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FLOWER POWER
MODELS (FROM FAR LEFT) HOYEON JUNG (IN ALTUZARRA), AIDEN CURTISS (IN BATSHEVA), SORA CHOI (IN ERDEM), SELENA
FAS HI O N ED I TO R: TO NN E G O O D MA N . HA I R , GA RR EN FOR R+CO.
HA I RCA R E, M A KEU P, D I C K PAG E. D E TA I LS, SE E I N T HI S ISSUE .

FORREST (IN MICHAEL KORS COLLECTION). SAFFRON VADHER (IN BATSHEVA), SABINA KARLSSON (IN HORROR VACUI),
AND CAROLINE TRENTINI (IN DIOR). PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARTIN PARR.

28 Eberstadt’s 74 86 96 to see it—and

Masthead own lost days of Seize the Day Adding It Up The Children’s report on a rapidly
postcollegiate life A gorgeous As Gigi Hadid shows Hour evolving Church
34 mosaic of day us, sometimes When Pope
Editor’s Letter 48 dressing—from more is more: Add Francis delivered 100
V Life structured multiple collars his inclusive, Girl Meets World
40 DJ-ing sisters, novels suiting to bold to a graphic openhearted vision Yara Shahidi has
Up Front featuring dangerous prints and florals, print, subtract a of Catholicism a lot on her plate—
The spectral men, plus the return and from rococo peekaboo cutout, to hundreds and on her mind.
presence of a of the shirtdress to rock ’n’ roll— and throw on a head of adoring Carina Chocano
struggling recent offers up a look for wrap. It’s chic no schoolchildren, sits down with the
graduate brought 73 every moment matter how you Jason Horowitz teenage dynamo
back Fernanda Point of View and mood do the math was at the Vatican C O N T I N U E D >24

20 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
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 August 2018

PEACE ON EARTH
POPE FRANCIS MEETS WITH SCHOOLCHILDREN AT THE VATICAN.
PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANNIE LEIBOVITZ.

102 black experience— time she does it in issues on the 138 memorable, fun,
Saoirse Rising and black skin— style—as a glamper runway and Index and fashionable
Ever since her with her fictional repurposing vintage What to wear—and
precocious family sagas, 116 fabrics to garnering where to go—for 144
performance exquisitely rendered Moment of audiences with a first date that’s Last Look
in Atonement, in pastels and the Month Queen Elizabeth II
Saoirse Ronan has ballpoint pen. Actress and
reinvented herself By Dodie Kazanjian humanitarian 130 Cover Look Golden Girl
with each role. Sally Priyanka Chopra No Holds Saoirse Ronan wears a Prada dress and
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112 memoir detailing Meet the bold a delicious panoply Compulsion Oil-in-Lipstick in Undressed
Drawing Stories her solo trek along talents remaking of shapes and Pink. All by Maybelline New York. Hair,
Nigerian-American the Pacific Crest fashion as we colors that Damien Boissinot; makeup, Dick Page.
artist Toyin Ojih Trail, Cheryl Strayed know it—from choosing just Details, see In This Issue.
Odutola has pushed returns to the rural spotlighting one seems Photographed by Jamie Hawkesworth.
our depictions of yonder. But this social-justice unimaginative Fashion Editor: Camilla Nickerson.

24 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
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PH OT O G R APH B Y K EL LY ST UA RT
 ANNA WINTOUR
Editor in Chief
Fashion Director TONNE GOODMAN 
Features Director EVE MacSWEENEY Market Director, Fashion and Accessories VIRGINIA SMITH
Executive Fashion Editor PHYLLIS POSNICK Style Director CAMILLA NICKERSON
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Creative Digital Director SALLY SINGER

F A S H I O N /A C C E S S O R I E S
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Editors GRACE GIVENS, WILLOW LINDLEY, ALEX ANDRA MICHLER, FRANCESCA RAGAZZI Menswear Editor MICHAEL PHILOUZE
Associate Fashion Editors TAYLOR ANGINO, YOHANA LEBASI Senior Market Editor KIRBY MARZEC Market Editor ANNY CHOI
Associate Market Editors ALEX ANDRA GURVITCH, MADELINE SWANSON Market Manager CAROLINE GRISWOLD
Fashion Market Assistant NAOMI ELIZEE Casting Assistant KELSEY LAFFERT Y

FA S H I O N N E W S
Fashion News Director CHIOMA NNADI   Director, Vogue Runway NICOLE PHELPS
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TAMAR ADLER, JORDEN BICKHAM, CAMERON BIRD, MIRANDA BROOKS, SARAH BROWN, GRACE CODDINGTON, SYLVANA WARD DURRET T,
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Letter from the Editor
First
Impressions
THIS AUGUST WE BRING an (almost) entirely new roster
of photographers, writers, and people to the pages of
Vogue. I say “almost” because Irish actress Saoirse Ronan
has been in the magazine several times before, as has Jamie
Hawkesworth, the young Englishman who photographed
her back home in Dublin, though this marks the first
time either of them has had a Vogue cover. In the case of
Saoirse, it seemed right and fitting that she should take
the lead in an issue that celebrates new visions and voices.
Usually the typical route for a talent of her age and back-
ground—someone who has prioritized smart, interesting
roles in smart, interesting movies—is to be drawn into the
Hollywood machine, making glossy, expensive multiplex
productions; to become, and to conform to, what we all
think of as a Major Movie Star.
Yet ever since Saoirse appeared in Atonement, a per-
formance that nearly eclipsed that of her costars Keira
Knightley and Vanessa Redgrave, she has chosen film roles
that are as deep and as intense as her connection to them.
Most recently she excelled in Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird,
nuancing all the awkward, jutting emotions of a teenager
about to head off to college; next she’ll play Mary, Queen
34 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
WORK ETHIC
SAOIRSE RONAN (LEFT, PHOTOGRAPHED BY JAMIE
HAWKESWORTH), MUCH LIKE CAREY MULLIGAN (ABOVE,
PHOTOGRAPHED BY DAVID SIMS, 2010), PRIZES THE
CRAFT OF ACTING OVER THE TRAPPINGS OF FAME.
of Scots, wringing a contemporary connection
out of the tale of a doomed sixteenth-century
monarch. While Saoirse is always terrific in
historical costume roles, the modern-day fashion
world has also been quick to draw her into its
orbit. And yet that seems to be an amusing and
fun sideshow to her, just as much as she regards
fame as something that happens to other people.
She reminds me a lot of Carey Mulligan in this
respect. Despite marrying the globally renowned
musician Marcus Mumford, Carey has essen-
tially remained the same thoughtful and low-
key actress who grabbed our attention—and
plenty of accolades—with An Education. Each actress has
also relished the mental rigor and physical demands of the
MA KEU P, D I C K PAG E . P RO DUCE D BY S LYV IA FA RAG O LT D. D E TA I LS, SE E I N T HI S ISSUE
theater—Carey in The Seagull and Skylight, Saoirse in The
Crucible. For both of them, the work’s the thing.
Given Saoirse’s age—she’s 24—that’s hardly surprising.
RO NA N: FAS HI O N E DI TO R, CA MI LLA NI C KE RSO N . HA I R, DA M I E N BOI SSI N OT.
She has that generational questioning of the need to do
things the same old way they’ve been done in the past or
aspiring to achievements that don’t feel so relevant any-
more. That attitude also informed our decision to do our
month of firsts, an idea that germinated early last summer.
It just felt like the right moment for us to have new eyes on
our rapidly changing world, and our editors leaped at the
chance to work with those who see things differently. As
our lives evolve, so too should Vogue. There’s never any
point in standing still.
Up Front
Failure to Launch
The spectral presence of a struggling recent graduate brought back
Fernanda Eberstadt’s own lost days of postcollegiate life.
ew York in the 1970s was a wild, sleazy city,
N
and as a teenager, I found myself exploring
its leather bars, amusement arcades, and
discos with an intensity that didn’t leave
much room for school. On my report cards,
the number of days absent was higher than
most of my grades. One night in eleventh grade, my best
friend and I took our schoolbags to Studio 54, stowed them
under a seat in the upstairs gallery, and went straight to our
Upper East Side girls’ school the next morning, bleary but
triumphant. Hadn’t our parents noticed we didn’t come
home the night before? my children asked many years later
when they heard this story. Parents didn’t notice much in
that unsurveilled era, I said. Teachers noticed, though.
When it came time for college applications, my guidance
40 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
NE NNA EB ERSTA DT. G E LATI N S I LV ER P RI NT, 8˝ X 10 ˝. © 201 8 T HE A N DY WA RH OL FOUNDATION FOR TH E VISUAL ARTS, INC. /LICENSED BY ARTISTS R IGH TS
SO CI E T Y ( A RS) , N EW YO RK. P HOTO G RA P H © 201 8 COU RT ESY O F T HE DAV I D A ND A L FR ED SMART MUSEUM OF ART, TH E UNIVERSITY OF CH ICAGO.
counselor told me that she couldn’t in good conscience write
me a recommendation.
Oxford, where I’d dreamed of going since I was a bookish
fifth-grader, saved my skin. Oxford in those days couldn’t
care less that you hadn’t played varsity hockey or helped
build orphanages in Costa Rica; they didn’t even seem to
know what an SAT score was. All they cared about was how
you did on their entrance exams. Luckily, my enthusiasm
for English literature was just as fervent as my taste for
nightclubs. When I scraped through the admission tests and
was offered a place at Oxford’s Magdalen College, I vowed
that I was going to reform. I did. U P F R O N T> 4 4
FACTORY GIRL
THE AUTHOR, PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANDY WARHOL, IN 1977.
Up Front The Graduate
Three years later, at 21, I was back in New York, a college
graduate. All my life I’d been churning out stories, poems,
novellas, fantasizing myself a belated Brontë sister, with
garbage-strewn Manhattan my remake of the Yorkshire
moors. As a child I’d been able to bask in the safety of
precocity, undaunted by any visible competition. Now
I had to face the real world, where there were plenty of
other ambitious 20-something-year-olds with first novels
to peddle. It was time to get out there and deliver.
Like so many college graduates today, I’d moved back
home. Unlike most, I had no student debts to pay off (back
then, British universities cost less than a U.S. community
college), and I had parents willing and able to bankroll me
while I tried to finish the book I’d begun freshman year.
There was nothing to distract me from the blankness of my
striped yellow legal pads. So why was I curled up in my child-
hood bed, too frightened to leave
the room? Why did the emptiness
of the page seem a reflection of All my life I’d been fantasizing
the howling void inside me?
One day in September, after a myself a belated Brontë
summer of sweltering dread and sister, with garbage-strewn
silence, a friend suggested we
swing by his drug dealer’s apart- Manhattan my remake of the
ment. The dealer, P., lived in the Yorkshire moors
Vermeer, on Fourteenth Street,
and was a lonely, cantankerous
Frenchman with tinted aviator glasses and pale arms scored
with needle tracks. He sat behind an enormous desk, lec-
turing us about William Burroughs and Charles Bukowski
while he dished out free helpings of coke. When I got back
home at daybreak, I started writing. Cocaine made the
words caper across the page, buckle and fizz.
My writer’s routine was thus established: Once or twice a
week, I took the train down to the Vermeer and talked Beat
poets with P.; back home, fueled by his ice-blue packets,
I wrote until I crashed. Sometimes I was too wired to do
anything but lie in a bath, trying to calm myself with the
scent of the Dove soap that reminded me of my mother’s
cold cream. Daytimes I stayed in bed, praying that nobody
would knock on my door to see what was going wrong.
My novel, which had begun as a slim tale of a girl who
falls in love with two brothers, was carcinogenically spiraling
into 1,000 pages of hermetic babble. Recently I found the
cardboard box containing the handwritten manuscript,
and the physical artifact mirrors its author’s mental dis-
integration: Scotch-taped-together pages two feet long, with
multidirectional arrows tendriling into spidery disquisitions
on Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea (an opera I’d
never actually listened to) or the catacombs of Guanajuato
(which I hadn’t actually seen).
That winter, my mother checked into a psychiatric hospi-
tal in Connecticut to negotiate her withdrawal from Seconal,
a barbiturate she’d been prescribed as a sleeping pill. My
mother had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder as a young
woman, and she tended to self-medicate her way through
the ups and downs. Her loathing of institutions was pretty
savage, and this was the first time she’d submitted to official
44 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
help in cleaning up. One evening, I took a commuter train to
Stamford and a taxi to Silver Hill, a country estate turned
detox clinic for the rich.
After visiting my mother—her overbright chatter skit-
tering around the unmentionable of why she was in this
quilted-chintz ward, with its stink of hospital food—I
had an appointment with the director. We talked about
my mother’s progress, and then I asked him about my own
mood swings. Did he think I might have inherited a dose
of her disorder? By this point, it felt as if such a diagnosis
might be a relief from my own crippling self-expectations:
If I were certifiably ill, just getting out of bed in the morning
would be sufficient victory.
The director ran through his questionnaire and told me it
sounded as if I might have “double depression.” For a proper
baseline diagnosis, though, I’d need to stay off cocaine for
two weeks.
I remember sitting in that
office—outside was wintry
blackness—listening to this genial
doctor whose authority I found
utterly annihilating. I looked at
the family photographs on his
desk of a laughing blonde wife
and children and laughing blond
dogs, and suddenly in the fiercest
way I wanted to be him, but I
also hated his guts. Everything he had—the career, the
family, the institutional plausibility to suggest to a stranger
on the basis of ten questions that she had a superfancy
mental illness—seemed so far from any future I could
dream of.
The ride back to the city in the icy, juddering train felt
like reconsignment to a darkness from which I would never
be sprung. I tried to stay off cocaine for fourteen days so
I could go back to Silver Hill to take the baseline test, but
I didn’t manage.
This is a period of my life that is so painful I have tried to
blank it out, but sometimes, when I hear that somebody’s
child is out of college and has no idea what to do with
herself, I feel sick to my stomach with dread.
hirty-five years later, I’m living in London,
T
and my daughter Maud has just graduat-
ed from Oxford. “Oh, Ma,” says Maud one
evening. “I told Kate she could come stay
with us.” Maud’s friend Kate has landed a
six-week internship at a boutique publisher.
Internships in Britain are often unpaid, and Kate’s family
lives deep in the countryside.
“That’s wonderful,” I say absently. My son, Theo, is away
at college in the U.S.; Kate can stay in his room.
I haven’t seen Kate since the girls’ first week at college, and
when she arrives, I wonder if it’s the same person I met three
years ago. My memory was of a cheery, outgoing country
girl; this Kate is an ethereal beauty with an air of fragility
that’s troubling. She’d worked way too hard for her final
exams, Maud had told me, and it’s evidently U P F R O N T> 4 6
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Up Front The Graduate
taken a physical and psychic toll. While she’s standing in
the kitchen, sipping a cup of herbal tea, I ask her what she
wants to do next. God help these poor graduates, besieged
by anxiety-spiking questions from elders who have no idea
how dire the job market is for 20-something-year-olds.
Kate isn’t sure. She loves books and travel and the out-
doors, but she can’t quite see how her Oxford degree in
English literature will ever translate into anything more
life-sustaining than a succession of precarious gigs. There’s
a look of dazed panic on her face I find painfully familiar.
Over the next six weeks, Kate’s a light, almost spectral
presence in the apartment. When her internship ends, she
stays on. She goes out early every morning, comes home in
the evening, and makes herself a frugal meal that she eats
in her bedroom. I wonder what she’s doing with her days;
she’s become practically invisible.
Maud says admiringly that Kate takes long walks across
London; she goes to exhibitions and films on her own;
she’s got grit and self-reliance. I, too, have always done
a lot of things alone, but I know that what sounds like
self-sufficiency can become a way of keeping other people
at bay. My husband, Alastair, asks her to join us at dinner,
but Kate says she’s too tired. Maud invites her out with
friends, but Kate says she wants
to get an early night. It’s easy to
accept her fatigue at face value, God help these poor graduates,
to duck the recognition that
this 21-year-old who spends her besieged by anxiety-spiking
evenings barricaded in Theo’s questions from elders
closet-size room is sinking deeper
and deeper into depression. who have no idea how dire
Then one night Kate doesn’t the job market is
come home, and the next night
I lie awake, terror-stricken that
I’ve done nothing for this young woman who so clearly
needed help. Precisely because her situation rouses such
raw memories, I’ve ignored it. Non-assistance to a person
in danger, it’s called in French, and it’s a crime.
“Oh, Kate went home for the weekend,” says Maud. “She
said she’ll be back on Monday.”
“How do you think she’s doing?”
“I think she’s having a hard time.”
The next time I see Kate, I corner her. It’s the worst possible
moment: She’s just come back from a run, sweaty, longing
for a shower. I’d like to talk, I say. She looks a little nervous.
“I just wanted to tell you, I know what it’s like,” I plunge
in. “My first year out of university was the worst time in
my life. . . .”
Kate’s face brightens in relief, and the words come pour-
ing out of her. What a failure she feels, not knowing what
to do with her life, when all her college friends seem to be
slotting into glamorous or at least meaningful careers, and
how demoralizing it is when most of the internships she’s
applying for can’t even be bothered to send her a rejection
letter. If she doesn’t come up with a viable project soon,
she’s going to have to admit defeat and move back to her
parents’ farmhouse in the West Country, with no plans for
the future, no escape.
46 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
Halfway through our conversation, Kate divulges that
she has an aunt who lives in South Korea; this aunt has been
urging her to come work at the school where she teaches.
It’s on a remote, volcanic island; it’s gorgeous, apparently.
By the end of the week, Kate’s done a Skype interview with
the school’s director and been offered a job. Money, foreign
travel, adventure. Maybe a new sense of who she wants to be.
didn’t escape my postcollege crack-up on my own.
I
My brother helped me out of it. I don’t think he
ever knew how bad things had got, but he took me
in hand patiently. At the time, he was a Harvard
demographer specializing in Asia and the Soviet
Union, and he sat me down and made me do every-
thing he would do if he were me. First he helped me write
letters to the editors of all the foreign-policy magazines he
worked for, asking for a job. When that didn’t pan out, he
hired me himself as assistant on a book project. And when
that particular project got shelved, he took me along with
him on a research trip across the Soviet Union. Six weeks in
the USSR was like a mobile, no-frills detox: When I came
home, I was clean and sufficiently sturdy to start chopping
my 1,000-page folly into the manuscript that eventually
became my first novel, Low Tide.
When I remember how warm-
heartedly my brother helped me
out of my impasse, I think, Yes,
you really can save a person’s life.
It’s the spring of 2018, and
Kate’s back from almost a year
in South Korea. She’s quit her job
as monitor at the girls’ boarding
school. The experience sounds
grueling, but it gave her the
chance to save some money, bum around Southeast Asia,
build up confidence in her own resourcefulness. She shows
me her blog, and I’m blown away by the self-mocking hon-
esty with which this intensely private young woman has
chronicled the turmoil of being in her early 20s. What lights
up Kate’s prose is the determination to cheer up readers
who might be struggling with similar feelings of doubt and
self-blame. Instead of excoriating ourselves for imaginary
failures, she writes, we should revel in all the tiny everyday
“wins”—even if it’s just managing to slide through the
subway doors as they close.
There are things I want to tell Kate. I want to tell her that
these times of not knowing what you’re doing in the world
are agony. And the strange thing is, they keep recurring.
Just when you think you’ve got your life squared away
because you’re 38 years old, or 42 or 56, something blind-
sides you, and suddenly you’re back in the same state of
radical not-knowing. I want to tell her that if you do manage
to face down your demons of self-doubt, you will get some-
where deep and true. I want to tell her that ridding yourself
of other people’s notions of failure and success is one of
the most useful arts you can learn, but I picture her smile
as she slips into the subway just before the doors close, and
I think she might know this already. @
E F F YJ E W E L R Y.C O M | 1 . 87 7. A S K . E F F Y
VL I F E
Fashion
Culture
Beauty

