it wasn't just creative directors who felt captivated by the Wall Street way of dressing. What was first noticed on runways emerged on the streets. For last year’s Halloween season, many girls embraced Christian Bale’s character look, sharing their cosplays of the character via social media and poxed with everyday pieces from the wardrobe. The celebutantes, on the other hand, chose a more polished take on Psycho. During The Times 100 Summit, Kim Kardashian appeared at the event wearing a Rick Owens SS23 Lido transparent leather blazer and matching Bolan bootcut transparent leather jeans. The similarity between Kardashian and Bateman was immediately spotted, with her walking the New York streets in a see-through combo worthy of getting away with murder. Meanwhile, actresses Jennifer Lawrence, Taylor Russell, and Elle Fanning honored Harron’s character style through timeless trench coats, Rhode’s founder, Hailey Bieber — either deciding to go fully Bateman in Saint Laurent Fall 2023 or just including some psycho-chic elements in her daily looks — declared that no matter the occasion, sophistication and extravaganza are always welcomed. With celebrities reinforcing that psycho-chic is here to stay, catch this signal: it’s time to dig out our trenches, blazers, blood-splattered ties, and whatever else connects with our inner psycho. 🌀

What happens when a brand resists interpretation? INTERPRETATION IS THE REVENGE OF THE INTELLECTUAL UPON ART. Writer, public intellectual, and professional hater Susan Sontag was able to intuit our mortal imperative for critique back in 1966 — completely unaware that Against Interpretation would one day be a potent edification, toted around like a Bible by plaid-skirted coeds. Her beliefs were brutal but fair: beauty does not equate to interestingness; stereotypes imprison us; and aesthetic consumption can be violent in its lack of utility. It’s this kind of thinking that — in more ways than one — can be traced directly to the new Gucci, presented this past Friday at Milan Fashion Week. Trickle-Down Theory isn’t just about cashmere and cowl necks tumbling their way to the bargain bins — it’s also about the tendency for art and philosophical criticism to slither down, however subconsciously, onto the runway. Creative directors are occasionally appraised of this phenomenon. In 2011, Karl Lagerfeld became obsessed with Nietzsche; in 2000, John Galliano’s Fall/Winter show was awfully conspicuous, going so far as to name the collection “Freud or Fetish?”. If a designer is puffing their show notes with philosopher name-drops or references to popular essays, it is a not-so-subtle statement: This collection has been interpreted for you. Read the source material. No need to think too hard. It’s an insecurity that has only escalated with the advent of designers on social media — it is now far too easy to over-explain, argue about your work, or ruin your career before it even starts. Interpretation is intoxicating. At Alessandro Michele-era Gucci (his tenure lasted from 2015 to 2022), that urge to deflect a misreading was always apparent. Michele revived the house with maximalism and theatrics, supported by quirky, genderfluid garments. From an anniversary collection presented as the bombastic Gucci Love Parade, to a collection cast only with twin models, Michele was quick to embrace artifice and magic — and did so with a sly wink, trying to convince everyone that they, too, were in on the joke. But velvet and Guccissima and fake doll heads cannot belabor criticism. Michele’s departure last year was never properly explained. Still, rumors abounded that his flouncy carnies were going démodé — and the brand’s owner, the Kering Group, was more than ready to pack up the circus tent. On Friday, Gucci’s new designer, Sabato De Sarno, stripped the brand of all excess. Here was an austere Gucci many people, especially young people, did not remember — because the likes of which hadn’t been resurrected