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talking back

70.7K

Miss 2016

Finding a new face for the cover of Vogue always feels
like an event, and the time was right for ingenue turned

superstar Alicia Vikander. Our January feature “All
About Alicia,” photographed by David Sims, delighted
commenters: “Oh my gosh! She’s stunning thank you!”

wrote @kyla_christopher on Instagram. “So pretty,”
added Fionn Sleeps on Facebook. And Rob Haskell’s
intimate profile (complete with skydiving adventure)

revealed Vikander as the Swede next door. “I love
you, Alicia,” wrote one Vogue.com user. We do too.

SIMPLY THE MOST BEAUTIFUL
WOMAN ON EARTH
@ artdan62

MY NEW SHE IS
FAVORITE GIRL NEXT
@ bagus_santoso LEVEL!!
@ reyjeane

1# O Canada!
VIEWED V I KA N D ER: DAV I D SI M S; TRU DE AUS: N OR MA N JE A N ROY.
STORY Turns out our neighbors to the north are
strongly opinionated social-media users.
FOR TWO From the moment it posted to Vogue.com,
MONTHS John Powers’s January-issue profile of
RUNNING Canadian prime minister Justin Trudeau
(“North Star”) attracted chart-topping traffic,
with Canadians wanting to cheer and boo
Norman Jean Roy’s striking photographs—
the portrait of Trudeau and his wife, Sophie,
most of all. As The Globe and Mail put it,
“Apparently we can’t stop . . . looking at it.”

WHAT A LEADER.
FINALLY.
TTS4T

HOTTAWA KING OF THE SELFIES.
78LOGISTI
THE FIRST COUPLE,
PHOTOGRAPHED
IN THE CANADIAN
CAPITAL.

DO YOU 9.97M 7.2M VOGUE welcomes correspondence from its readers. Address all mail to Letters, VOGUE Magazine, 1 World
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contributors

COSTER- Nikolaj COSTER-WALDAU
WALDAU WITH
In a show full of dastardly characters, Nikolaj Coster-
HONDA’S Waldau’s Jaime Lannister emerged at the end of season
HUMANOID five as Game of Thrones’s sympathetic dark horse—well,
almost. “There is a lot that people connect to,” says Coster-
ROBOT Waldau of Jaime. “He’s in love with this woman, but she
happens to be his sister. It’s a messed-up situation.”
If he relates to some of the more likeable aspects of Jaime’s
temperament, other parts—ruthlessness, megalomania,
bloodthirstiness—are anathema to the 46-year-old
father of two teenage girls. His “normal” life—when he’s
not shooting GOT or the film projects he shoehorns into
the show’s hiatus—is based in Denmark, where he lives
with his wife and kids. “In a perfect world I would be with
my family all the time,” says Coster-Waldau, “and every
movie I’m in would shoot in Copenhagen.” LILI GÖKSENIN

SMART House

To furnish the futuristic setting of “Tomorrowland”
(page 217), Fashion Director Tonne Goodman gathered
tech’s most boundary-pushing gadgetry. At four feet
three, Honda’s industry-leading humanoid robot stands
tall beside Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and Joan Smalls.
With sensitive fingertips and advanced agility, it mimics
mankind’s most complex functioning. This new class of
robotics—complete with CHiP, the adaptive-personality
pet pup, and gesture-controlled dino MiPosaur—
operates with unparalleled intelligence. But it’s the big
toys that can really carry you away: Faraday Future
FFZERO1, the electronic concept car, wowed at this
year’s Consumer Electronics Show, and Ehang 184,
a fully autonomous passenger-carrying drone, seeks to
do no less than revolutionize air travel. ELIZABETH INGLESE

ABBY Aguirre FANNING IN NYC,
WEARING GANNI
“I was floored by how engaged Rihanna TOP AND PANTS

is with every little thing she does. One COST E R-WA LDAU: JEF F PATC H. FA N N IN G : LUCAS VI SS ER . AGU I RRE : COU RT ESY OF WILLIAM H OLLOWAY.

woman who works with her said that

Rihanna even corrects her grammar

in emails—which I love, of course!”

THE VOGUE.COM CULTURE EDITOR AND WRITER OF
“WORKING IT” (P. 230) ON OUR COVER SUBJECT

Arden FANNING

“Flipping through magazines as a kid,

I remember seeing crushed-up eye shadows

and electric polish spills and thinking,

Whatever job that is, I want a piece of it.”

THE BEAUTY ASSISTANT ON THE ORIGINS
OF HER CAREER ASPIRATIONS

AGUIRRE IN VOGUE.COM
WOODSTOCK,

NY



up front THE AFTERMATH
HAITI, WHERE THE AUTHOR

WAS POSTED FOLLOWING
THE CATASTROPHIC
2010 EARTHQUAKE.