FAS H I O N

Ain’t No
Mountain
High

HA I R , RECI N E FO R RO D IN . MA K EU P, D I CK PAG E . P RODUCE D BY A L EX I S P I QU ERAS FO R ROSCO PRODUCTION. SET D ESIGN, MATT JACKSON.
Enough TRAIL BLAZER
GIGI HADID LAYERS UP
TECHNICAL NYLON
AND WOOL TWEED.
ALL CLOTHES AND
Karl Lagerfeld has created ACCESSORIES BY COCO
NEIGE DE CHANEL.
Chanel’s first ski collection— DETAILS, SEE IN THIS
ISSUE. PHOTOGRAPHED
BY BIBI CORNEJO
and it’s as good on the streets BORTHWICK.
FASHION EDITOR:
as it is on the slopes. CAMILLA NICKERSON.

48 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
V L IFE
hen one thinks of sensible, em-

W inently practical things to com-

fort, protect, and soothe during
air travel, a quilted black poly-
amide toile one-piece from Chanel’s forthcoming
Coco Neige collection may not be the first thing
that comes to mind. But such is my discovery,
which requires no thought on the part of the
bleary-eyed during an early-hour dash to the air-
port: a nipped-waist, two-legged sleeping bag, fully
insulated against temperature changes and suspect
surface materials. Michelin Man I am not, thanks
to world-class tailoring—though my boyfriend
notes that I have been transformed into the largest
travel pillow he could have snuck past security.
I discover this life hack while exploring how,
exactly, one might wear a piece from Chanel’s
first-ever stand-alone ski
and snow-sport collection.
“The way people While Karl Lagerfeld’s sea- BOOKS

dress at winter sonal runways have long

included sporty vignettes,
sports resorts
is the same
the newly inaugurated
Coco Neige collection is
targeted to the customer
way they dress whose slopes-trotting life-
now in the city,” style requires such options
as a wind-resistant parka
Lagerfeld says with heat-sealed seams and
matching snow pants—and,
of course, the option of a tweed skirt suit made
for subzero temperatures.
One might wonder if a late-summer debut
of the collection (which arrives in stores from
Courchevel to SoHo in the coming months), re-
plete with bouclé mittens and water-repellent
salopettes, is a bit anachronistic. For Lagerfeld,
though, the cross-pollination of themes, climates,
fabrics, and inspirations is as global and as timely
as his reason for creating the Coco Neige collec-
tion in the first place: “The way people dress at
winter sports resorts is the same way they dress
now in the city,” he says. “That is, streetwear from
the mountains.”
And indeed: A down-filled nylon fanny pack
inspired by the warmest of puffer coats feels right
at home in all its iconic streetwear splendor on a
Friday afternoon in Chinatown. Simple jeans, Fair
Isle sweaters, and shearling slip-on ankle booties,
meanwhile, will be no-brainers for unassuming
bohemian types as the summer months give way to
nor’easters and ice storms. A pearlescent camellia-
stitched quilted bomber, I find, is the perfect
Under the Influence
Charismatic—and dangerous—
men haunt two new novels.
His Favorites
Following the accidental death of a friend, fifteen-year-old
Jo Hadley shows up mid-semester at a posh boarding
school in Kate Walbert’s stunningly hazy novel His Favorites
(Scribner). The new coed captures the attention of Master,
a 34-year-old classics teacher whose boyish charm quickly
turns predatory. Master’s legacy becomes “a shadow
across my life—a solid bar, a locked turnstile that brings me
up short, trapped on the other side of where I thought
I was going.” Invoking the work of Wallace Stevens, Master’s
favorite poet, and the bard of lost innocence, His Favorites
becomes a layered, time-bending book that depicts the
lingering effects of abuse. In 2004, when Walbert was among
five female novelists nominated for the National Book Award,
critics caviled that the academy was lowering its standards
by anointing obscure women writers. Here, there will be no
mistaking Walbert for anything but devastatingly relevant.
The Incendiaries
Faith and its furies lie at the heart of The Incendiaries
(Riverhead), R. O. Kwon’s disarmingly propulsive debut. The
enigmatic Phoebe Lin and fellow Californian Will Kendall meet
and fall in love at the prestigious Edwards University in upstate
New York. Having witnessed religion fail his ailing mother, Will
breaks off from his fundamentalist Christian upbringing and
strains to fill the ensuing void. Haunted by her role in the death
of her mother, Phoebe also needs a reason to believe, and falls in
N I KKI KREC I CKI

light cover to throw over the shoulders on fall thrall to a religious cult run by a former missionary who boasts
nights in the city—and bundles up nicely into of having escaped a North Korean gulag. It’s a combustive tale
a makeshift pillow for disco naps in your Lyft. about the human compulsion to latch onto something bigger
—SELBY DRUMMOND Realeased by Laoji than ourselves, no matter the cost.—LAUREN MECHLING

50 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
V L IFE
TA L E N T
No Filter
Actress Awkwafina brings her unbottled
charm to the silver screen.
“THERE ARE CERTAIN THINGS that separate me from
Awkwafina,” says Nora Lum of her stage persona, a
YouTube rapper alter ego she first created in high school.
“Like the neurosis, the anxiety, and the overthinking.” None
of that is apparent when I speak to Lum, however. Instead
she’s a fast-talker with a stream of one-liners—a lot like
the Queens-resident crook she plays in Ocean’s 8 (Lum is
herself from Queens) and the silk pajama–wearing best
friend in this month’s Crazy Rich Asians. “My grandma
saw the trailer and she said, ‘It wasn’t even like you were
acting,’ ” says Lum.
While Lum is as confident and electric in person as she
is on-screen, she grew up with something of a fractured
identity. Born to an immigrant South Korean mother
who died when she was four and a Chinese-American
father, she was raised primarily by her grandmother. (“I
didn’t know how to speak either language,” she says.) She
attended LaGuardia High School, took up the trumpet
(“a very annoying instrument!”), and was a fan of the
musical Rent (“I was one of those kids”). Lum says she
considers herself an outer-borough girl, one step removed
from the cultural epicenter of Manhattan. “I never thought
the city was mine. When you go to the Village as a high
schooler, you say, ‘Wow, I want to live there.’ Till this day
I still want to live there!”
52 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
Lum also describes her high school years as a time of
alienation. “You go to school loving Power Rangers and
Are You Afraid of the Dark? And then you go home to this
weird house that is shoddily decorated with all these gross
calendars, and you’re eating strange food.” The persona
of Awkwafina, paradoxically, gave her a sense of pride in
her own identity. “I have never known how to be anyone
else,” she says. “In high school, I couldn’t even try to linger
with the pretty, mean girls, because I was so overwhelmed
with being myself.”
S IT T I N G S ED I TO R: A L EX A N DRA GU RV I TCH. HA I R , A D LE NA DI G N A M.
Success was a slow rumble. Her first viral hit in 2012—“My
Vag,” a parody rap/ode to exactly what it sounds like—was
MA KEU P, MA R I KO HI RA N O. D ETA I LS, S EE IN T HI S I SSUE .
followed by another—“NYC Bitche$,” a song that alternately
features her bopping in front of the Barclays Center and
reading Joan Didion. The first video led to her firing from
her job as a publicity assistant at a publishing house (“the
best job I ever had at the time!”), but it also opened doors,
in particular, to a collaboration with her “saving grace,”
Korean-American comedian Margaret Cho. “You need
some representation growing up,” says Lum about Asians
in the media. “Because if you don’t have that, you can’t
materialize any dream.”—LIANA SATENSTEIN 老吉发布
ALONG FOR THE RIDE
AWKWAFINA WEARS A KOCHÉ DRESS AND A RACHEL
ANTONOFF SHIRT. PHOTOGRAPHED BY BELLA NEWMAN.
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V L IFE
SYSTEM UPGRADE
NEW FACE CREAMS SEEK TO
REACTIVATE GENES INVOLVED
IN COLLAGEN PRODUCTION.
PHOTOGRAPHED BY KEIRNAN
MONAGHAN AND THEO
VAMVOUNAKIS.

BEAUTY

Switch Hitters
Promising research in epigenetics
is guiding a wave of products that
turn on the good-skin genes.

DISCREETLY CLOISTERED IN a nineteenth-century

hôtel particulier on Paris’s Champs-Élysées, the Biologique
Recherche store displays its creams under bell jars like rare
specimens in a laboratory. Which is fitting, since the skin-
care company’s white-coated scientists have been pushing
the boundaries in the superhot field of epigenetics.
The epigenome is the control panel for our genes, deter-
mining which of them are turned on or off at any given time,
and recent studies have indicated a promising ability to affect
(via the epigenome) DNA related to the aging of the skin. In
2016, at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, in La Jolla,
California, scientists manipulated epigenetic markers in live
mice with progeria, a disease of premature aging, to restore
adult cells to a younger-seeming state.
Mice we are not, but skin-care companies have taken note,
releasing a number of sci-fi-sounding serums that tinker—for
cosmetic purposes—with the switches for our genes. There’s
Biologique’s La Grand Crème, a peptide-powered formula
engineered to address the genes involved with wrinkle for-
mation and hyperpigmentation; Sisley’s Sisleÿa L’Integral
Anti-Age Firming Concentrated Serum, which acts on the
WELLNESS
enzyme linked to elastin; and Estée Lauder’s Perfectionist Pro
serum, which targets skin’s firmness and spring. It’s a whole
new way to bounce back.—MARCIA DESANCTIS
Honey High
“It’s an isolated, beautiful place,” says Gabrielle
Mirkin, describing New Zealand’s Coromandel
Peninsula, where her husband, Luke Harwood,
grew up surfing along the jagged coastline. It’s
P O RTRA I T: D ERE K H EN D ERSON . JA R: COURT ESY OF ACTI V I ST HO N EY.
also a region where you can harvest manuka
honey, a rare variety prized for its unusually high
antimicrobial properties. (Studies show that it
can curb harmful bacteria, while aiding tissue
regeneration—a balm for sore throats and skin
alike.) After a few fast-paced years in New York,
the Kiwi couple returned home to New Zealand
and spent a year recharging, letting friends’ bees
set up camp on their land. The experience
sparked a plan to elevate manuka with a
name—Activist—that riffs on its reputation
as a bioactive superfood. The raw honey
comes in three levels of potency (one
culinary grade and two medicinal),
GOLDEN MOMENT
LUKE HARWOOD AND
while the color-block packaging is fit for
GABRIELLE MIRKIN AT upscale wellness meccas. Says Harwood,
THEIR CURRENT HOME “It’s lo-fi, hi-fi.”—LAURA REGENSDORF
BASE, IN TOPANGA,
CALIFORNIA, WITH THEIR
SON, FRANCISCO. RIGHT:
ACTIVIST RAW MANUKA.
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V L IFE
N O S TA L G I A
Having
aBall
For Angelica Baker, summer
camp at Michael Jordan
Flight School meant going
one-on-one with greatness.
W HEN I WAS TEN YEARS old, I at-
tended a basketball camp on a sprawl-
ing university campus in southern
California. I was certainly no athlete.
My nose was constantly in an Agatha
Christie book, and I was more or less
legally blind without the new contact
lenses I despised.
But I loved basketball. It was the
only televised event my family watched
together. Each June we’d sit on my
parents’ bed, in the one room in our
Los Angeles house with air-condition-
ing, to follow the NBA playoffs. On family vacations, my
younger brother and I would pass The Kids’ World Almanac
of Basketball back and forth until its blue paperback spine
began to disintegrate.
Our family’s origin story revolved around my parents’
courtship during the infamous Lakers–Celtics rivalry of the
eighties—my father lived for years in Boston, and my mother
is a lifelong Californian. But by that summer, we were a house
newly divided. Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls had
just beaten the Utah Jazz, my father’s team, and he insisted
that Jordan was “overrated.” The rest of us, like most other
Americans, unapologetically believed that Jordan was the
greatest player in the world.
Michael Jordan Flight School, as our camp was called,
promised daily appearances from the great man himself, who
had established the program a couple of years earlier. I had
never been to sleepaway camp, and I was incredibly awkward
around strangers. But my parents reassured me that I would
make new friends. On the first day, I struggled to look like
I was having fun as I filed into the gym with the rest of the
campers. We all sat down cross-legged on the floor, waiting.
And then Michael Jordan entered the room.
I had never in my life been near someone that famous. We’d
heard he was coming, but that was no preparation for what
it felt like to be suddenly so close to a person who bears the
58 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
FAS HI O N ED I TO R: SA RA M O ON V ES. HA I R, H OL LI S M IT H; MA K EU P, LI SA HOUG HTO N. PRODUCED BY WEI- LI WANG AT BRACH FELD NY.
SLAM DUNK
KENDALL JENNER,
PHOTOGRAPHED BY
THEO WENNER.
weight of so many different desires. My awe felt disorienting,
tipping from euphoria into sheer panic.
In the sun-drenched gym, Jordan lectured us on footwork:
how to fake right, then drive left. How to make every part
of your body a trick, a false clue, so that by the time your
defender got it you were gone, the ball already in the hoop.
He asked for a volunteer to play against him. We all thrust
our arms into the air, our dorm keys dangling from plastic
cords around our wrists. But I was the one he chose. He saw
my Magic Johnson jersey—I was, after all, still an Angeleno
at heart—then laughed and waved me up.
My ponytail flew around my shoulders as I dribbled, my
nerves so jangled that I had to mutter to myself to keep my
cool. Jordan kept teasing me, poking gentle fun at my con-
fusion. He told me that we would play until the first person
scored, and amiably kept going even after the fifth time I
shot an air ball.
I returned to camp for the next three years, almost entirely
because of Jordan. He’d remember me on the last day, when
he signed one piece of memorabilia per camper. The coun-
selors often greeted me at registration as “that girl Michael
likes.” Once, in the signing line, Jordan smiled without looking
up and said, “No braces this year?”
By the summer I was thirteen, I had abandoned any pre-
tense of perfecting my jump shot. The camp N O S TA L G I A > 6 2
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V L IFE Summer Camp

counselors were mostly college students, less than stringent A few years after camp, reports about Jordan started
about supervision during our free time, and my friend and to emerge that suggested he was not, perhaps, the hero I’d
I would race back to the dorm each evening to change out imagined. There were tabloid tales about his outsize ego, his
of our gym shorts and apply makeup. Jordan’s two sons gambling, his flagrant infidelities. I told myself then that it
were campers that summer, and my friend liked one of their was naive and, worse, entitled to expect a famous stranger
cousins. I had a crush on the older brother, Jeffrey, who to be good just because he meant something to me. In spite
usually ignored us. He was always gracious to the fans who of everything, he was still the man who had picked me from
approached him for autographs, the crowd, singled me out again
but I would watch the tension in and again. No braces this year?
his shoulders as he engaged with Jordan asked for a volunteer. I still watch basketball, though
them, with their desperate need We all thrust our arms I’m a very specialized fan. I fol-
to get closer. low the Lakers all season, then
On our last night, my friend into the air, dorm keys develop strong opinions during
persuaded me to sneak into their dangling from plastic cords the playoffs. My fiancé and I
dorm, and for most of that eve- watch together: As with so many
ning Jeffrey and I sat in a corner, around our wrists of our shared hobbies, it’s an ex-
drinking Gatorade. I pretended perience composed of equal parts
not to notice how close our bodies were. He was shy, but not affection and light antagonism. He mocks my ferocious
without a dry sense of humor. I wanted to ask what it was devotion to the athletes I worshipped as a girl. He reminds

