“AND JUST LIKE THAT… THE LAST TOAST”

Not every Hermès handbag deserves an eternal place in the closet. Sometimes you just have to look at it one last time over a glass of champagne and sigh: it's not that anymore. A similar fate befell “And just like that...” - a decadent continuation of an even more decadent legend. Fashions change, loves end, and even Sarah Jessica Parker must eventually close her closet.

It's official: the third series will be the last. Michael Patrick King, creator of the Upper East Side neurosis universe, announced the ending in conjunction with HBO and - it couldn't be more different - Carrie Bradshaw herself. “This is the perfect place to stop,” - he wrote in an official statement, reminiscent of something that might have been written in the “Existential Conclusions” column at the end of a column from the 2000s. Image: Carrie sits in a window overlooking Perry Street, sipping prosecco from a glass she never washes. The end of the story, which more resembles a well styled pause.

However, it's hard to speak only of nostalgia. The decision to end the series smells more like a mixture of Chanel No. 5, the sweat of disappointment and leftover ratings. On paper, everything was right - new New York, new faces, new drama - but the end result left the impression of a construct as stiff as a greige suit. The series tried to be inclusive, contemporary, progressive - and it came out like Crocs worn with a tuxedo: modern but grating.

Instead of witty humor, dialogue was served up that sounded like transcriptions of DEI training courses. There were moments - scenes, quotes, styling - where something still sparkled, but the whole thing resembled a review of old issues of Vogue: with sentiment, but without the need to return to those trends.

Because “And just like that...” was never a series about a plot. It was the essence of style, an emotional escapade, Pinterest in the analog era. No one moved around Manhattan in heels, no one had time for daily lunches, no one solved life's dramas in conversations with a cat, quoting Oscar Wilde. And yet - they were watched. For the illusion. For that brief moment of illusion that neurosis could be luxurious, and the chaos of everyday life stylized like a session in Harper's Bazaar.

The sequel, like any, turned out to be an encounter with an ex who is still convinced that he is still funny. Seemingly sentimental, seemingly familiar, but after an hour the sight itself was looking for an emergency exit. In this case - the finale.

The two-part ending, going beyond the original ten episodes, was announced as a gift to fans. However, it is more like a gift certificate to a boutique liquidating its business - seemingly something for free, but everything already overpriced and with no right of return.

Michael Patrick King thanked viewers for allowing these characters into their homes and hearts over the years. Touching. Although some of these characters dropped in only for a moment, they left behind a stain of cheap prosecco and the question: what else are we actually doing with this series?

In all this construction, one character stood out above the rest Samantha. The only one who had enough self-reflection not to return full-time. Her brief, episodic appearance was reminiscent of messages from an ex from St. Tropez feisty, unnecessary, but strangely warm. Paradoxically, she proved to be the most contemporary: she was able to cut herself off from a relationship that no longer served her.

And just like that... the end follows. Without drama. With French melancholy and American exaggeration. With a gentle smile and a sigh, because not everything that was fashionable has to be forever. Style is one thing. But the need for the new is another. And change? Sometimes it comes in a beige coat and white sneakers to gracefully slide the last stiletto off the pedestal. A chapter is closed. Not with a bang. With the quiet click of a slammed closet. And maybe that's the most stylish goodbye you can afford.

Photo courtesy of Harper‘s Bazaar

 

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FACE IN BODYCON MODE: SKIMS REDEFINES ABSURDITY (AGAIN)

Just when we thought nothing would surprise us anymore after a bodycon that holds the body in place like a medieval corset at the gym, Kim Kardashian - the empress of modern snobbery and queen of controlled compression of all things human - has served us another innovation.

Here it is: a facial shaping mask from Skims - sewn from the same material that has so far bravely tamed our bellies, buttocks and abdominals. Now it's time for... your jawline.

Yes, you read that right. No more contouring your face with a brush. Now all you have to do is strap on a lycra belt like from a futuristic version of “Lord of the Rings” and wait for your face to “slim” itself. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't drag, it doesn't suffocate (I guess), but instead it looks like you're going to compete in a home triathlon for the title of “Slimmest of the Bathroom Mirror.”

Fashion? Of course.Wearing a Skims mask around the house is like drinking a matcha latte through a bamboo straw: you don't do it because you have to - you do it because you can. And then, of course, the selfie: you, the mask and the caption “Self-care, but make it Skims™”. Does beauty hurt? No, right now beauty squeezes - in strategic places.

