CR Fashion Book Issue 16 Spring/Summer 2020 by CR Fashion Book

D I O R .CO M

Balloon Bag, 2020

Spring Summer 2020

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A PHOTO STORY SHOT ON FILM BY JUNE KIM

ROOTNYC.COM

FOREWORD By Carine Roitfeld

DEMONSTRATION OF LOVE Photographs Roe Ethridge Fashion Carine Roitfeld Words Christopher Bartley

THE POWER OF THE SELF Photographs Davit Giorgadze Fashion Christian Stemmler Words Kaitlin Phillips

I DREAMED ADEAM Photographs Tom Blesch Fashion Leonie Volk

STAR POWER 01: JULIA FOX Photographs Jason Nocito Fashion Sue Choi Words Sarah Nicole Prickett

CEO Photographs Till Janz Fashion Toby Grimditch

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MOTHER DEAREST Essay Alissa Bennett Artwork Christian Velasquez

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SHINING ARMOUR Photographs Marie Deteneuille Fashion Ron Hartleben

JAMIE HELMS AND SOHYUN JUNG WEAR Clothing and accessories GUCCI Photography ROE ETHRIDGE Fashion CARINE ROITFELD

FOREWORD

IF JESUS WAS A WOMAN Journalists, from the big papers to the tabloids, all seem convinced that I have something to tell their readers about fear. Or at least I must assume so, because in interviews I am so frequently asked to reflect on acting without fear, or attaining fearlessness, or dressing fearlessly, or moments in my career when I felt most fearless. At times, it can feel a little ridiculous—editing and styling are not firefighting or lion taming. My job has rarely required the bravery of a bungee jumper, but it very often calls for my creative courage and convictions. Fashion is quick to judge and slow to change—and it is sometimes closed off to a woman’s vision or annoyed by her rebellion. In the headquarters of both corporate publishers and legendary fashion houses, an ad campaign featuring a model’s pubic hair shaved into a luxury logo created much commotion in 2003. (I’m sure it would raise a whole new set of questions and objections today.) But to me, this image was then, and is now, the definition of fearlessness—for the model, for the brand, and for myself and the hairstylist and the creative team who conjured it. Conviction and courage, freedom and power—these are the elements bound up in this issue of CR. We capture tough women and resilient men. We edit compulsive looks and compelling styles. We become consumed with a shocking unsolved mystery. (You will, too.) And we ride Harleys with Cher, Naomi Campbell, and Kim Kardashian West on a pair of covers that no one can say they saw coming. In black leather and big hair, the untouchable trio form a fantasy biker gang for photographers Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott. (The photos from that day represent the 44

duo’s first-ever project for our magazine.) This shoot, and the people who came together to make it as wild and chic and absurd and crazy as it was, is why I launched CR: to create stories and produce images that no one else can or will or wants to. Is that fearless? It might be if we had ever considered any other way of working. As an editor, I love choices. Options, I want to see them all. Except for those resulting from any redesign of any logo even bordering on the iconic. Remastering a magazine’s mark is a twisty, emotional process in which every staff member, every reader, every woman on the street feels deeply invested. And while a new logo shifts energies, the process is, frankly, exhausting. Two issues ago, my team and I wished to place CR at the forefront of the creative and social movements that have recently swept fashion. I suddenly wondered whether my handdrawn initials were too imposing, too expressive in their swirls, maybe even too human. (A scary thought, but also a legitimate design trend.) We worked for half a year with a brilliant art team to find a mark that struck a balance between ironic-new-luxury and Euroestablishment-panache. The irreverent logo of the last two issues inspired me to be more modern in many everyday aspects of CR. I loved it…but if I’m honest, I love mine more. And now it’s back. See the other thing about being creatively fearless is that, when you’re the boss, you can always change your mind. I hope you enjoy the new-old CR logo, but in the rare chance that you do not, there’s a welcome forum for your detailed feedback: my Instagram comments section. — Carine

JAMIE HELMS WEARS Tank ARTIFACT NEW YORK Photography ROE ETHRIDGE Fashion CARINE ROITFELD

LARA MULLEN WEARS CLOTHING, SCARF, BELT, BAG CHANEL BRACELETS CHANEL FINE JEWELRY TIGHTS COMMANDO LARA MULLEN WEARS CLOTHING, SCARF, BELT, BAG CHANEL BRACELETS CHANEL FINE JEWELRY TIGHTS COMMANDO

PETAL FORWARD Through protest, humble flowers become potent symbols. In Bucharest, Romania, in October 2011, women took carnations in their mouths as they gathered for the country's first-ever Slut Walk to oppose long-held anti-woman beliefs that placed blame on the victims of sexual aggressions.

A survey of recent protest aesthetic

Photographs: Roe Ethridge Fashion: Carine Roitfeld

DEMONS TRATION OF LOVE

Clockwise, from top: JAMIE HELMS, SOHYUN JUNG, GRACE VALENTINE, JAMILY MEURER, and HYUNJI SHIN WEAR Clothing and belts DIOR Flowers M&S SCHMALBERG FLOWERS Tights WOLFORD Earrings (on SOHYUN) BVLGARI On eyes DIOR BACKSTAGE CUSTOM PALETTE #001 UNIVERSAL NEUTRAL

LADY IN RED In women's rights demonstrations in Chile in 2018, activists used facepaint to visually express their experiences of rape, abuse, and intimidation.

GUINEVERE VAN SEENUS WEARS Dress Y/PROJECT Earrings BVLGARI

BENEATH HER Protestors in Cork, Ireland, in November 2018 demanded the reform of rape trials, in which lingerie is often used as evidence to falsely characterize a victim's sexual consent. They took to the streets in just their undergarments.

From left: JOANNA KRNETA WEARS Clothing and shoes BURBERRY Earrings CARTIER HIGH JEWELRY Underwear MAISON ALICE CADOLLE VINTAGE JAMILY WEARS Clothing and shoes BURBERRY Earrings CARTIER HIGH JEWELRY Underwear AGENT PROVOCATEUR

From left: JAMILY, HYUNJI, AND GRACE WEAR Clothing and accessories CHANEL On lips CHANEL ROUGE COCO GLOSS IN ICING

ALL TOGETHER NOW Solidarity need not be unsubtle. Symbols such as red flowers have united the likeminded within several movements, from anti-Vietnam War demonstrations to Pro-Choice rallies.

JOINT VENTURE Shared aesthetic choices—in clothing, makeup, hair, or styling—create searing images and communicate the power and the promise (and, of course, the threat) of unification.

From left: HYUNJI, JOANNA, AND GRACE WEAR Clothing, earrings, rings, bag, shoes BALENCIAGA Shoes (on HYUNJI) GIANVITO ROSSI

SMEAR TACTICS Women's rights activists seize on classic (read: antiquated) markers of femininity, like the red-painted pout, and wipe them away in a long, sweeping, messy gesture. What's left is a look that does not seek admiration.

CHRISTINA KRUSE WEARS Jacket, hat, earrings, necklace PRADA Bracelet CARTIER HIGH JEWELRY

POINT BLANK In Brussels, Belgium, in 1996, hundreds of thousands gathered to protest suspected police bias and to demand greater child protections after the serial killer Marc Dutroux was arrested. The activists carried simple props like balloons, all in white, as a symbol of cleansing and hope.