Love and Grief

When she met Andy—an aid worker like herself—he’d suffered
an unimaginable tragedy. Falling in love, JESSICA ALEXANDER would

discover, doesn’t mean letting go of the past.

For some couples, choosing names for a new- been living with his family in Port-au-Prince, where he was the MATTIA VELATI/LUZPHOTO/REDUX
born can be challenging—nine months of ne- head of the humanitarian coordination oice of the United
gotiation and lists upon lists of combinations. Nations. He was shutting down his computer, getting ready to
Our twin boys were a week old by the time my leave the oice, when the shaking started. His apartment build-
husband, Andy, and I finally made up our ing, where the boys and Laurence were at the time, collapsed.
minds. It wasn’t because we hadn’t prepared;
it was that Andy had a change of heart about Sitting in my apartment in New York, I stared at their pho-
their middle names once they arrived. “Those names belong tos on my computer screen: his wife, an attractive brunette;
to their brothers,” he said as our sons slept silently side by his elder son, all dimples and loppy brown hair; the younger,
side. “And I never want these boys to think I want them to be with a smile so huge and magniicent I could see every last
anyone other than who they are.” baby tooth. Of course they had to be found, I thought—
even though I knew the scale of the destruction. (More than
I was introduced to Andy through Facebook. Not in the 200,000 people buried, I’d read.) Over the next few days, mes-
way that you’d expect; he’s not even on Facebook. It was sages on Facebook turned from ones of hope and encourage-
mid-January of 2010, and the worst earthquake in Haiti’s his- ment to announcements about where to send condolences.
tory had befallen the small Caribbean country. I irst learned
about him on that terrible day when a mutual friend linked An aid worker myself, I was posted to Port-au-Prince a few
to a Facebook message asking for information on three of weeks later. I spent the next several months working for an
the missing: Andy’s wife, Laurence, and his two sons, Evan, NGO as part of the massive relief efort. I didn’t forget about
seven, and Baptiste, ive. For the past nine months Andy had Andy, but my attention shifted to the hundreds of thousands
of Haitian survivors in need of help. Years U P F R O N T>1 24

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up front BeginningAgain

later, I learned that Andy’s mother had also come to Port-au- enthusiastic and optimistic person. He will bike miles out of
Prince during those tense and chaotic months. She went to his way up a mountain just to see what’s at the top. He gets joy
the boys’ school and introduced herself to their teachers, one from inding new recipes and sitting around the dinner table
of whom still carried Evan’s notebook in her purse. Andy’s with bottles of wine, always wanting to prolong the evening,
mother needed to come, she would tell me. She needed to be illing everyone’s glass one more time. Although I knew he
where it happened, to see the trees they had seen every day, thought about his wife and sons constantly, I never wanted to
to breathe the air they had breathed. disturb the good time we were having—perhaps a momentary
break from his pain. I wanted him to ofer information when
On the two-year anniversary of the earthquake, I hap- he was ready, if he was ever ready.
pened to be in Geneva for a work trip. A friend invited me
skiing with a few other people; one of them was Andy, who On Christmas that same year, Andy came back to the U.S.,
was now living and working for the UN there. He would and we visited his family’s house in northern Vermont. He
told me that the day he left, he cried in his father’s arms, re-
Andy would wake up panicked membering the last time he was in the house for the holidays:
without me next to him in bed. Evan reading a book on the couch, Laurence in the kitchen
“I hate it when you do that,” he told whipping up lunch, Andy helping Baptiste put together a
me. “I don’t know where you are” train set on the floor under the tree. When Andy told me
about it, I realized that he had never cried in front of me, or
come to refer to that period as a dark time. He was bufeted talked about his grief so directly. I asked if he was OK, if
by memories, spent hours on a therapist’s couch, and more he needed anything from me. “I’m OK,” he said. “But you
on the ski slopes, where he found peace in the solitude. should know, it’s part of the package. I come with this.”
When he first moved to Geneva, nine months after the
earthquake, he would spend days driving aimlessly on the Part of me wondered what I was doing getting involved
winding roads outside town, navigating this new and lonely with this man and his past. How would he be able to open
and bewildering world. Long after, his therapist would tell himself back up to the world? I worried there would inevita-
him that each time he left her oice she worried whether it bly be a fall, an emotional crash, anger and hostility for all
would be the last time she saw him. that he lost. Would he want to start again? Could he?

