Alongside her Hacks co-star Paul W. Downs, Stalter was photographed by Vijat Mohindra for the cover of PAPER Magazine’s latest TV issue.

And let me just say: it’s oozing with fashion history.

The shoot recreates some of fashion photography’s most iconic visual languages, pulling references from Calvin Klein campaigns, Tom Ford-era Gucci ads, and the work of legendary photographers including Herb Ritts, Richard Avedon, Mario Testino, and Guy Bourdin. But rather than simply paying tribute to fashion history, the editorial is doing something much more interesting. By placing two comedians at the center of some of fashion’s most serious and self-important visual archetypes, PAPER quietly exposes just how performative those images were all along.

One of the most obvious references appears in a series of black-and-white photographs inspired by Herb Ritts’ iconic 1992 Calvin Klein campaign starring Kate Moss and Mark Wahlberg. Both topless and dressed in low-slung denim, Stalter and Downs recreate the poses almost exactly, right down to the very Moss-ian over-the-shoulder gaze and Downs’ Wahlberg bravado.

Elsewhere, a photograph of Downs suspended in midair while reaching toward Stalter’s hair references Richard Avedon’s Fall/Winter 1994 Versace campaign featuring Claudia Schiffer and Mark Findley. The recreation mirrors the original’s gravity-defying composition, replacing one of high fashion’s most recognizable images with two actors best known for making audiences laugh – at least, those in the audience who get it.

The duo also recreated a famous Mario Testino photograph from Tom Ford’s Gucci era featuring the iconic white cutout dress from Gucci’s Fall/Winter 1996 collection. Wearing a near-identical replica of the dress, complete with its signature gold hip hardware, Stalter steps directly into one of the defining images of 1990s fashion glamour — pout face and all.

The editorial also pays homage to Guy Bourdin’s Autumn 1977 campaign for Charles Jourdan. In the original image, a woman dressed as a maid reclines on a pale blue satin chair while a woman who appears to be her employer fixates on her elevated leg and stiletto. It’s bizarre, theatrical, vaguely horny, and completely brilliant. Honestly, it might be my favorite reference in the entire shoot.

And Stalter and Downs’ arguably more risqué interpretation may be just as good as the original.

But beneath the Downs crotch-grabbing shots and Stalter’s fashion-forward stank faces, the editorial does something much more complex than simple homage.

By placing two comedians inside some of fashion’s most iconic visual fantasies, the shoot reveals the constructed nature of those fantasies in the first place.

The original campaigns didn’t sell clothes as much as they sold aspiration. Their subjects weren’t people so much as ideals: impossibly cool, impossibly sexy, impossibly effortless. But when Stalter and Downs step into those same poses, the illusion becomes visible. Rather than aspiring to some unattainable ideal, we’re suddenly reminded that sex appeal itself is often a performance.

And when you consider who these cover stars actually are – Meg Stalter, a Lena Dunham muse who recently signed a collaboration with Arby’s, and Paul W. Downs, the co-creator of a show about an old-school Vegas comedy queen and her perpetually unemployed Gen Z writer – that tension between glamour and absurdity becomes the editorial’s greatest strength.

Perhaps that’s precisely why the editorial feels so contemporary. Fashion audiences today are fluent in irony. We can appreciate the beauty of an image while simultaneously recognizing how ridiculous it is. Stalter and Downs aren’t undermining fashion history – they’re participating in it the same way modern fashion thinkers consume it: with equal parts admiration, humor, and self-awareness.

In a cultural moment where celebrities are increasingly rewarded for feeling relatable rather than untouchable, Stalter and Downs are kind of the perfect subjects for a project like this.

The exaggerated poses and impossible scenarios of the original campaigns were never natural to begin with, and by casting two performers known for comedy, PAPER pulls a complete 180 on decades of fashion mythology and reminds us that fashion has always been a form of acting. Every campaign is a performance. Every model is playing a character. Every photograph is a carefully constructed fantasy.

The result isn’t a parody of fashion photography. If anything, it’s a love letter to it.

Ultimately, the editorial suggests that fashion’s greatest images have always contained an element of theater. By filtering some of the most recognizable visual tropes of the 1980s and 1990s through the lens of comedy, PAPER reminds us that glamour and humor are not opposites.

They’re one and the same.

Which means it’s finally time to have the annual “what are we wearing this season?” conversation.

After some boots-on-the-ground journalism (walking the Lower East Side) and ass-on-the-couch journalism (scrolling Instagram and TikTok), I’ve compiled a list of what I believe to be the hottest trends of summer 2026 — and the things to wear if you want to stay cool while staying ahead of the fashion game.

After years of quiet luxury, clean-girl uniforms, and enough beige to make me question whether color had gone extinct, fashion seems ready to have fun again. Summer 2026 is shaping up to be a collision of 2010s nostalgia, ’60s glamour, and the kind of maximalist styling that would give a ‘90s Calvin Klein ad a migraine.

Let’s begin.

Starting with the color that’s been quietly taking over every cool girl’s Pinterest board: teal.

If butter yellow was the color of last summer, teal is quickly becoming the color of this one.

The return of teal feels like a nostalgic callback to the 2010s — a time when I distinctly remember all of my girlfriends having gray walls and teal chevron bedsheets. In fact, I think chevron itself may be plotting a comeback.

This season, teal’s resurgence feels like an extension of the whimsical, pastel-Arial-font-fit-check, polka-dot-girl aesthetic that’s been dominating social media. You know the vibe.

And teal isn’t returning alone. It’s bringing along another former 2010s darling: coral.

Together, the two colors perfectly encapsulate the mermaid fantasy that seems to be bubbling beneath the surface of fashion right now. It’s beachy, playful, slightly tacky in the best way possible, and completely committed to having a good time. Kind of like a magnet you’d get on vacation in Miami, you know?

I find these colors work best in color-blocked outfits. Think coral tights, a teal mini skirt, and a muted top, accessorized with a handbag, hair clip, and kitten heels — all in different shades. What can I say? It’s a maximalist summer.

But if you’re feeling a little more low-key, I’d opt for ballet flats, black capris, a slicked-back bun, and a teal baby tee.

Speaking of capris, the chokehold they’re currently having on every cool girl is incredible.

You can’t walk one block in Soho on a Saturday without spotting at least one pair.

I will say, they’re an incredibly chic alternative to shorts that still keep you cool in the heat. A good pair of capris simply gives you that put-together look that a pair of denim cutoffs struggles to achieve.

The capri resurgence — which I called out this time last year — has become one of the clearest indicators of the 1960s aesthetic currently dominating culture. And this look will undoubtedly continue into the summer months, not just through capris, but through other ‘60s staples that have us all looking like extras in John Waters’ Hairspray.

One of those staples? Pillbox hats.

I know. It sounds ridiculous.

You may ask why someone would wear a hat that makes them look like they’re headed to church just to go get a matcha. The answer is simple: because it’s fabulous.

I’ve always loved a good vintage hat, and if fashion is finally giving me permission to leave the house cosplaying Jackie Kennedy, I’m going to take it.

Between the rise of vintage dressing and everyone’s apparent desire to romanticize even the most mundane errands, pillbox hats suddenly don’t seem all that ridiculous.

Pillboxes can be just as fun paired with a vintage dress on a night out as they can be with jeans and a T-shirt. Stop overthinking it. Throw on the hat.

Animal print, of course, has been impossible to escape lately.

Leopard print has practically been force-fed down our throats for over a year now — and trust me, I’m not complaining. But every animal kingdom needs a new queen, and I think zebra is preparing a coup.

I’ve been noticing hints of zebra print out in the wild for a while now, but I don’t think it’s quite reached its peak yet.