COURTESY OF GR EENWICH ENTERTAINMENT

like to grow up knowing that everyone would always want
some essential thing from you that you couldn’t possibly
give them, but I couldn’t figure out how to ask him without
risking that the warmth between us would disappear.
The next morning, in the autograph line, Jordan raised his
eyebrows at me. “This one,” he said. “This one is trouble.”
Of course his children had private security; of course
we’d been seen. I felt a momentary indignation at his
disapproval—I hadn’t even kissed anyone! But I just pre-
tended I had no idea what he was talking about.
me that they’re all misogynists; he assumes, I think, that I’m
in denial and can’t see these men as they really are.
I’ve learned that there’s no use trying to explain. If you
saw Michael Jordan play back then, you watch today’s
superstars knowing that they came of age inhaling his
every move just like you did—that he taught them their
ice-water focus, their preternatural ability to ignore every-
thing beyond the court. You know that, because you grew
up loving Michael Jordan, you’ll never be immune to the
fluid grace of the game. @

MOVIES
Story Time
Based on Penelope Fitzgerald’s acclaimed
novel, The Bookshop is about a middle-aged
woman with a quiet streak of rebellion. To
enliven her late-1950s English seaside town,
the widowed Florence Green (an excellent
Emily Mortimer) opens a bookstore in
an abandoned, supposedly haunted old
house. Not a radical gesture, you might
think, but she soon runs afoul of provincial
prejudice (she’s selling Lolita) and a bullying
local grandee (Patricia Clarkson) who has
other plans for the building. Florence’s
only ally is her best customer, Edmund
Brundish, a mysterious recluse played with
incomparable wintry grace by Bill Nighy,
with whom she shares a special intimacy.
Shying away from Fitzgerald’s tragicomic
rigor, Catalan director Isabel Coixet
transforms the story into an affirmative
Brexit-era parable about low-key courage,
the fear of new ideas, and the indomitable
power of reading.—JOHN POWERS

A NOVEL CONCEPT
EMILY MORTIMER STARS IN DIRECTOR ISABEL
COIXET’S LATEST FILM, THE BOOKSHOP.

62 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
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 DIOR.
MUSE IN
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V L IFE
BEAUTY
Bright Things
On the eve of their debut EP,
the DJ sister act SimiHaze is laying
down fresh tracks, with
a chameleonic eye for color.
“APOCALYPTIC TOMB RAIDER” IS HOW the DJ twins Simi
and Haze Khadra describe their aesthetic these days. Picture
a web of black straps and safety pins; oversize sunglasses
from their Off-White campaign; and shades of orange and
magenta slashed across their eyelids. The neon beauty look,
while rampant on fall runways, is the antithesis of top-model
polish. “We dress and wear makeup as if the world is ending
tomorrow,” says Simi.
The 25-year-olds grew up in the spotlight. Their moth-
er owned a boutique in Saudi Arabia and took them to
runway shows, where their once Pre-Raphaelite locks cap-
tivated street-style photographers. Since then, the twins
have assumed a near-constant front-row perch supporting
designer pals like Alexander Wang and Virgil Abloh. It’s
not a stretch to say that SimiHaze (their DJ name) sets a
certain tempo in the fashion community, as much with their
party beats as with their no-rules ethos. “Our discovery
of beauty didn’t come from a place of ‘Oh, I have to wear
makeup to look pretty,’ ” says Simi. “It was more ‘How
can we use color in an interesting, fun, and bold way?’ ”
The search for self-expression expanded at the Univer-
sity of Southern California, where the itinerant sisters—
raised by Palestinian parents between Riyadh, London,
66 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
HA I R , B RAYD O N N ELSO N; MA K EUP, EM I KA N EKO; CO LO RI ST, MAU RI CI O B ERM UD E Z. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.
and Dubai—graduated with double majors in film pro-
duction and fine art. It was there they realized how much
of the creative realm is “all about recontextualization,” says
Simi, who counts Yoko Ono among her inspirations. A
Picasso-like stroke of color across a face, for instance, can be
art. “Pushing the limits on what’s out there has always been
our main interest,” adds Haze.
That pioneer spirit finds a new outlet this fall, with a debut
EP that further burnishes the DJs’ reputation on the interna-
tional circuit. (“We turned Cannes into a trap party—they
needed it!” says Haze.) Expect collaborations with unknown
SoundCloud artists and sought-after beat-makers like Dev
Hynes, as well as “summery dance songs with a global sound,”
says Haze. Anticipating those who might be quick to call
the project inauthentic, she asserts, “We’re actually Middle
Eastern, we actually go to Jamaica—we’re from the world.”
As for quality control, it comes down to a simple test: “If we
really have fun dancing to it, it’s a song,” says Simi. Similarly,
makeup is only worth putting on “if it makes us feel happier,
like there are no limits.”—KATE BRANCH
CANDY CRUSH
HAZE, ABOVE LEFT, AND SIMI KHADRA IN PRADA COATS. PHOTOGRAPHED
BY ALEX JOHN BECK. FASHION EDITOR: ANDREW MUKAMAL.
 ®

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70 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
 OPENINGS
Lobby Hero
Don’t call it a hotel—Katherine Lo’s politically
minded Eaton DC is much more than a place to sleep.
Photographed by Anton Corbijn.
“THIS IS THE RADIO STATION,” Katherine Lo
tells me, gesturing to an unfinished space nes-
tled beneath a staircase. The setup, she says, is
inspired by East Village Radio, the radical New
York City broadcaster. “Here’s the DJ booth,
and then a huge collection of vinyl records will
go over there.”
It’s a chilly but bright late-spring afternoon,
and I’m touring the construction site for Eaton
DC in Washington, D.C. It’s easy to forget
that we’re standing in what will open in a few
months as a hip boutique hotel with 209 rooms.
Forty-five minutes into our walk-through and
Lo, Eaton’s 36-year-old founder and president,
whose father is executive chairman of the Lang-
ham Hospitality Group, still hasn’t mentioned
where the guests will sleep.
Eaton DC, which is the first of a number
of such venues planned for Hong Kong, Seat-
tle, and San Francisco, is to be part hotel, part
co-working space, part amorphous center for
progressive causes. Artist residencies will allow
creative types to stay at Eaton free of charge;
conference spaces will be offered at a discount
to sympathetic groups. Lo recently spent a day
with members of a Standing Rock Youth Water
Protectors collective, who were crammed into
a small D.C. house; they are the kind of people
that she hopes to help. The radio station will
air a radical indigenous-rights show called Red
Power Hour, and the rooftop will house an
urban farm that will provide ingredients for
the restaurant below. It also provides space for
a small wind turbine—a “symbolic gesture,” Lo
explains, capable only of powering an exercise
bike in the gym, she jokes. “I thought we said
P RO DUC ED BY TRAV I S KI EW E L P RODUCT IO N S
a pasta machine!” her project manager replies.
It’s tempting to dismiss the hotelier as part
of an activist movement more concerned with
aesthetics than with actual change. But Lo, who
goes by Kat, doesn’t exude the bravado of a
disrupter selling, well, a wind turbine–powered
pasta machine. She is soft-spoken and meticu-
lously polite, with the careful articulation of
someone who spent her childhood in interna-
tional schools in Hong Kong. During college
at Yale, she attended the Kyoto Protocol talks
with Greenpeace, and after graduation helped
organize Korean farmworkers traveling to Hong
Kong to protest the WTO. She got a master’s
in film production from USC before eventually
joining the family business. With her ombré hair
and relaxed yet elevated wardrobe—Rachel
Comey, A Détacher, Nanushka—she looks
more like a Venice Beach cool girl than a cor-
porate hotel magnate.
She has also disarmed skeptics wary of the
resistance-as-branding strategy that has swept
through so many industries—from T-shirts to
tampons—since the 2016 election. “Corpora-
tions, hotels, and developers, they come in and
bring in artists for very ornamental positions,”
says Sheldon Scott, a D.C.-based artist who
will be Eaton DC’s director of culture. “As a
black man,” Scott says, “I’ve always been chal-
lenged on how I enter, why I enter hotel spaces.”
Lo offered him time and square footage, ever-
dwindling commodities in gentrifying cities.
If the idea of a private company actively
courting those who share its ideology sounds
vaguely discriminatory, Lo doesn’t mind. “The
brand is an extension of my values, and we don’t
shy away from that,” she says. Part of the gamble
is that customers will actually prefer Eaton’s
radically transparent partisanship. “It’s attrac-
tive to guests who want to feel like their dollars
make a difference,” Lo says. “If you’re a guest
at Eaton, you’re a patron of arts and activism.”
Lo acknowledges that she’s liberated from cer-
tain financial pressures—venture capitalists or
investors looking for a return—by virtue of her
family’s involvement. But there’s still that nag-
ging question: Will it work? On the day we part,
the city is full of teenagers carrying handmade
signs demanding better gun control. Lo expresses
her regret that her hotel isn’t yet equipped to
host these activists and their supporters. Ad-
ditional protest in the capital, I reassure her, is
something she can count on.—BRIDGET READ
BE MY GUEST
KATHERINE LO, PHOTOGRAPHED AT THE
CONSTRUCTION SITE FOR EATON DC. CÉLINE
JUMPSUIT AND BOOTS. HAIR, EVANIE FRAUSTO;
MAKEUP, SUSIE SOBOL. DETAILS, SEE IN THIS ISSUE.
FASHION EDITOR: ALEX HARRINGTON.
71
 August 2018

Fashion, much like the rest of the culture,

moves itself—along with the rest of us—
forward through surprise, abrupt changes in
direction, and the ceaseless pursuit of the
new. With that in mind—and to fully
celebrate the all-change nature of fall
2018—we thought now might be the perfect
time for an issue composed largely of debuts,

FIRSTS
from photographers to writers and models
and other extraordinary talents. Some of
these people are entirely new to the
conversation at hand, others simply new to
these pages. To all of them, though, we say:
Welcome to Vogue! Here’s to new beginnings,
provocative ideas, novel inventions,
and fresh challenges.

73
SEIZE
the
DAY!
A gorgeous mosaic of day
dressing—from structured
suiting to bold prints and
florals, and from rococo to
rock ’n’ roll—offers up a look
for every moment and mood.

Photographed by
Martin Parr

FOLLOWING SUIT
Photographed waiting for the
crosstown bus. No detail is
spared in the new and redefined
pairings—from long and louche
to prim and proper. from far
left: Aiden Curtiss wears a
Balenciaga jacket. Caroline
Trentini wears a Loewe suit.
Slick Woods wears an Alberta
Ferretti suit. Selena Forrest
wears a Gucci suit. Lineisy
Montero wears a Weekend
Max Mara suit. Sophie Koella
wears a Bottega Veneta suit.
David Yurman earring. Hoyeon
Jung wears a Dries Van Noten
suit. Tiffany & Co. earring.
Fashion Editor: Tonne Goodman.
76
 TURN ON THE BRIGHT LIGHTS
Photographed at TKTS Times Square. Color-blocked frocks in delicious shades of scarlet and tangerine are guaranteed
to turn up the temperature. from far left: Paloma Elsesser wears a Prabal Gurung dress. Sora Choi wears a
Coach 1941 jacket and dress. Trentini wears a Sportmax dress and pants. Saffron Vadher wears a Proenza Schouler dress.
Jung wears a Prada top and skirt. Curtiss wears a Dries Van Noten dress. Woods wears a Hilfiger Collection tracksuit.
77
 DIVINE INSPIRATION
Photographed at the “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination” exhibition at the Met Cloisters.
Ankle-skimming hemlines anchor a chic bouquet of breezy, summery flower prints. ieft to right: On Forrest:
Michael Kors Collection dress. On Jung: Altuzarra dress. On Choi: Erdem dress. On Curtiss: Batsheva dress.
On Trentini: Dior dress. On Vadher: Batsheva dress. On Sabina Karlsson: Horror Vacui dress.
78
79
 FINE LINES
Photographed at the Guggenheim Museum. Graphic-print accents meet full skirts for a modern take on the
longer silhouette. ieft to right: On Trentini: Marni blouse and skirt. On Choi: Derek Lam top. Drome skirt.
On Forrest: Sportmax turtleneck and skirt. On Curtiss: Bottega Veneta dress. On Vadher: Louis Vuitton dress.
80
81
 SOMETHING WILD
Photographed at the United Palace. On dazzling, floor-length gowns, bold blooms take center stage—in any room.
from far left: On Curtiss: Giorgio Armani jacket and pants. Dolce & Gabbana earrings and necklace. On Karlsson:
Michael Kors Collection dress. Dolce & Gabbana hair combs. On Choi: Gucci dress. On Forrest: Dolce & Gabbana
dress. On Vadher: Valentino dress. On Woods: Carolina Herrera dress. On Trentini: Marc Jacobs dress.
83
84
P RO DUC ED BY MI CHA E L CA P OTOSTO AT AT LAS P RODUCTIONS

COUNTER REVOLUTIONARIES
Photographed at Katz’s Delicatessen. A riotous party of prints in punky suiting and blinged-out minidresses
is ready to ring in the night. from far left: On Trentini: Balmain dress. On Woods: Tom Ford dress. On Jung:
Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello dress. On Forrest: Tom Ford dress. On Vadher: Dolce & Gabbana
dress. In this story: hair, Garren for R+Co. Haircare; makeup, Dick Page. Details, see In This Issue.
85
GARDEN VARIETY
At Chloé, Natacha
Ramsay-Levi fused ’70s
bombshell with modern-
day provocation. This
blouse, for example, came
with extended pointed
collars—and without
any buttons. Who needs
closure? Chloé dress
($3,695), blouse ($1,495),
and top ($1,250);
Chloé boutiques.
Fashion Editor:
Camilla Nickerson.
86
ADDING As Gigi Hadid shows us, sometimes
more is more: Add multiple collars
to a graphic print, subtract a peekaboo
cutout, and throw on a head wrap.
It’s chic no matter how you do the math.

IT

UP
Photographed by
Bibi Cornejo Borthwick
UNDER WRAPS
To flout the fashion
rules: Embrace excess,
transition the under-
something to the over-
something, and think
like Little Edie—sport
a sweater, say, as a
headpiece. Loewe dress,
$2,990; Saks Fifth
Avenue stores. Stella
McCartney sweater
(worn on head), $1,095;
Stella McCartney, NYC.
Balenciaga necklace.
UP IN ARMS
Maison Margiela’s
master mixologist John
Galliano brings us hybrid
layers: A woolly jacket
bleeds into a cable-
knit cardigan; a ribbed
turtleneck mutates
into a full-on
deconstructed sweater.
Maison Margiela
jacket ($3,900) and
sweater ($2,470);
Maison Margiela, NYC.
Lacoste polo shirt, $90;
Lacoste stores. Acne
Studios jeans, $290;
Acne Studios, NYC.

89
 FULL SWING
Things aren’t always
what they seem.
What looks to be
a woven, remixed
houndstooth skirt
turns out, upon closer
inspection, to be
a (very impressive)
printed silk. Louis
Vuitton dress and
shoes; select Louis
Vuitton stores.
3.1 Phillip Lim
coat (in hand), $1,295;
31philliplim.com.
 EVERYTHING GOES
Why limit yourself to one
statement coat when you
can mix, match, sample, and
remix trenches, quilted-nylon
downs, and gabardine parkas—
with a matching skirt to boot?
Sacai coat, ($2,935),
turtleneck ($605), and skirt
($1,130). Coat and skirt at
net-a-porter.com. Turtleneck
at Saks Fifth Avenue stores.
Hermès scarf (worn on head).
BEAUTY NOTE Play up your
natural complexion. Maybelline
New York Superstay Multi-
Use Foundation Stick blends
seamlessly into skin for subtle
touch-ups only where needed.
BOTH SIDES NOW
A simple topstitch runs
throughout this double-take
silken frock—part cat print, part
wavy checkerboard—with a
decorative button at the middle.
Pair it with a fuzzy sweater–
cum–head scarf, and don’t
forget the flower. Marni dress,
$3,620; Marni stores. Michael
Kors Collection sweater,
$1,250; select Michael Kors
stores. Balenciaga shoes.
HIDE AND SEEK
Locks of flaxen and
Titian hair make for
a beguiling print.
Think of it as a fresh
new take on fur-free.
Victoria Beckham
dress, $2,535;
victoriabeckham.com.
BODY COUNT
Start with a turtleneck
and side-striped pants;
add a collared shirt, zip up
a hoodie, and throw on a
quilted jacket for good
measure; finish with an
abundance of scarves.
Serves one. Chanel jacket
and sweater ($3,200);
select Chanel stores.
Miu Miu polo shirt, $895;
select Miu Miu stores.
Ralph Lauren Collection
turtleneck, $850;
select Ralph Lauren
stores. No.21 pants,
$400; numeroventuno
.com. Scarves by
Charvet and Echo.