We barely made eye contact that weekend; meeting new But in another way, I did know what I was getting
people with their inevitable questions and sympathetic looks into. When I was 22, my mother, a successful child
distressed him. It wasn’t until months had passed, when I psychologist, died of cancer. She and my father
was back in Geneva and we met again with the same mutual had gotten engaged three weeks after they met,
friends, that we began to get to know each other. and even after 28 years together, my mom still
referred to my dad as “her boyfriend.” After her death, tasks
Our irst date was in New York. This time, Andy was in like cleaning out Mom’s closet and going through boxes of her
town for work and sent me a brief email asking me to dinner. professional documents, scrawled with her familiar doodles,
It was an ordinary date. We ate at a tapas restaurant, split went on for years. We couldn’t bear to get rid of anything.
a bottle of wine, held hands across the table, and casually
lirted. I was taken aback at just how normal it was, at how During this time I’d imagine Dad coming home, turning
normal he was. I don’t know what I expected—perhaps on the lights one at a time as he entered each empty room.
someone who seemed broken or angry. But I was the one I couldn’t stand the thought of him making dinner for him-
who was on edge. After dinner we went to a crowded bar, self and then slumping down on the couch in front of the
where a man cut in front of us to get a drink, grimacing television where he’d doze and wake up hours later, which is
rudely at Andy. I wanted to smack the guy across the face, how he spent many nights. Work helped him rebuild. Dad
to yell, “Do you know what this person has been through? wasn’t a widower at work—he was a respected doctor, needed
Do you have any idea?” To me, the world needed to protect by others. At irst, I accompanied him to social gatherings,
Andy; he had exceeded his quota of bad events no matter acting as his date to weddings, going with him to friends’ art
how commonplace and trivial they might be. openings in the city, both of us relying on each other in ways
we never had before. But after a while, he began to brave travel
We didn’t mention the earthquake until much later in and dinner parties alone, and eventually began dating.
the night, when he scrolled through a folder on his phone
labeled “My Loves,” swiftly swiping photos aside to show Andy’s healing was less straightforward. He left Haiti
me another image of his sons emerging from the ocean, then immediately after the earthquake and took ten months of,
one of him and his wife—he was holding her by the waist visiting friends and family around the world, never spending
and resting his chin on her shoulder—and one of all of them more than a couple of weeks in one place. He couldn’t bear
together. They had gone to an island of the coast of Haiti the voices of children, or the sight of carousels, and inding
for New Year’s vacation, and his last photos were of the four outposts where he wouldn’t have to face such things wasn’t
of them standing on the beach. easy. In the end, he returned to the UN because, like my
dad, he knew himself at work. He could have easily moved
After that night, Andy and I continued to see each other to a remote hardship post where he would be distracted by
long distance, Skyping every day, visiting each other every constant chaos. But he thought he’d end up an alcoholic
three weeks. I asked few questions about his past, his family, emergency junkie, unrecognizable to his former self. For most
their lives. Andy seemed to be doing well; he is a naturally UN aid workers, the Geneva headquarters is a respite from
the messiness and rigors of ield postings. U P F R O N T>1 2 6