Much like teal and coral, zebra was another icon of 2010s style, so its return feels inevitable. It offers the same level of visual interest as leopard but feels slightly fresher and a little less expected.

That said, I must confess that I’m currently in a tiger-print era myself.

While I don’t think tiger print is about to hit the mainstream in a major way, I am almost positive it’ll eventually come for zebra’s crown once she’s finished her reign.

Another kitschy little detail taking over the maximalist landscape is buttons.

From necklaces to hair clips, they’re everywhere.

Personally, I’ve been gravitating toward pieces that use buttons in completely dysfunctional ways: sewn all over cuffs, arranged in wiggly patterns down the center of tops, or scattered across jean pockets.

And the more mismatched the buttons are, the better.

The charm comes from the fact that they’re not trying to be practical. They’re trying to be fun. And that’s what fashion feels like right now.

Which brings me to the final trend I’m expecting to explode this summer: hoop earrings.

And not little hoops.

Big hoops.

I mean big hoops.

They add exactly the right amount of swagger to any outfit. Whether you’re wearing a cocktail dress or a graphic tee and denim shorts, a great pair of hoops somehow pulls it all together.

Whether you’re embracing teal, pillbox hats, capris, zebra print, oversized hoops, or all five at once, one thing seems clear: subtlety isn’t on this season’s mood board.

And remember what they say: the bigger the hoop, the bigger the—

Okay, just kidding. That’s probably my cue to end this.

Let me know which trend you’ll be wearing this summer, which ones you wouldn’t be caught dead in, and any I might have missed.

Happy dressing!

Long before streaming platforms and TikTok clips, musicians constructed entire worlds around their work. Madonna transformed herself from bride to saint to cowgirl to disco queen through meticulously crafted visual eras. Britney Spears gave audiences schoolgirl uniforms, red catsuits, and diamond-covered fantasies that became inseparable from the songs themselves. Michael Jackson provided zombies, gangsters, and gravity-defying choreography. And Missy Elliott bent reality with futuristic fashion and surreal imagery.

A great pop star wasn’t simply releasing music. They were creating mythology.

By the 2010s, however, it began to feel as though some of that ambition had faded. Streaming prioritized convenience. Playlist culture prioritized singles. And when TikTok accelerated music consumption even further, 15-second danceable snippets became more valuable than fully realized statements. Songs could dominate culture without audiences ever being fed an image to accompany them.

For a moment, music videos had become secondary.

But lately, it feels as though audiences are craving something more.

And this isn’t just me being nostalgic for my childhood watching Lady Gaga and Beyoncé’s “Telephone.” The numbers suggest there may be something real happening.

According to Vevo’s 2025 year-end data, Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars’ “Die With a Smile” was the platform’s most-watched music video of the year with 932 million global views, nearly triple the viewership of the previous year’s most-watched video, Becky G’s “POR EL CONTRARIO.”

No single statistic can prove that music videos are experiencing a full-scale comeback. But it does suggest that audiences are still willing to engage with ambitious visual storytelling when artists give them something worth watching.

And increasingly, the artists capturing attention aren’t simply making music videos.

They’re building worlds.

Perhaps that’s why Madonna is so culturally relevant again. In the last year, Madonna’s monthly listeners on Spotify have risen from roughly 43.5 million to about 54.5 million, an estimated increase of 25%.

More than forty years into her career, she remains one of pop culture’s greatest architects of visual identity. Every Madonna era has existed beyond music. There was the Catholic imagery of Like a Prayer, the sexual provocation of Erotica, the futurism of Ray of Light, and the disco fantasy of Confessions on a Dance Floor. The songs mattered, but the worlds surrounding them mattered just as much.

This year, she’s expanding that tradition through “Confessions II: The Film,” further blurring the line between album promotion and cinema. And just recently, she took over Times Square in partnership with Grindr for a surprise concert. How much more world-building can you do?

What’s fascinating to me is that younger audiences have become increasingly receptive to this approach.

Look at Charli XCX.

The success of BRAT wasn’t just musical. It was visual, cultural, and participatory. The now-famous shade of lime green has become instantly recognizable. Fans are dressing messier. Flash photography, cigarettes, nightlife aesthetics, and anti-polished cool-girl energy are culturally dominant again. The album has transcended from a record to a world.

Similarly, PinkPantheress has developed one of the most distinct visual identities in contemporary pop. Her music videos often feel suspended somewhere between internet nostalgia, anime, fashion editorials, and dream sequences.

In many cases, people have encountered PinkPantheress’ visuals (or at least their impact) before encountering her music.

The same phenomenon is thriving in the rise of artists like Addison Rae and Chappell Roan.

Before many people could name more than “HOT TO GO!,” they could recognize the drag-inspired makeup, theatrical costuming, and carefully constructed character work that define Chappell Roan. Similarly, Addison Rae’s transition from influencer to pop artist has been driven as much by imagery, styling, references, and visual storytelling as by the music itself. In interviews, namely her appearance on Jake Shane’s Therapuss, she speaks about pop music less as a collection of songs and more as a complete artistic vision.

That distinction feels increasingly important.

In today’s pop landscape, a hit song will no longer be enough. Artists like Tate McRae and sombr have both demonstrated an ability to generate streaming success, but neither has yet developed the kind of visual language that makes artists like Chappell Roan, Addison Rae, Charli XCX, or even Madonna feel culturally inescapable.

One offers songs. The other offers a world.

Olivia Rodrigo’s recent music videos are vital to this shift, too. Rather than serving as straightforward visual accompaniments to songs, they’ve functioned as self-contained artistic universes. “Drop Dead” transformed the Palace of Versailles into a Gen-Z Marie Antoinette fantasy. “The Cure” unfolded inside a handcrafted miniature hospital built from cardboard and yarn before revealing itself as a fragile diorama. And most recently, “Stupid Song” turned Manhattan’s Upper West Side into a surreal stage populated by ballerinas and dreamlike choreography.

The public response to all three videos has been telling. People aren’t simply discussing the songs. They’re discussing the concepts, the visuals, the references, the settings, and the imagery. The conversation is extending beyond the music itself.

It’s clear that something larger is happening.

After years of fragmented digital culture, audiences seem increasingly drawn to artists who offer coherence. They want aesthetics. Narratives. Characters. Visual languages. They want to feel as though they are entering a universe rather than simply consuming a song.

And music videos remain one of the primary vehicles for that kind of world-building.

Not because they function the way they did during MTV’s golden age, but because they now exist as part of a much larger ecosystem that includes fashion campaigns, short films, social media rollouts, live performances, internet culture, and fan participation.

The most successful artists understand that the visual no longer ends when the video does.

In many ways, this brings us back to what made the MTV era so compelling in the first place. The artists who endure are rarely those with only great songs. They’re the ones who create worlds.

It’s as if the music draws us in, and the visual mythology gives us a reason to stay.

And now, months later, Charli has released “Rock Music,” a song where she quite literally says, “I think the dance floor is dead, so now we’re making rock music.”

The timing feels almost too perfect.

What interests me most about the song is that, despite the title and the guitars, it still sounds unmistakably like Charli XCX. The production remains synthetic, glossy, hyper-digital, and self-aware. It doesn’t feel like a genuine attempt to suddenly become a traditional rock artist. Instead, it feels more like Charli playing with the idea of rock music and the mythology surrounding it.

Which is why I think the song works.

When I originally wrote about hyperpop and punk, my point was never that the genres sounded alike. Punk was born out of frustration, boredom, anti-establishment anger, and DIY culture. Hyperpop emerged through the internet: SoundCloud, Discord servers, Tumblr aesthetics, algorithmic discovery, digital identity. The environments are completely different.