P RO DUC ED BY A LE XI S P I QU ERAS FOR ROSCO P RO DUCTI ON ; SE T D ES I G N, MAT T JAC KSON.

94
FANCY FREE
The houndstooth print
of this one-and-done
coat says Monday
through Friday,
while the pleated
floral-skirt detail
seems to usher in the
weekend. Balenciaga
coat; Balenciaga,
Beverly Hills. In this
story: hair, Recine
for Rodin; makeup,
Dick Page. Details,
see In This Issue.
 The Children’s Hour
When Pope Francis delivered his inclusive, openhearted vision of Catholicism to
hundreds of adoring schoolchildren, Jason Horowitz was at the Vatican to see it—
and report on a rapidly evolving Church. Photographed by Annie Leibovitz.
 FLOCK OF AGES
On June 9, the
Vatican’s “Children’s
Train” carried some
500 young people to
a special audience
with Pope Francis.
 t’s a June morning at the Vatican, and Pope Fran-
I
cis is wearing a hangdog expression—all watchful
eyes and soft apostolic chins. It’s how he looks
opposite strongmen in Myanmar or posing with
Donald Trump or preparing to berate the Vatican
hierarchy for being out of touch and insular. To-
day, though, we’re in the marble lobby of the Paul
VI audience hall, and schoolchildren are preparing
to sing songs. I’m a little worried what they might think.
But when the kids ask him questions, Francis brightens
dramatically. He suddenly radiates ebullience and avuncular
warmth. As a journalist who has covered Francis for years,
I’ve seen this shift before—when he’s broken from sermons
to share homespun wisdom or embraced a Muslim asylum
seeker in a refugee camp or drifted back to the press section
of the papal plane to amiably sign books, bless family photos,
and accept gifts. I’ve met my share of presidents and prime
ministers, and have seen some of the greats at working the
press. The time Francis laughed convincingly at my lame
joke, I knew I was in the presence of a natural.
He is perched on the edge of his armchair fielding ques-
tions: about his first teacher (“Estela; I had her in first and
third grade”), where he is from (“the most beautiful city in
the world, Buenos Aires”), and what his favorite game was
as a child (“We played a lot with kites”). Then one boy stands
up and asks him what it felt like when he was elected pope.
“But that question isn’t original!” Francis says with a
chuckle. He turns pensive. “I felt peace. That’s the word.
That’s not a lie. I’ve felt peace from that day to today.”
Francis may be at peace,
but in the five years since the
81-year-old pontiff became A little boy asks him what it felt like
history’s first Jesuit pope,
the world has slipped off its
to become pope. “I felt peace.
axis. The populist strain of That’s the word. That’s not a lie.
nationalism that Francis has I’ve felt peace from that day to today”
prophetically warned against
is seemingly everywhere. He
has watched a migrant crisis roil Europe and criticized the
Trump administration’s policy of separating undocument-
ed children from their parents. Meanwhile, environmental
protections and economic equality have weakened across
the globe. All of which leaves Francis, the spiritual leader
of more than a billion Catholics, insisting on a welcoming
and internationalist worldview that has gone out of style.
“If he doesn’t do it, who will? No one else will,” Archbishop
Claudio Maria Celli, one of the Vatican’s leading diplomats,
tells me. “Will they hear him? Maybe not. But he cannot say
anything different.”
Inside the Roman Catholic Church, Francis has led a kind
of revolution by deemphasizing culture-war issues such as
abortion and homosexuality, and by focusing on pastoral
outreach to the destitute. His allies tell me he is bringing the
gospel back to its simple and radical roots. The tiny Fiats
and Fords in which he rides, his humble Vatican residence,
his simple white robes—all are designed to send a message.
The Vatican’s de facto culture minister, Cardinal Gianfran-
co Ravasi, says that he remains astonished by Francis’s
ability to speak to different audiences—from world leaders to
clergy, from captains of industry to kids. (Just this morning,
Francis held court before a group of oil-company executives,
98
telling them that “there is no time to lose” in the fight against
climate change.) I ask if the pope’s message of tolerance is
being heard—even in his backyard (Italians just elected a
new populist government that, in June, turned away a ship
full of more than 600 migrants). Francis, Ravasi said, “has
the courage—even in political contexts that are crystallizing
in one direction—to give another direction. Riding the wave
or pursuing the quiet life or looking for protection from
political realities—this is not what he’s after.”
In the first year of his papacy, Francis famously issued
“The Joy of the Gospel,” an apostolic exhortation that sought
an inclusive, decentralized Church and raised environmental-
ism to the forefront of the faith’s mission. And then, in 2016,
he infuriated conservatives with “On Love in the Family,” an
exhortation containing a footnote that signaled a path for
divorced (and remarried) Catholics to receive Holy Com-
munion. It was the footnote heard round the Catholic world.
Recently, in a Roman hotel basement, I watched a con-
ference of conservative cardinals suggest that Francis risked
heresy, as far-right groupies cheered in support. I’ve read
conservative blogs attacking the pope for staying silent as
Ireland voted to legalize abortion. Over drinks on Roman
rooftops, I’ve listened to Church traditionalists explain why
Muslim migration into Europe must be stopped—and mis-
chievously trade gossip about the pope’s single functioning
lung (part of his other was removed due to an infection when
he was a teenager) and predict his life expectancy.
“They remain connected to a Catholicism that was linked
to costumes. Nostalgia,” Archbishop Celli tells me. For
them, he adds, Catholicism is
a museum to be visited. “Pope
Francis has nothing of the
museum about him.”
It was back in 2005 that I
first became aware of Jorge
Mario Bergoglio, as Francis
was then known. After years
of an ailing pontiff leading
a stuffy Church, Cardinal Bergoglio’s common touch and
his South American pedigree seemed a logical choice for a
Church desperate to engage with its future. Bergoglio was
my guess to emerge from the conclave as pope.
My timing was off. The Vatican cardinals in 2005 picked
Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, which supporters saw as a last-
ditch effort to reverse the advances of secularization in
Europe. But the Church’s self-inflicted wounds, especially
a clerical sex-abuse scandal that exploded on Ratzinger’s
watch, proved a tremendous burden. In 2013 Benedict XVI
(the name Ratzinger took as pontiff) became the first pope
in half a millennium to call it quits.
I flew in from Washington to report on the unexpected
conclave, and in the Vatican press office I found a poster
taped to the wall with the faces of cardinals thought to be
in consideration. Reporters picked their favorites, and as we
waited for white smoke to rise from the Sistine Chapel chim-
ney, most everyone I talked to had written off Bergoglio as too
old. His time had come and gone. He seemed a spent force.
Francis surprised us that night, and he has spent the last
five years doing the same. There was his famous remark “Who
am I to judge?” when he spoke of gay Catholics of “good will”
in 2013. There was his first international papal trip, to Brazil,

which made clear that the future of Catholicism lay in the
global South. In Myanmar and Bangladesh, I watched him
walk a political tightrope before dramatically pronouncing
the name of the brutally persecuted Rohingya Muslims—“the
presence of God today is also called Rohingya”—when so
much of his Church advised him to stay silent.
Perhaps most important, he has proved an adept, and
critics say ruthless, political operator, deftly layering over his
opponents by placing allies in charge of the Roman Curia
that governs the Church. The Curia is resilient and has lately
reasserted the centrality of Rome against Francis’s collegial
vision. Nevertheless, with each passing year, Francis creates
more cardinals who will choose his successor and change the
complexion and direction of the Church for decades to come.
He has not pleased everyone. When it comes to empower-
ing women, he has not gone nearly as far as many would like.
He has said they will never be Catholic priests—and tends to
exalt them with domestic, beatific language. But in a homily in
June he seemed to expand his view, championing the equality
of the “working companion”—not just the mother—and
decrying a society in which “a woman is trampled underfoot
precisely because she is a woman.”
Another troubling blind spot lies in clerical sexual abuse.
Early this year, Francis repeatedly doubted the allegations
of abuse survivors in Chile, calling them guilty of “slander,”
and backed a powerful Chilean bishop they accused of a
cover-up—actions that confounded even his closest sup-
porters and threatened to tarnish his papacy.
MAN OF THE PEOPLE
The 81-year-old pontiff
arrives to bless the
assembled children.
But just as it seemed he had lost his way, Francis issued a
remarkable apology. He held hours of emotional talks with
the victims and began ousting Chilean bishops accused of
covering up abuse. One of the Chileans he spoke to, Juan
Carlos Cruz, now tells me he is filled with hope for the first
time in ages. The pope, he says, has become a “friend.”
It’s just one example of Francis’s visceral humanity. Another
came in April, when he visited a public-housing complex on the
periphery of Rome and took questions from children, including
one who froze in front of the microphone. The pope embraced
the weeping boy, and listened as they touched foreheads.
“If only we could all cry like Emanuele when we have an
ache in our hearts,” the pope said then—and, receiving the
boy’s permission, explained that Emanuele had lost his father,
whom he loved and who was not a believer. The boy wanted
to know if his father was in Heaven. “How beautiful to hear
a son say of his father, ‘He was good,’ ” Francis said, adding,
“Does God abandon His children when they are good?”
And now, here he is at the Vatican, surrounded by kids with
red hats on their heads, many carrying balloons. He spends an
hour with them. “The pope loves this,” says Laurent Mazas,
a French philosopher and priest, who runs the Vatican’s
outreach program to the secular world. And it’s clear that
he does. “Do we have roots?” Francis asks the crowd. “Yes.
Spiritual roots. The home. The family. The school,” he says.
“Can a boy or girl without roots bear fruit in life?”
“No,” respond the children. Francis smiles—it’s the right
answer—and the children beg him to stay a little longer. @
99
 girl meets world

Y
ara Shahidi says she’s nothing like
Zoey Johnson, the character she plays
on Grown-ish. “Quite honestly, I’m a
square,” she tells me one recent sunny
morning at a café in Pasadena. “There
are a lot of story lines on the show that
just wouldn’t have been touched had
we gone by ‘You know what? Zoey has
this strict code of ethics.’ ” Shahidi cer-
tainly doesn’t look square. In Joe’s jeans and a royal-blue
Tory Burch track jacket and shoes, her curly bob pulled
away from her luminous face, she
is at once impeccably composed
and casual in a way that can’t be
all that casual. Yes, she has arrived
YARA SHAHIDI HAS
with her mom, but they are famous- A LOT ON HER PLATE—
ly close, and Shahidi is still young. AND ON HER MIND.
Eighteen, to be exact—though she’s
already accomplished more than most
CARINA CHOCANO SITS
people do in a lifetime. Her breakout DOWN WITH THE
role on the hit ABC sitcom Black- TEENAGE DYNAMO.
ish led to the spin-off Grown-ish on
Freeform, which starts shooting its
PHOTOGRAPHED BY
second season early next year (she ALESSANDRA
serves as producer as well as star). She SANGUINETTI.
has discussed political activism with
Hillary Clinton and Oprah Winfrey, is
a brand ambassador for Chanel, and started a voting guide
for young people called Eighteen x ’18. She graduated last
year from the Dwight School in New York, having received
acceptance letters from every college she applied to, and
will start at Harvard in the fall. She can tell you the year she
becomes eligible to run for president off the top of her head.
Child actors tend to be eclipsed by the characters they
play, but Shahidi looms large, as if fame has amplified her.
She’s poised and hyperverbal, wearing her precocity ever so
slightly on her sleeve (she has a habit of referring to herself
in the third person: “We knew that we didn’t want Zoey to
be Yara,” she says. “People know enough about me where
that wouldn’t have been enjoyable”). Tracee Ellis Ross, who
plays her mom on Black-ish, says Shahidi was a quiet ad-
olescent when they first met. “But I have seen her slowly
and incrementally find her voice and her courage in using
her voice.” Zoey, Ross adds, is “a little bit mindless and GROWING UP
self-centered,” caught up in being popular and cool. “But “Yara has a beautiful, quirky light
Yara has a beautiful, quirky light about her. She’s a hard about her,” says her Black-ish costar
worker, a deep thinker, and a very free thinker.” Tracee Ellis Ross. Proenza Schouler
dress. Sophie Buhai rings. Hair,
Shahidi comes from what she calls “a humanitarian Nai’vasha Johnson; makeup, Emily
family”—her father, Afshin Shahidi, arrived in the U.S. from Cheng. Details, see In This Issue.
Iran as an eight-year-old. He studied C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 4 0 Fashion Editor: Yohana Lebasi.

100
P RO DUC ED BY SUZ A NN A REES P RO DUCT I O N
 Saoirse Rising
Ever since her unnerving, precocious performance in Atonement,
Saoirse Ronan has reinvented herself with each role. Sally Rooney catches up
with the actress against the backdrop of a changing Ireland.

102
Photographed by Jamie Hawkesworth
THE AFTERGLOW
Ronan basks in
golden-hour light,
wearing a butter-
yellow Miu Miu scarf
and coat. opposite:
Ronan dances
with a diaphanous
overlay by Prada.
Fashion Editor:
Camilla Nickerson.
103
 Saoirse Ronan is describing the aftermath of her first acting speak out.” But Ronan doesn’t
job. “I went into this melancholic state for a few weeks,” she engage only with policy con-
tells me. “I remember sitting on the bed with Mam next to cerns that touch her life directly.
me, and I was like: ‘I’m never going to have that experience She also voiced her support in
again.’ ” The community that had come together on set and 2016 for the illegal takeover of
developed real bonds had now permanently dispersed. “It an empty building in Dublin’s
was that thought: That exact crew will never work together city center to accommodate the
again. Never.” The project was an Irish television drama homeless; and she takes the time
called The Clinic. When she appeared on it, Ronan was to recommend me Jeff Chang’s
nine years old. We Gon’ Be Alright, a book of
Now 24, Ronan has come to meet me in a coastal Irish town essays on racial resegregation in
on a sunny afternoon in May. Ireland is facing a referendum the U.S. “I wouldn’t say I grew
to repeal its ban on abortion, and lurid posters of fetuses are up politically minded,” she
everywhere. Ronan recently appeared in a video supporting tells me, “but the older I get,
the reproductive rights campaign—a long-growing grassroots the more in touch I am with
movement that finally succeeded in pressuring the govern- what activists are doing—and
ment to hold a referendum—and everyone is talking about it. the more I want to help them.”
In the café where we pick up lunch, we fall into conversation (Just two weeks later, Ireland’s
with our server about the upcoming vote. abortion ban will be repealed
Like me, Ronan was born in the 1990s and grew up in by a landslide. When I speak to
Ireland at a time of rapid social change. The dominance of her after the referendum, Ronan
the Catholic Church over state institutions was beginning to describes the elation she felt as
fall away, homosexuality was decriminalized, divorce became the results were coming in. She
legal, and contraception was made widely available for the was “so proud,” she says, “to
first time. In 2015, when Ronan was 21, the Irish electorate see family and friends, and
affirmed the right to same-sex marriage with a 62 percent people I wouldn’t have expect-
majority. She remembers that day—“driving through north ed to vote yes, choose to give Irishwomen their rights.”)
Dublin, and everyone had the flags out,” she says. “They were But all that is still ahead of us as we walk through the small
having street parties. It felt as though we had moved into a town outside Dublin that Ronan moved to from London.
new stage. It was like we had woken up.” “Ireland is smaller than England, and I love it for that. I
I ask if Ronan ever worried about facing a backlash for missed this,” she says, gesturing at the water and the sweep
speaking her mind on abortion, long considered a particu- of coastline. Though she also lived in Dublin for a time, she
larly divisive issue in Ireland. “I just felt like that wasn’t im- grew up mainly in County Carlow, in southeastern Ireland,
portant,” she says. “I know people who had to travel abroad surrounded by countryside. “That never leaves you,” she
in order to get an abortion, and that’s when I knew I would says as we walk toward the seafront. “I feel most at home

104
 BY THE SEA
“I feel most at home
and at peace when I’m
in the country,” says
Ronan. Calvin Klein
205W39NYC’s woolly
checked coat is made
for long, windswept
nature walks. John
Hardy earring.

and at peace when I’m in the country. Though I like being
in London too,” she adds. “There’s an anonymity. You can
disappear into the human flow.”
Not so here. A passerby stops us and asks Ronan for a
photograph. She obliges, smiling, and the stranger thanks
her. For a moment I’m a little surprised that Ronan has been
recognized: Her face is largely hidden by a pair of mirrored
sunglasses, and she seems much smaller than she appears in
her films. I volunteer to take the photo, and on the phone’s
screen—framed against the saturated blue of sky—she looks
more like herself, or more like the version of her I know.
When we sit down, on a stone bench overlooking the coast,
she confesses how strange she finds these experiences: “I still
get completely shocked that anyone knows who I am.” I ask
if she would prefer to do what she does without having to be
famous. “Yeah, I would,” she replies. “But I’m not . . . famous.”
I probe a little and, to clarify, she responds, “I just genuinely
don’t think I am.” She pauses. “Selena Gomez is famous.”