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up front BeginningAgain

For Andy, it was a place without distractions, where on IN BLOOM CESAR LECHOWICK
Sundays the whole city shut down and there was nothing JESSICA AND
for him to do but come to terms with the new reality of his HER HUSBAND,
life. He forced himself to grapple with it every silent evening, ANDY, ON THEIR
every still day, waking each morning asking himself, Which WEDDING DAY.
one do I mourn today? It was only by staring at the silence,
the absence in his life, so uncompromisingly that he was able baseball-capped frat boy and an artist from Paris. He re-
to come to some measure of acceptance. He believes that if members coming home from work and inding her and his
he had buried his head in Afghanistan or Somalia he would sons hiding in enchanted forts in the living room, furniture
have been lost forever. and sheets of cardboard and canvas arranged together like a
huge art installation. Evan was a playful and calm boy, who
Andy never had the chance to clean out his wife’s closet, could sit on flights coloring and entertaining himself for
or the closets of his sons. He never had to go through their hours, who loved to hike, even though he was more cerebral
effects, confronting the memories in each object, because than sporty. Baptiste was the dreamer, who loved Looney
everything was destroyed. The abruptness of the loss haunted Tunes and mimicked Road Runner by winding up his legs
him for a long time. I’m a light sleeper, and often in the early and arms before racing out of a room. As time has passed,
days of our relationship I’d move in the middle of the night my sorrow about their loss has intensified. I find myself
to the couch, where I could toss and turn without disturbing getting emotional as Andy, calm and smiling, tells me a
him. Andy would wake up panicked. “I hate it when you do story about Baptiste’s irst crush; or imitates Evan’s adorable
that,”he told me. “I don’t know where you are. From one day mispronunciation of words; or remarks, while we’re paying
to the next, Laurence was gone from our bed.” From then bills, that Evan loved doing math problems just for fun.
on, when I went to the couch, I’d leave something of mine These were the memories he once had to ward of, because
on the pillow or on top of the covers: clothes arranged in the they were too raw. But they comfort him now. “I knew them
outline of my body, a photo of the two of us, the book I was better than anyone,”he says. “I’m a richer person because of
reading—any signal to reassure him I was in the next room. the years we shared. I do things diferently. I speak diferently
because of them. Parts of them are inside me.”
Four years after the earthquake, Andy and I got
married. Early in our marriage, people came to There are times, of course, when I can’t help comparing
me to express their sorrow about Andy’s loss, peo- myself to Laurence and wonder how he could love two
ple who had never even acknowledged it to him. such distinct people. I think back to something my father
“How is he doing?” they’d ask in hushed tones. “I told me right after mom died, when he was at the height of
can’t imagine what he went through. How does he go on?”
Once, we visited a close friend of mine whose two-year-old As the ashes mingled with the
son had gotten his hand stuck in the elevator earlier that day. water, turning the stones
He was ine, but my friend was clearly shaken. She relayed
the story to us, and Andy immediately replied, “That sounds underneath a foggy gray, we knew
awful. You must have been terriied.”Later, my friend said to that the future held life
me with tears in her eyes, “I have no idea how he manages to
be so empathetic to my little scare.” his grief—your mother was the love of my life. Hearing that
as a daughter, I felt comforted. As the wife of a widower,
I also notice people’s insensitivity. Last April, after the I felt that sentiment as a betrayal. But I’ve watched my fa-
earthquake in Nepal, Andy was in a meeting coordinating the ther remarry, and because of that I know that it is possible
humanitarian response. A colleague sitting next to him said to to have more than one love.
the group, “You know, after Haiti we joked that if something
happens in the Kathmandu Valley we’d look back on Haiti as Sharing another person like this isn’t always easy. I once
sunny days.” As if what happened to Andy had happened in needed to get into Andy’s computer and asked for his pass-
a movie, and his wife and sons were just characters in a script. word to log on. He yelled it to me from the shower, a strange
word he had to spell out and some numbers. “What’s that?”
Of course, disasters like Nepal bring Andy back to that I asked. “It’s Laurence’s nickname and birthday.” A sharp
time. At work he must attend meetings where search-and- pain spread through my chest C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 2 8 6
rescue is planned, where the destruction is detailed, where
death tolls are tallied. Sometimes he inds himself masochis-
tically reading about children being pulled out of the rubble
alive—his own fantasies never realized.

Andy often thinks about who his boys would be now. He
looks at his nephew, born the same year as Evan, and won-
ders whether Evan would be that tall, starting to notice girls,
and also be winning swim meets. The movie Boyhood, which
tracks its main character from six years old—one year older
than Baptiste when he died—unnerved him as he walked
through their potential years together.

Over time, he’s revealed more about all of them. He and
Laurence were the unlikely couple that worked magically—a

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nostalgia ONE STEP AT A TIME

NATALIA VODIANOVA
AT THE MOUNT, EDITH

WHARTON’S HOME
IN THE BERKSHIRES,
PHOTOGRAPHED BY

ANNIE LEIBOVITZ
FOR VOGUE, 2012.

House of Mirth

When her young life started going sideways, MAXINE SWANN
took the cure at her grandparents’ twelve-bedroom manor house

out of a Wharton novel, where eccentricity was embraced.

Iwas eighteen, in the throes of a nervous breakdown, Alaska. I took a job in the oice of a theater company that
when I checked myself in to my grandparents’ flew around in little planes, performing their shows in re-
house in the Berkshires. I had recently graduated mote locales. I found an apartment on the hillside in town
with lying colors from Phillips Academy Ando- overlooking the water, got a library card. The landscape was
ver, but suddenly I was having trouble doing the beautiful, even through the constant blur of rain. But I was
simplest things: walking, talking, reading a menu, spending more and more time alone, reading and writing,
dialing a phone. The world appeared as if in a fog. huddled in my apartment. One evening, as I was returning
I couldn’t see straight; I could barely hear. Other people home from work, a group of dogs ambushed me on the street.
loomed as shadowy igures through the mist, approaching One bit me on the inner thigh, leaving deep teeth marks. I
or retreating, nearly always threatening. began to feel more and more afraid of going out.