Ironically? Absolutely. We used to wear masks to protect ourselves. Today we wear them to look like we've had our chaps injected for a dollar fifty. Only this one costs more and, unfortunately, doesn't give anesthesia.

Snobbery? At its best. This is no ordinary modeling mask. This is a SKIMS modeling mask. That is, a premium version of something you could theoretically find elsewhere, but after all, it wouldn't then have that wonderful aura of Kardashian bliss.

So is it worth it? Of course! Because after all, in a world where every part of the body can (and should!) be modeled, your jaw can't be left behind. Skims has just made sure that it too will have its moment on a compressed pedestal.

Finally, a tip:

Don't ask if it works. Ask if it looks good on Instagram. Because true beauty is not a state of mind - it's a state of tension. And it's preferably elastic. The new modeling mask from Skims is not just a beauty gadget. It's a manifesto. A manifesto of a compressed jaw and even more compressed expectations of the female body. But hey - at least it looks fashionable.

Photo courtesy of SKIMS 

 

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A BILLION DOLLARS FOR AN ILLUSION: ART SOLD IN INSTALLMENTS, NO RIGHT OF RETURN

Amid the sound of champagne corks ricocheting off the marble floors of SoHo boutiques, a rumor — or perhaps a whisper turned near-confirmed reality — has begun circulating in the hallowed corridors of luxury: LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton, the ultimate purveyor of opulence and market dominance, is considering the sale of one of its most iconic (though currently less lucrative) enfants terribles: Marc Jacobs. The price tag? A cool $1 billion. For some, astronomical. For LVMH — the equivalent of a Parisian indulgence.

Marc Jacobs is not just a brand. He is a palimpsest of emotion, decadence, provocation and haute bohème, distilled into sequins, combat boots, and a languid gaze through oversized sunglasses. He is the designer who defined the streets of 1990s New York while simultaneously smuggling youth-driven rebellion into the gilded salons of Louis Vuitton, where he reigned as creative director for sixteen unforgettable years. If anyone dared to fuse grunge with elegance, perversion with polish, and dance-floor sweat with architectural precision, it was him. Marc Jacobs is not an aesthetic — he is a mood, a memory: the afterglow of an orgy at the Mercer Hotel, the scent of sweaty cashmere and dirty talcum powder. A reminder that fashion wasn’t always made for TikTok or unboxing videos. He is the last Mohican of style, the kind of man who could stage a silent runway show in the New York Public Library — no music, no phones, just reverence, like a Margiela mass. And now, his name may end up in the spreadsheet portfolios of fashion brokerage firms that acquire brands the way others lease overpowered SUVs: with cold calculation, no intention of truly driving them, and absolutely no taste.

Now, three potential buyers hover like polished vultures: Authentic Brands Group, Bluestar Alliance, and WHP Global. These are not houses of artistry but machines of monetization, licensing juggernauts for whom a brand is not a creative manifesto but a scalable asset. To them, Marc Jacobs is not a designer — he is “brand equity.” That’s not a sin, necessarily — but it is certainly not couture. Can we imagine Marc by Marc Jacobs as a line of licensed sneakers stacked beside Calvin Klein underwear in TK Maxx? Sadly, yes. And perhaps that’s precisely why it stings.

The New Princes of Mass Prestige: Who Will Swallow Marc Jacobs?

Should this billion-dollar transaction come to pass, it’s not just a sale — it’s a tectonic reshuffling of fashion’s power grid. A game of chess on the board of 21st-century style, where kings are evaluated by algorithms and pawns are handbag SKUs trickling into off-price retail chains. Three players are in contention, and each could reshape the DNA of Marc Jacobs — or obliterate it entirely.

Authentic Brands Group is the most towering of the trio — an empire that has turned heritage monetization into an art worthy of Wall Street. They’re the force behind the resurrections of Reebok, Juicy Couture, Forever 21, and Barneys New York. Do they have a feel for style? No. For timing? Unquestionably. ABG doesn’t buy brands to cultivate them; they buy to replicate, proliferate, and extract every ounce of cultural capital. Under their control, Marc Jacobs would likely be reborn — not as a visionary provocateur, but as a brand diffused across Macy’s racks, cosmetic aisles, and, heaven help us, fast-fashion collabs manufactured en masse in Southeast Asia.

Then comes Bluestar Alliance — smaller, but no less cunning. With holdings like bebe, Tahari, and Brookstone, they’re rarely in Vogue but often in spreadsheets. Their model is purely transactional: acquire, license, distribute, dilute. If ABG is an empire, Bluestar is a mercenary spice trader. In their hands, Marc Jacobs could become an endless stream of outlet collections — softened, flattened, cleansed of the subversive streak that once made the brand electric. Once punk couture, now punk as a SKU on a seasonal forecast.