105
106
 DRAWING A VEIL
“I think people know
not to ask me certain Behind us, families with small dogs make their way to
things. They’re not and from the town center, and before us, yachts bob and
going to know who settle in the waves. If Ronan really is impervious to her own
I’m going out with.”
Here she wears a celebrity, it might be because she doesn’t monitor her
Prada duchesse satin own press coverage. “If you’re not aware of how often you’re
dress, its tulle overlay in a newspaper, then it’s like it’s not really happening,” she
smoky and ethereal
in the sunset.
says. In her limited free time, she prefers to cook, hear live
music, or go to the movies. (Tully was a truly “brave film,”
she tells me; “anything Luca Guadagnino makes, I fall in
love with.”) I find it hard to believe that anyone, especially
at the age of 24, could be so uninterested in her own public
image. Isn’t she curious? “I just get so anxious whenever I
watch anything that I’m in,” she tells me. I ask what kind of
anxiety she means. “I’m fine with the way I look now,” she
responds carefully. “But I wouldn’t necessarily be looking at
photographs of myself all day. I don’t want to become too
consumed by the image of myself.”
Ronan earned her first Oscar nomination at age thirteen,
for a disconcertingly intelligent performance in Joe Wright’s
adaptation of Ian McEwan’s Atonement. In 2015 she was
the heart of John Crowley’s
Brooklyn, based on the nov-
el by Colm Tóibín, and she
won a Golden Globe this “I still get completely
year in the title role of Greta
Gerwig’s Lady Bird. Though shocked that anyone
she did not take home an
Oscar for that performance,
knows who I am”
her pale pink ankle-length
sheath by Calvin Klein was a
hit. (Along with Lupita Nyong’o, Ronan is one of the faces
of Raf Simons’s first fragrance for the house, Women.)
More recently, she’s played a young bride in Dominic
Cooke’s On Chesil Beach (another McEwan adaptation)
and Nina in Michael Mayer’s screen version of The Seagull.
Though she’s constructed an impressive career without a
superhero franchise perpetually screening at the multiplex,
she isn’t utterly opposed to such a role. “I mean, I haven’t
been offered any!” she says, laughing. “If a script came
along that was strong, interesting, original, I would take it.
A good script is a good script.” Her next film is one such:
She plays Mary, Queen of Scots, in Josie Rourke’s biopic of
the sixteenth-century monarch, out this December.
Gradually the wind grows cold and clouds draw a white
film over the horizon. Ronan suggests we walk back to her
place for tea. On the way, she tells me how protective she’s
become toward young people in her industry—people like
“Timmy,” the actor Timothée Chalamet, the star of Gua-
dagnino’s Call Me by Your Name, who also appeared in Lady
Bird and is roughly one year her junior. I point out that Ronan
herself is still young. “I know,” she says, catching herself. “I’ll
talk about other people like that.” It’s not just that she sees
herself as an industry veteran. “I’ve never felt young,” she
tells me. At thirteen, she worked alongside the actor Guy
Pearce on a movie called Death Defying Acts; when they were
reunited on Mary Queen of Scots he told her, “You’re the
same as you were when you were thirteen.” Other colleagues
and friends agree. Margot Robbie, who plays Elizabeth I in
Mary Queen of Scots, describes her as “beyond her years”;
Tóibín tells me she is “very, very sensible—she’s got an old
head, an old soul.”

107
 KEPT IN CHECK
“I was very lucky that I had a proper protector with me,” Ronan says of her mother’s presence on set and the hazards of the industry
that the #MeToo movement has highlighted. Here, she bundles up in a plaid Michael Kors Collection coat and Miu Miu scarves.

108
 MODERN MUSE
Beloved for her
intellectual approach
to fashion, Ronan
fronts the next
generation of Calvin
Klein women. She
wears a Calvin Klein
205W39NYC coat
and a pumpkin-
colored satin-and-lace
dress—the brand’s
take on slip dressing.
 FUNNY FACE
Ronan and her friend
Katie, in matching
jacquard frocks by
Erdem. On Ronan:
Erdem sweater. On
Katie: French Toast
sweater. In this
story: hair, Damien
Boissinot; makeup,
Dick Page. Details,
see In This Issue.

110
 As we reach the house, set back from a quiet residential
street by a sweeping driveway, her dog, Fran, springs forward
to greet us. Ronan introduces me to the Westie-retriever mix
as if to a charming friend. “Will you give Sally the paw?” she
asks. Fran presents me with her paw. “She’s a genius,” Ronan
says admiringly, “an absolute genius.” While her mother,
Monica, kindly brings us tea and biscuits, Ronan tells me
about her early career. Her father, Paul, an actor with expe-
rience in both TV and film, had noticed that his daughter
loved being on camera and started to put her forward for
roles. With the success of Atonement, Ronan left school and
began to juggle home tutoring with an intense work schedule.
Throughout Ronan’s teens, her parents—most often her
mother—accompanied her to work. Though she speaks of
the film industry with love and insists she has never been the
victim of exploitation, she can still remember uncomfortable
experiences. A director once pushed a particularly sensitive
scene, taking advantage of Ronan’s youth and willingness
to please. “My mam walked onto the set,” she tells me. “She
said, ‘You’re not doing that again unless we map out exactly
when this is going to stop.’ I was very lucky
that I had a proper protector with me.”
Ronan’s parents have been more to her
than just protectors, however. Home-
schooling and travel meant that the ac-
“It’s something
tress never formed a steady peer group, that has been a very
as most teenagers do; in some ways, she
relied on her family to fill that gap. To- stable, consistent
day her deep affection for her mother is
evident not only in the way she speaks
thing in my life.
of her—as a trusted guardian—but also The camera has
in how difficult she found it to acclimate
to filming without Monica by her side. been the thing that
“When I started working on my own,”
Ronan tells me, “I didn’t have that person has stuck around
I could turn to and go, ‘Did they like that?’
I didn’t have that safety blanket anymore.”
the longest”
Ronan generally speaks of her job less
as a career than as a calling. “It’s very in-
timate,” she says. “There are certain moments where it feels
like it’s just you and the lens.” This almost private experience
is connected to the years she’s spent performing: “It’s some-
thing that has been a very stable, consistent thing in my life.
P RO DUC ED BY SYLV I A FA RAG O LT D. LOCA L P RO DUCT IO N , YO KE P RO DUCT I ON S
The camera has been the thing that has stuck around the
longest.” Tóibín, who struck up a friendship with Ronan
during the making of Brooklyn, points out that in her youth,
“when everyone else was going to dances around Carlow,
Saoirse was working.” Asked whether she ever feels sad or
frustrated that she didn’t get a chance at a normal young
adulthood, she says, “Of course when you’re a teenager you
want to belong to something. For me that was being on a
film set, so I worked a lot.”
Listening to Ronan speak, I’m reminded of what Tóibín
says about the dynamic brilliance of her technique: “She’s
always working out, ‘Is there a nuance, is there a way I can
now do the opposite of what I’ve just been doing?’ ” Acting,
she tells me, is partly about striving to counteract her own
assumptions: “You need to push yourself out of that bubble
of intuition and find a different way of being honest.” On
the process of making Lady Bird with Ronan, Gerwig says,
“We talked and rehearsed and collaborated, and the final film
belongs to her as much as to me.” Ronan credits Gerwig with
encouraging her to pursue her ambition of directing. Laurie
Metcalf, who played Ronan’s mother in Lady Bird, tells me
that she thinks Ronan “would be extremely comfortable
behind a camera. She’s got a great eye.”
After an intense run on Broadway two years ago in Ivo
van Hove’s production of The Crucible, Ronan would also
like to find time for more theater; the idea of an Irish play is
especially appealing. “Theater directors in particular really
come in and shape something,” she says. Playing Abigail
Williams opposite Ben Whishaw’s John Proctor in more than
150 performances, she developed a deeper understanding
of Arthur Miller’s drama. “Doing it for that long, the play
becomes this other beast for you,” she says. “I had gotten to
know Abigail so well—she was mine every night.”
As a child star, Ronan was not expected to divulge details
about her private life, because children are not generally
thought to have private lives. Now, she says, “I think people
know not to ask me certain things. They’re not going to
know who I’m going out with or where I
live. They’re not going to know much about
my family.” Her closest friendships appear
to be with a childhood friend from Carlow
named Scarlett Curtis, now a feminist writ-
er and activist in her own right, and with
Eileen O’Higgins, her costar in Brooklyn,
whom she took as her date to the Golden
Globes. But at times, Ronan’s work ends
up taking precedence over her personal
life. “When I’m working, I can’t really do
anything else,” she says. “I can’t go out,
I can’t meet up with anyone, I don’t read
anything.” She smiles. “Someone said to
me, ‘You’re monogamous when it comes to
your work,’ and it’s so true,” she says. “You
can only commit to one thing at a time.”
When a project finishes, it’s back to the
“melancholic state” she first experienced
when she was nine—grieving for another community of
cast and crew. “You don’t ever fully get over that,” she tells
me. “You just learn to cope with it.” And it takes time for
a new project to replace the last. “At the very beginning of
pretty much every job I think, I’m not going to be able to
do it this time. I’ve forgotten how to do it. ”
A week later, I meet Ronan in Dublin’s Hugh Lane Gallery,
a public art collection in the city center. It’s an overcast after-
noon, but inside the gallery it’s unexpectedly warm, and we
quickly wriggle out of our jackets and cardigans. Ronan says
she appreciates the visual arts, but she’s the type of patron
who likes to take her time. “The art does take on a life, a little
bit, the more you look at it.” As we make our way through the
gallery, she stops in front of Maurice de Vlaminck’s Opium,
a Cubist portrait of a seated woman with red-blonde hair
smoking a pipe. “She looks a bit like Mary,” Ronan remarks.
To inhabit the role of Mary Stuart, Ronan relied, as she often
does, on an intuitive sense of connection between herself
and the character. “There were so many comparisons that
I could make,” she says. As both an actor and a queen, she
points out, “you’ve got to be ‘on.’ ” C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 4 0
111
Drawing
Nigerian-American artist Toyin Ojih Odutola has pushed
our depictions of black experience—and black skin—with
her fictional family sagas, exquisitely rendered in pastels
and ballpoint pen. By Dodie Kazanjian.

Photographed by
Alec Soth
 THE ARTIST TOYIN OJIH ODUTOLA, born in Nigeria
and raised in Huntsville, Alabama, is a new kind of visual
storyteller. Right now she’s deep into making drawings of
the final chapter of a fictional trilogy she has written about
two Nigerian families. One is an ancient noble clan, the other
more recently enriched by trade and vineyards. The families
have been joined by marriage between the two principal
male heirs, Jideofor and Temitope. (Jideofor, the second
son, became the heir apparent when his older brother was
killed by a hyena.)
“It started as a story I was writing, with random drawings,”
Toyin tells me. It became an extended pictorial narrative
“about wealth and nobility, and the sort of self-possession
and ownership of capital that surrounds you, instead of you
being the capital.” In other words, it’s a meditation on what
might have been possible in Africa if colonial conquest had
never happened.
Toyin’s saga has already led to solo exhibitions at the
Whitney and three other museums in the form of richly
colored, large-scale, exuberant portrait drawings supposedly
“borrowed” from the collections of both families – drawings,
not paintings, because drawing is Toyin’s primary medium.
When “A Matter of Fact,” the first group of these works, was
shown at San Francisco’s Museum of the African Diaspora
in late 2016, the Berkeley historian Leigh Raiford, writing in
Artforum, said that it “allows us to witness an artist testing
new ideas and stretching her craft, testing and stretching the
boundaries of blackness in the process.” Unlike Kehinde
TOYI N OJI H ODU TO LA . NEW LY W EDS ON H OL I DAY, 20 16. CHA RCOA L, PAST EL A N D P E NCIL ON PAPER , 63 ˝ X 41 ˝ .

Wiley or Titus Kaphar, who insert an African American

subject into an Old Master–style painting to give identity
to the black figure, Toyin imagines a contemporary world in
© TOYI N OJ I H O DU TO LA . COU RT ESY O F T HE A RT I ST A N D JACK SHA I N M A N GA LLE RY, NEW YOR K.

which blackness is the norm. She’s more like the artist and
filmmaker Arthur Jafa, who has said, “I’m trying to make
my shit as black as possible and still have you deal with my
humanity.”
Toyin, 33, is a striking beauty with a shaved head, a barely
visible gold nose ring, and many delicate tattoos on her
bare arms. She’s outspoken, direct, and full of humor and
joie de vivre—her sentences often end in bursts of laughter.
She has two modest-size studios (no studio assistant) in an
artist-friendly former factory building in midtown Manhat-
tan. On the tenth floor is “the incubator,” where she prowls the
internet, streams TV and movies (she loved Black Panther),
reads books, writes, and draws more or less constantly. Her
work owes a lot to Japanese art and anime, comic books,
and graphic novels, but with Toyin, the written word leads
irrevocably to picture making. (She doesn’t let anybody read
CHELSEA GIRL
left: The artist photographed in one of her pair of Manhattan
studios. above right: From her extended-family saga, the
bridegrooms in Newlyweds on Holiday (2016). Hair, Edris Nichols;
makeup, Renee Garnes. Sittings Editor: Phyllis Posnick.
her writings.) Her sixth-floor studio is “sacred ground,” she
says, laughing, the place where drawings come when (and if)
they’re ready to advance to the next stage. Against the wall
is a ten-foot-wide diptych, the largest she’s ever attempted,
with the outlines of nine life-size figures sketched in pencil.
“This is Temitope’s whole family,” she says. “Jideofor’s fam-
ily is going to have a diptych, as well, but not as big. Every
aristocratic family has a formal portrait, right?”
If all goes well, both drawings will be among 30 or so
on view this September at the Jack Shainman Gallery in
Chelsea. Shainman took Toyin on when she was a graduate
student at California College of the Arts in San Francisco,
and gave her her first solo show in 2011. With its panoply of
individual black faces against white backgrounds, drawn in
layers and layers of ink from a ballpoint pen, it established
her as a brilliant innovator in the depiction of black skin.
At a residency in Sausalito in 2016, says Toyin, “I start-
ed playing with soft pastel and C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 4 1

113
call of the
WILD -ISH
NOBODY GLAMPS ALONE. This occurred to me
only after I’d booked three nights sans partner
or friend at Dunton River Camp, a former cat-
tle ranch turned luxury resort in southwestern
Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. A look at the
property’s website the day before I went confirmed
my hunch: I was going without a glampmate to
a place where glampmates were de rigueur. Pho-
tographs of sumptuous-looking king-size beds,
double vanities in the en suite bathrooms—and
the pair of mountain bikes that came with each
tent—drove the point home. At meals, which the
website informed me would be eaten at communal
tables, I’d be the third and fifth and seventh wheel among
honeymooners and babymooners and retired couples and
women friends on girls’ trips.
As I pulled up to the camp, which lies in a high valley
some 8,500 feet above sea level, I saw that even the horses
were paired up—two black Percheron drafts named Pat
and Paul grazed in the vast meadow that rims the banks of
the river that snakes through the property, their twin equine
forms making the already breathtaking landscape even more
beautiful. It was late May, and the resort had just opened
for the season. So I could only laugh when, over lunch, the
general manager, Sarah Cruse, told me I’d actually be alone:
No other guests were expected until after I had left.
Truth be told, I was thrilled. Earlier in the day, as I’d driven
my rental car the hour and a half from Telluride along the
scantly trafficked roads, I realized how much I ached to be left
to my own thoughts and wanderings for a while. As Sarah and
I ate peach crumble, we charted a course through my stay. I
would take a yoga class and get a massage. I would go hiking
and fly-fishing. But most of all, I would do nothing at all.
Which is something.
A portmanteau of the words glamour and camping, glamp-
ing has been around for centuries, though the word itself
is only a little more than a decade old. While its history is
steeped in luxury—think extravagant African safaris taken
by the wealthy in the last century—modern-day glamping
spans a wide spectrum of amenities and price tags. You can
sleep in yurts, tepees, tree houses, tents, travel trailers, and
even igloos. A two-bedroom tent “suite” with a soaking tub
at the foot of your king-size bed is $1,555 per person, per
night, at Montana’s The Resort at Paws Up; a traditional
covered wagon at the Conestoga Ranch Glamping Resort
in Utah starts at $110. Some glamping sites have WiFi and
cocktails; others have a fire pit and no electricity.
114
Six years after she
published a
memoir detailing
her solo trek
along the Pacific Unlike camping, with its long
and noble tradition of nature lov-
Crest Trail, ers who rough it with the intention
Cheryl Strayed of getting away from civilization,
returns to the glamping is about bringing civili-
zation into the wild. Its promoters
rural yonder. But say it offers the upside of camping
this time she does without the downside—namely,
one can experience the splendor
it in style—as of the wilderness without suffer-
a glamper. ing its punishments. Any camper
who has ever spent a miserable
night in a sleeping bag drenched
from a leaking tent in a rainstorm (and isn’t that every
camper?) knows what this means. Its detractors say glamp-
ing isn’t camping at all.
As someone who has had a lot of experience solo camping
with nothing more than what I could carry on my back (23
years ago I hiked 1,100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail from
Southern California to the Oregon–Washington border, so
as to shed my skin and reckon with myself), I’ll admit I felt
a bit snobbish on the subject. To camp solo is to foray into
wilderness that’s made wilder by the fact that one is alone
in it. It’s to challenge oneself by going outside one’s comfort
zone—and getting comfortable there. It’s to scare oneself
and make oneself brave. It’s to experience the deepest silence,
out of which rise the most insightful thoughts. And perhaps
most important, it’s to give oneself the opportunity to tap
directly into the profound understanding that under these vast
stars we—humans, plants, and animals—are all connected.
But to glamp solo is to . . . what?
I pondered that question as I was given a tour that began in
the Farmhouse, a building that sits on the site of the original
farmhouse of the Cresto Ranch, the former occupant of this
500-acre expanse of mountains, forest, and meadows. Here,
guests—or make that guest—can gather inside by the fire,
or outside on the wraparound deck overlooking the river,
to eat farm-to-table meals that manage to be both healthy
and indulgent, as well as drawing on the region’s culture
(lamb mole Navajo tacos and green chile omelets; heirloom-
tomato salad and seared venison tenderloin). A small bridge
leads to eight large white canvas guest tents on wooden plat-
forms tucked beneath the dappled shade of aspens and pine
trees, each a mash-up of a Western frontier lodge and a
luxury-hotel room, with cowhide rugs and soft white linens.
The walls of the bathrooms are corrugated tin, and the
bathtubs are glossy white six-foot C O N T I N U E D O N P A G E 1 4 2
OUTDOOR VOICES
Artist Jane Newland’s
The Retreat (2016)
speaks to our longing
for solitude in nature,
as experienced by Wild
author Cheryl Strayed.

