Innholdsfortegnelse for Summer 2025 i Vogue

WE MOVED TO NEW YORK around the same time, Keith McNally and I. I met him at a restaurant called One Fifth, where he and his brother Brian were working—this was the late ’70s, downtown Manhattan. We were three Londoners finding our way, and we quickly became friends. Brian and I shared an apartment for a while, and I introduced him to my friend Anne, whom he would marry. Keith lived over on Thompson Street. We would all meet up, bonded by shared interests—a love of film and theater and, of course, restaurants. Keith and Brian were both restaurant people, though Keith seemed the less promising candidate to become an overwhelming success at it. He was eccentric, and had a caustic sense of humor. An enigma in a way, but…

On November 26, 2016, Keith McNally had a stroke. Or, as he writes in his new, revelatory memoir, I Regret Almost Everything (Gallery), “the clock stopped.” I know the feeling. For I had a stroke on October 22, 2022. It turned my life upside down. My life before the stroke was not unlike McNally’s. Both of us were British, living in New York; we hobnobbed with the great and the good—those who lived in the city and those passing through. And I was a regular at his famous restaurants. I had midnight feasts at Lucky Strike, romantic dates at Minetta Tavern, endless rowdy meals with Nell Campbell at The Odeon. (Of course, Nell was the eponymous poster girl for McNally’s starry ’80s nightclub.) And once, a thoroughly entertaining dinner with…

When Julie Frist was 12 or 13, her father would take her for driving lessons on a narrow spit of land, not much wider than a football field in places, that separated the flat calm of Long Island’s Shinnecock Bay from the roaring waters of the Atlantic. The quiet road, only partly paved and bordered by scraggly wind-whipped pines, cut a line between the dunes and the marsh, and her father would sit Julie on his lap and let her control the wheel; pebbles would fly up through the holes in the floor of their beat-up station wagon. “Dad, he’s like a secret race car driver,” Julie tells me. There is no one letting their preteen daughter steer the family beater along these roads now. Houses have sprung up along…

When Miuccia Prada reached out to her friend Catherine Martin and suggested that they collaborate on a capsule collection for Miu Miu, Martin immediately thought of the graceful, supremely sporty, sometimes slightly androgynous fashions you might have seen in the South of France in the 1920s. “It was this idea of the world between the wars,” Martin muses. “You have a lot of expatriate artists like the Fitzgeralds going to live on the Riviera because it was inexpensive, and the weather was beautiful, and you got to escape to a more hedonistic place where lots of things were possible.” Martin, a much-lauded costume and production designer (four Academy Awards! six BAF TAs! a Tony!), has been escaping the rules for decades. She had also worked with Prada before—on costumes for…

The line begins around the corner. It curls through a hedge and down Melrose, these excited young women in baggy jeans and baby tees, slicked-back center-parted buns, glossy pouts, and perfect, almond-shaped manicures, all patiently waiting for the doors of Rhode’s Los Angeles pop-up to open and let them inside. It is a warm morning in February, and some have been here for hours, hoping to get that much closer to Hailey Bieber, the inspiration behind such beauty crazes as “clean girl,” “vanilla girl,” and “strawberry girl” (the ingestible theme continues with “glazed-donut skin,” “latte makeup,” “brownie-glazed lips,” and “cinnamon-cookie-butter hair”). Around 9,000 people will show up here over the course of six days for Rhode skin creams, face balms, lip glosses (or the ultra-Instagrammable phone-case holders), and more, but…

On the day after his elegant and wonderfully accessible fall-winter 2025 women’s show in March, Rick Owens could be found walking home from the Basilica of Saint Clotilde clutching some fragrant white jasmine he had plucked from nearby bushes. This is a church he visits often—alone, or with his longtime assistant Anna-Philippa Wolf (a.k.a. AL) and her baby—and that he considers “an extension of my house, part of my life here in Paris…a perfect little place.” Owens himself is not religious, but he likes a church, or the idea of a church. “At its best, it is a place where people come together to form a system of living for taking care of each other,” he says, and then repeats: “At its best.” He specifically loves Saint Clotilde because it…

Tucked away in the corner of the Chateau Marmont garden on a sunny Friday afternoon, Eva Victor, cloaked in black, is telling me about stumbling, unwittingly, into comedy. The story begins at Northwestern’s prestigious theater program, where Victor harbored ambitions to perform Chekhov and Euripides. “No one would cast me in those plays,” the 31-year-old writer-director-actor says. “I kept trying to do serious monologues and everyone would laugh.” The recent Los Angeles transplant takes a sip of Earl Grey tea with oat milk. “It was so upsetting,” they recall, in a droll deadpan that neatly elucidates the problem: Victor can’t help but be funny. It’s this “problem” that makes Victor’s directorial debut, Sorry, Baby, thrilling to behold, a high-wire film that glides from hilarity to heartbreak and back again. The…

It happened because I wasn’t paying attention. Or rather, I was paying attention to too many things, which is the equivalent of heeding nothing at all: the baby on the counter; my seven-year-old “washing” dirty dishes at the kitchen sink; the oven, which was slow to heat; the narrowing after-dinner homework window for my fifth grader’s history project; the Slack notification that flashed above the recipe I was reading on my phone; and which institution was NPR reporting that Trump had just dismantled? Shouldn’t I drop everything and tune into that? These were, ostensibly, my nonworking hours, but I was white-knuckling through them: Those collard greens that had been languishing in the fridge, they were going to get chopped and cooked tonight. Or maybe not, because a moment later,…