But punk was never just about guitars and leather jackets either. At its core, punk was attitude. Rejection. Performance. It was about building spaces for people who existed outside of the mainstream and creating identities that intentionally disrupted what felt polished, traditional, or socially acceptable.

Hyperpop has been doing that for years.

The genre thrives on exaggeration. Distorted vocals, overproduction, chaotic aesthetics, aggressively curated online personas — everything is pushed to a heightened level. Artists like SOPHIE, Shygirl, and Arca don’t just make songs; they create entire worlds around identity, performance, fashion, and digital culture. In many ways, hyperpop rejects authenticity in the same way punk once rejected polish. The methods are different, but the impulse is strangely similar.

That’s why Charli’s move toward “rock music” feels less like a genre pivot and more like commentary.

The song almost reads as performance art — Charli stepping into the symbolism of rock culture without fully abandoning the hyperpop sound she helped define. She’s not suddenly becoming a rock singer-songwriter; she’s interrogating reinvention itself, which feels very aligned with the way modern pop culture operates.

And I can’t help but think about Blondie while watching the discourse unfold.

Coming out of CBGB punk culture in the late 1970s, Blondie constantly blurred genre lines. They mixed punk with disco, rap, pop, and new wave at a time when those crossovers frustrated purists. People questioned whether they were “punk enough,” whether they were too commercial, too polished, too performative. But that genre-blending experimentation is exactly what made them so culturally defining in the long run.

I think Charli occupies a similar space today.

Not because the music sounds alike, but because both artists understand culture beyond genre. They understand image, performance, reinvention, and how to take underground aesthetics and push them into the mainstream without completely sanding off their edge.

Maybe that’s why “Rock Music” has created such an intense reaction online. The discourse surrounding the song feels bigger than the song itself. People aren’t just debating genre — they’re debating who gets to participate in cultural movements, what authenticity even means in an era built on performance, and whether reinvention automatically makes an artist less “real.”

Which is interesting, because those tensions have existed in nearly every major youth movement before this one, too. From beat, to punk, to club culture, to hyperpop, the moment something underground begins entering the mainstream, people start panicking about whether it has lost its soul.

And maybe Charli understands that better than most.

Nicknamed “The Pope of Trash,” John Waters is a Baltimore-based filmmaker who built his career from DIY, low-budget beginnings into something completely his own. His work fixates on outsiders, crime, sex, and the cracks beneath suburban life, using “bad taste” not as a flaw, but as a deliberate weapon.

In Shock Value, Waters explains “bad taste” as central to what makes his work entertaining, arguing that truly appreciating it takes “very good taste” – the ability to tell the difference between “good bad taste” and just…bad bad taste.

Enter Divine, “The Queen of Filth.”

John Waters and Glenn Milstead met in high school in the early 1960s, bonding over their shared love of shocking, unconventional art. Milstead became Waters’ muse, and from that, Divine was born.

As a drag queen, Divine became the blueprint for Waters’ aesthetic: extreme makeup, exaggerated silhouettes, and over-the-top styling – what could only be described as “pretty ugly.” From latex to leopard print to sequins to vintage silhouettes, Divine had it all.

Waters’ first major breakthrough came with Pink Flamingos (1972), starring Divine as a self-proclaimed “filthiest person alive.” The film is chaotic, offensive, and intentionally disgusting, turning things most people would find disgusting (like animal feces) into the main attraction.

Pink Flamingos would live to be the purest example of John Waters’ style, and the solidification of Divine’s persona.

Basically, if you understand Pink Flamingos, you understand Waters.

And in 1974 came my favorite John Waters film: Female Trouble.

The film follows Dawn Davenport, a rebellious teenager who turns her violent, chaotic life into a twisted form of fame. It’s camp, absurd, and packed with iconic visuals – babydoll dresses, metallic leopard print, a completely sheer wedding dress – along with unforgettable lines like “nice girls don’t wear cha-cha heels!”

By Polyester (1981), Waters’ style became more structured, yet still camp, parodying 1950s suburban melodrama. Divine’s performance is more restrained, but still exaggerated enough to expose the illusion of “perfect” suburban life.

Then came what would be his biggest mainstream success, Hairspray (1988).

Hairspray would be released with a star-studded cast: Ricki Lake as Tracy Turnblad, Divine as Edna Turnblad, Debbie Harry (of Blondie) as Velma Von Tussle, and Sonny Bono as Franklin Von Tussle.

With a larger budget and wider appeal, the film follows Tracy Turnblad, a teenage girl fighting for integration on a local TV dance show. It’s more polished than his earlier work, but still challenges beauty standards and centers outsiders.

What I find really fascinating is that so many people don’t realize that Hairspray is a John Waters film – most people don’t even know about the 1988 version, as the 2007 movie musical and Broadway production have overshadowed the original in the mainstream.

From there, films like Cry-Baby (1990), starring a young Johnny Depp, and Serial Mom (1994) continued his shift into the mainstream, keeping his satirical, campy edge in a more accessible format.

At the core of all of this is Waters’ – in his words – good bad taste.

He blends kitsch and trash into something strangely glamorous. Cheap fabrics, loud prints, artificial suburban interiors, thrift store aesthetics, and “tacky” Americana, transforming what’s usually seen as low or disposable into a bold visual style – one so recognizable to his image.

His work also embraces the grotesque, especially in how bodies are presented. Characters don’t fit traditional beauty standards; they’re messy, sweaty, and chaotic. This rejection of polish creates a new kind of aesthetic where imperfection is center-stage, to a point that borders on uncomfortable, or even immoral.

All of this operates through camp.

As Susan Sontag describes in Notes on Camp, it’s about loving something not despite its bad taste, but because of it – and Waters takes that idea to the extreme.

His influence is especially clear in fashion.

Designers like Marc Jacobs, Moschino, and Prada have embraced clashing prints, exaggerated silhouettes, and “ugly” aesthetics in ways that feel distinctly John Waters-coded. Trends like maximalism and anti–clean-girl aesthetics continue this shift, favoring chaos, layering, and personality over polish.

And that’s why “bad taste” works.

It creates freedom. When you reject the idea that there’s only one right way to look, dress, or create, you open space for individuality. Being loud, awkward, or unconventional becomes a strength rather than something to hide.

Through his work, John Waters shows that ugliness isn’t the opposite of beauty – it’s just another way of getting there!

Every year, the night’s theme sets the tone for how designers and celebrities show up on the red carpet. We’ve seen everything from religious inspiration (Heavenly Bodies) to over-the-top irony (Camp). But the 2026 theme, Costume Art with the dress code Fashion Is Art, feels different. It’s more direct (while still being incredibly broad), more conceptual, and honestly, way more interesting.

Because at its core, this theme is doing something the Met Gala has always circled around but never fully confronted: the intersection of fashion and art.

And that intersection? It gets a little messy.

For centuries, fashion has been treated as something beneath art. It’s been labeled “decorative,” commercial, tied to the body and trends, while painting and sculpture were positioned as intellectual, timeless, and museum-worthy. The question of “is fashion art?” has been debated forever – by designers, artists, scholars, and people like you and me – and still, there’s no real answer.

But what’s interesting about this year is that the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Condé Nast are finally attempting to answer that question.

Because this time, the dress code literally says it: Fashion Is Art.

Not “fashion as art.” Not a comparison, not a suggestion. A statement.

Instead of preserving the tension between the two, this theme dares designers to collapse that boundary and present garments that don’t just resemble art, but insist on being read as art. It pushes fashion out of the “decorative” category and into something more conceptual, more intentional, more worthy of being looked at the same way we look at paintings or sculpture.