And then there’s WHP Global — the aspirational aristocrats of the licensing world. Think Anne Klein, Joseph Abboud, and yes, Toys “R” Us. They position themselves as strategic custodians of long-term brand value, though in practice, they operate under the same law as all asset managers: if it doesn’t sell, it disappears. WHP might offer the gentlest death — a slow simmering instead of a hard boil — but would they preserve Marc’s voice? Doubtful. One can’t help but picture a future of bland capsule collections and boardroom-safe silhouettes stamped with a once-rebellious name.

But What If No One Buys Him?

In this entire dramatic ballet, one final act remains a possibility — less theatrical, but perhaps the most poetic. LVMH keeps him. Not because the brand suddenly becomes a cash cow, but because sometimes even the most ruthless empires choose legacy over ROI. In a world where every logo is replicable, and every silhouette can be copied in 24 hours, maybe authenticity is the rarest luxury of all.

After all, who else today dares to make fashion for women who do not apologize for existing? Who else celebrates decadence and pleasure without the sterilizing filter of sustainability jargon or DEI-optimized storytelling? Whether held by Arnault or absorbed into a private equity spreadsheet, Marc Jacobs remains one of fashion’s last romantics.

And perhaps — just perhaps — that’s why his true value cannot be measured in dollars.

Photo courtesy of The New York Times 

 

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WARM TEA IN COLD VOGUE: HERE COMES EVA CHEN?

I am not a sentimental person. I don’t shed tears over outdated layouts or the slow death of print. But even the coldest fashion heart flinches—just slightly—at the sentence: “Eva Chen could replace Anna Wintour as the head of American Vogue.” It’s the kind of phrase that makes a martini tremble in a Baccarat glass. One doesn’t simply “replace” Anna Wintour. That’s like announcing that next year’s Met Gala will be held via Zoom or that Chanel No. 5 will now come in a refillable TikTok-branded atomizer. Times may be changing, but there are sacred institutions where selfie sticks do not belong.

Anna Wintour isn’t just the editor-in-chief. She is Vogue. A sovereign. A silhouette. A whisper in the hallway that silences entire design houses. Her bob is more recognizable than some designer logos. She governed fashion not with a smile, but with silence. She didn’t ask questions — she raised eyebrows. And now, on the periphery of this glossy empire, stands Eva Chen. Smiling, friendly, perfectly likable. A former magazine editor, yes. But more recently: Instagram darling. Meta’s Head of Fashion Partnerships. Fluent in emojis and sponsored content. The woman who took front rows and made them vertical — literally — for Stories.

Let’s be clear: Eva Chen is not incompetent. On the contrary, she’s brilliantly positioned at the intersection of fashion, tech, and influence. She’s been on both sides of the camera and both sides of the boardroom. She understands the algorithm, the audience, the aesthetic. She’s built trust in a way traditional media forgot how to. But that’s exactly the point. Since when did Vogue concern itself with being “relatable”? Vogue didn’t strive to be accessible — it existed to be admired, feared, and, at best, worshipped from afar. Chen is too warm. Too… approachable. She posts her children’s lunchboxes. Anna Wintour wouldn’t even post her own shadow.

And yet, here we are. Chen’s name keeps surfacing in very real conversations about the future leadership of Vogue. According to fashion insider Lauren Sherman (via Puck), there are precisely three women in the world currently considered viable successors to Wintour. Chen is among them — and no longer as a punchline or a “what if”. She’s a real contender. In the boardrooms of Condé Nast, it seems, Instagram isn’t a guilty pleasure anymore — it’s a strategy.

The irony is rich. Vogue, for decades the voice of selective elitism, now flirts with democratized influence. For years it looked down upon the very digital culture it must now embrace to survive. Perhaps Chen represents not a dilution, but a mutation — Vogue 2.0. A magazine no longer produced for the few, but consumed by the many. Stylish, yes. Authoritative? That’s up for debate. But certainly… sharable.

Still, we must ask: if the next editor-in-chief of American Vogue speaks in Reels and replies in DMs, what happens to the mythos? Will the September issue become a carousel? Will the coverlines be optimized for SEO? Will every feature end with “link in bio”? Will fashion criticism be replaced with product links?