since 1995, when a young Tom Ford hit everyone in the solar plexus with sophisticated, surprising garment construction. Sabato De Sarno, too, is a young firebrand: a 40-year-old Neapolitan, De Sarno began his career as a pattern-maker at Prada; then, 14 years at Valentino, where he was the head of men’s and womenswear design. Now, plucked as Michele’s successor, he is burdened with the task of “...reinforcing the house’s fashion authority while capitalizing on its rich heritage.” His style is smooth and interior, almost medical, favoring recognizable silhouettes and unencumbered fabrics, all free of detail or blessing. In an interview with the New York Times, De Sarno lays out a prescient life motto: avanti — go ahead. In that, the Spring/Summer 2024 collection moves with a forward, mechanical motion. Here are white minidresses practically cut out of marble; striped grosgrain ribbons peeking out of coat vents; leather boy shorts, the color of skin; duchesse lace slips that pucker against the hipline; long, artless denim, built to last forever. Shiny burgundy shorts and matching loafers mewl under the comfy banality of an oversized sweatshirt. Even with an exposed nipple or a teasing leg slit, this is Gucci at its most achingly, relentlessly professional. A collection like this shouldn’t have been surprising — and yet it was. Some accused De Sarno of not understanding Gucci’s brand DNA, now irretrievably mutated by Michele’s influence; some felt that it was an augury, signaling the end of fun and whimsy on the runway; and some felt that there was now no difference between Gucci and competitor brands, like Loewe and Bottega Veneta. But De Sarno prepared for this. In an interview with The Cut, he stated: “I don’t want to impress. I want to do what I like.” That’s the thing: Sabato De Sarno is not just the Creative Director at Gucci, but he is also its Chief Executive Custodian. Part of the job, thinly veiled in Kering’s hiring announcement, is cleaning up Michele’s mess — a beautiful, often-enjoyable mess, but a mess nonetheless. The disaster was caused by years of Michele’s dial-turning, upping the Gucciness Quotient with every collection. While the world was distracted with the house’s pomp and circumstance — like the Fall/Winter 2020 collection, kinky and Moulin Rouge-y— Michele was slowly glossing Gucci in amber, preserving eccentricity as the cornerstone of the brand. At a certain point, Michele’s work was not about Gucci anymore. It was an exploration of Gucciness, grinding down the house to its divinely aesthetic qualities and seeing what could be stretched and pulled taut into putty. What Michele discarded in his laboratory — simplicity, humility, mystery, modulation — has been acutely picked up by De Sarno. He does not stretch or pull; he merely excavates the necessary. What De Sarno is doing, per Sontag’s observation, is resisting interpretation in a way Michele could not manage successfully. There are no questions to be asked, here — and even if there were, he is not answering them. This is not to say that De Sarno is demure in his creative leadership, nor is he particularly unable to deliver necessary rejoinders. He simply doesn’t want to. In doing so, he is forcing the Gucci audience — and the fashion world writ large — to think quietly for themselves, internally, without any public interpretation. De Sarno would agree with Sontag’s assessment of modern art criticism: it is reactionary, impertinent, cowardly, and stifling. Blindly engaging in it for engagement's sake makes us lesser artists and lesser creative thinkers. In his interview with The Cut, I was particularly struck by a single quote of De Sarno’s, cavernous in its implications: “People will maybe say these things are boring in fashion but not for me. Maybe they don’t see the details on the runway. Honestly, I don’t care.” Regardless of your feelings on the collection — De Sarno isn't listening. 🌀 You can see the whole collection here.