And you can already see that in how the exhibit is being framed. In sneak peeks, garments are displayed the same way you’d display sculpture: elevated, isolated, dramatic. They’re removed from consumer usage and turned into objects of thought. But they’re still fashion – still tied to the body, to movement, to wear.

It’s less about proving they’re the same thing, and more about asking: what happens when art fully claims fashion?

Onto the night’s theme...what exactly is “costume art?”

Costume art is the practice of treating clothing as a form of artistic expression, where garments are designed and worn as living, expressive works of art rather than just something to wear. It’s about the dressed body becoming a canvas, where the person isn’t separate from the look, but part of the artwork itself. The garment shapes identity, conveys emotion, and transforms the wearer into something else entirely: a character, a concept, a moving installation.

So when the Met says “Costume Art,” it’s not just asking for dramatic outfits – it’s asking for fashion that can stand on its own as art, both visually and conceptually.

Now, let’s break down the dress code, “Fashion Is Art.”

This is where things get really fun, because there are so many ways designers can interpret this theme. One major direction is fashion as sculpture, where the focus is on shape and structure, with garments that transform the body into something architectural or abstract. Designers like Iris van Herpen and Rei Kawakubo at Comme des Garçons create pieces that feel more like wearable sculptures than clothing.

Another direction I expect to see people go toward is fashion as painting, where clothing becomes a canvas, and the body carries the artwork. Think garments like Yves Saint Laurent’s 1981 La Blouse Roumaine, translating Henri Matisse’s visual language into clothing, or Vivienne Westwood’s 1990 Portrait collection, which reworked François Boucher paintings into corsetry and dresses. But it also goes beyond references – sometimes the garment is the painting, like the silk-painted dresses under Karl Lagerfeld at Chloé that blur the line between fabric and painted surface.

Fashion as performance is where things become fully alive. Alexander McQueen’s Spring/Summer 1999 spray-painted dress and Coperni’s Spring/Summer 2023 spray-painted dress with Bella Hadid both turned the act of dressing into live performance, making the garment part of the artwork itself.

What we’ll likely see on the carpet is a mix of all of these – sculptural forms, moving canvases, performance pieces, and hopefully lots of archival references. And the best looks won’t just be the prettiest – they’ll be the most conceptually tight. The ones that don’t just look like art, but fully commit to the idea that they are art.

And I’ll be honest...when it comes to judging Met Gala looks, I’m a stickler when it comes to theme. The look could be incredibly minimal, but if the reference, the story, the connection to the theme is there in a way that I love…I’ll be happy. And vice versa – the look could be the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, but if it’s not on theme? I’m annoyed.

Because that’s what makes the Met Gala fun. It’s not just about beauty, it’s about interpretation.

So tonight, while we’re all sitting there judging, the real question in my head won’t just be “do I like it?”

It’s: “does it understand the assignment?”

This cover story drops ahead of the upcoming release of The Devil Wears Prada 2, with Meryl reprising her role as Miranda Priestly — the iconic, ice-cold editor-in-chief of Runway, a character famously inspired by Anna Wintour herself.

So seeing the two of them side by side, in on the same moment, feels surreal.

Especially considering Anna has historically kept her distance from Devil Wears Prada references. The fact that she’s leaning into it now, in such a playful, self-aware way, makes this whole thing even more iconic.

And the team behind this shoot? Completely stacked.

Shot by Annie Leibovitz, arguably one of the most legendary portrait photographers ever, and styled by Grace Coddington, literal fashion royalty. From model to Vogue creative director (1988–2016), she’s shaped the visual language of fashion for decades.

So yes, expectations were high.

Conceptually, I love it. The casting alone carries so much cultural weight. But this shoot had all the ingredients to be iconic — and visually, it played it too safe.

The styling is very classic. Very “Anna,” very “Miranda.” And I get it — that’s the point. But I can’t lie, I wish they’d pushed it further. Give me something unexpected. Something sharper. Something more fashion-forward.

They had so much to play with, with the whole “fashion editor” gimmick, that I’d love to have been fed something more camp.

And clearly, I must say it again — Vogue and that blank studio wall? I don’t know what kind of chokehold it has on them, but it’s getting tired. For a moment this big, I needed more drama, more environment, more storytelling.

One thing I do love, though, is the dynamic: Meryl facing front, Anna looking at her. That subtle role reversal? Very smart.

But if it were up to me, the elevator shot should’ve been the cover.

The symmetry is perfect, the framing is insanely satisfying, and it actually feels like it’s telling a story — which is exactly what a cover like this should do.

What makes it all even more frustrating is that the video proves they knew exactly how to do it.

Set in that stark, almost clinical elevator, it fully leans into the camp and humor that the cover barely touches. Meryl, in full Miranda mode, and Anna, playing herself, circle each other like they know exactly who they’re dealing with — but refuse to admit it. It’s controlled, awkward, and just a little bit funny in that very specific, fashion-world way.

When Anna casually lists places they might’ve met — the Met Gala, the Oscars — and Meryl responds with that perfectly timed, ice-cold “definitely not,” it lands. It’s dry, it’s self-aware, and it feels like an inside joke the entire industry is in on.

And the details? Full of intention. The elevator music is “Dancing Queen,” which is a cheeky nod to Meryl’s Mamma Mia! legacy. It adds a layer of camp and humor that the images are missing. Even the ending — bonding over shoes — is a wink to the whole fashion-editor archetype.

Visually, it’s minimal, but here it actually works. The tight space, the symmetry, the tension. It’s deliberate. It sets a scene. It tells a story.

Which just makes one thing very clear: the video understands the moment better than the cover does.

Another highlight of the shoot for me is the shot of them in the backseat of a car.

The angle is fresh, their poses play off each other with comedy, and it, again, feels very “fashion editor.”

All of these shots — the elevator, the backseat, the video — have that oomph the official cover is missing. And especially with a tagline like “seeing double,” the elevator image just feels like the obvious cover choice. It tells the story better. It gives it life. It feeds into the video.

And honestly? For a moment this big, safe just wasn’t the move.

Photographed by Willy Vanderperre and styled by Carlos Nazario, the story features Doja Cat in front of an off-white studio wall, draped in brands ranging from Tom Ford to Ralph Lauren to Givenchy by Sarah Burton. It’s no surprise the wardrobe is oozing with 80s energy: padded shoulders, popped collars, baggy pants, glossy fabrics. Both Doja Cat’s latest album, Vie, and her tour looks lean heavily into that same influence – referencing the likes of Grace Jones, David Bowie, and the Blitz Kids of London.

This year, Doja Cat has been everywhere in zebra print, latex, polka dots, theatrical hair and makeup, and damn near every color of the rainbow. Yet here, we find her in a Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello suit in oxblood, navy, mustard. Is the ensemble fabulous? Yes. I’d wear it in a heartbeat. But this is Vogue. This is Doja Cat. And as camp as she is, this is what was decided on? Boring.

Some of the other looks in the spread save it for me, to some extent.

The Tom Ford suit and bralette, paired with a Bvlgari High Jewelry necklace and Tiffany & Co. earrings, stole the show for me. It’s chic, it’s sexy, and fresh. But even then, the outfit isn’t what’s doing all the work. The pixie, razor-cut hairstyle is killer, bringing that androgynous, punk energy so central to Doja Cat’s image. And it’s her presence – the stance, the coolness in her eyes, the smoke leaving her mouth – that pulls you in. Not the clothes. Not the setting. Her.