It started in the months after graduation. I had decided Next I went to London. Through a contact, I found a job
to take the year of before college and travel. I knew that I in an upscale restaurant called the River Café. One day, I
wanted to be a writer, and in my mind I was beginning my was waiting on a large table of businesspeople out to lunch.
apprenticeship. I would read and write, explore the world, They all wanted steak, but each cooked a diferent way. My
work at whatever job that came along. First I went to Juneau, ears felt stuffed with cotton; I wasn’t N O S TA LG I A >1 3 4

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nostalgia SafeHaven

hearing well. I got the orders all wrong and then, confused manor house just down the road from the TO THE
at my own mistake, dropped a plate, the warm bloody steak Mount, Edith Wharton’s grand home in MANOR BORN
landing on my foot with a plop. The owners, two women, Lenox, Massachusetts. At Cherry Hill, as THE AUTHOR’S
gently suggested I rest. the house was called, mental illness wasn’t GRANDMOTHER
AT THE AGE
I was feeling more and more jittery, but I didn’t want to go OF FOUR.
home, equivalent in my mind to admitting defeat. If I didn’t
stick this out, I would never be a writer. “I just have to rest,” shunned—there was no woman in the
I told myself. “I just have to get somewhere where I can rest.”
A man I’d been seeing on and of, whom I’ll call Paul, got attic—but, rather, managed. I was one in a line of many
in touch. He was on his way to France. Did I want to meet
up? A friend had ofered him a house in the countryside in refugees who showed up at the house in a fragile state and
Bordeaux. On my way there to meet him, I pictured myself
falling in front of moving cars on the street, out the doors of found a safe haven. Decades earlier the arrangement had been
the speeding train. I clutched lampposts, guardrails. I even
pictured myself falling when there was nowhere to fall, when formalized when the founder of the Austen Riggs Center,
I was simply sitting waiting on a bench.
the tony psychiatric institution in neighboring Stockbridge,
Paul was a writer himself, ten years older than me, and full
of opinions about how to do everything—how to peel a pear, approached my grandparents with a proposition. The institu-
wear your hair, clean your ears, keep a strict writing regimen,
talk to strangers on the phone, wipe a tile loor. Plunging into tion was experimenting with a new program in which patients
a relationship in my state was overwhelming, and even more
so with a man who intimidated me. I stumbled around the who’d made progress would be sent to live in nearby homes.
house, tried to force myself to speak, gave up and took to the
bed, where I lay nearly catatonic, staring out at the vineyards Aware of my grandparents’ acceptance, even valorization,
in their pretty little rows, until Paul inally persuaded me to
get on a plane and ly home. of eccentricity, as well as of their need for money—they had

Nervous conditions run through the family bloodlines, suffered a great loss of wealth during the Depression and
along with more serious maladies like manic depression. My
grandmother’s great-aunt Clover Hooper Adams, an accom- afterward, due to my grandfather’s spendthrift ways—Dr.
plished portrait photographer, was married to Henry Adams
Riggs asked if they’d be interested in housing Riggs’s outpa-
I began to wander through
the house, rediscovering childhood tients during the latter stages of their treatment.
wonders: John La Farge watercolors,
Whistler paintings, little velvet boxes The doctors at Riggs were enamored with Grandma,

stuffed with human hair whose indirect methods and subtle ways they thought of as

and written about by Henry James. (“Clover Hooper has wonderfully creative. “They were all just so peculiar that you
it—intellectual grace—Minny Temple has it—moral sponta-
neity,”James wrote of the two women [Temple was his cousin] immediately felt that you were OK,” Sally Begley, a Riggs
who served as models for his great American heroines, Daisy
Miller and Isabel Archer.) For her part, Clover once quipped outpatient who became a lifelong family friend, says of the
of James’s style: “He chews more than he bites of.”When her
father died, Clover, age 42 and deeply depressed, committed scene at Cherry Hill. As part of the curative process, Sally
suicide by drinking developing luid; after spending time in
various psychiatric institutions, Grandma’s sister, Bunny, was had been enrolled to take care of a baby—my uncle Nick,
given a lobotomy—the only way, doctors assured the family,
that she would be able to return home and take care of her as it turned out—and took it upon herself to clean up the
two small children. But not all the stories were tragic. My
great-great-grandfather Ned Hooper, who had a proclivity kitchen every night after dinner. Even after she’d returned to
toward depression, lived a full life that included a successful
marriage and ive children as well as a distinguished career as Radclife, she would rush back to the house on weekends to
treasurer of Harvard University—before he checked himself
into a psychiatric institute near the end of his life. study; later, she and her new family settled in the cottage at