The partnership between Loewe and Anderson has been long developed, wholly organic, and has yet to feel like a Hail Mary for profit. At the intersection of irreverence, kitsch, and surrealism lies Jonathan Anderson. The Irish-born designer — who currently helms Spanish luxury house Loewe as creative director, as well as his own eponymous label, JW Anderson — is often regarded as one of fashion’s best modern talents. He is known for his delicate, idiosyncratic creations that perfectly walk the line between frivolous and genius. In a day and age when the industry often feels stale and uninspired, Anderson has managed to liven it up with humor, reference, and intellect to create an arsenal of buzz-worthy designs. After graduating from the London College of Fashion, Anderson started his career in menswear, where he experienced a meteoric rise to success. He launched his eponymous label JW Anderson in 2008 with an inaugural androgynous men’s line; it was eccentric, beautifully chaotic, and introduced an anomalous dance between conventionally gendered pieces. A few years later, he added a womenswear line that followed suit. The designer’s approach to witty craftsmanship resonated with the industry from the beginning; his short stint of work at his own label caught the attention of European luxury conglomerate LVMH, and Anderson was appointed creative director of Loewe in 2013. At the time, the Madrid-based brand was fairly lackluster and struggling to define its identity. The young, eager designer spent his first year revamping the brand — and did so carefully. Anderson’s arrival at the house followed troubled stints by Narciso Rodriguez and Stuart Vevers, both unsuccessful in their attempts to revive the brand. Anderson’s creative and strategic touch — bringing the joie de vivre that marked his eponymous label to the house — proved triumphant, and the once-sleepy brand started gaining notoriety for products beyond leathergoods. In the decade following his initial appointment as the head of Loewe, Anderson has accomplished a laundry list of successes. Loewe ranked #1 on Lyst’s Q2 2023 Hottest Brands index for the first time. Anderson has been able to transform the brand to compete among hot heritage houses like Prada and Bottega Veneta — a once seemingly-impossible mission. The Anagram tank top was also ranked the hottest product of the quarter, and the brand’s famous basket bag continued to create popular demand while also inspiring countless dupes. Anderson’s prolific portfolio doesn’t stop there. The designer’s penchant for off-beat accessories, inflated silhouettes, asymmetrical hemlines, and unfamiliar proportions has resulted in some of the most interesting work in the business. Anderson and the Loewe team interpreted the phrase “walking on eggshells” quite literally, bringing the well-known saying to life with a pair of heels. In that same collection, Anderson morphed art and fashion together with a series of sculptural heels in the form of candles, soap, roses, and nail polish bottles in place of the traditional stiletto. Unsurprisingly, these designs gained traction online and became the center of discourse around Anderson’s innate ability to transgress the boundaries of fashion. Loewe didn’t stop there, however. As more designers and brands continue to embrace the evolution of technology by creating metaverse collections and staking their claim in otherwise gimmicky tech spheres, Anderson has taken a different, more experimental approach. The creative director’s Spring/Summer 2023 collection featured warped garments that mirrored something out of Minecraft. Pixelated hoodies, pants, and tops ‚ all created with the help of perfectly-engineered 3D seams — translated to yet another win for Loewe. The outcome of Anderson’s undeniable genius, and his balance of mainstream appeal and those-that-get-it-get-it ethos, is nothing short of a fashion fairytale. In addition to Loewe’s commercial achievements, Anderson’s designs have also graced large stages for iconic performances. Rihanna wore a multi-layered red look comprised of a silk catsuit, a matching canvas flight suit, and a custom leather corset breastplate for the 2023 Superbowl. The 38-year-old designer also proved his unmatched design aptitude with an array of looks for Beyoncé’s Renaissance World Tour. His signature surrealism and illusion techniques were center stage on Beyoncé’s high-shine crystal hand-motif bodysuit. Anderson also incorporated thematic touches that perfectly paralleled the mega-star’s album — like futuristic concepts, disco-tech, robots, and machines. Though Anderson’s talents are indisputable, it can be hard to place why his designs have elevated Loewe and resonated with consumers and the industry. It all comes down to the British designer’s love for the craft. Anderson has fun while he designs — something painfully missing from a lot of other designers’ recent work. He is a natural risk-taker, and his work often feels refreshingly authentic. The partnership between Loewe and Anderson has been long developed, wholly organic, and has yet to feel like a Hail Mary for profit. Anderson’s radical approach to fashion has also positioned him as a modern pioneer. He is satisfied, maybe even fulfilled when his collections aren’t particularly cohesive — and he doesn’t necessarily strive to follow the zeitgeist. This ethos sets him apart from other designers and allows his strong creative vision to design collections sincere in their specificity. It’s weird, but it’s good-weird! may be the most succinct, yet overly simplified way to describe Jonathan Anderson’s work — and, boy, is the industry lucky to have him. 🌀