Another highlight was the Saint Laurent jacket, top, and skirt with Sidney Garber earrings. The leather, the fishnets, the hat, the hoops, the eyeliner: I see what they were going for. I respect it. I like it. The 80s punk energy is there. And I adore the contrast between the hard-hitting look and the joy in her expression. But again, I’m not blown away by the clothing. It’s hot, sure. I’d love to see her wear it to something like a Vanity Fair afterparty. But a feature in Vogue? I want more.

I feel similarly about the Ralph Lauren Collection dress, Paris Texas shoes, Briony Raymond necklace, and David Webb and Ana Khouri rings. I have little to no complaints about the look – especially paired with the blonde pixie, sharp eyeliner, and aloof gaze. It’s beautiful. But I’d love it significantly more if it existed somewhere beyond a studio wall.

And that’s where another issue lies.

Vogue has had a bit of an obsession with the studio lately, with four covers already in that setting since the start of 2025: Doja Cat, Emma Stone, Sabrina Carpenter, and Angel Reese. Before that, we saw six throughout 2024.

And it’s not just Vogue. Publications like Interview Magazine, ELLE, and Harper’s Bazaar have all been leaning heavily into the same formula. Which makes me wonder, why?

When done sparingly, a studio can feel clean, controlled, even iconic. But now, it’s starting to feel repetitive. Predictable. It strips away the fantasy and world-building that make editorial so exciting in the first place. Fashion thrives on storytelling. And by reducing everything to a neutral background, these images lose the individuality that should define both the subject and the publication.

Because if there’s anyone right now who deserves a fully realized fashion fantasy, it’s Doja Cat.

She’s theatrical. She’s unpredictable. She is the moment. And while she still manages to command every frame – making even the simplest setup feel compelling – you can’t help but feel like something is missing.

Not from her. From the world around her.

And that’s the problem: when the most imaginative figure in the room is the only thing carrying the image, it stops feeling like Vogue and starts feeling like a missed opportunity.

But where did that expectation come from? Who set the standard? And who was the first to carry it?

For the longest time, I pointed to Diana Ross as the foremother of the modern pop star. She led The Supremes to multiple No. 1 hits, then successfully transitioned into a solo career. She had distinct “eras,” crossed into film with Lady Sings the Blues and Mahogany, earned major awards, and built a glamorous, instantly recognizable image. From music to fashion to film, she embodied the kind of all-encompassing stardom we now associate with pop icons.

But if we’re really tracing the origins of the modern pop star – the expectation to be a performer, a style icon, a provocateur, and a cultural force all at once – it starts with Josephine Baker.

Long before the idea of a “pop star” even existed, Baker was already a complete performer. She sang, danced, acted, and infused humor into her work in a way that made her performances feel three-dimensional. When she rose to fame in 1920s Paris, it wasn’t just because she was talented – it was because she knew how to command attention and hold it.

What makes her feel so modern is how intentionally she crafted her image. Baker wasn’t simply performing. She was constructing a persona. Running a business. Her slicked hair, exaggerated expressions, and dramatic stage presence were instantly recognizable. She understood that image could carry just as much weight as sound, and she used that to create something cohesive and unforgettable.

She also expanded what a female star could represent. Baker didn’t separate her art from her beliefs – she used her visibility as a form of power. She refused to perform for segregated audiences, spoke at the March on Washington, and worked with the French Resistance during World War II. That intersection of artistry and activism is something we now expect from major pop stars, but Baker was doing it decades earlier.

She reshaped how sexuality functioned in performance as well. Instead of minimizing it, she made sensuality central to her image, but always on her own terms. At a time when Black women were confined to restrictive stereotypes, she created a version of glamour and desirability that was self-defined and controlled. That same dynamic continues to appear across generations, in artists like Janet Jackson, Doja Cat, or Sabrina Carpenter, who treat their bodies and image as extensions of their artistry rather than something separate from it.

And at the center of all of this was something we now call branding. Baker built a world around herself – one where fashion, performance, and personality were inseparable. Her look was consistent. Her presence was immersive. You didn’t just watch her perform, you experienced an identity.

Before the modern pop star existed, Josephine Baker had already defined it.

I’m talking burlesque, drag, go-go dancers, aerialists, stand-up – full-on theatrical nights. That kind of immersive, chaotic, expressive scene. I crave that energy: being surrounded by music, art, and people who are completely, unapologetically themselves.

Which makes me wonder: if those spaces don’t really exist in the 2020s…what’s our version of that now?

Maybe the answer isn’t a place at all. Maybe it’s something we’ve been scrolling through this whole time.

In an era of instant gratification, I’m starting to think we’re losing real-life experiences. You want to watch a short film? Skip the screening, watch it on your couch. You want to see a drag show? Open TikTok. You want to see an artist’s new collection? It’s already on your Instagram feed.

But that strips away so much of what makes these things beautiful. You lose the sensory overload – the smell of a gallery, the thick heat of a crowded club, the bass vibrating in your chest as a performer takes the stage. You lose the conversations, the shared reactions, the feeling of being part of something happening right now. Comment sections can’t replicate that. They never will.

I’m not just missing that feeling. I’m craving it – the rush of experiencing art surrounded by people who are all in on the same moment. And when you do find it, they rarely last. A one-night thing. A pop-up. Gone as quickly as it appeared. I want consistency.

So maybe this is our modern equivalent. Not a physical space, but a digital one. Platforms like TikTok and YouTube have become the new places where creativity thrives – where anyone can perform, experiment, and be seen. In a lot of ways, they mirror what those clubs and cabarets once were: chaotic, boundary-pushing, and expressive.

But the difference is how we experience it.

Those older scenes demanded presence. You had to show up, take part, risk being seen in real time. Risk being bad. Risk not being liked. Now, everything feels curated. Edited. Safe. We create and consume from a distance. We post, we scroll, we like, we move on.

What was once immersive has become observation. What was once collective has become individual.

And maybe that’s the trade-off. We’ve gained access, visibility, and endless creative content, but we’ve lost the concept of being in the moment.

Or maybe we haven’t.

Maybe those spaces still exist. Just harder to find. Less documented. More word-of-mouth. The kind of places you don’t discover through a search bar, but through knowing someone who knows someone.

And if that’s the case, I need in.

Because I don’t think scrolling is enough for me anymore. I want to be in the room.

But why am I comparing myself?

For a while, I was putting so much pressure on myself to land the internship, get the job, show up at every event, know the right people. To feel like I was doing something.

But I’m letting that go.

I mean, I’ve only been here for two months. How can I expect myself to be fully immersed in an industry I’m just beginning to experience in real life? I’m learning to take it easier on myself. To breathe. To keep doing what I love, and trust that the rest will come when it’s supposed to.

And I think that’s the part no one really talks about…this in-between stage. Not the breakthrough. Not the success story. But the quiet buildup. The period where you’re absorbing everything – figuring out your taste, your voice, your instincts. It doesn’t look impressive from the outside. It’s not something you can easily post or prove. But it’s necessary.

And that’s the sweet stuff, isn’t it?

You have to bake the cake to eat it. And all of that hard work makes it taste even better.

I’ve been thinking about people I admire, especially in fashion and creative industries, and how none of their timelines were instant.

Vivienne Westwood didn’t even begin her fashion career until she was 30, yet she went on to completely reshape punk and fashion as a whole.

Diana Vreeland didn’t become the editor of Vogue until she was 60 years old, and went on to revolutionize fashion journalism.

Bill Cunningham became widely known for his New York street style photography in his 50s, after years of simply observing, documenting, and developing his eye.

And then there’s Iris Apfel, who didn’t gain major recognition until her 80s, proving that style, creativity, and relevance don’t expire.