CAROLYN MURPHY WEARS Clothing VALENTINO

TIES THAT BIND Many of today's world leaders are walking into the future blindfolded. In 2018, protestors challenging the election of Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro conjured such a potent image, underscoring their new leader's lack of vision on (and abject opposition to) human rights and the climate crisis.

Clothing and brooches (on head and shoulder) LOUIS VUITTON Flowers (on hands and chest) M&S SCHMALBERG FLOWERS

STUNTWOMEN Employing nudity and body paint, FEMEN, the Ukrainian radical feminist activist group, holds a grasp on wild visuals and theatrics like few others do. Also residing within their arsenal: smudged makeup, pink high heels, bare buttocks, skimpy lingerieâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;all used to condemn sex tourism, homophobia, and a host of other societal plagues.

From left: JAMILY, JOANNA, AND JAMIE WEAR Clothing and accessories CELINE BY HEDI SLIMANE

Hair AKKI SHIRAKAWA Makeup ERIN PARSONS Manicure ELINA OGAWA Casting EVELIEN JOOS Production SASHA BAR-TUR FOR CR STUDIO Location SMASHBOX STUDIOS

TO SURVIVE TO DREAM TO MAKE IT HAPPEN ALL IT TAKES IS THE POWER OF THE SELF

Photographs: Davit Giorgadze Fashion: Christian Stemmler

From left: FAIZA ALI WEARS Coat GMBH Shoes SAINT LAURENT BY ANTHONY VACCARELLO LINDA SARSOUR WEARS Dress VALENTINO Earrings VAN CLEEF & ARPELS Shoes GIUSEPPE ZANOTTI

From left: RACQUEL CHEVREMONT AND MICKALENE THOMAS WEAR Clothing and jewelry DIOR Bag DIOR LADY ART IN COLLABORATION WITH MICKALENE THOMAS

FANTA ZEPHIR WEARS Coat ISSEY MIYAKE Earrings BVLGARI

CAROLYN MURPHY WEARS Clothing and accessories BOTTEGA VENETA

CYNTHIA NIXON WEARS Clothing and tie GUCCI Shoes GIUSEPPE ZANOTTI

MELA MURDER WEARS Clothing PRADA Bag HERMÃ&#x2C6;S Shoes GMBH KANER SCOTT WEARS Clothing GIVENCHY Shoes Y/PROJECT

SYLVIA WEINSTOCK WEARS Jacket CHRISTOPHER KANE Earring CARTIER

SUZANNE GOLDBERG WEARS Coat and shirt BOSS Blazer and pants Y/PROJECT Shoes GIUSEPPE ZANOTTI

MISSY RAYDER WEARS Clothing, glasses, bag GUCCI Earrings TAMARA COMOLLI FINE JEWELRY Boots BALENCIAGA

DEBORAH BATTS WEARS Clothing BALENCIAGA

NGOC MINH NGO WEARS Clothing,bag, boots CELINE BY HEDI SLIMANE Sunglasses BOTTEGA VENETA

ALEK WEK WEARS Dress and boots LOEWE Necklace BOTTEGA VENETA Rings BALENCIAGA

Dress SACAI Earring CARTIER Bracelet BALENCIAGA

MARISHA URUSHADZE WEARS Clothing and shoes SAINT LAURENT BY ANTHONY VACCARELLO Earrings and watch CARTIER

From left: LINDA WEARS Clothing STELLA MCCARTNEY Bracelet CHANEL FINE JEWELRY Shoes BOTTEGA VENETA FAIZA WEARS Clothing MIU MIU Necklace CHANEL FINE JEWELRY Shoes GIANVITO ROSSI

Clothes and Shoes LOUIS VUITTON

JEANNIE BERLIN WEARS Clothing BOTTEGA VENETA

Dress PACO RABANNE Rings BALENCIAGA

Words: Kaitlin Phillips

NGOC MINH NGO Flowers fill the work of the photographer Ngoc Minh Ngo, but don’t judge a bloom by its color. “I thought people saw flowers as only a way to add a pop of color,” she says of the germ that led to her first book, Bringing Nature Home. “I wanted to show that flowers aren’t just objects. Our connection with nature is what makes them special.” Ngo grew up in a seaside village in Vietnam and started out in New York as an independent film producer. It was research for that job that brought Robert Frank’s photography to her attention, which in turn inspired her to pick up a camera herself. More floral portraiture than still life, Ngo’s work spans four books that have moved from flowers captured within the home to gardens in the Bronx and Morocco.

LINDA SARSOUR The abuses of Americans’ civil liberties during the Bush administration turned Linda Sarsour into an activist. She was at the forefront of the fight against police surveillance of Muslims during the war on terror. At the start of the Black Lives Matter movement, she helped form Muslims for Ferguson, and so after the 2016 election, she was a seasoned protester and became cochair of the first Women’s March, which stormed Washington one day after Trump was inaugurated, and the 2017 A Day Without a Woman strike. In the process, she has sought to change the meaning of the word “jihad” in the public mind, to align it with nonviolent action against injustice: “A word of truth in front of a tyrant ruler or leader, that is the best form of jihad,” she says.

MELA MURDER Before her big screen debut in The Florida Project—the critically lauded 2017 indie hit, in which she starred alongside Willem Dafoe—Mela Murder (it’s a stage name; she was born Boricua Melanie Sierra) was known for her choreography and her 76

freewheeling Instagram, in which she often appears with her daughters and without clothes. Since then, she’s also featured in Hurray for the Riff Raff’s music video “Pal’ante,” drawing attention to the aftermath of Hurricane Maria in her native Puerto Rico. “All I can do right now is spread awareness, and that resonates with people,” she says. “I hope it reaches somebody that has the power to do something about it.”

ALEK WEK It was in a South London market in 1995 that Alek Wek, then 18, was scouted for her first modeling job. In no time, she was appearing in music videos by Tina Turner and Janet Jackson, yet she was only four years removed from her childhood in what is now South Sudan, a region that had been at war since she was nine. “I went hungry, not to fit into a dress but because I was a refugee,” she says. Beyond the runways and magazine covers, which she revolutionized with her sub-Saharan beauty, Wek has been an activist on behalf of refugees and in the fight against AIDS. An author, handbag designer, and actress, Wek is now an icon, and her look, once considered exotic, is now at the center of the culture. In 2018, she did a campaign for Ann Taylor. “You don’t,” she says, “get more mainstream or typically American than that.”

SYLVIA WEINSTOCK You might call Sylvia Weinstock a late bloomer. She founded her bakery in 1980, when she was 50 and a survivor of breast cancer. She’d been baking cakes at ski resorts while her family was on the slopes before she set out on her own. Since then she’s become a powerhouse in the world of cake baking and decoration. She’s baked cakes for Oprah Winfrey, Kim Kardashian, Martha Stewart, and the Kennedys. A recent turn as a guest judge on the Netflix reality baking show Nailed It! only cemented the nonagenarian’s fame. “Unless you are dead, there is no ‘late in life’!” she says. “Get your

skills together…and go for it! Age is a number.”

