…of what's currently occupying brainspace: Fall 2025 edition.
All captions are clockwise, upper l–r.

Leather jacket weather is still impending, but Christopher Walken for Saint Laurent is already this year's Most Valuable Player.
The original bad boy.
Isabella Blow with a flip phone, Phillip Treacy hat, and lipstick on her teeth? Iconic. Pure aura. I love this photo.
If I had this caliber of photographic evidence of my being close, personal friends with the Muppets…I would be so intolerable; you would not be able to tell me a thing. See also: Debbie Harry and the Frog Scouts; Elliot Gould and Grover. And for a good time, watch Joan Rivers and Miss Piggy get fired from the Quelle Difference counter.
Jessica Williams at the Venice Film Festival. This almost became a cool-women-wearing-suits extravaganza but I found some last-minute restraint…no, f-ck it, we ball: Roberts, Edebiri, Keaton, and Goldberg.

Brand director Rose Florence is a great follow on Substack notes, with series that include “women artists you should know” and “current obsessions.” This painting was filed under the latter, by Italian artist Domenico Gnoli. Zoom in to zone out; that pearl will sustain me for weeks. So lussssh.
Not only did artist Pia Hinz think up stained glass traffic cones, she then had the ability to execute. Incredible. More work at @piahinzpiahinz.
Pinterest has been serving me images from this set for months, and I finally did due diligence on ~from whence it came~. Photography by Claire Brand, with more here, here, and here.

Bart and Milhouse—from “Bart on the Road”—shortly before that car ends up in a cornfield. See also: this 2021 New Yorker interview with original Simpsons writer John Swartzwelder, and this, with which I am in total agreement.
I read a grand total of one (1) book on the Booker Prize shortlist this year (but I did enter to win all six of them from the org). Katie Kitamura's Audition is about a mother (maybe), a son (also maybe), and a marriage (definitely); will leave it at that other than to say I enjoyed it immensely.
You and me both, Lucy.
Rewatching Death Becomes Her in my 40s was borderline hilarious; I kept picturing myself at age 11, nodding knowingly as Meryl Streep is convinced to hand over an obscenely large check for the potion of eternal youth. It's so fun and completely ridiculous and I can see how it would be a perfect musical…though it sort of sounds like it might actually be killing 44-year old Megan Hilty?

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Mood Board 003

Ham Sandwich