None of these people just “got lucky later.” They spent years becoming who they were. Developing their taste, living their lives, failing, experimenting, evolving.

And I think that’s what I’m doing right now, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

There’s this pressure in creative industries, especially in a city like New York, to be constantly visible. To always be moving, networking, achieving.

But what if growth is happening in quieter ways? In the way I observe outfits on the subway. In the way my taste in clothes is changing. In the way I’m starting to understand what I actually like, instead of what I think I should like.

Maybe success isn’t about how quickly you arrive somewhere – it’s about what you’re able to build once you get there.

So I’m trying to reframe this moment. Not as me being behind, but as me being exactly where I need to be. At the very beginning.

Still forming. Still learning. Still becoming.

And maybe that’s not something to rush through, but something to fully experience.

Last week, Galliano signed a two-year creative partnership with Zara under Inditex (literally one of the largest fashion companies in the world). And, instead of a typical designer collaboration, this project is being framed as something deeper. He’ll be diving into Zara’s archives (whatever that means!), and reworking them into new pieces – essentially reshaping the brand’s identity from within. The first collection is set to drop this September.

This also marks his first major move since leaving Maison Margiela in 2024, closing that chapter with what was, in my opinion, one of the most unforgettable collections in recent years: the Spring/Summer 2024 Artisanal show. So naturally, expectations are high.

But what’s really fascinating here isn’t just that Galliano is back. It’s how he’s choosing to return. Instead of reentering through the luxury space, he’s aligning himself with mass retail. And honestly? I’m torn.

On one hand, it’s exciting. There’s something genuinely refreshing about the idea of a designer with such a strong, theatrical legacy working within a system that reaches everyday consumers. It has the potential to make high fashion feel less exclusive, less untouchable. It displays it as something people can actually engage with rather than just admire from a distance.

But at the same time… it feels a bit off.

And this isn’t even Zara’s first attempt at dipping its toes into high fashion. The photographer behind some of their recent shoots and Galliano’s press images, Szilveszter Makó, is a highly respected name in fashion. His work has appeared in Who What Wear, The Cut, and campaigns for Adidas x Entire Studios and Maison Margiela, and in editorials for Vogue Czechoslovakia and Vogue China, among other big names. Choosing someone of that caliber to shoot for fast-fashion hasn’t felt accidental to me – it’s felt like foreshadowing.

And it doesn’t stop there. Just last November, Zara released the Ludovic de Saint Sernin x Zara collaboration, inspired by New York and built around this idea of “high-impact glamour,” starring Amelia Gray and Alex Consani. Around the same time, they tapped Steven Meisel – arguably the most iconic photographer in fashion history – for their “50 Years, 50 Icons” anniversary campaign. That project alone featured legends and supermodels like Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, and Twiggy, alongside newer names like Paloma Elsesser, Precious Lee, and Irina Shayk.

So clearly, this Galliano moment isn’t random. It feels like part of a larger shift.

At the same time, high fashion x mass retail isn’t new — it’s been the playbook for decades. Karl Lagerfeld x H&M in 2004 set the tone, followed by Versace, Balmain, and more. Beyond H&M, Target’s Isaac Mizrahi run, and recent collabs like Anna Sui x Old Navy show this crossover has long been embedded in the industry.

So in that sense, Zara working with Galliano isn’t revolutionary. What is different is how embedded this partnership seems to be within the brand itself, rather than just a one-off capsule drop.

Which brings me to what might be the most confusing part of all: who exactly is Zara trying to target right now?

The typical Zara shopper has always felt a little undefined. Is it the young woman running in for a trendy top she saw on TikTok? Or is it someone who genuinely follows and appreciates high fashion? Because if we’re being honest… I don’t think the average Zara consumer is thinking about John Galliano.

But I am.

And I know a lot of other people who love fashion in a deeper, more intentional way are too. The idea of owning something designed by Galliano (even in a mass-produced form) is exciting. It’s access. It’s proximity to a legacy that has felt out of reach.

But then comes the reality check. Because it’s still Zara.

A brand tied to design theft accusations, poor labor practices, and a major role in the cycle of overproduction and waste. And for people who truly care about fashion – not just trends, but the industry, the artistry, the ethics – that’s hard to ignore. It’s a huge turn-off.

It almost seems like Zara is at a crossroads, trying to decide between two directions: either expand their audience into the world of true fashion lovers, or pivot away from their current consumer toward something more elevated. But it feels like a lose-lose situation.

I don’t know if it’s possible for them to fully make that leap – not with the reputation they’ve built. And if someone like Galliano, one of the most visionary designers of all time, can’t shift that perception…then who can?

Maybe they should just stick to what they know works.

Because this move risks alienating the exact consumer base that’s been keeping them afloat, while not fully convincing the audience they’re trying to attract.

But then again, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this will be wildly successful, and Zara will manage to redefine itself in a way no one saw coming.

I just don’t see it happening.

That was Carrie Donovan.

And she wasn’t just a campy ’90s advertising character. She was one of the great architects of modern fashion journalism.

Long before she was selling fleece to suburban America, Donovan had spent decades shaping fashion at Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and The New York Times Magazine.

Carolyn Gertrude Amelia “Carrie” Donovan was born March 22, 1928, in Lake Placid, New York — and, it seems, with a love of fashion. At just ten years old, she mailed her own wardrobe sketches to actress Jane Wyman and received a handwritten reply. She knew who she was from a young age.

She studied at Parsons School of Design — a detail close to me as a New School student — and graduated in 1950.

She tried fashion design. It didn’t work. And thank God.

Because in 1955, she joined The New York Times as a fashion reporter and discovered that her gift wasn’t in making clothes. It was in interpreting them. She wasn’t interested in hemlines. She was interested in what hemlines meant.

At The New York Times Magazine, Donovan caught the attention of the high priestess of fashion journalism herself, Diana Vreeland. When she moved to Vogue, she entered fashion’s most adventurous era. Vreeland taught her to trust instinct. To exaggerate. To treat fashion as narrative, not just merchandise.

Together, they helped shift fashion journalism from society coverage to visual storytelling — something closer to art direction than reporting. And Donovan was central to that shift. Not as editor-in-chief, but as the sharp eye shaping the page behind the scenes.

When Vreeland was famously dismissed from Vogue in 1971, Donovan left too. Now that’s loyalty.

She moved to Harper’s Bazaar, carrying that same belief: fashion as narrative. Later, back at The New York Times, she did something even more radical.

She treated fashion as journalism — not fantasy.

She discovered and framed designers like Donna Karan and Perry Ellis as part of a larger American story: ease, comfort, movement, modern life. While others chased spectacle, Donovan emphasized the woman inside the clothes.

And somewhere along the way, she became the visual shorthand for “fashion editor.”

Black wardrobe. Enormous black-rimmed glasses. Neck dripping in pearls.

Her Upper East Side apartment — red-on-red walls, leopard carpeting. It mirrored her tasteful maximalism. She threw around French phrases. She played into the archetype. She understood the bit.

That’s what made her so camp.

It wasn’t accidental. It was performance. But it was also completely authentic.

In 1997, Old Navy cast Donovan in a series of 42 television commercials. They hired her because she looked like Vogue. She’d say “fabulous,” “chic,” “madly chic” — insider language delivered to middle America.

Some in the industry were uncomfortable. How could a woman of her substance sell mall clothing?

But Donovan had already made her philosophy clear: style belonged to everyone.

It’s almost as if she understood something before the rest of the industry did. Long before Anna Sui x Old Navy, Versace x H&M, or Supreme x Louis Vuitton, Donovan embodied the collision of high and mass fashion.

And in an era of infinite content, who has that kind of editorial authority anymore? Who has a point of view so strong it survives being turned into parody?