CAROLYN MURPHY Since she entered the industry at the age of 18 in 1993, Carolyn Murphy has been that rare combination: both a prolific and popular commercial model and a denizen of high-fashion runways. An occasional actress and designer, she has been Estée Lauder’s longest-serving spokeswoman and has appeared multiple times on the covers both of Vogue and of Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Issue. Though she was one of the world’s top-earning models at the time, doing SI was hardly a no-brainer for Murphy: “I was never really known as a swimsuit or lingerie model,” she says, “so I met that success, if you will, with resistance.”

CYNTHIA NIXON On the small screen, Cynthia Nixon has played Eleanor Roosevelt, Nancy Reagan, and Alex Tanner, the daughter of the presidential candidate in Robert Altman’s miniseries Tanner ’88. These roles were all warm-ups for her 2018 contest against incumbent Andrew Cuomo in the New York gubernatorial primary. Nixon’s campaign centered on income inequality, mass incarceration, climate change, and universal healthcare. The former Sex and the City star declared herself a socialist, and though she lost, her politics might just be the wave of the future. A major advocate for LGBT rights, Nixon says of meeting her partner, Christine Marinoni: “I don’t really feel I’ve changed. I’d been with men all my life, and I’d never fallen in love with a woman. But when I did, it didn’t seem so strange. I’m just a woman in love with another woman.”

SUZANNE GOLDBERG Few areas in American law have been as dynamic in recent decades as the realm of gender and sexuality, and Suzanne Goldberg, a member of the Columbia University Law School faculty, has been

at the forefront of all the major battles. As a senior attorney at Lambda Legal, she was a cocounsel for the defendants in the landmark Supreme Court case Lawrence v. Texas. That victory, the culmination of a decades-long struggle for civil rights, overturned age-old prohibitions against private homosexual activity between consenting adults and opened the door for same-sex marriage. In addition to her duties as a law professor, Goldberg serves as Columbia’s vice president for university life. She’s been breaking down boundaries since she was a teenager and became the first girl on the White Plains Little League baseball team.

FANTA ZEPHIR For two decades, Fanta Zephir has worked in New York City construction—a trade that’s only 3 percent female—on sites from Yankee Stadium to the Freedom Tower. She makes a union wage of $44 an hour, but dry spells between jobs can be long, and the hours are brutal: she often wakes up well before dawn at home in the Bronx to make it to a Brooklyn worksite by 7:00 a.m. But construction is in her blood, and she loves her coworkers. “I never had any problems,” she says. “A lot of people knew my dad.” Her sons are both now construction workers, too, and the job is a source of pride: “I love the fact that I have done a lot of iconic structures.” It’s not everybody who can look up in the sky and say, “I built that.”

MARISHA URUSHADZE The nation of Georgia, sitting on the northeast coast of the Black Sea, has since ancient times been one of the world’s great crossroads. And so, since she came from the seaside region of Guria, relocated to the capital Tblisi, and from there moved to Paris at age 14, the model Marisha Urushadze has enjoyed spectacularly international success, especially since she became an exclusive model for Gucci in 2018, representing the brand on catwalks and in campaigns

around the world. (Lucky for her, she speaks five languages.) But the real turning point, Urushadze says, was when she decided to grow her hair out and let her distinctive brown curls flow. “My friends tell me that I look like Medusa because of my hairstyle,” she says, invoking the mythological stunner. For this up-and-comer the future is hardly etched in stone.

MISSY RAYDER A native of Wisconsin, Missy Rayder has been a top runway model since 1997, shortly after she came to New York to visit her sister, the model Frankie Rayder. The pair soon became sibling supermodels, gracing magazine covers together and living across the street from each other in Tribeca. Their sister Molly joined them in an iconic 2003 Gap commercial to the tune of “Put a Little Love in Your Heart.” She hasn’t lost an easygoing nonchalance picked up during a Midwestern childhood. “I’m the least-picky eater that you’ll ever meet — I’ll eat anything,” she once told Grub Street. “Although, I won’t eat fast food, ever!” Model behavior.

MICKALENE THOMAS & RACQUEL CHEVREMONT Mickalene Thomas’s art spans several media—painting, photography, installations, and now fashion, with her Dior Lady Art bag collaboration with Christian Dior—all focusing on the visibility, history, and beauty of African American women. Chevremont, her partner of seven years, has been a collaborator, subject, and muse in Thomas’s work. “Just like my first muse, my mother, all of my muses possess a profound sense of inner confidence and individuality,” Thomas has said. “They are all in tune with their own audacity and beauty in such unique ways...and most importantly, they are real.”

JEANNIE BERLIN Nominated for a Golden Globe and an Oscar for her 1972 role in

The Heartbreak Kid, Jeannie Berlin was a fixture of 1970s cinema, culminating in her title turn in Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York. After an absence of several decades, Berlin, daughter of the legendary director Elaine May, returned to the screen over the past decade with parts in Kenneth Lonergan’s Margaret, Woody Allen’s Café Society, and Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice. She’s also lit up the small screen with parts in The Night Of and in Succession as the vicious right-wing media executive Cyd Peach.

DEBORAH BATTS A former federal prosecutor and law professor at Fordham, Deborah Batts was elevated to U.S. District Judge for Manhattan in 1994, becoming the first openly gay African American judge ever. Among her major rulings are a 2006 decision against Environmental Protection Agency head Christine Todd Whitman for failing to safeguard people in Lower Manhattan against air pollution in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks and a 2011 decision holding that U.S. courts can’t rule in cases of foreign law. In 2009 she issued an injunction against an unauthorized sequel to J. D. Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye—as long as the copyright’s in place, thou shalt not take Holden Caulfield’s name in vain.

FAIZA ALI As director of the office of City Council Speaker Corey Johnson, Faiza Ali has brought her street-level experience as a community organizer to City Hall. She’s spent her adulthood working to mobilize Muslim Americans for progressive causes. Her efforts have helped bring about the celebration of Muslim holidays in New York City schools and put a check on discriminatory police practices against Muslims. A native of Brooklyn and a lifelong New Yorker, Ali is of course a lifelong Mets fan. 77

Photographs: Fashion: Tom Blesch Leonie Volk

DREAMED ADEAM

KENNAH LAU WEARS Clothing and accessories (throughout) ADEAM

Hair CHRISTOS VOULIS Makeup CELINE EXBRAYAT Manicurist JULIE VILLANOVA Local Production JES LEVY FOR LTXSTUDIOS Production CR STUDIO

JULIA FOX WEARS Dress COACH 1941

STAR POWER 01 JULIA FOX

Words: Sarah Nicole Prickett

Photographs: Fashion: Jason Nocito Sue Choi

From top: Clothing PRADA

Dress and belt VERSACE

Dress GUCCI

Clothing DIOR Shoes MANOLO BLAHNIK

Hair MATTHEW COLLINS Makeup SANDY GANZER Production SASHA BAR-TUR FOR CR STUDIO On-set production CONNECT THE DOTS