I now followed in his footsteps, though in my case the clinic the bottom of the drive.
was my grandparents’ turn-of-the-century twelve-bedroom
My own “cure” was difuse; it was multifaceted. A good

part of it was that, while provided meals and shelter, I was left JOHN BRIGGS POTTER/COURTESY OF MAXINE SWANN

to my own devices. As children, we had always visited Cherry

Hill twice a year—in the summer to sail on the Stockbridge

Bowl, in the winter to ski and celebrate Christmas—but until

this visit, I had never been there on my own. At irst, I just

stayed in my room and in the adjacent bathroom, taking long

baths. Then, tentatively, I began to wander through the house,

rediscovering childhood wonders. Grandma, who was from

a family of hoarders, was a hoarder herself: Bare lightbulbs

hung from the basement ceiling illuminated rows and rows

of ear trumpets, sewing machines, irons, antiquated micro-

scopes, while in the attic rested the entire estates of ances-

tors long gone—John La Farge C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 2 8 6

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FL A SH CO LU MB I NE GO LDSM I TH . FAS HI ON E DI TO R: DJU N A BE L. HA I R, T E RRI WA LKE R; M AKEUP, TSIPPORAH LIEBMAN. D ETAILS, SEE IN TH IS ISSUE.

EDITOR: CHLOE MALLE

IT

GIRL

Riley

Keough

136 V O G U E A P R I L 2 0 1 6 RAINBOW BRIGHT
KEOUGH, IN A GUCCI

DRESS, AT THE
BAR AT MARVIN IN

LOS ANGELES.

In 2004, Priscilla and Lisa Marie Presley, and Lisa
Marie’s daughter, Riley Keough, then fourteen, posed
for the cover of Vogue’s Age Issue. In ball dresses, the
three generations stood holding one another in a loose
embrace, Lisa Marie and Riley staring down the cam-
era with the cheekbone and chin structure impossible
to detach from every iconic photo of Elvis. “I think I was one
of the youngest people to be on the cover of Vogue,” recalls
Keough, now 26, of the shoot. “But I was generally unfazed by
things like that when I was a kid,” she adds. “In a good way.”

Keough was raised with the idea that being as private as pos-
sible within the public eye was paramount. After a childhood
spent under the radar, though, she started modeling. “I had
this urge to make money and be independent. F L A S H >1 3 8

VOGUE.COM



F L A SH ItGirl

IN COACH 1941. I saw a friend’s sister model and thought, That’s what I’ll do.
I was twelve.” The plan was to use the money she earned in
WITH BLAKE LIVELY, front of the camera to put herself through ilm school. At
FRONT ROW AT nineteen, with no acting experience, Keough went on an audi-
tion to play Marie, sister of Dakota Fanning’s Cherie Currie,
MICHAEL KORS FALL in the Kristen Stewart–led The Runaways—and she booked
2016 SHOW IN NYC. it. “I had no idea what to do,” she confesses. “I’d never been
on a ilm set. To me, acting was what I liked watching, which
was people being human and not too over-the-top.” Last IT GIRL: KORS: DAVID X PRUTTING/BFA/REX SHUTTERSTOCK. COACH 1941: DANIEL ZUCHNIK/ © GETTY IMAGES. JENNER: MICHAEL
summer, she appeared as one of the wives in Mad Max: Fury LOCCISANO/ © GETTY IMAGES. KEBEDE: BEN GABBE/ © GETTY IMAGES. KLOSS: ACE/INFPHOTO.COM. XI: PHIL OH.
Road—in the process meeting a stuntman named Ben Smith-
Petersen, who showed her around Australia, where the crew
was doing reshoots. Last year the two were married in front of
90 guests at California’s Calistoga Ranch. The bride wore Del-
phine Manivet and loved the party—but hated the attention.

It’s Keough’s innate unassumingness that makes her per-
formance in this month’s The Girlfriend Experience even more
compelling. In the thirteen-episode Starz series, inspired loose-
ly by Steven Soderbergh’s 2009 ilm of the same title, Keough
plays Christine—a law school student who starts working as
an escort and becomes enthralled with the money, power, and
adrenaline—with a control, subtlety, and raciness that are elec-
trifying. “We wanted to tell the story of this girl who doesn’t
have a terrible background, wasn’t abused, who ends up doing
sex work—who happens to also be in law school, who happens
to also be really smart.”––MOLLY CREEDEN

Wıde,Wıde World

KENDALL MING XI
JENNER IN CÉLINE
PANTS.
IN CALVIN
KLEIN KARLIE KLOSS
IN AMANDA
COLLECTION.
WAKELEY PANTS.
LIYA
KEBEDE IN Crisp alabaster trousers—appearing
PROENZA at once voluminous and slender—lead us
SCHOULER. cheerfully into spring.

GO TO VOGUE.COM F L A S H >14 0
TO VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE
LOOK IN OUR 10-BEST-DRESSED
LIST, POSTED EVERY MONDAY



FL ASH WINDY CITY

TABLE SETTING TAKING IN THE SUN ON A WALK ALONG LAKE WAKATIPU IN
RIGHT: MY BEAUTIFUL QUEENSTOWN—ON A SURPRISINGLY CHILLY DAY.