She never sewed professionally. She never became editor-in-chief. She never built a social media empire.

But for nearly half a century, she shaped how America saw clothes.

I wore chunky pearls and thick black glasses long before I knew who she was. Somewhere along the line, her image seeped into the collective idea of what a fashion person looks like: black clothes, pearls, glasses.

She didn’t invent the uniform. She made it mean something.

“Fabulous.”

Last week, the house released a series of advertisements starring David Hoyle — legendary British avant-garde performance artist and queer icon. The campaign consists of six witty videos explaining “How To Wear Mugler” in both everyday and completely ridiculous scenarios. It also doubles as the debut campaign for new creative director Miguel Castro Freitas’s SS26 pre-collection.

And instead of following the usual “model + garments + logo” ad formula, Mugler is staging a performance. They aren’t just selling clothes. They’re selling energy. And in doing so, they’re embracing what made Mugler, Mugler.

The message feels intentional. Castro Freitas, appointed in April 2025, seems to be making something clear early on: the gay energy isn’t going anywhere. This campaign reads like a statement — about community, about outcasts, about identity. They’re reminding us where it all came from.

Theatre has always been at the forefront of Mugler’s image. Since its founding in 1973 under Thierry Mugler, the label has embraced vintage glamour, fetishwear, sci-fi references, and hyper-femininity, creating a universe of its own that fashion lovers couldn’t look away from. And with clothes so theatrical, they were never meant to be shown in a standard runway format.

Mugler became known for shows that felt more like rock concerts or full theatre productions — stacked with hundreds of looks, celebrity appearances, and elaborate sets. The brand helped define the high-camp aesthetics we now adore about ’80s and ’90s couture.

And queer people have always been central to that world.

At the height of the AIDS crisis, under an openly gay designer, the brand didn’t shrink itself — it amplified queerness on its runways. Mugler was one of the first major designers to cast drag queens, trans women, porn stars, and other “non-traditional” models, creating some of the most unforgettable moments in fashion history. Think Lypsinka’s strip-tease and Connie Fleming as the bejeweled red cowgirl in SS92. Lady Gaga’s cigarette-smoking “Government Hooker” in FW2011. Arca snatching a bag from the audience in FW2023. All legendary. All incredibly gay.

That’s why David Hoyle feels so perfect here.

Instead of simply showing the garments, Hoyle presents viewers with specific scenarios — “Drinking Champagne,” “Public Transport,” “Foraging” — using humor to talk about glamour, identity, and living as an outsider. It’s theatrical. It’s camp. It’s slightly absurd.

And in an era where so many brands are leaning into minimalism and restraint, Mugler is going full performance. Not just in the clothes, but in how they’re delivered to

It feels like another queer-representation moment for the fashion history books — a reminder that Mugler was never about subtlety. It was always about spectacle.

And honestly? I couldn’t be happier.

Low-rise jeans resurfacing. Power shoulders creeping back in. Flapper silhouettes. Cargo pants. Ballet flats. Heavy eyeliner. Clean minimalism. It’s framed as a revival. As irony. As an aesthetic.

But the pattern feels deeper than that.

Every twenty years, fashion circles back. And the decades we keep reaching for are rarely calm ones.

The 1920s followed war and a pandemic. Women cut their hair. They smoked in public. They embraced their sexuality. People panicked over how hard it was to “define” young women.

The 1940s were shaped by wartime restrictions. Fabric was rationed. Utility became style.

The 1960s turned clothing into protest. Civil rights marches. Youth rebellion. Anti-war.

The 1980s sharpened with power dressing during economic instability.

The early 2000s unfolded under rapid technological advancements and post-9/11 instability.

And now, here we are: ICE raids, reproductive rights battles, racial tension, gender politics constantly under debate, and an economic anxiety that never fully leaves. The stakes feel high. So it makes sense that fashion doesn’t feel neutral either.

When I look at what’s trending, it doesn’t feel random. It feels reactive. Historically, clothing has always shifted during unrest.

During the French Revolution, long trousers replaced aristocratic breeches as a rejection of hierarchy. Simpler garments reflected an idea of citizen virtue. During the American Revolution, uniforms and civilian dress marked loyalty.

In the early twentieth century, queer communities developed coded dress to find each other while surviving hostile spaces. In some cities, people were arrested for wearing clothing “not belonging” to their sex. Imagine that.

Fashion has always been about more than looking good. It’s about finding your people. About pushing against something. I feel that tension now.

When I gravitate toward certain silhouettes — sharper shoulders, deliberate layering, pieces pulled from earlier decades — it doesn’t feel like cosplay. It feels like borrowing strength. Like referencing a time when people before me were also fighting.

You can see the repetition in high fashion right now. Designers aren’t just reviving shapes, they’re questioning what it means to dress the “modern woman.”

Are hoop-skirt silhouettes power or restriction? Is a Miu Miu apron submission or reclamation?

Tory Burch’s FW26 collection echoed 1920s silhouettes through washed silks and drop waists. Coach’s “Black Parade” blended 1940s tailoring with 1970s sportswear. Sandy Liang layered Rococo fantasy and Marie Antoinette imagery with pastel lace and girlhood nostalgia. Valentino’s Specula Mundi merged pre-cinema technology, Hollywood myth, and religious spectacle.

We keep returning to moments when people disrupted expectations of gender, of class, of power. When they dressed differently because something around them demanded it. Even if consumers aren’t consciously thinking about it, the pattern is there.

Maybe we aren’t nostalgic. Maybe we’re restless.

Maybe when we pull from the closets of earlier generations — those who lived through upheaval, who fought for space, who redefined themselves — we’re doing more than reviving a look. We’re participating in a cycle of adjustment and resistance.

Fashion doesn’t move in a straight line because culture doesn’t. And right now, the way we’re dressing feels less like trend chasing and more like rebellion.

Titled Specula Mundi — “mirror of the world” — the collection revolved around the idea that film doesn’t simply reflect reality, but glamorizes it. It offers escape. Historically, moments of instability have always pushed audiences toward fantasy, with cinema, glamour, and costume stepping in when the real world feels too heavy.

Just days after the passing of Valentino Garavani, the house opened with a clip from Valentino: The Last Emperor, in which he recalls dreaming of movie stars as a child. That starstruck impulse set the tone immediately. This wouldn’t be about everyday dressing, but about roles, characters, and fantasy.

Instead of a traditional runway, the Tennis Club de Paris was transformed into a giant viewing device. Models appeared inside small pods shaped like film reels, with guests peering through sprocket-like windows, as if looking into an old projector. Each frame felt like a preserved fragment of old Hollywood.

The references were clear. There were nods to Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby, Greta Garbo as Mata Hari, and Heidi Lamar in Ziegfeld Girl — not replicas, but reinterpretations. Old costumes pulled from the rack and tailored for entirely new stars, in a new era.

Under Alessandro Michele, the show went full spectacle. Drawing from the excess of the Ziegfeld Follies, he sent out feather fans and surreal headpieces that echoed the geometric fantasies of Busby Berkeley. It felt like backstage at a vintage revue, sharpened and exaggerated just enough to feel completely modern.

What makes the collection land now is how precisely it taps into the current cultural mood. We’re once again living through political unease, economic anxiety, and collective burnout, and star personas are back in focus. From pop eras built around performance to online sellers unearthing forgotten vintage costumes and reselling them on platforms like Whatnot, fashion is obsessed with the archive. Closets, estate sales, vintage showrooms — old glamour pulled back into circulation. This collection felt like the couture expression of that same instinct.