Dress VALENTINO Boots GIANVITO ROSSI

The French restaurant Lucien, where First Street meets First Avenue, has not changed in years. Not the menus, the white tablecloths, the little wine glasses, or framed photographs of celebrities on the walls. In many of the photographs, the bistro’s progenitor, Lucien Bahaj, is featured, a reminder of his recent passing. Lucien is the kind of peerlessly located, effortlessly glamour-facilitating “hotspot” that could have been established at almost any point in the twentieth century—it opened for business in the summer of 1998—and at no point since. Which makes it the perfect place for the actress Julia Fox, a consummate downtown girl with latter-day notions of fame, to be interviewed about her first real movie, Uncut Gems, as well as her life. Fox is already seated when I arrive, at perhaps the only table in the restaurant that is invisible from the entrance, certainly the one that looks dimmest. Outside—this is early December—it’s cold and raining hard. Here the lighting is an afterthought, flattering. Amy Winehouse is playing. Fox sips a Shirley Temple and looks ideal, clad in all black, accessorized with diamonds and a Cartier Love bracelet. She has the pale neck, rounded shoulders, and swanlike bustline of a Hitchcock girl and the slightly oversized features of an Antonioni girl. Her lashes, faux, are delicately tinted. Her skin is clear and ivory, lightly blushed. Her lips look roseate, a little chapped. Her hair, which she obsessively brushes, is worn in a simple, keratin-sleek bob. (Very ’90s Vogue.) She is most often compared—visually, at least— to Debi Mazar, also a club kid who made it in pictures. Next to her on the banquette rests a neon-orange puffer by Juicy Couture, which she bought at her favorite store, Century 21, and a new-looking Prada bag. Fox seems only to trust what was cool when she was a teen: the films of Larry Clark, the art of Dash Snow, the music of Chris Isaak, whatever. She has been coming to Lucien since age 15. She technically lives around the corner, on Third Avenue between A and B. But right now she’s staying at a hotel in midtown, courtesy of the film’s distributor, A24, to make screenings, events, and press easier. This is not convenient, per se. It’s comfortable, a sign she has anxiety, or a New Yorker’s 88

distrust of anywhere too old, too new, too tasteful, too highly starred, too nice. Last time the distributors put her up in midtown, it was either at the Park Hyatt (established in 1919) or the Grand Hyatt (opened in 2014), she can’t recall, in any case it was a five-star hotel. “The nicest place,” she says, “and there were bedbugs. I got totally bitten up. It was not one bedbug. I was mangled. It kind of ruined my life for two weeks.” She pauses, sensing something of an insufficient reaction. “I felt super… raped,” she says, “and violated.” I feel a sense of responsibility for how the language has escalated. “Well,” I say. “All bedbugs are male.” “Really?” Her blue eyes widen. “No.” She sighs. “I was going to say, that makes so much sense.” What is modern about Fox is her voice, which is luscious, secretly deep, and tricked out with every girlish tic known to millennials— likes everywhere, little bursts of upspeak, the pleasing sizzle of vocal fry, and occasionally a lisp reminiscent of Lana Del Rey saying gracias. It’s a delicious voice, slightly annoying. Combined with her halting locution, the voice connotes nothing so much as sugar and baby. It matches her eyelashes—faux. In the film, it’s louder, whinier, a little bit Bronx-y, inflected with a Mazarian pout. If you closed your eyes during her fight scene with Howie, you could almost start to dislike her. Hoooooowwwie. Her character in the film, also named Julia, is the role she was “literally born to play.” It’s the role of herself as she was nine years ago— the persona, the idea of herself she gave others. Like, Fox has been fired from every job she’s ever had, with the exception, perhaps, of dominatrix. She plays herself playing herself brilliantly. It wasn’t just acting, she says. It was creating, being there to micromanage the costumes, hash out scenarios, improvise lines. (Like Mae West, but she doesn’t really know who that is.) “Josh [Safdie] always wanted to discover me, to do something with me. He would call me his ‘sudden star.’ He had this self-fulfilling prophecy” (not what self-fulfilling prophecy means, but close). “He was talking

to me about playing Julia for five years. I don’t want to say it was written for me but…maybe,” she says, giggling. Her tone says “definitely.” Discovery may be the fantasy she most strongly encourages. Looking at her up close, I imagine that if I were a man in my place I would feel like a colonizer—finders keepers. Or like an author. She looks made-up. Sweet, a little crazy, killer curves. Somehow demure. A Vanity Fair writer once told me that what every man desires is the body of a woman and the face of a girl—that is to say, a lover who looks nearly innocent of what she suggests. The role of Julia in Uncut Gems is a superb one, maybe the closest to heroic ever written by the gutter-minded Safdies. “Josh really wanted to show Julia’s power in that [Weinstein-esque] scene [in the penthouse at the Mohegan Sun Casino]. Like yeah, maybe most girls would be traumatized for life, but not Julia, because Julia knows that he’s a creep,” she says, easily sliding into the third person, or maybe it’s the first. “She’s using him for the room…he might be attempting to MeToo her but it doesn’t work because she’s completely oblivious to him, and like, watching the game. She basically just uses him and thinks he’s an idiot. Julia’s constantly in these predicaments where she could be taken advantage of but she never is. It’s always her playing them, playing the men. Josh wanted to highlight her strength, I thought that was interesting.” I also think it’s interesting, given that Fox in real life is a notorious victim of domestic abuse who (at least once) called the cops on ‘her abuser,’ a club owner. That the part was written for her didn’t mean it would go to her, though. Having long self-identified as a ‘creative,’ Fox was and is acutely aware that originating something doesn’t mean you own it. “The big studios wanted a big actress.” Three hundred girls auditioned for the part, she tells everyone who asks, as well as some who don’t. (The Safdies told the New York Times it was more like 200. Who’s counting?) At first, she didn’t think she cared—it was just another one of their little films. “I didn’t understand what an amazing opportunity Uncut Gems would be, so I was just like, Dude, don’t worry. Like, you’re good. I don’t care.” Then she realized it was a real

movie—big. The Safdies convinced producer Scott Rudin to give her a pair of screen tests out in the wild. “Come as you are. Be yourself.” (For a normal person, an impossible directive.) The first: at Barneys, where she and Howie bickered over what to get her. “Julia wants him to buy her a nicer, more expensive dress, but he’s arguing for the cheaper, clearly not-as-nice dress. And then it’s like, arguing back and forth, and it was so good, so entertaining. I was like, oh this is major. I cannot let this opportunity…I can’t lose it. And I just embodied the character, I became her. I was like, nobody else can do this better than me. I just knew.” The second screen test: at karaoke, where—just like at real karaoke— she chose her song on the spot, singing Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Games,” and again “it was really good.” (The song is on the Wild at Heart soundtrack. The video came out in 1990, the year Fox was born. “I love that video so much, it’s so sexy. It won some awards or something.”) The karaoke place in Koreatown i s the same one where Josh Safdie had his birthday. (“Or did he? Whatever.”) Zak, Bahaj’s son, stops by and says, by way of greeting: “Off the record.” Zak is how she met Peter, her husband, at the Carlisle, where her best friend (who passed away this summer) was living. “We bumped into Zak [in the lobby] and he invited Peter. Peter had a girlfriend and he let me know that. I was like, mmmkay fine, I’ll just wait. I waited and now we’re here.” Did she trust him more because he said he was in a relationship? Definitely. Now she’s married and rich. Her engagement ring is Alexandrite, rarer and more expensive than a diamond, and, like her, it takes on radically different colors in different lights. I ask if she got married so as to have more privacy. She says yes, that sounds right. Later her phone buzzes. Text from Peter. Proudly, she reads it aloud: “Are you telling her your life story?” he wants to know. The text sounds on screen like it might be impatient, but she reads it in a cosseting, knowing tone. A good line reading. It does the trick. The story? I got bits and pieces. She has what I would call a casual and alluring handling of facts. She has a ken for what’s actually mem-