JOURNEY TO
THE OTHER SIDE

NECESSITATED
CONSTANT

REHYDRATION.
BELOW: OUR
DINNER

TABLE WITH A
VERDANT VIEW.

TNT

For a comparatively small country at the end of the Earth,

New Zealand was illed to the brim with treats. After touching

down in Auckland, a quaint city full of cool little restaurants,

cold-press juiceries, and boutiques, we aimed to explore the

famous beaches along the North Island. Despite intel from lo-

cal friends, it was hard to choose where to begin: Rangiputa,

Coopers Beach, Ninety Mile Beach, Bay of Islands? In the

end we just hit the road and encountered one stretch of sand

more beautiful than the last.

One afternoon, the sky pouring down with rain, we drove

to the Kawiti glow worm caves and took a tour by lashlight.

Elisabeth TNTgoes to the world’s end We scrambled through stalagmites and past stalactites, and
only to discover that New Zealand is even
more spectacular than she had imagined. when the guide switched of his light, we saw thousands of

Have you ever wondered what the other side sparkling glow worms above our heads. Easy to imagine a
of the world looks like? I have—ever since I
was a little girl in my nursery spinning a big Maori princess snuggling up here for her nap.
illuminated globe. The farther the better, I
thought: Easter Island, French Polynesia, Next stop was Queenstown on the South Island. A gem
Papua New Guinea, New Zealand.
What a pristine place New Zealand is! All tumbling green of a town with an alpine vibe nestled on Lake Wakatipu. A
hills, and forests thicker than any I have seen. On a recent
visit, I found my childhood fantasies matched again and friend of mine, Nina Flohr, who happened to be in the area
again. My friend Eva-Maria Shuman and I took a bumpy ride
in a single-engine plane over Milford Sound—a fjord framed with her Kiwi boyfriend, Ben Fisher, invited us camping at a
by waterfalls that made us gasp in amazement. We saw snow-
capped mountains like sugar-coated chunks of Toblerone, cabin in the middle of nowhere. To get there we drove along a ME A D OW: N I N A FLO HR . A LL OT HE RS : COU RTESY O F T NT.
glaciers, and brilliant-green islands dotting the water. It was
no wonder even a seasoned traveler like Rudyard Kipling is steep dirt track where I kept wondering how Ben was able to
said to have called this place the eighth wonder of the world.
keep the car from spilling of the mountain. Suddenly, tucked
140 V O G U E A P R I L 2 0 1 6
between green hills were beautiful Lake Luna and a simple

log cabin—nothing else. Ben expertly barbecued a feast and

we sat by the ire, watching the sun slowly disappear behind

the mountain. Just to remind us that nature has a temper, a

sharp gust of wind whipped up, then another.

Eventually our entire barbecue was blown away—and

torrential rains began, a storm raging so violently that

the cabin rattled and I imagined the whole roof would

ly away and then the whole little house. Where will you

take us, Mr. Wind, I wondered . . . ? That adventure is for

another time. F L A S H >14 2

WANT MORE OF THE UNEXPECTED?
FOLLOW TNT’S ADVENTURES AT VOGUE .COM/TNT.
BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE ALL NEW 2016 CHEVROLET MALIBU.



F L A S H SocialResponsibility

World

Class

Noella Coursaris
Musunka and
her team of
volunteers are

educating 231girls
in the Congo—
and that’sjust
the beginning.

INNER CIRCLE

ABOVE: DURING HER TRIPS TO KALEBUKA, COURSARIS MUSUNKA
CATCHES UP WITH THE LOCAL WOMEN AT ONE OF THE WELLS
BUILT BY MALAIKA AND (LEFT) ASSISTS DURING CLASSES.