The stark white walls outside the pods made the contrast unmistakable: reality on the outside; fantasy framed in small squares within — like peering into a film reel. Rather than preserving the past behind glass, Specula Mundi treated it as something to be revisited, remixed, and rewritten for 2026. Less nostalgia, more resurrection.

If this is a mirror of the world, it reflects not our messy present, but our collective desire to escape into glamour — even if only through a tiny cinematic window.

Jordan — born Pamela Anne Rooke — was born in 1955 in Seaford, East Sussex. She was never one to stick to the mold, already disruptive of mainstream, conservative ideals through her style as a teenager. She repurposed secondhand clothes, experimented with beauty, and continuously dyed her hair (which eventually got her expelled from school at 14). At the same age, she gave herself a new name: Jordan. It was a deliberate act of self-reinvention and rebellion at an age when most kids are still trying to blend in. She was the OG punk before punk was even called punk.

Come the 70s, she made the move from her hometown to the big city of London, abandoning her conservative upbringing for a world of fashion, art, music, queer culture, and what might genuinely have been some of the greatest nightlife of all time. Around this time, she walked into 430 King’s Road, a boutique called SEX (at the time). In gold stilettos and a towering platinum bouffant, she left a lasting impression on the shop’s owner, Vivienne Westwood.

By 1974, Jordan started working at SEX, essentially becoming the face of the storefront and the living mannequin for Westwood and McLaren’s creative designs. She wasn’t the friendly “can I help you?” type. The idea of approaching her was intimidating; most people didn’t. They’d silently tiptoe up and set whatever they wanted on the counter, hoping that was enough.

Later, Jordan would become the manager for Adam and the Ants and the wife of bassist Kevin Mooney. Adam has coined Jordan as “the creator of punk rock,” describing how she was “selling it on the front lines.” So true.

From latex to rubber to bondage to graphic tees, Jordan embraced and embodied Westwood’s most provocative designs. She dragged fetishwear out from behind closed doors and into the broad daylight of London, wearing clothes that made strangers confront sexuality, power, and autonomy head-on. And her outfits weren’t just about the clothes; they were a performance. She refused convention and used style to signify control and self-definition in an era when women, LGBTQ+ people, and anyone remotely alternative weren’t granted much respect to begin with.

She created a strong, recognizable image for herself. A uniform, of sorts. Her most notable features — a platinum beehive and her heavily exaggerated black eyeliner — would go on to inspire the likes of Amy Winehouse and Julia Fox (whether they know it or not). Iconic.

Vivienne Westwood once described her first experience with Jordan as “encountering an icon,” and she was right. Jordan helped show that punk wasn’t just a sound. It was a movement. A beauty look. A line of text across a T-shirt. An attitude.

And that might be why I am returning to her now. In a post-Westwood world, as subcultures get flattened through TikTok trends and commercialized by fast fashion, Jordan reminds me that your style can build a world. And that’s inspiring to me, especially now. I don’t want to participate in a landscape that prioritizes “content” over conviction. Jordan makes me want to take style seriously again, to make it genuine, personal, and sometimes unfriendly.

Life is hard. Like, unbelievably hard sometimes. Relationships, money, school, work, self-image — it can all suck, and lately a lot of it has sucked for me. But sitting there listening to “For Good,” I felt something I’ve been feeling over and over again: none of that is the point.

The point is who you’re doing life with. Your family. Your friends. Your chosen people.

Charli XCX said something similar on The goop Podcast with Gwyneth Paltrow: “It’s really just the people in your life that matter… the people that you spend your Sundays with.” Advice she got from her husband, George Daniel of The 1975. That line has been living rent-free in my head because it’s so true. The people you spend your Sundays with — the boring days, the nothing days, the days where you’re not dressed up or impressive or “on” — those are your real ones.

Especially right now, when everything feels heavy. For me, for this country, for this world. Now feels like the time to hold your loved ones close and stop pretending we don’t need each other.

Then, as if the universe wanted to drive the point home, Megan Thee Stallion’s “Best Friend” had me full-on crying in the car yesterday. I know it sounds ridiculous, but the second that bridge — “me and pretty bitches speak the same language” — came on? Done. Wrecked. Gone!

Is it silly to cry to that song? Maybe. Do I care? Absolutely not. Because the message is real. Friendship matters. Being seen matters. Having people who get you matters. And if that realization hits you through a Broadway ballad or a rap song about your bestie — so be it.

I’m emotional. I’m sensitive. And I’m finally okay admitting that the best parts of my life have always been the people standing next to me — for good!

Shot by Robi Rodriguez, the campaign is drenched in surrealism and B-roll film energy: cinematic, eerie, and glamorous in that unmistakable Mugler way, where power and performance are inseparable.

Aesthetically, it sits somewhere between Nadia Lee Cohen and Petra Collins — hyper-stylized, color-forward, and deliberately artificial — with a distinctly dystopian undertone. Industrial backdrops, monochrome gloss, and mannequin-like characters make the visuals feel alien and slightly uncomfortable, in the best way.

It fits cleanly into the mid-century revival happening right now (especially the 60s), where retro-futurism is being reimagined as glamorous and a bit eerie.

Color-wise, Mugler leans into pale blue and peachy pink — two shades trending hard for SS26 (and yes, I called those) — sharpened by glossy black. The pastels against latex-like finishes create a tension that reads innocence vs. domination, pastel vs. fetish. The all-black looks, especially in leather-like materials with razor shoulders, hit harder next to all that candy color.

Castro Freitas also introduces the Lua and Aurora handbags — sculptural, futuristic, and integrated into the narrative as props with personality. Totally aligned with Mugler’s idea of power dressing.

Culturally, the campaign lands in a moment where femininity, empowerment, and sexual fantasy overlap in complicated ways. There’s a performative eroticization of power happening — women reclaiming spectacle, kink aesthetics, and image control on their own terms. Mugler doesn’t shy away from it; it leans in without flattening it into a joke or cliché.

Castro Freitas puts it directly:

“At Mugler, I’m drawn to strong, glamorous characters where power becomes visceral. This campaign, the first part of a trilogy, crystallizes that philosophy. It’s a story of identity and transformation, of strong women who refuse definition.”

If this is chapter one, the trilogy format makes perfect sense. Stardust Aphrodite feels less like a lookbook and more like the start of a cinematic universe — worldbuilding, narrative arcs, emotional stakes. And honestly, I can’t wait for the sequel.

But in 2026? I’m doing the opposite.

While I wouldn’t call my style minimalist by any means, I’ve always felt like my outfits were missing that final oomph. That extra something that turns getting dressed into a moment. And when I think about my biggest style influences — what they have that I don’t — it almost always comes down to excess. They’re not exactly pulling from Coco’s rulebook either.

Think about those middle-aged women on TikTok with hands stacked in rings, wrists layered in bangles, necks dripping in necklaces, and bags covered in scarves and keychains. Ever watched Caroline Baudino build a stack? It’s very Carrie Bradshaw meets Iris Apfel — and honestly, if that’s not me, I don’t know what is.

That’s not to say I’m going full hardcore maximalist. The likes of Kate Moss, Chloë Sevigny, and Caroline Bessette Kennedy will always live on my mood boards. But lately, I’ve been more drawn to the idea of stepping out of my apartment feeling like Fancy Nancy or an off-duty Helena Bonham Carter. It’s playful. It’s dramatic. And after the year I had, I’m craving that kind of whimsy.

Because it’s not just about the clothes — it’s the energy. The persona. This year, I want to build a fantasy with my wardrobe. No more second-guessing. No more holding back. I’m committing to the bit — and the bit is my most honest self.

That’s just one of my fashion resolutions for the new year. What are yours?