orable, a carelessness about what’s supposed to be known. Dates, times, years. Whatever. But the Howie tattoo scene, that is real—I mean she did that in real life. (“I had done something really fucked up to an ex-boyfriend and for him to forgive me I did go get his name tattooed on me.”) The New York Times says she’s 29. IMDb says she is either 29 or 30—a mystery like Mariah Carey. Fox says to my face that she’s 28. (She also says she’s a Cancer.) It might be worth noting that Fox never says friend, it’s always best friend. (She has, like, ten best friends.) Anyway, Fox was born in Italy, where she lived with her grandpa. Grandpa was “a mechanic his whole life. He could fix anything that was broken. He was a frugal, honest, good man. Loving. Simple. He was just the best ever.” Her mother was studying to be a criminal psychologist. “She always said she had kids too young. Twenty-four or something like that. But she did the best she could. I guess.” Father was “here living on his boat” (on 79th St). “When I was five, he finally got his shit together so I came to live with him.” In other interviews she says it was when she was six. “Then I would go back in the summers,” to northern Italy, near Lake Como. In New York, she lived in Yorkville. “Yorkville used to be mom-andpop, working class. Mostly German, Irish, Albanian, some Italians, but very diverse. Cute place to grow up. We were such bad kids, but the place in itself was cute. Now it’s a bit more money. The Upper East Side–proper has spilled over, the property values are higher.” In other interviews, she’s compared it to growing up in Kids-era Yorkville. (Fox did live, according to public records, at 200 East 84th St., in a townhouse three blocks from the one where Telly takes that girl’s virginity, in the film’s opening scene; though she’s a decade too young for Kids-era anything.) I once listened to an episode of a comedian’s podcast, the Chelsea Skidmore Show, on which Fox appeared to talk about herself. Skidmore described meeting Fox at a twelve-step meeting, and prodded her, unethically, to relate for the listeners a story Fox once told in the famous safe space. It’s a story Fox alludes to in one or more interviews online, although it’s a different ver-

sion than the one I had, maybe a different story altogether. That story involved St. Patrick’s Day revelers and angel dust. This one featured a boyfriend and heroin. Something about an overdose at 17 or 18. Apparently, the boyfriend dragged her unconscious body down the stairs of her apartment, knocked on her neighbors’ doors until one of them came out, then “dipped,” as Fox put it, because he was afraid of getting arrested; he took the rest of the heroin with him. Fox seemed to be remembering the story hesitantly, in bits and pieces, as if she’d repressed it or forgotten ever telling it. As Skidmore reacted, Fox got into it. When she came to at Mount Sinai, she told Skidmore, the first thing she did was call the boyfriend from a hospital phone demanding he bring the drugs back, but he didn’t answer because he was at his ex-girlfriend’s. No! said Skidmore, who clearly hadn’t heard this part before. What I mean is she’s easy to believe. The truth is beside the point. The day we meet, she will later attend the Gotham Awards, where she is nominated in the category of “breakout star.” She is not going to win—but she knows it, saying what every actress says, the award is beside the point: she feels like she’s “already won.” She’s not being self-deprecating, really. She’s preemptively spinning her loss. Somehow it doesn’t sound disingenuous, maybe because it doesn’t sound modest. (“First film ever,” she brags.) And she’s lining up for her next win. Her ambition is alluded to (“It would take a lot for me to be thrown off the course”) and framed by a certain hard-won reality (“How fragile life is…I’m grateful I’m still here. I didn’t die like a lot of my friends did”). The whole persona is glossed over with an unwavering confidence. “I want my I’m-the-girlin-the-movie moment,” she says finally, as if she hasn’t spent her whole life manufacturing that feeling, over and over again, every day when she wakes up, which she has. “I was made for this,” she says of the screen tests. “I was born for this,” she says about debuting on the red carpet. “I’ve been every type of girl,” she said on Jimmy Kimmel. “You have to be careful,” said Kimmel of her move to LA. “No, they have to be careful of me,” she said. Kimmel seemed not to hear her. 89

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MOTHER DEAREST ALISSA BENNETT On December 17, 2019, the parishioners of Bethel Church gathered together for the fourth consecutive night to participate in an impromptu evening of worship at their Redding, California compound. Olive Alayne Heiligenthal, a two-year-old child, had died the week prior—we would come to learn this from the avalanche of news reports that followed—and church members were unified in prayer, consolidating their power, and engaging in marathon sessions of song and sermon with the strident belief that their dedication to Jesus endowed them with the right to collectively make an appeal. “Day 4 is a really good day for resurrection,” Olive’s mother, Kalley, wrote on Instagram. “This is awakening. Come alive Olive!”

And France has had ample time to process the details of a case that is perhaps the strangest of all of them: the 1984 abduction and murder of four-year-old Grégory Villemin. “He will have his coffin,” the mystery caller said to Christine Villemin shortly before her only child disappeared from the family home in Lépanges-sur-Vologne. “Others will know where you live. You will get a lovely surprise.” The Villemins and their extended family had been receiving menacing calls and letters for nearly three years, and though the timing of each communication was unpredictable,

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The calls were cruel to the point of obscenity, the letters roiling with resentment. “I can see him with my binoculars,” the Crow said to Jean-Marie of Grégory. “Don’t let him hang outside too much, or one day, you’ll find him dead down there.” On October 16, 1984, Grégory Villemin was playing in the yard while Christine ironed laundry. At 5:00 p.m., she alerted police that he had gone missing. Four hours later, he would be found, arms and legs bound and floating face down in the Vologne river. The following day, a letter arrived. “I hope you die of grief, boss,” it said. “Your money will not bring your son back. This is my revenge, you bastard.” The hysteria that mounted in the face of the crime’s seeming insolvability imbued the proceedings with an abstract quality that lent itself to drama; photographs of the child’s body being dragged from the river were published, reproductions of the letters were printed in newspapers, footage of Christine collapsing in grief and being carried from the funeral was aired, and speculation began to stir. The lurid quality of the event and its subsequent coverage gave the public an excuse to look as closely as their consciences would allow. There was, it would turn out, a lot to see.