W e started with 104, then it grew to 150 . . . unearthed the dire need for wells (“There was almost no clean COURTESY OF MALAIKA (2)
180 . . .” The former model Noella water in the village,” Coursaris Musunka says), they built
Coursaris Musunka is explaining the ive of them; feeding on the momentum, FIFA sponsored a
origins of the Malaika School in Kale- community center complete with its own soccer ield. Three
buka, a small village in the southeastern years later the complex serves more than 7,000 people annu-
corner of the Democratic Republic of Congo, which is cur- ally, with classes in French and Swahili and programs to teach
rently in the business of feeding and educating 231 girls—no leadership and entrepreneurship to both youth and adults.
small feat in a country where nearly half of school-age chil-
dren are not attending school. Coursaris Musunka was once Coursaris Musunka’s career in modeling began when she
a young girl in the DRC, but when her father died, her mother, moved to London to study English and was scouted on the
unable to support herself and a child, sent her to live with rela- street. She continues to live in the city now with her husband
tives in Europe. “When I saw my mum after thirteen years, she and young family, but has transitioned from modeling to being
was like a stranger to me,” she says. “But I’m thankful to her a mum and CEO full-time. She visits Malaika regularly, often
because she tried to give me a better chance.” with her kids, JJ (ive) and Cara (almost two), in tow. (“I’ve
been to the Congo thirteen times,” JJ proudly proclaims.)
Now Malaika, the foundation that Coursaris Musunka When she’s not on the ground, Coursaris Musunka Skypes
founded, aims to do the same thing for other girls. At irst daily with local staf or texts on WhatsApp. “All of our girls
they sponsored orphans, but she and her team quickly saw have a story,” she says. “Take Esther, who was knocked over
the need for something with more impact. “So we built a by a motorbike and wasn’t coming to school.” It turned out
school from scratch,”she says. When the construction process that her parents couldn’t aford to take her to the hospital, so
Malaika’s staf, after paying a visit to her home, did just that.
“If we had gone there two days later, she would have died.”

Malaika contributes almost 100 percent of donations di-
rectly to the school itself. The result is an organization that is
expanding at the swift pace of a Silicon Valley start-up. This
past winter the school received 50 new computers, and in
February they converted to solar power; a library, meanwhile,
is currently under construction on the grounds.

Coursaris Musunka sees her work in the Congo as one
important step in a series of continental improvements. “A lot
of people ask if we will open more schools,” she says. “For
me, though, it’s about one good-quality school—it’s a blessing
just to have set it up. I love what I do.”—LILI GöKSENIN

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thehamishfiles EMPIRE BUILDER

BELOW: PAUL POIRET’S TRADEMARK ROSE
ADORNS HIS 1907 JOSÉPHINE DRESS, ON
DISPLAY AT THE MUSÉE DES ARTS DÉCORATIFS.

Exhibition STYLE COUNCILS LACMA: HAMISH BOWLES. POIRET: © MUSÉE DES ARTS DÉCORATIFS, PARIS/PHOTO: JEAN THOLANCE.
LEFT: MACARONIS AND DANDIES
INTERMINGLE AT LACMA.

Pamela Golbin, who promises “a chron-
ological frieze of the evolution of men’s,

children’s, and women’s fashion for the

DRESSING last 300 years”—all of it, including 70
newly conserved pieces never on view
before, displayed for the first time not
behind glass but in the museum’s high-
ceilinged nave. “One of the biggest challeng-
In Los Angeles for Hedi Slimane’s Saint Laurent es we’ve always faced presenting fashion in a museum environ-
show, I took the opportunity to head to the LACMA ment is that clothes don’t move,” Golbin explained—so she
archives for a behind-the-scenes peek at “Reigning has worked with the distinguished ballet choreographer (and
Men” (April 10 through August 21) with the mu- director of An American in Paris on Broadway) Christopher

seum’s senior costume curator, Sharon Takeda. Five Wheeldon, who has articulated the movements of the special-

years in the making, the exhibition celebrates the ly designed “corps de ballet of mannequins,”as he describes it,

evolution of the peacock male from London’s macaronis of and produced short movies featuring dancers from the Paris

the 1770s to the Hanna-Barbera–colored hip-hop of Jeremy Opéra Ballet dressed in translucent copies of the collection’s

Scott. It wouldn’t have been possible without LACMA’s clothes.The ilms also indicate the underpinnings that helped

acquisition, in 2008, of the 500-piece costume collection to shape the silhouettes, while suggesting the evolving body

assembled by rival London- and Switzerland-based dealers language that the clothes demanded. H A M I S H >1 5 3

Martin Kamer and Wolfgang Ruf—“I marveled at the amaz-

ing cache of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century menswear,”

Takeda said. Subsequent gifts and acquisitions, including a

large 1980s and 1990s Armani wardrobe, outrageously wide-

legged 1920s Oxford bags, and an original 1940s zoot suit,

bring the collection—which will be showcased in an installa-

tion by L.A.–based Commune—into the twenty-irst century.

In Paris, meanwhile, the Musée des STEP LIGHTLY
Arts Décoratifs celebrates 30 years of
its own costume department by fea- NAOMI CAMPBELL
turing stars from the museum’s aston- AND CHRISTY
ishing treasury in “Fashion Forward”
(April 7 through August 14), curated by TURLINGTON IN
TODD OLDHAM,
PHOTOGRAPHED BY
ARTHUR ELGORT;

VOGUE, 1992.

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