115
 STATEMENT
MAKERS
Heavy is the head that wears the
crown—or, in this case, a pair of crystal
and mother-of-pearl encrusted shoulder-
dusting Gucci earrings. For actress
Priyanka Chopra, though, the weight
that comes with a high-profile life in
Hollywood is just the start of it. To those in
her native India, Chopra’s success story
tells of a more welcoming West—her 2015
American debut in Quantico was the first
time an Indian-born actress starred in a
major U.S. network series. Since then, the
outspoken beauty (who came into the
public eye after winning the Miss World
title in 2000) has become not only an on-
screen fixture but a passionate advocate
for women, writing for The New York Times,
The Times of India, The Guardian, and
elsewhere on women’s rights and safety,
child marriage, and many other topics.
Chopra also launched her own self-funded
organization, which grants 88 children
in India access to medical coverage and
education; was appointed a UNICEF
Goodwill Ambassador (her recent trip to
Bangladesh’s Balukhali refugee camp was
well documented for her almost 25 million
Instagram followers); and was honored
with the Padma Shri (the Indian equivalent
to being knighted).
It was at the hospital operated by her
parents in Bareilly, India, that Chopra
first got a taste for philanthropy. “My job
at ten or eleven was to be an assistant
pharmacist—they would take out pills,
and I had to put them in little packets to
give to people.” Next up for the activist
actress: the release of a memoir and
a rom-com opposite Rebel Wilson and
Liam Hemsworth. And while she says that
Mother Teresa is her idol, Chopra does
concede that she’d like to get married—
“Of course, every girl thinks that way!”
But until she starts shopping for rings—
perhaps with Nick Jonas, with whom
she’s been out and about lately—earrings
will do just fine.—LILAH RAMZI

AN EARFUL
The actress in Gucci’s shell pendant earrings;
gucci.com. Nili Lotan dress, $595; nililotan
.com. Hair, Recine for Rodin; makeup,
Susie Sobol. Details, see In This Issue.
Photographed by Daniel Jackson.
Fashion Editor: Jorden Bickham.

116
PRODUCED BY CH AR LIE BOR RADAI LE FO R KISS PRO DUCT IO N S

MOMENT OF
THE MONTH
 AMBUSH
YOON

PYER MOSS
KERBY JEAN-RAYMOND

ACT N°1
RICHARD QUINN

MARINE SERRE

LUCA LIN AND GALIB GASSANOFF

YOON: DAN BAILEY. QUINN: WWD/RE X /S HU T T E RSTO CK. S E RRE : T HIBAU LT MO N TAMAT. LIN AN D GASSAN O FF:
COURTESY OF TH E D ESIGNERS. J E AN - RAYMO N D : SAS HA ARU T YU N OVA/T HE N EW YO RK T IMES/RE DUX .
BOD E: MICH AEL WAR ING. BOVAN: HADAR PITCHO N . LAT TA AN D ECKHAUS : FRAN ZIS KA S IN N .
BREAKING
Meet the bold talents remaking fashion
as we know it—from spotlighting
social-justice issues on the runway and
repurposing vintage fabrics to garnering
audiences with Queen Elizabeth II.

MATTY BOVAN

BODE EMILY ADAMS BODE

ECKHAUS LATTA
ZOE LATTA AND MIKE ECKHAUS
 ACT N°1 Built on what its Chinese-born, Italian-
raised cofounder Luca Lin calls “a recycling of childhood
memories,” Act n°1 began with two sewing machines
in Lin’s living room. Two years on, the duo behind the
Milanese label—Lin, 25, runs it with the Georgia-born-
and-raised Galib Gassanoff, 23—is summoning a
nostalgia-tinted multicultural mash-up of everything from
deconstructed jeans and sweatshirts to dynasty-inspired
silk robes and velvet evening wear. “That mix,” says Lin,
“is the beauty of planet Earth.” Singer-songwriter Okay
Kaya wears an Act n°1 top and pants. Casadei boots.
Fashion Editor: Jorden Bickham.

Photographed by Ryan McGinley 121

 BODE In a world beset with problems of
overproduction and overconsumption, the
namesake label of Atlanta-born, New York–
based designer Emily Adams Bode, 28, which
is fabricated almost entirely from vintage
textiles, is a welcome wake-up call. Bode’s
fall collection featured antique table and bed
linens, nineteenth-century patchwork quilts,
and grain sacks sourced from frequent trips
to fleas like Brimfield—all reimagined into
boxy trousers, museum-worthy coats, and
billowy button-up schoolboy shirts accented
with pussy bows. Model Grace Hartzel
(above) wears a Bode suit. Gucci shoes.
122
PYER MOSS For New York born-and-raised designer Kerby Jean-
Raymond, 31, design and activism are indivisible. “Pyer Moss is equal
parts culture and clothing brand,” says Jean-Raymond, who routinely
uses the runway as a platform to present social-justice issues and
spotlight marginalized groups. His fall collection, American Also—which
explores the untold stories of nineteenth-century black cowboys in
everything from city-centric suiting with western-inspired topstitching to
pleated pants that closely resemble chaps (there’s also a collaboration
with Reebok)—“rewrites the narrative of what it means to be American,”
says Jean-Raymond. Singer-songwriter Zsela (opposite, left) wears
a Pyer Moss shirt and pants. Model Imaan Hammam wears a Reebok
by Pyer Moss shirt and pants. Louis Vuitton sneakers on both.

MARINE SERRE Since winning the 2017 LVMH Prize for Young
Fashion Designers, Paris-based Marine Serre, 26, quit her day job at
Balenciaga and put her full weight behind her own label. “I’m doing my best
to fit in without compromise,” she says of her ready-to-wear collection. “I
want to be radically open and never get stuck in a set brand identity.” Fall
was a further exploration of futurewear—think jackets based on survival
kits for the modern woman, with compartments for iPhones, iPads,
water bottles, and wallets—along with show-closing dresses and day-to-
night bags made from stockpiled scarves. Singer-songwriter Jade Bird
(opposite, left) wears a Marine Serre dress and Marine Serre x Nicholas
Kirkwood boots. Hartzel wears a Marine Serre dress, earring, and boots.
AMBUSH With a cool unisex collection
of Eddie Bauer–esque clothing ranging from
lightweight rain jackets, lived-in jeans, and
foolproof fleeces elevated to new heights and
even greater volumes, it’s hard to believe Korean-
born, Tokyo-based Ambush designer Yoon began
with jewelry. “I keep creating to better define it,”
says Yoon of the six-year-old line she created with
her husband, Verbal, which has gained attention
from labels like Sacai and Louis Vuitton along
with support from artists like Pharrell Williams.
“Each season, I’m coming to a closer realization
of what Ambush can be.” Hammam (above)
wears Ambush shirts, pants, earring, and hat.
125
 RICHARD QUINN The origins of
Quinn’s namesake label date back to his
South East London childhood, when he spent
hours building Lego models and obsessing
over images from the likes of Tim Walker
and Tim Burton. “I loved the idea of creating
a maximalist world in which my clothes
and ideas could live,” says the designer, 28.
Fast-forward a couple decades to an age of
digital dominance, and Quinn is rendering
his wild world of handmade floral prints (all
created in-house at his studio in Peckham) in
cocoon dresses spliced with an asymmetrical
attitude reminiscent of old-school couture
shows—and earning a royal stamp of
approval from Queen Elizabeth II herself.
Richard Quinn dresses and boots on both.
Larkspur & Hawk necklaces on Hartzel.
BEAUTY NOTE
Define your arches, blade by blade.
Revlon ColorStay Brow Tint pairs a
waterproof formula with a hair-thin
tip for an ultra-natural effect.
P RO DUC E D BY M A RY- CLA N C EY PACE FOR H EN’S TOOTH PRODUCTIONS

MATTY BOVAN Whatever may be inspiring Bovan,

gazing at the North Yorkshire Moors at dusk—authenticity
ECKHAUS LATTA Besties since 2008, Mike Eckhaus and Zoe
Latta, both 30, created their intuitive label of painstakingly dressed-
down, never-sloppy pieces—think broad-shouldered blazers, cult
carpenter jeans, and rayon jersey eveningwear—betwixt Los Angeles
and New York. The two continue to strike an emotional chord by
casting their diverse friends and followers in their shows and making
just the sort of things that they want to wear. “Fashion should never
make you feel like someone else,” says Eckhaus. Singer-songwriter
Arlissa (opposite) wears an Eckhaus Latta sweater and skirt.
28, at the moment—his latest collection, he says, was
spurred by the feelings of romance and isolation when
is always a guiding principle. And though the star alum of
Central Saint Martins and winner of the LVMH Graduate
Prize ditched London and Paris for his hometown of York,
Bovan’s work bears much the same madcap sensibility
as earlier British designers like Alexander McQueen
and Vivienne Westwood. “It’s a beautiful war between
worlds,” he says. Singer Julia Cumming (above) wears
a Matty Bovan jacket and skirt. Gina for Matty Bovan
boots. In this story: Hair, Tamara McNaughton; makeup,
Francelle. Details, see In This Issue.—RACHEL WALDMAN
129
No Fun-size or
family-size? The Holds Barred
season’s statement
bags come in such
a delicious panoply
of shapes and
colors that choosing
just one seems
unimaginative.
Photographed by
David Luraschi

UP IN THE AIR
Don’t let the good ones
get away—especially this
rich, buttery tote the color
of liquid gold. Model Adut
Akech with a Victoria
Beckham tote ($795)
and dress ($3,420);
victoriabeckham.com.
Shinola tote, $495;
shinola.com. Hermès
bag; select Hermès
stores. Bottega Veneta
tote (in air), $3,600;
(800) 845-6790.
Loewe earrings.
Fashion Editor:
Alex Harrington.
HAT TRICK
Double the fun with
a pint-size pal—or by
turning your tie-dye
clutch into a kooky
chapeau. Proenza
Schouler bag, worn
on head ($1,995), and
turtleneck ($595);
Proenza Schouler,
NYC. Goyard mini
bag, $2,340; Goyard
stores. Chanel sweater
($2,750) and jeans
($2,700); select Chanel
stores. Marni earring.
Ryan wears a French
Toast polo shirt and
Lacoste shorts.
 INTO THE BLUE
What could be better
than your childhood
backpack—but
reimagined for
grown-ups in
sumptuous, slouchy
leather? Two of them.
Loewe backpacks,
shirtdress, pants, and
sandals; loewe.com.
Acne Studios hat.
TANGERINE DREAM
The new neutrals come in a
happy range of earth tones—
cut into an even more endless
array of stackable shapes.
Stella McCartney sling
wallet and key cover (worn as
necklace); Stella McCartney,
NYC stores. Fendi handbag,
$4,550; fendi.com. The Row
hobo bag, $4,900; Neiman
Marcus stores. Jil Sander bag,
$3,790; Jil Sander stores.
JW Anderson top, $730;
j-w-anderson.com. Fendi
skirt, $1,790; fendi
.com. Watches by Hermès
and Apple. Proenza Schouler
shoes. Goyard dog leash.

133
 HEAD GAMES
How much is too much? As
long as there’s means to
carry them, the point seems
blissfully moot. Loewe mini
bag (worn across body),
$1,250; Barneys New York,
NYC. Proenza Schouler
mini bag, $1,495; Proenza
Schouler, NYC. Dior fringed
bag; select Dior stores.
Salvatore Ferragamo
handbag; Salvatore
Ferragamo stores. Gucci
bowling bags ($1,980–
$2,490); gucci.com.
Jacquemus coat, $1,400;
jacquemus.com.

134
 BIRD’S-EYE VIEW
The secret to chic summer
style becomes as easy
as one bag, two bags,
three bags, four. Proenza
Schouler backpack,
$2,195; Proenza Schouler,
NYC. Balenciaga bag
(on ladder), $2,350;
Balenciaga, Beverly
Hills. Stuart Weitzman
box clutch, $395;
stuartweitzman.com.
Marc Cross case (in
water), $3,595; markcross
.com. Sportmax dress
($1,890) and turtleneck
($410); Max Mara,
NYC. Loewe pin, on
hat. Marni bracelet.
 SHE’S ELECTRIC
Variations of reds, yellows,
and the occasional wild print
make for a gorgeous mosaic.
Maison Margiela quilted
bags ($1,595–$4,665);
Maison Margiela, NYC. Miu
Miu bag, $1,950; miumiu
.com. Tod’s handbag, $946;
tods.com. Jil Sander tote
bag (worn around waist),
$1,330; Jil Sander stores.
Oscar de la Renta coat,
$3,490; Oscar de la Renta
stores. Derek Lam pants,
$1,490; Derek Lam, NYC.
BEAUTY NOTE
Every skin tone needs
protection. Aveeno Protect +
Hydrate Lotion Sunscreen
with Broad Spectrum
SPF 50 has an invisible
formula that soothes
and safeguards skin.
 LARGER THAN LIFE
Nest one exquisite little
tote inside the other—
inside another. More is
more is more. Moynat
vanity bag, $3,700;
Moynat, NYC. Céline
bags ($2,860–$3,640);
Céline, NYC. Jacquemus
tote, $1,095; jacquemus
.com. Jil Sander dress,
$2,420; Jil Sander stores.
Marni bracelets. In this
story: hair, Ramona
Eschbach; makeup,
Fara Homidi. Details,
see In This Issue.
P RO DUCE D BY TRAVIS KIEWEL AND ROBERTO JAVIER SOSA FOR TH AT ONE PRODUCTION. SET D ESIGN, KADU LENN OX .