This unconventional approach to grieving was alternately indulged and damned by the strangers who took it upon themselves to either accuse the Heiligenthals of blasphemy or donate cash to the GoFundMe account that had been established in support of them. The bizarre details of the story would eventually give way to conspiracy theories that cast doubt not only on the manner in which Olive had died, but on the reality of the death itself. This was not life, this was theater. Spectacles like the one that unfolded at Bethel serve a very particular televisual purpose: they allow us to contemplate the specter of a loss too expansive to contend with while still allowing us the pleasure of voyeurism. Stories like Olive Heiligenthal’s speak to our most primal fears and lead us down the darkest corridors of consciousness; it is maybe no surprise that they also have the propensity to trigger national obsession. The baroque narrative that unfolded following the unsolved murder of six-year-old beauty queen JonBenét Ramsey on December 25, 1996, continues to enthrall Americans. Britons have spent the past 13 years constructing timelines and theories to try to explain what befell three-year-old Madeleine McCann.

missive stated. “The day you die I’ll spit on your grave.”

the tone of the messages was not. The perpetrator, who would eventually come to be known as the Crow, would be identified at different times as a man, as a woman, as a man disguising his voice to sound like a woman, as a woman disguising her voice to sound like a man. What was clear from the outset was that the Crow knew intimate details regarding nearly every member of the family, that he or she was privy to private conversations and shameful secrets. But it was Christine’s husband, Jean-Marie, and his newfound professional success as the foreman at an automotive parts factory that seemed to be the primary focus of the harassment. “I hate you so much,” one

As was true of the JonBenét case, a botched crime scene would set the tone for the duration of the investigation and each strange court trial that followed. Evidence was lost or disposed of, chains of custody were compromised, the autopsy would later be identified as incomplete. Handwriting experts were called in to examine the letters and compare them to samples provided by the Villemins’ extended family, friends, and acquaintances. Shortly after finding sufficient similarities in the example provided by Jean-Marie’s cousin, Bernard Laroche, police would announce their first break in the case. Laroche’s 15-year-old sister-in-law made for compelling copy. Redhaired and freckle-faced, Murielle

Bolle had, it was reported, cracked under the pressure of interrogation and confessed to police that she had been with Laroche when he abducted Grégory. His arrest seemed to satisfy the public’s hunger for justice, but Murielle’s later retraction of her statement and Laroche’s subsequent release from custody only inflamed Jean-Marie’s sense that there was no justice to be had. He went to Laroche’s home armed with a hunting rifle and shot him dead on the spot. Christine was in the hospital, six months pregnant and recovering from a hemorrhage that threatened the life of their unborn baby. Jean-Marie went to her, confessed what he had done, and immediately turned himself in. It is not unusual for law enforcement to closely examine and question the parents of murdered children. It is also not unusual for these parents to eventually fall prey to the pressure of public scrutiny when a suitable suspect is not identified within a time frame that satisfies our expectations. We are, rightfully, outraged by violence against children. We demand answers, we expect arrests, we want resolution so that we can sleep at night, so that we can imagine that abhorrent crimes do not go unpunished and that their perpetrators do not roam our streets. It was shortly after Laroche’s murder that police altered the scope of their investigation; there was, Judge Jean-Michel Lambert stated at a press conference, an additional match to the handwriting sample. Christine Villemin, the child’s own mother. Neighbors would make statements to the police and the press claiming that they had seen Christine on the evening of the murder at a post office, perhaps mailing the Crow’s final letter and in conflict to the claims she had made that she was at home. Twine would be found in the Villemin house that offered a potential match to the rope that Grégory had been bound with. She had, the press said, appeared too comely in the days and weeks that followed the murder, her

beauty an inconceivable insult to the memory of her dead child. In July of 1985, Lambert had Christine arrested and announced that he felt confident that the case had been solved. It was strangely easy to recast a mother, who at times had been nearly catatonic with grief, as a witch. Her pregnancy, people began to say, was a ruse, a biological costume meant to keep her out of jail. She’d snapped, they would say. A narrative emerged: Jean-Marie had abused her, and she had murdered their son in a gesture that sought to vindicate the suffering of all women. The psychological aerobics that led people to this conclusion paints a grim portrait: our worst nightmare is also a murderous impulse that we can somehow find a way to relate to—a dark psychological turn that is not outside of the

realm of our collective comprehension. Just as many continue to assume that JonBenét’s mother murdered her for wetting the bed and that Madeleine McCann’s parents accidentally drugged her to death in the pursuit of getting blasted without the burden of caring for a toddler, it was easy enough for people to transfer their own domestic and maternal frustrations onto an innocent woman for the sake of resolution. Was Christine Villemin the monster, or was it just us the whole time? Following her detention, Christine embarked on an 11-day hunger strike that would see her released from prison and spared a trial, though it would not be until 1993 that she was officially cleared. By that time, Jean-Marie had long since completed his five-year prison sentence after

two and a half served for Laroche’s murder. He steadfastly maintained that he felt his actions occurred due to the state’s failure to incarcerate the man he believed had killed his child. Christine and Jean-Marie gave one final interview in 1994. “I can’t stand meeting new people,” she said. “I get the impression that they’re always wondering ‘was it her?’” Thirty-five years later, modern DNA tests have failed to turn up any concrete results, and though new evidence discovered in 2017 led to the arrest and indictment of Grégory’s great aunt and great uncle as well as a then-48-year-old Murielle Bolle, Laroche’s red-headed sister-in-law, it was soon revealed to be a procedural error and the charges were dismissed. All three maintain their innocence, and the rest of us are left to wonder. The compulsion, of course, is to engage in armchair detective work. The internet is full of amateur sleuths offering shabby translations of the Crow’s phone calls and letters, and there are hundreds of pages of forums dedicated to finding answers to a crime that is likely unanswerable. The intensity of our interest is, in the end, just another kind of violence, the recurrent breaking and entering into a property that has slipped irretrievably into dereliction. There is nothing left for us to steal, but it doesn’t stop us from returning. Just before announcing that the family had accepted the death of Olive and had called off the prayers for resurrection, Kalley Heiligenthal turned off the comments on her Instagram account. It was perhaps her way of telling us that the tragedy is nothing that we will ever understand, that the totalizing nature of the loss defies our desire to moralize or judge or accuse. None of us, she seemed to be saying, have the right to comment on the agony that comes with losing a child. None of us should want it. ILLUSTRATIONS: CHRISTIAN VELASQUEZ 103

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"Even though I didn't fully understand everything that was happening during those times, I knew that my friends weren't well. Since then, I've been a supporter of AIDS research and finding a cure." – Naomi Campbell When I was 17, I was in London in the ’80s. I was part of a group of beautiful people called Buffalo. My friend, the stylist Ray Petri, started it, and [singers] Neneh Cherry, Nick Kamen, [model] Barry Kamen, and [photographers] Martin Brading and Jean-Baptiste Mondino were in it. Buffalo was a whole movement. Ray was the first person I knew with AIDS. What struck me the most about his sickness, especially the end of it, was how poorly others treated him—not our little family but those outside it. It was a different time back then. I remember there was a season when Ray came to Paris to see [Jean-Paul] Gaultier’s show. No one would talk to him. I told JeanPaul backstage, and Jean-Paul went out in front, took a chair, and moved it to a prime position in front of everyone. He loved Ray, and didn’t like the way he was being treated. We did everything we could to push his legacy after he passed. Later in America, I met the makeup artist Joe McDevitt. David Lachapelle reminds me of this still, because we met each other through Joe, even though we wouldn’t work together until many years after. Back then Joe would do the makeup for all my shoots. One day I heard that he needed creams for his sick body and help paying for his hospital care. I wasn’t making any money at the time; I had just gotten my own apartment with Christy [Turlington]. But I knew that if I gave my rent check to Joe that God would take care of me and I’d find that money again. Then after that…[fashion designer] Giorgio di Sant'Angelo, [photographer] Bill King…but we never spoke about it. These people were not victims. They wanted to continue working, so that’s what we did. Even when Bill would collapse on set, he’d take a break and then just continue. I’m not the type of person to disappear when someone’s down; that’s when I’m there the most. Anyone who knows me knows that. Even though I didn’t fully understand ev64