To be fair, maybe this is precisely what Vogue needs. Fresh air. A human face. Someone who doesn’t just know fashion’s past, but is actively shaping its digital future. But part of me — the one dressed in archival Celine, sipping espresso in glassware too thin for clumsy hands — mourns the idea. Vogue was never supposed to be friendly. It wasn’t supposed to smile back. It was a monolith, not a meme.

And so, when people ask me if Eva Chen should replace Anna Wintour, I respond with a pause long enough to feel dramatic, but not long enough to be indecisive: perhaps… but only if Vogue no longer intends to be a temple, and instead becomes a boutique app with swipe-up capability.

Fashion changes. That’s its job. But reverence? That used to be ours.

Photo courtesy of Harper‘s Bazaar

 

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SOFIA COPPOLA AND MARC JACOBS JOIN FORCES IN A NEW DOCUMENTARY: “MARC BY SOFIA”

The worlds of fashion and film are colliding once again—and this time, in the most beautiful way possible. Sofia Coppola, the acclaimed director known for her poetic visuals and deep, understated storytelling, has just announced her latest project: a documentary about the legendary fashion designer Marc Jacobs. Titled “Marc by Sofia,” the film promises to be a captivating journey through the career, aesthetics, and soul of one of the most iconic figures in contemporary fashion.

Coppola and Jacobs have known each other for years—their relationship goes far beyond artistic collaboration. It’s a deep friendship that has stood the test of time. And it’s exactly that closeness that makes this documentary feel like it could be so much more than just another tribute. Sofia has access to private moments, unspoken thoughts, and behind-the-scenes stories that no one else does. And all of this makes “Marc by Sofia” one of the most exciting fashion documentaries in years.

Marc Jacobs is known for his bold, eclectic collections—he blends vintage and modern, turning even clichés into high art. Sofia Coppola, on the other hand, is the queen of atmosphere—her films like Lost in Translation, Marie Antoinette, and The Virgin Suicides are visual symphonies where every frame is meaningful. The fusion of their creative sensibilities could result in something truly extraordinary—an intimate, poetic portrait that captures both the eccentricity and the vulnerability of a designer who changed the face of fashion.

While most details are still under wraps, we already know the film is set to premiere later this year and will feature never-before-seen archival footage, backstage glimpses of iconic shows, and raw, honest conversations with Jacobs and his closest collaborators. Expect references to pop culture, art, and fashion history—everything Marc has drawn from and helped shape over the decades.

At a time when so many fashion documentaries focus on scandal or surface-level glamour, “Marc by Sofia” promises to be something much more personal, tender, and visually refined. It’s not just a story about a designer—it’s a film about an artist, a human being, and a friend. For lovers of fashion, cinema, or simply good storytelling, this is a must-watch.

Because we live in a world that often loses meaning in the race for what’s next. And “Marc by Sofia” is a reminder that true art—and true relationships—can endure anything. It’s not just a film about a brilliant designer. It’s a manifesto of softness, courage, creativity, and unconditional love for art.

The world premiere of Sofia Coppola’s documentary about Marc Jacobs will take place at the star-studded Venice Film Festival in 2025.

Photo courtesy of Juergen Teller©

 

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KYLIE JENNER IS NOT A MIU MIU GIRL. AND THAT’S EXACTLY THE POINT

So it happened. Kylie Jenner—contour queen, human algorithm, and matriarch of a billion-dollar beauty empire—has made her debut in a Miu Miu campaign. Yes, that Miu Miu. The brand you feel more than you wear. The one that flirts with naughty schoolgirl aesthetics but never goes full cosplay. The one that made awkward sexy and turned intellectual boredom into a fashion statement.

For Fall/Winter 2025, Miu Miu declares:
“The focus is on the power of the portrait and a wardrobe that is as elegant as it is enriching, as respectful of the language of fashion as it is of the body within.” Which, translated from Fashion to Human, means: We want to look smart while selling you expensive clothes that whisper, not shout.

It’s all there—the hazy lighting, the undone hair, the perfectly imperfect layering. All the codes that say “I’m interesting, but not trying too hard.” And then—there’s Kylie.

Cue the comment section: “She’s not Miu Miu.”
And honestly? They have a point. Because Kylie, as we know her, is the antithesis of the mythical Miu Miu girl. The Miu Miu girl was never a household name. She was an art-school dropout with a penchant for vintage slips and philosophy zines. She had opinions about obscure French films and probably smoked clove cigarettes. She was chaos in a Peter Pan collar.

Kylie, on the other hand, is polished. Curated. Capitalized. Her body is an enterprise. Her face is global branding. She doesn’t just do fashion; she is a product of fashion’s industrial complex. Which is exactly why her presence in this campaign feels like either a betrayal or a genius-level move.