137
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139
 GIRL MEETS WORLD
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 100
physics and became a cinematographer
and photographer, most famously for
Prince, whom Shahidi grew up follow-
ing around the world. Her mother, Keri
Salter Shahidi, is an actress who paved
her daughter’s way into commercials as
an infant. The filmmaker Eileen Cabil-
ing, a longtime family friend, met Yara
at age four. “There’s a grace to her and a
joie de vivre,” Cabiling says—adding that
Shahidi is someone who likes to dance as
much as read. “Seriously. She showed me
the disco lights in her room, her Buddha
collection, and the chocolate wrappers
under her bed.”
Black-ish came along when Shahidi
was thirteen. What impressed the show’s
creator, Kenya Barris, “was the way she
approached the role. A lot of actors came
in and I felt like they were pushing, push-
ing, pushing. And there was just an effort-
lessness to her acting that spoke to me.”
Shahidi’s activism emerged in the same
natural way. “She’s always been concerned
about the world around her,” Barris says.
“After her social-media presence began
to grow, she began to understand how to
use her voice: the things that she talked
about and cared about. I also saw it with
the Trump election—how that affected
people who looked like her and who didn’t
look like her. It was just an amazing time
for women’s rights, and she’s been right
there on the forefront of it.”
“A teenage girl is usually just projected
upon,” Shahidi tells me. “OK, Zoey may
be angsty, and she may be rebellious, she
may be on her phone a lot, but Kenya and
the writers really let you see her be a leader
within her family, or excel at her job. All
of that was through active conversation.
Figuring out, OK, how do we stay true to
character and not perpetuate stereotypes
about what a woman can or cannot be?”
Such is the kind of thinking that has
made Black-ish an unusual piece of mass
entertainment: a network sitcom with a
fearless political sensibility. It has included
frank family discussions about everything
from Bill Cosby to President Trump to
Trayvon Martin (ABC created a furor
when it refused to air an episode that
touched on the NFL’s national-anthem
protests). “You might not normally ask
a fourteen-year-old what she thought
about police brutality,” says Shahidi,
“but because it’s what we were covering
on Black-ish, the conversation translat-
ed to panels and other opportunities.”
Grown-ish is forward-thinking, too, with a
gender-balanced writers’ room and a high
ratio of women working behind the cam-
era. “It was really cool walking into season
one of Grown-ish and having a female DP,”
140 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM
Shahidi tells me. “I called my mother from
the set, and I was like, ‘I don’t think you
realize how excited I am right now!’ ”
She and her mother look strikingly
alike, appear in fashion campaigns
parsing each other’s style, and pose on
Instagram together like a happy couple.
Harvard will be Shahidi’s first exit from
the protective familial bubble—an experi-
ence she’s already portrayed in Grown-ish
(minus the boy trouble; Shahidi says she’s
too busy to date). “It’s life imitating art
imitating life,” she says with a laugh. “I re-
ally connected to Zoey’s level of discom-
fort and vulnerability.” But she’s ready.
She’s an avid reader—currently work-
ing through Gregory David Roberts’s
1,000-page novel Shantaram (“I’m on
page 800,” she says), having just finished
I Write What I Like, by the late South
African anti-apartheid leader Steve Biko,
and Jesmyn Ward’s Sing, Unburied, Sing.
She loves music and says this in a breath-
less rush: “Lots of Frank Ocean. A lot.
Just got into Isaiah Rashad. I’m obsessed
with Pharrell. I think I wake up every day
and ask, What did we do to deserve An-
dré 3000? I love alt-J and Arctic Mon-
keys, Valerie June and SZA and Rihanna
and Beyoncé, of course. I love Noname.
She’s incredible. Tobi Lou is really cool.
Super Duper Kyle just released an album.
Childish Gambino. I got into a period
of time in which I was just listening to
Fela Kuti for a moment. A lot of Tyler,
Chloe x Halle.”
Shahidi will surely be one of Harvard’s
best-dressed freshmen. Chanel, Tory
Burch, Prada: “They’ve been so kind,”
she says. “But it’s been cool to actually
create moments with them that feel like a
collaboration. It’s never just like handing
me a dress and saying, You have to wear
this.” At the SAG Awards in January, for
instance, she wore a black Ralph Lauren
jumpsuit with an oversize bow, which ini-
tially was supposed to be a dress. “But I
have decades to wear a black dress,” she
says. “So they came over and we were
like, Well, what about a jumpsuit? It felt
more like me.”
Red carpets, by the way, “could start
to feel trivial,” Shahidi says, so she likes
to think about a greater purpose. “Like,
this one will give me a platform to talk
about voting. Or saying to myself, OK,
well, it feels a little weird to be at the Teen
Choice Awards right after Charlottesville.
But then how do I use my position to shed
light on what’s happening?”
A tireless evangelist for better repre-
sentation, more parity, more truth-telling
in mass entertainment, Shahidi talks fast
just to fit it all in. (As Ross observes, “If
you get Yara talking, she will not stop
talking. When Yara gets comfortable, she
gets comfortable.”) But she’s scheduled
down to the minute—our interview was
moved up at the last second because her
calendar abhors a vacuum—and her pub-
licist is keeping her eye on the time. Still,
Shahidi makes it count. Blending art and
activism “is necessary for one’s sanity,”
she tells me. “One of my greatest fears
is living a self-centric life. I think this in-
dustry is bred to create that—especially
if your physical body is your tool or your
face is what makes you money. I’m trying
to understand that and then pulling back
to figure out, How do we avoid that? How
do we want something and have a greater
purpose?” @
SAOIRSE RISING
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 111
It was first announced back in 2012
that Ronan would play the lead in the
biopic of the Scottish monarch, who re-
turned from France as a teenager to rule
the country of her birth. At a time when
rival royal houses competed for the En-
glish throne, Mary represented a threat
to the reign of her cousin Elizabeth I.
Mary, a Catholic, was descended from
the House of Stuart, while Elizabeth, a
Protestant, represented the ruling House
of Tudor. Five years after Ronan signed
on, with theater director Josie Rourke set
to direct and Margot Robbie to play Eliz-
abeth, filming on Mary Queen of Scots
finally commenced.
The artistic director of London’s
Donmar Warehouse since 2012, Rourke
came on board to direct her first feature
principally because Ronan was involved.
The two share an interest in Mary as a
historical figure: Her famous beauty,
her ingenuity, her sensational fate—she
was betrayed, exiled from Scotland, and
ultimately beheaded at Elizabeth’s de-
cree—have long made her a focal point
for historical narratives about feminini-
ty and leadership. The film finally came
into being, Rourke suggests, because of
Ronan. “So many of the people who did
the film did it because they wanted to be
in proximity to her, as an actor,” she says.
“Even as an incredibly young woman, she
has that power.”
More intimate than a typical period
drama, the movie becomes an unexpect-
edly intense, racking examination of
Mary’s psychology: her impulsiveness,
her defiance, the almost frightening hard-
ness at her core. Though she endures great
suffering, Ronan’s Mary seems somehow
untouched by it; like a martyr, she only
grows cooler, clearer, more certain. It’s a
strangely convulsive movie—I felt myself
trembling along with Mary as I watched.
Both Ronan and Robbie tell me that they
experienced the film’s final act, in which
their characters meet for the first time, as
a defining moment in their work.
Its intensity made me start to under-
stand Ronan’s focused, all-consuming
approach to her career; her drive to shut
everything else out; her restlessness when
not working; her grief when a job finishes.
I ask, as we reach the end of the gallery,
whether she ever feels lucky to have a call-
ing. She looks away briefly, and her face
changes; for a moment I wonder if I have
upset her. “Yeah,” she says. “You want to
be doing something in your life that wakes
you up.” She rubs at her nose. “There’s
something wonderful about doing the
type of work that is a part of you,” she
says, “because you can give it everything
you’ve got. And it gives so much back
to you as well. You become better. You
become a better person.” @
DRAWING STORIES
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 113
charcoal on a large scale, and all of a sud-
den I began writing this story.” It set off
an avalanche of drawings, much larger
than any she had done before—not just
of the characters’ heads but of their bod-
ies, clothes, and surroundings, capturing
patterns and textures with the marvel-
ously fluid lines and colors that pastels
make possible, using her fingers instead
of brushes.
She’s having lots of fun reinventing the
idea of nineteenth-century family por-
traits, which she’s always loved—John
Singer Sargent is an idol of hers, and
James Tissot’s 1868 The Circle of the Rue
Royale inspired the big group portrait
she’s working on. In Toyin’s drawings,
however, the subjects are relaxed, casual,
at leisure, caught in the moment as if in a
snapshot rather than formally posed. The
gay, newlywed heirs—there’s irony here,
since in Nigeria homosexuality is illegal—
slouch with untucked shirts and open
collars. The technical virtuosity and the
boldly inventive use of color pull you into
the story: a Netflix series in the making.
“We simply do not see drawings exe-
cuted at this level very often, and espe-
cially not by someone who was born in
1985,” says Whitney Museum assistant
curator Rujeko Hockley, who organized
Toyin’s show there last October. “Her
hand, her sense of color and material,
her understanding of composition, of
what to reveal and what to hide—they’re
all exquisite.”
Other unfinished works in the studio
show different family members. “There’s a
cousin, Toyin says, “being kind of cheeky
in her short robe, and that’s a portrait of
her disapproving grandmother on the
wall in back of her. The cousin is an in-
terior decorator, and she knows she’s hot!
Her grandmother is going”—haughty ac-
cent—“ ‘Really? Just showing yourself to
these people?’ ” Toyin roars with laughter,
slapping her thigh with one hand. “I know
these characters. I’ve lived with them for
three years now.”
Toyin was born in Ife, an ancient Yoru-
ba city in South Western Nigeria. The
political situation there was volatile, so in
1990, her mother, Nelene Ojih, took her
and her two-year-old brother, Datun, to
join their father, J. Adeola Odutola, who
was at Berkeley to do research and teach
chemistry at the university.
“My father is Yoruba, and my mother
is Igbo,” Toyin says. “And if you know
anything about the Biafran War, they
were the warring tribes right after inde-
pendence. Thanks, Britain! I love Nigerian
women because they’re so confident and
self-assured. My mom’s a nurse, but she
has a degree in comparative literature, and
she’s really great with words. She’s also
great with shade.”
Because she’s Nigerian, that shade, says
Toyin, “is much deeper than you get in the
American South. When I was growing
up, our household was very patriarchal.
People were happy when I was born, but
when my brother was born, the whole
village was involved. My father would
tell my brother, ‘You have to do this or
that because you’re carrying my name.’
My mom would take me aside and say,
‘I don’t care what your father says, you’re
carrying my name. You got the Ojih.’ ”
In 2015, Toyin officially added the “Ojih”
to “Odutola.”
After four years in Berkeley, the family
moved to Huntsville, where her father
had been offered a tenure-track job at the
historically black Alabama A & M Uni-
versity. The prospect terrified nine-year-
old Toyin. “I’m an immigrant kid,” she
explains, who learned her first words of
English when she arrived in the U.S., “and
I was only taught about slavery and Mar-
tin Luther King and the Birmingham Ri-
ots a few days before we left, at school in
Berkeley, and now this crazy place called
Alabama was about to be my home.” Just
before leaving, trying to lift Toyin’s spirits,
her mom bought her a Lion King color-
ing book—a big deal because they were
virtually broke. Toyin lived in its pages
throughout the cross-country drive in a
U-Haul van. “That was when art became
my central focus,” she remembers. She
bonded with Timon, the meerkat, copying
his face on napkins, scraps of paper, hotel
pads, and every other available surface.
“Even now, as an adult, I’m Timon,” she
says. “No one listens to Timon, but he’s
the only one with common sense. He’s
ironic. He’s sardonic. He plays tricks. He
throws shade. I just loved his character.”
Although Huntsville was by then a
major center for the U.S. Army’s space-
and-rocket program, Alabama was still
a deep South state, and the Odutola chil-
dren were exposed for the first time to
racial taunts and bullying. “It was a crash
course,” Toyin says. “Your blackness and
your otherness are in your face every day
in the lunchroom and at recess. It was a
three-tiered view of life: You’re already a
foreigner in America. And now, among
African Americans, you’re African,
which is another strike against you. And
even in your own family, you’re not the
same—you’re starting to become more
Americanized.”
Art was her escape in this troubled sea.
She drew all the time. “I was obsessed,”
she tells me, “capturing everything I saw
and being fascinated with the incredibly
simple task of looking at something and
transmitting it onto paper. It’s an imme-
diate magic.”
Her high school art teacher saw Toyin’s
talent, made her the first student in an ad-
vanced art program, and introduced her
to the work of black artists and writers,
including Kerry James Marshall and Kara
Walker. She went on to major in studio art
and communications at the University of
Alabama. Her art teacher there nominated
her for Yale’s summer art residency in Nor-
folk, Connecticut. The rest of the faculty
were against it, says Toyin, because she
had been tagged as a troublemaker (“I’ve
got a mouth on me,” she admits). But her
teacher fought hard, and she was accepted.
“It was the worst experience of my
life,” Toyin says, “because the way they
talked to artists of color was really rac-
ist. The last week I was there, I was told
that I should probably change my major.
I remember just thinking, Fuck you. I’m
going to prove you wrong.”
She didn’t apply to Yale’s graduate art
school as a result but says, “I’m glad I
went to Norfolk and had a taste of what
I’m living now, which is people who take
art-making very seriously.” Her parents,
worried that she could never make a living
through art, wanted her to go law school.
Instead, she won a full scholarship to
California College of the Arts, where she
received her MFA degree—and where she
was studying when Jack Shainman saw
her ballpoint-pen drawings. “My socks
rolled up and down without my touching
them,” Shainman tells me. “That’s always
the key sign for me. I think we purchased
every single one.”
Toyin moved to New York in 2013, and
her rise has been meteoric: museum exhi-
bitions, four more shows at Jack Shain-
man, and inclusion in Manifesta 12, the
international nomadic biennial that is
in Palermo this C O N TIN U ED O N PAG E 14 2
141
 year. There’s a waiting list for her draw-
ings, some of which startle and perplex
viewers. Her 2015 exhibition at Shain-
man’s included The Treatment, portrait
heads of 43 prominent white men (Prince
Charles, Leonardo Di Caprio, J. Edgar
Hoover, Martin Amis, Picasso, Benedict
Cumberbatch) who have been robbed of
their whiteness (i.e., their “importance”)
because their faces are black, rendered in
many layers of lustrous ballpoint-pen ink.
She lives in Brooklyn but still spends
most of her waking hours in her Manhat-
tan studios—she’s nocturnal and often
works through the night there. Toyin trav-
els extensively. She went back to Nigeria
with her mother for the first time when she
was sixteen and has returned often. She’s
spent time in Tokyo, Florence, London,
Albuquerque, Joshua Tree, Johannesburg,
Lagos, and other far-flung places, and
the iPhone photos she takes on her trips
often work their way into her drawings.
She stays fit with a mostly vegetarian diet
and by dancing to Afrobeat, highlife, and
electronic music, and doing lots of squats
and other exercises in her studio—no time
for the gym and apparently no room for
romance. Although she cheerfully de-
clined to talk with me about her private
life, I could hardly ignore the large Hello
Love text drawing on the wall of her stu-
dio, a hilariously obscene and somewhat
violent flushagram to an ex-boyfriend.
“That’s a joke,” she tells me. “I near-
ly sent it to a person who was being an
F-Boy.”
Since her Whitney show, some peo-
ple have criticized Toyin for depicting
wealth as the solution to black problems.
“That’s never been my aim,” she says. “I
use wealth as a platform. I’m analyzing
it, usurping it, playing with it, the way I
would with blackness, the way I would
with skin, the way I would do with sto-
ries. I think some people thought I was
disregarding the work and suffering of
black people. It’s not disrespect. I just
don’t want to be an artist who only de-
picts black pain.
“I understand that this is a significant
part of black life around the globe,” she
continues, “but if all we’re known for is
our pain and our struggle, what does that
say? I don’t want young people to feel
that is the only way they can talk about
themselves, through that lens. Black sto-
ries can be ridiculous. Black stories can be
silly. They can be problematic. They can
be mediocre and remarkable. They can be
boring. Can we have that privilege now?
Instead of having to be exceptional all
the time? That was the aim of this whole
saga—just to see that.” @
CALL OF THE WILD-ISH
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 114
soakers; an outdoor platform has com-
fortable chairs in which to lounge.
It was here, on the porch of my tent, that
I spent my first hours at the camp, doing
little more than breathing in the dry and
fragrant alpine air and gazing at the view
of the mountains both near and far. In the
foreground, I could see glimmers of the
narrow river cutting a meandering swath
along the edge of the green meadow where
Pat and Paul roamed from one spot to an-
other as the sun shifted. In the distance,
tucked among layers of mountains, I could
see the rocky peak for which my quarters
were named, El Diente—“the tooth.” My
tent was at the end of a row. Beyond it,
there was only wilderness for miles.