erything that was happening during those times, I knew that my friends were not well. Since then, I’ve been a supporter of AIDS research and finding a cure. It’s something I’m still fighting for today. It’s been nearly two and a half decades. I do believe that there is a cure. I try to support groups like amfAR [The Foundation for AIDS Research], Mothers2Mothers with [Gucci CEO] Marco Bizzarri, Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund, and the Human Rights Campaign as much as I can. I’ve been lucky to have done a lot of work with UNAIDS [the Joint United Nations Programme on HIV/ AIDS], where I’ve been to different parts of the world. One of our most profound trips was to Lesotho, where one out of every four girls has AIDS, and that’s out of two million people. To hear them speak was incredibly uplifting. They're not victims, either. – Naomi Campbell, as told to Joshua Glass

People were always trying to push me into doing some kind of charity work when I first started my career. They said, “Look, this is the formula: you get into this, you sponsor this, and then this happens.” But my evolution on this is probably some combination of growing up, getting married, having kids, and my life being so different than what it was when I was starting out. I’m raising four black kids in this society and our system is so discriminatory against black and brown people. I want to do as much as I can to make their lives easier and better. I never knew much about the system until I started to dig in, and once I learned and saw how many things

were wrong, I really couldn't stop. Meeting Alice Johnson changed my whole world. Hearing for the first time that a nonviolent offender— with a low level offense—received the same sentence as Charles Manson did not compute to me. I actually could not fathom it. I thought, “Did she not have good enough attorneys? Did she not have the funds? What is [the issue] and how can I help?” And once I started to learn more about the system, I realized there are so many thousands of people in her situation. After meeting with my attorneys about Alice, we got really into the case. Alice is a mother of five and has siblings—it’s a huge family. I thought maybe Ivanka Trump would understand. Through Ivanka and her husband, Jared, I was able to connect with the president. Everyone told me I would ruin my career if I went to the White House, but that didn’t mean anything to me. My reputation over someone’s life? That didn’t make any sense. People talk shit all day long; I felt confident that I could handle a news story that would cycle for a day or a week, tops. But the chance to change someone's life? Backing out was not an option for me. Soon, all these letters started coming

in, and I realized there were so many more Alices out there. It seemed like everywhere I turned there was another hurdle, another obstacle that wasn’t fair and needed change: whether it’s bail reform—innocent people can stay in jail for years just because they can’t afford bail—or the stigma carried by those who are not innocent. I met so many people who were 14 or 15 when they committed a crime because they didn’t have any other choices, and now that they’re in their 40s, they are completely different. These backstories are so important, and people don’t want to take the time to pay attention or fix the problem. When I started to meet these amazing people and start my journey in law school, it felt like I

couldn’t stop, I couldn’t sit there and not help people get a second chance. I am completely consumed by it. I work with the initiative #cut50, whose goal is to cut down incarceration in this country by 50 percent, and who are sponsoring me to study [for the California bar]. All night we are sending each other cases and texting about each of them because it’s hard to sleep thinking about everything going on. Now I live like three totally different lives. At home, I’m a wife and mom. But then I’m at photo shoots, running my businesses, interning at the #cut50 offices, and filming my show. I think that if you really stay focused you can do it all, and I don’t ever plan on slowing down. I don’t want to! I love running my business and doing everything I’m doing, but I love this the most. – Kim Kardashian West, as told to Joshua Glass

very far from now. I don't believe in having diminishing returns. I can still put on my show. It might not be as great as it was five years ago, but it’s still pretty damn good. JG: It must be interesting to be famous for so long that you don’t need to be famous anymore. C: It’s not that I don’t want to be famous anymore; I just don’t want to ever have to compete with myself. And the thing is, I don’t like going out anymore. I hate the paparazzi. They’ve ruined so many of my relationships and so much of my life. Hiding in my garbage cans, you know, just doing horrible things. But somehow at this age, I’m still really famous. I never expected it, really. Now when I go on stage, I see such different groupings: really old people beside really young children. That’s something really special. I know that I still make people happy, and that’s my gift.

"On my passport, on my driver's license, on all my paperwork, I only have one name—Cher." – Cher Joshua Glass: Solo stage names have become compulsory but you were really one of the first female performers to make her mononym stick. Cher: And I’m probably the first to do it legally! [In 1978] I went to the court to change my name. On my passport, on my driver's license, on all my paperwork, I only have one name—Cher. JG: Is there a certain power or spell to the singular distinction? C: The courts don’t want you to not have a last name; it’s confusing. You have to be able to be recognized by only that one word. But I never really thought of it as a power thing. One day I just realized, “I’m Cher, I don’t need anything else.” JG: Who is Cher today? C: I have to say, I’m not so much into being famous anymore. I like to do my work, but the other parts are hard. The reason I still work is because someday I know I won’t be able to, and I know that day is not

JG: I imagine with your level of visibility it can be worrisome at times to not have any safeguards? C: It makes me feel like I have no choice. And I hate selfies. People ask me all the time for them, and I almost always say no—except for Naomi [Campbell]. I like Twitter, because I like to say what I think and I don’t have to worry about that kind of thing. Sometimes I get my ass kicked on Twitter, but I still speak my mind. JG: You’ve always been outspoken in your personal beliefs, but lately your Twitter voice seems more activated than ever before. C: I’ve lived through 11 presidents, and I’ve never seen anything like today. [George W.] Bush started a war that was insane because he was so uneducated, and I was and still am unforgiving toward him. But now we have somebody in the White House that is a menace to the entire world. [Donald Trump] is already doing things that have changed America forever. I’ve seen things, you know.