Miu Miu, after all, has always thrived on contradiction. It’s Prada’s rebellious younger sister, the one who borrows your cashmere sweater and wears it with scuffed ballet flats and visible underwear. It’s girlhood as performance, but one that never admits it’s performing.

So what does it mean when Kylie enters this space? Is it the death of the Miu Miu girl as we knew her—or the evolution of her? Because in 2025, maybe the girl who once quoted Barthes on her Tumblr now has a business plan and a publicist. Maybe she traded in her angst for access. Maybe, terrifyingly enough, she is Kylie.

This campaign doesn’t ask us to believe Kylie is Miu Miu. It dares us to question whether “Miu Miu” means what it used to. In a world where every aesthetic can be purchased, filtered, and resold, maybe the final act of rebellion is embracing the commercial in full view.

So no, Kylie might not be the Miu Miu girl of the past. But she just might be the Miu Miu girl we deserve. Or at the very least, the one we can’t stop looking at.

Photos courtesy of Miu Miu 

 

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OZZY OSBOURNE: MAMA, I’M COMING HOME

 

It’s done. The news that no one ever wanted to hear has arrived — Ozzy Osbourne, the immortal Prince of Darkness, has died at the age of 76. The weight of those words feels unbearable. For years, we watched him fight. Parkinson’s disease slowly drained his strength, surgeries multiplied, his body betrayed him one piece at a time. But still, deep down, we all believed Ozzy would outlive the odds, that somehow he’d cheat death just one more time. How do you even begin to imagine a world without his voice? Without that laugh? Without the living legend who taught generations that darkness could have its own kind of light?

Ozzy was never just a singer. He was an event. A phenomenon. A living, breathing testament to rebellion, chaos, and raw human fragility. When Black Sabbath emerged in the early ‘70s, the world changed. Metal was born — a new language of sound, anger, fear, and power. And at the center of it was Ozzy, with his haunting voice and unearthly presence. But his music was just part of the story. His life — a manic ride of excess, addiction, near-death experiences, and relentless survival — became legend in itself. Every story, no matter how absurd, was true. Every scandal, every collapse, every unlikely comeback — all of it formed the myth of Ozzy Osbourne, the indestructible madman who somehow kept standing.

In these final years, Ozzy’s health was failing before our eyes. Parkinson’s ravaged his body, every step became a challenge, his hands shook, and his voice trembled more than it once soared. The surgeries, the pain, the falls — it was a slow battle against time. And yet, he never surrendered. He kept saying he would return to the stage because that was his home, his air, the one place where his soul came alive. Every appearance became sacred, a rare miracle. Each time he grabbed a microphone, it wasn’t just a concert — it was a defiant middle finger to death, a declaration that the Prince of Darkness still had fight left in him.

His last great stand was in Birmingham — his hometown, the cradle of heavy metal, the streets that shaped young John Michael Osbourne into the man who would later conquer the world. That night wasn’t just a performance; it was a farewell, a love letter to his roots, his people, his past. Ozzy stood where it all began, and in front of his own, he sang for us one final time. It was more than a show — it was a goodbye, a man saying thank you before the curtain finally falls.

The title of this tribute — Mama, I’m Coming Home — feels heavier now. It was always one of his most heartfelt songs, a tender promise of return, of closure. And now, Ozzy has finally come home. He’s escaped the pain, the frailty, the endless struggle. He’s gone where there’s no more disease, no more exhaustion — where perhaps he’s already raising hell with Randy Rhoads, Lemmy, and the rest of the rock & roll afterlife. He’s at peace, but his spirit? That’s eternal.

For us, his fans, his children of metal, Ozzy never dies. His voice will still echo through the decades, his laughter will haunt us in the best way possible, and his music will be the eternal soundtrack to our own battles, our own darkness. Every beat of “War Pigs,” every solo in “Mr. Crowley,” every scream of “All aboard!” in “Crazy Train” — that’s Ozzy, immortal, omnipresent, forever ours.

Ozzy taught us that no matter how broken you are, no matter how often you fall, you rise. You fight. You live. And even when the end comes, you leave behind more than just a memory — you leave a legacy that no sickness, no death can ever erase.

Mama, he’s finally coming home.
But for us, for the ones who grew up under his spell, Ozzy Osbourne will never truly be gone. Not as long as we play his records, sing his words, and keep his madness alive in our hearts.

Photo courtesy of Pinterest

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