In This Issue
Table of contents 20: On
Curtiss: Cathy Waterman ring,
price upon request; Twist.
Portland, OR. On Choi: Lulu
Frost earrings, $250; lulufrost
.com. Tailor, Lucy Falke. Cover
look 24: Dress ($2,980) and
tulle overlay ($1,060); Prada
stores. Earrings, $1,295;
johnhardy.com. Tailor, Della
George. V Life 48: Jacket
($6,300), vest ($3,950), pants
($2,300), and boots ($1,200);
Chanel stores. Manicure, Alicia
Torello. 52: Dress, price upon
request; koche.fr. Shirt, $218;
rachelantonoff.com. 66: On
Haze: Coat, price upon request;
Prada stores. On Simi: Coat,
$1,850; Prada stores. Manicure,
Mei Kawajiri. 70–71: Jumpsuit
($2,250) and boots ($890).
Jumpsuit at Nordstrom,
Vancouver, BC, Canada. Boots
at Céline, NYC. Tailor, Hailey
Desjardins.
SEIZE THE DAY!
74–75: On Curtiss: Jacket
($5,400), blouse ($1,790),
and pantashoes ($2,900);
Balenciaga, Beverly
Hills. Earrings, $200;
jenniferfisherjewelry.com. Max
Mara tote, $2,190; Max Mara,
San Francisco. On Trentini:
Jacket ($2,450) and pants
($1,650); Bergdorf Goodman,
NYC. Rolex watch, $10,950;
rolex.com. Tory Burch bag,
$698; toryburch.com. On
Woods: Blazer ($1,870), blouse
($1,000), and pants ($755);
Barneys New York, NYC.
Sportmax sunglasses, price
upon request; Max Mara, NYC.
Givenchy bag, $1,890; similar
styles at Givenchy, NYC. Marni
boots, $1,580; Marni stores. On
Forrest: Jacket ($3,700), shirt
($700), and pants ($1,200);
gucci.com. Max Mara bag,
$1,490; Max Mara, NYC.
Hermès shoes, $1,700; Hermès
stores. On Montero: Jacket
($650) and pants ($335);
Weekend Max Mara, Costa
Mesa, CA. Hilfiger Collection
top, $230; usa.tommy.com.
Hermès bag ($12,700) and
shoes ($1,125); Hermès stores.
On Koella: Jacket ($4,360)
and pants ($1,500); (800)
845-6790. Ralph Lauren
Collection sweater, $690; Ralph
Lauren stores. Earrings, $1,750;
davidyurman.com. Moschino
Couture bag, $950; Moschino
stores. AGL shoes, $525; agl
.com. On Jung: Blazer ($1,470)
and pants ($735); Bergdorf
Goodman, NYC. Earrings,
$1,300; tiffany.com. Chanel
bag, $4,100; Chanel stores. Max
Mara shoes, $665; Max Mara,
NYC. 76–77: On Elsesser: Dress,
$1,595; prabalgurung.com.
Kenneth Jay Lane earrings,
$75; kennethjaylane.com.
Roger Vivier belt bag, $1,675;
Roger Vivier, NYC. Fendi shoes,
$950; fendi.com. Choi: Jacket
($1,400) and dress ($895);
coach.com. Louis Vuitton boots,
$1,694; Louis Vuitton stores.
On Trentini: Dress ($1,350) and
pants ($535); Max Mara, NYC.
Jennifer Fisher earrings, $750;
jenniferfisherjewelry
.com. Bvlgari backpack,
$2,650; bulgari.com. Hermès
sneakers, $910; Hermès stores.
On Vadher: Dress, $3,495;
Proenza Schouler, NYC.
Jennifer Fisher earrings, $850;
jenniferfisherjewelry
.com. Proenza Schouler shoes,
$995; Proenza Schouler,
NYC. On Jung: Strapless top
($2,620), tulle dress ($980),
turtleneck sweater ($980),
skirt ($1,700), socks ($170),
and shoes ($1,990); Prada
stores. On Curtiss: Dress,
$1,235; Neiman Marcus stores.
Jennifer Fisher earrings, $585;
jenniferfisherjewelry.com.
Dries Van Noten boots, $890;
Bergdorf Goodman, NYC. On
Woods: Jacket ($240) and
pants ($260); usa.tommy
.com. Dior sunglasses, price
upon request; Dior stores. Jane
D’Arensbourg earrings, $260;
Quiet Storms, Brooklyn. Prada
bag, $1,990; Prada stores.
Alexandre Birman shoes,
$695; Saks Fifth Avenue stores.
78–79: On Forrest: Dress,
$8,995; Michael Kors stores.
Dior clogs, price upon request;
Dior stores. On Jung: Dress,
$1,395; Nordstrom stores.
Chanel shoes, $1,100; Chanel
stores. On Choi: Dress ($1,780)
and shoes (price upon request).
Dress at Barneys New York,
NYC. Shoes at erdem
.com. On Curtiss: Dress, $475;
matchesfashion.com. Marni
shoes, $700; Marni stores. On
Trentini: Dior dress, bra, and
briefs, priced upon request; Dior
stores. Sportmax shoes, $595;
Max Mara, NYC. On Vadher:
Dress, $475; matchesfashion
.com. Doyle & Doyle earrings,
$4,800: Doyle & Doyle, NYC.
Stella McCartney sneakers,
$640; Stella McCartney, NYC.
On Karlsson: Dress, $1,037;
horror-vacui.com. Lulu Frost
earrings, $425; lulufrost
.com. Clergerie sandals, $455;
Clergerie, NYC. 80–81: On
Trentini: Blouse ($2,460), skirt
($2,460), belt ($740), and bag
($3,270); Marni stores. Simon
Miller x Leonard Urso earrings,
$496; simonmillerusa
.com. Via Spiga mules, $275;
nordstrom.com. On Choi:
Top, $890; Derek Lam, NYC.
Skirt, $1,130; drome.it. Rosie
Assoulin earrings, price upon
request; rosieassoulin
.com. Bottega Veneta bag,
$15,500; (800) 845-6790.
Proenza Schouler shoes,
$855; Proenza Schouler,
NYC. On Forrest: Turtleneck
($410) and skirt ($1,075);
Max Mara, NYC. Sportmax
belt bag ($895) and shoes
($595); Max Mara, NYC.
On Curtiss: Dress, $4,100;
(800) 845-6790. Hermès
bag, $10,300; Hermès, NYC.
Salvatore Ferragamo shoes,
$850; Salvatore Ferragamo
stores. On Vadher: Dress (price
upon request) and shoes
($1,861); Louis Vuitton stores.
Lele Sadoughi earrings,
$188; Nordstrom stores.
Fendi bag, $1,980; fendi
.com. 82–83: On Curtiss:
Jacket (price upon request)
and pants ($2,695); similar
styles at Giorgio Armani
stores. Earrings ($1,195) and
necklace ($2,695); Dolce &
Gabbana stores. Tom Ford
cuffs, $1,990 for pair; Tom
Ford stores. Valentino Garavani
bag, $3,895; similar styles at
Valentino stores. Giuseppe
Zanotti shoes, $995; Giuseppe
Zanotti stores. On Karlsson:
Dress, $3,450; Michael Kors
stores. Hair combs, $1,295
each; Dolce & Gabbana stores.
Sonia Boyajian earrings, price
upon request; soniabstyle.com.
Roger Vivier bag, $2,095; Roger
Vivier, NYC. Giuseppe Zanotti
shoes, $895; Giuseppe Zanotti
stores. On Choi: Dress, $14,500;
Gucci stores. Percossi Papi
earrings, $1,509; net-a-porter
.com. Oscar de la Renta bag,
$1,990; Oscar de la Renta
stores. Dolce & Gabbana shoes,
$1,595; Dolce & Gabbana
stores. On Forrest: Dress, price
upon request; Dolce & Gabbana
stores. Oscar de la Renta
earrings, $280; oscardelarenta
.com. Chanel bag, $4,300;
Chanel stores. Erdem shoes,
price upon request; erdem.com.
On Vadher: Dress, $19,900;
Valentino, NYC. Erdem earrings,
$710; erdem.com. Rebecca
de Ravenel cuffs, $595 each;
rebeccaderavenel
.com. Moschino Couture bag,
$1,995; Moschino stores. Roger
Vivier shoes, $2,095; Roger
Vivier, NYC. On Woods: Dress,
$8,990; Carolina Herrera,
NYC. Marques’Almeida earring,
$340; marquesalmeida.com.
Justine Clenquet earring, $60;
justineclenquet.com. Rebecca
de Ravenel collar necklace,
$595 each; rebeccaderavenel
.com. Amato New York gloves,
$101; amatonewyork.com. Tom
Ford bag, $8,950; Tom Ford
stores. Versace shoes, $1,290;
Versace stores. On Trentini:
Dress, $2,900; Marc Jacobs
stores. Ralph Lauren Collection
earrings, $695; Ralph Lauren
stores. Valentino Garavani
shoes, $1,095; similar styles at
Valentino stores. 84–85: On

142 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM

 It wasn’t in the wilderness that I found
myself the following morning, but in the
wellness tent that looked out on the same
spectacular view. I was there for a one-on-
one yoga class, and I was terrified. Years
ago, before I had children, before I had a
busy career, before I stopped including
myself on my list of things that had to
be seen to, I did yoga regularly. But now
I was out of shape. My worry increased
when I set eyes on Andrea: impossibly
lean, clad in leggings and a tiny top to my
baggy hiking pants and loose T-shirt. I
needn’t have worried. She had the body
of a yogini but the heart of a cowgirl. By
the end of the hour, after she’d led me
through breaths of fire and sun salutations
and downward dogs and warrior poses, I
felt the way I forgot yoga always makes me
feel: like my teacher was a magic person,
and a little bit like I could be too.
I still felt the benefit of the yoga in my
knees later that day, as I hiked a loop trail
that follows the river before climbing into
the forest and meadows. Sarah’s nimble
hunting poodle, Toby, came along as my
companion. I paced myself as I walked,
sometimes gasping for breath, my lungs
not yet adjusted to the elevation. Peri-
odically I paused to holler for Toby, who
would gallop ahead on his own explo-
rations, then dash back to me. My calls
weren’t only to keep track of him; I was
also warning off any black bears in the
vicinity. Though I saw no signs of the free-
range cattle that still graze here, I felt a
sense of the land’s history, imagining the
cowboys, miners, and homesteaders who
lived here long ago, and the native Ute
people before them. Near the end of the
trail, I passed the remnants of an ancient
cabin, its gray, weather-battered logs slow-
ly decomposing into the soil from which
they sprang.
The next morning, I staggered into the
river, in waders and clutching the arm of
my fly-fishing guide, Wyatt. The rocks
shifted and wobbled beneath my feet as
the robust current pushed against my legs,
unsteadying me. Once I got my bearings,
I cast my fly into the water. Minutes after
I confessed to Wyatt that I truly didn’t
care whether or not I caught a fish, that
I was perfectly happy to wade from place
to place in the rushing water, casting my
rod, I caught something and reeled it in.
It was a rainbow trout about the size of
my hand, which I released back into the
river after Wyatt gently pulled the hook
from its mouth.
That evening, after I’d fished and eaten
lunch and retreated to my tent to check
my email—and then decided not to, be-
cause the way the sunlight was hitting the
mountains on the other side of my canvas
walls beckoned me—I found myself back
out on the porch, where I’d sat on the day
I arrived. By day, this spot had been so
warm in the sunlight that I’d worn only
a T-shirt, but now I was swaddled in a
wool coat against the crisp mountain air.
As I gazed up at the stars I realized I felt
slightly altered from the version of me
who’d stood here a couple of days before.
The only sound was the wind rustling
the leaves of the aspens nearby. The moon
was just two nights past full, and I won-
dered if I should take a photograph of it,
though the thought evaporated a moment
later. The beauty that surrounded me was
so grand that I knew I couldn’t possibly
capture such magnificence with my iPhone
camera, so I didn’t even try. It could not
be captured. It could only be felt. @

Trentini: Dress: ($7,705) and
boots ($2,200); Balmain, NYC.
Jennifer Fisher earring, $265;
jenniferfisherjewelry.com.
On Woods: Dress ($10,200),
bag ($4,690), and tights
($160); Tom Ford stores.
Agmes earring, $490 for pair;
agmesnyc.com. Tuleste feather
earring, $95; tuleste.com.
Nicole Saldana shoes,
$395; nicolesaldana
.com. On Jung: Dress (price
upon request) and boots
($2,495); Saint Laurent, NYC.
Giorgio Armani earrings, $295;
THAN THE AUTHORIZED STORE, THE BUYER TAKES A RISK AND SHOULD USE CAUTION WHEN DOING SO.
scarves, $93 each; 011-33-
1-4260-3070. Echo scarves,
$39–$69; echodesign.com.
95: Coat $7,700. In this story:
Manicure, Alicia Torello.
GIRL MEETS WORLD
100–101: Dress, $1,395;
Proenza Schouler, NYC. Lizzie
Fortunato earrings, $220;
shopbop.com. Rings, $550
for pair; sophiebuhai.com.
In this story: Tailor, Wendy
Williams-Stern.
SAOIRSE RISING
MOMENT OF THE MONTH
116–117: Earrings, price upon
request.
BREAKING GROUND
120–121: Top ($630) and
pants ($510); BIGGERCODE,
NYC. Mounser earring, $113;
Barneys New York, NYC. Boots,
$815; casadei.com. 122: Suit
(price upon request) and shirt
($408); bodenewyork.com.
Kentshire earrings, $975;
kentshire.com. Shoes, $1,450;
gucci.com. 123: On Zsela: Shirt
($650) and pants ($580);
at thedreslyn.com. 126–127:
On Hartzel: Dress, $5,179;
net-a-porter.com. Larkspur
& Hawk necklaces, $5,400
each; larkspurandhawk.com.
On Hammam: Dress ($3,623)
and boots ($573). Dress at
net-a-porter.com. Boots at
richardquinn.london. Beaufille
earrings, $210–$375; beaufille
.com. 128: Sweater ($585) and
skirt ($365); Nordstrom stores.
Kenneth Jay Lane bangle, $60;
kennethjaylane.com. Proenza
Schouler bangle, $595;
Proenza Schouler, NYC. 129:
backpack, shirtdress, pants
(priced upon request), and
sandals ($790); loewe.com.
Hat, $700; acnestudios.com.
133: Sling wallet and key cover,
priced upon request; similar
styles at Stella McCartney, NYC.
Marni backpack, $4,270; Marni
stores. Hermès watch, $3,300;
Hermès stores. Apple Watch
Series 3, $399; apple
.com. Shoes, $1,995; Proenza
Schouler, NYC. Dog leash,
$1,075; Goyard stores. 134:
Derek Lam tote bags, price
upon request; similar styles

similar styles at Giorgio Armani 102: Tulle overlay, $1,060; pyermoss.com. Pamela Love Jacket ($693) and skirt ($693); at Derek Lam, NYC. Dior bag,
stores. On Forrest: Dress Prada stores. 103: Coat earrings, $500; pamelalove matchesfashion.com. Lorod price upon request. Salvatore
ME NT I O NE D I N I TS PAG ES, W E CA NN OT GUA RA N T EE T HE AU TH EN T IC I T Y O F ME RC HA N DI SE SOLD

($39,500), tights ($160), ($3,785) and scarf ($380); .com. On Hammam: Shirt earring, price upon request; Ferragamo bag, $8,000;
BY D I SCOU NT E RS. AS IS A LWAYS T HE CASE I N PU RC HASI N G A N I TE M FRO M A NYW H E RE OT HE R

and shoes ($2,750); Tom Miu Miu stores. 104–105: ($250), pants ($200), scarf lorodstudio.com. Snow Xue Gao Salvatore Ferragamo stores.
A WO R D A BOUT DI SCOUN TE RS W HI LE VO GU E T HO ROUG HLY RESE A RCHES T HE CO M PA NI ES

Ford stores. On Vadher: Dress,
price upon request; Dolce &
Gabbana stores. Tom Ford
earrings, $1,950; Tom Ford
stores. Giuseppe Zanotti boots,
$1,495; Giuseppe Zanotti
stores. In this story: Tailor,
Lucy Falke.
ADDING IT UP
86–87: Dress, similar styles
at Chloé stores. 88: Necklace,
$3,050; Balenciaga, NYC. 90:
Dress, price upon request.
Shoes, $1,999. 91: Scarf,
$395; Hermès stores. 92:
Shoes, $895; Balenciaga, NYC.
94: Jacket, $5,550. Charvet
Coat, $2,500; Calvin Klein,
NYC. Earring, $1,295 for pair;
johnhardy.com. 106–107:
Dress ($3,970) and tulle
overlay ($1,060); Prada stores.
108: Coat, $3,850; Michael
Kors stores. Scarves, $380
each; Miu Miu stores. 109:
Dress, price upon request;
Calvin Klein, NYC. 110: On
Ronan: Cardigan ($1,090)
and dress ($4,175). Cardigan
at erdem.com. Dress at Saks
Fifth Avenue stores. On Katie:
Dress, price upon request;
erdem.com. Cardigan, $21;
frenchtoast.com. In this story:
Tailor, Della George.
($250), on table; pyermoss
.com. Pamela Love earrings,
$450; pamelalove.com.
Sneakers on both: $1,090;
Louis Vuitton stores. 124: On
Bird: Dresses ($845–$3,940)
and leggings ($520);
marineserre.com. Boots,
$1,540; Dover Street New
York, NYC. On Hartzel: Dress
($2,392), scarf earring ($198),
and boots (price upon request);
marineserre.com. 125: Shirts,
pants, hat ($370), earring, and
necklace; Dover Street New
York, NYC. Pamela Love earrings
($280) and ring ($280).
Earrings at barneys.com. Ring
tights; snowxuegao.com. Boots,
$1,350; gina.com. In this story:
Manicure, Yuko Tsuchihashi.
Tailor, Leah Huntsinger.
NO HOLDS BARRED
130: Paco Rabanne cage hobo
bag, $1,150; Barneys New York,
NYC. Hermès shoulder bag,
$5,250. Loewe earrings ($340
each) and sandals ($790);
Loewe, Miami. Marni bracelet,
$330; marni.com. 131: Earring,
$590; marni.com. On Ryan:
Polo shirt, $11; frenchtoast
.com. Shorts, $55; lacoste
.com. 132: Caramel-colored
backpack ($5,290), blue
135: Pin, $260; Loewe, Miami.
Bracelet, $330; marni.com.
137: Bracelets, $330–$380;
marni.com. In this story:
Tailor, Hailey.
INDEX
138–139: 2. Earrings, $2,300.
5. Dress, $2,990. 8. Necklace,
$3,995. 11. Bag, price
upon request.
LAST LOOK
144: Shoes; Prada stores.
Lands’ End beach towel, $30;
landsend.com.
ALL PRICES APPROXIMATE

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143
Last Look

FAS HI O N E DI TO R: A LE X HA RR I N GTO N . P RO P STYLIST, KADU LENNOX. PRODUCED BY TRAVIS KIEWEL AND ROBERTO JAVIER SOSA FOR TH AT ONE PRO DUCT IO N . D E TAILS, S E E IN T HIS ISSU E .

Prada shoes, $1,100

In 2012, Miuccia Prada debuted fiery sandals and stilettos with cartoon-like flames that appeared
to grow in the wearer’s wake. They caught on like, well, wildfire—and demand, it seems, has yet to simmer down:
At Prada’s latest show, out stepped a whole new slew of fire shoes, including these lustrous
caution-cone orange wedges in patent leather. Get them while they’re hot.
P H OTO G R A P H E D B Y DAV I D LU R A S C H I

144 AUGUST 20 1 8 VOGUE.COM

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