JG: Do you believe in fighting fire with fire? C: Yeah, I’m kind of a if you fuck with me, be prepared kind of person. I’m not a pacifist—I’m just not. Don’t fuck with me. But also, I’m very gentle and very loving and I have a really good moral compass. I mean, I don’t care what [Trump] says about me or anything, but he’s fucking with the country. JG: Richard Avedon famously told you while taking your photo that you’d never be on the cover of a magazine, and look at you now! In 1973, you showed up to the Oscars in the ever-famous gold encrusted Bob Mackie look— C: ’Cause I was pissed. JG: Why were you pissed? C: [The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences] said that I wasn’t a serious actress and that I dated younger men and they didn’t like the way I dressed. At all. But, you know, I showed up and said, “As you can see, I got my Academy book on how to look like a serious actress.” CBS had two sensors on me when I had my own show. Each week our ratings were going up because people would tune in to see what I was wearing. JG: Did Bob ever present you with something that you thought was too ridiculous to wear? C: Never. And that made Bob so happy, because I didn't care. Truly! Working with him was like a marriage made in heaven. JG: What’s your relationship with clothing like now? C: For me it comes down to a feeling of passion. It’s almost like a painting or an art piece. When I see something beautiful, it’s emotional. That doesn’t necessarily mean a fancy dress. I run around in jeans and leggings all the time. I mean, I’ve got a pair of jeans that I’ve had for I don’t know how long, and I wear them every time I sing “Believe.” I did so much dressing up when I was young that at a certain point you just can’t keep it up. You can’t be who you were. I can come as close as I can, but even I cannot be who I was. Now, I’m just me. 65

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STAR POWER 02 TAYLOUR PAIGE

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When I call actress Taylour Paige for our interview, my next-door neighbors are playing salsa music. It’s a Saturday, and through the receiver Paige’s worda pipe in as if with musical accompaniment. She’s telling me about Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, a late-century play by August Wilson, a pioneering impresario of the Negro theater. The drama’s been adapted to film by George C. Wolfe, another titan of black dramaturgy, and is set to premiere at Sundance later this year. Paige plays a lead role, that of Dussie Mae, whom Wilson’s original script identifies as “a young, dark-skinned woman whose greatest asset is the sensual energy which seems to flow from her.” She’s also, Paige tells me, paramour to the titular Ma Rainey, a real-life personage many considered the so-called “Mother of the Blues.” Queer narratives are not often associated with Wilson’s stage work— Fences, his best-known play, is doggedly hetero, dramatizing familiar nuclear family dysfunction—but this anomaly in his oeuvre is enticing to Paige. “I’m trying to put myself in this place of aligning with those kinds of stories,” she discloses.

Stories which, she explains before I can ask, “are just expansive about the way we think about the way that we’ve been and the way that we are and the way that we’re going.” Ma Rainey is certainly that. An almost 40-year-old story set even further back, in Chicago at the turn of the century, it’s a strikingly contemporary tale, that offers a vision of the past informed—indeed clarified—by conditions of the present, and by presentiments of possible futures. “Though Ma Rainey takes place in the 1920s,” Paige tells me, “and I play [her lover]…there’s still this unspoken bullshit that we deal with as women, as black women.” She’s right. Ma Rainey’s status as what Paige is right to recognize as “a lesbian in a time when that’s illegal” is predicate and prototype for the compounded threats toward black and queer lives today. Paige has thought of all of this. She accepted the role of Dussie Mae for select, judicious reasons: Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is a famous but lesser-known Wilson title, one notable for being a story—Wilson’s first in an otherwise masculinist oeuvre—with a woman protagonist.

And it’s important to her that the framework of its narrative is erected around an instance of black genius, in the form of a singer subject to— and resistant to—the exploitative designs of an acquisitive, burgeoning music industry. Like Wilson, Paige knows it to be a business in which blackness often figures only ever as a driver of capital, not an essence in its own right, responsible too for much of the nation’s musical artistry. “Her white counterparts just want her voice but don’t give a fuck about her,” Paige says of Rainey’s character, whom costar Viola Davis portrays. Centering black voices, then, is something of an artistic mission for Paige. On the phone, she articulates what I might call an actor’s manifesto, laying bare her own practice in which every choice is so intentional, considered. This outlook has been with her almost since her start as an actor: race enters the frame in slanted, oblique ways in her earlier roles, especially in her work for White Boy Rick (2018), which takes on a critical historical view on the war on drugs. Here Paige plays a woman named Cathy Volsan-Curry whose white lover convinces her to

aid him in his drug deals. When the FBI catch on and arrest the entire operation, Cathy included, a subtle nod at 1980s race relations comes to the fore and introduces new, implicating readings of the film. That another of Paige’s upcoming movies is likewise ripe for racialized interpretation is no mistake. It’s what she wants. Her commitment to enacting black perspectives on screen amounts to the kind of thoughtful philosophy she brings to bear for her work on Zola, too, which adapts into cinema a viral Twitter thread of one stripper’s eventful road trip to Florida, a zany and madcap weekend of gunplay, prostitution, murder, drugs, and female friendship. When I ask her about whether she sees any associations between the lives related in Ma Rainey and Zola she alights on a single word and repeats it: “agency.” It becomes a refrain throughout our conversation, in which she frequently extols the labor of the latter’s creators to preserve and emphasize these women’s right to self-determination. Directed by Janicza Bravo and with a script by Jeremy O. Harris of Broadway’s Slave Play, Zola takes seriously the first-person account of an erotic dancer’s involvement in the sort of self-created and often risky opportunities that come with that line of work. In conversation with Paige, it’s easy to see it as a parable of the build-up and breakdown of female sociality, particularly when their networks are intruded upon by em-

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issaries of patriarchy: men of all sorts—in Zola, pimps and trappers—seeking to impose brutal order. Of course, such precarity and unpredictability is increasingly the case for sex workers today, as Paige knows. With prudish, retrograde laws arrayed against sex work by means of criminalizing the practice and delimiting the lives and livelihoods of a class of laborers, she is careful about her approach to such a story. After initial, inferior drafts of a screenplay by writers no longer involved in Zola (“It was really racist and sexist and didn’t really reflect the tweets at all”) Paige decided to get to know Zola personally, frustrated by the creative choices in a script meant to represent and do justice to a figure it fundamentally misunderstood. Her portrayal of Aziah Wells (“Zola” is a sobriquet and stage name) is imbued with the confidences and idiosyncrasies of a woman whose story Zola gets right. Paige attributes the efforts of director Bravo and screenwriter Harris for the success and survival of Zola’s narrative onscreen. But credit for other verisimilitudes belongs entirely to her. Along with her befriending of Zola, she began to learn the craft and artistry of pole dancing—not in classes but in an actual strip club. “For half of the month of August and half of the month of September I worked Crazy Girls Strip Club,” she says, referring to the popular Los Angeles entertainment club located just off

of Sunset Boulevard. She was motivated by the same impulse which led her to meeting Zola before attempting to depict her. “I was trying to understand the technicalities of being on a pole and where you place your hand and leg.” Authenticity was important; Paige wanted to know not only how pole dancing felt to the body—the pain of the heels, the rub and often bruising abrasion against the pole—but to the psyche, too. “Every day you’re there till four in the morning, you sleep all day, you come back in, you do the same shit…It was really tiring.” But she “didn’t want to look like a dancer” (Paige has extensive ballet training). It was important to learn as much as she could for the film: “From the way that a stripper moves her knees to the way she pops her ass, I wanted to look like a stripper.” If Taylour Paige succeeds in her performance, it’s because her approach to acting, her grand unified theory of what narrative can be, is motivated by her sense of an artist’s duty to faithfully represent the Real. “I want to inspire storytelling that’s not oversimplified. Give us minutiae, give us detail,” she declares over the phone, lapsing into a manner she assumes frequently: breathless, fervent, elaborating her clear vision for something that she hopes to make visible to others, too. This, to her, is the actor’s chief function, brought to bear on any role or set. Her prejudice is for truth: for the truth uncovered, perhaps counterintuitively, in dramatization.

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