As I reached the final lines of the epilogue in Crime and Punishment, I found myself more tangled in thought than ever before. I had been sitting with this book for two months, reading it slowly—methodically, I told myself—to let it all sink in. After all, Dostoevsky is not to be rushed.
But the truth is, I wasn’t savoring the prose because of its weighty philosophical depth (although it certainly has that in spades). I was savoring it because it had once belonged to someone else. Someone I dare call my lover. He had pressed it into my hands and said he wanted me to read it. And I, in turn, read it as if each word were a red string that once bound itself to his thoughts. The pages were heavy with a quiet sort of intimacy. His fingertips had grazed every chapter, his eyes scanned the same moral quandaries I now confronted. And there was something magnetic—almost haunting. Do stories remember the hands that held them? I like to think so.
This wasn’t the first time. He once gave me his favourite novel, Anna Karenina. And I found myself holding onto every word—not for clarity, but closeness. He had once mentioned that I reminded him of Kitty. Her quiet heart and Levin’s restless mind—we became the story, or at least a reflection of it. They say love lives in the details. I say it lives in the books we pass between each other.
It makes me wonder: are we all connected through the literature we’ve read? Could it be that books, passed from hand to hand, from era to era, act as spiritual conduits between us?
These stories, published in the late 1800s—a golden age for writers and romantics alike—remain prevalent in our lives. Millions before me have sat by candlelight or coffee cup with Anna Karenina or Crime and Punishment in hand. They’ve felt the same pang in their hearts, the same breathlessness on certain pages. And now, so have I. And so has he.
There’s a unique tenderness in discovering someone has read the same book as you. A kind of gentle collision of hearts. When I tell my grandmother what I’m reading and she says, “Oh, I read that when I was your age,” I feel momentarily tethered to a version of her I never knew. It’s the simplest kind of looking glass into the past.
Just the other day, I was fluttering around a used bookstore—when I pulled out a worn copy of Little Women (naturally). The cover was torn, the spine cracked, the pages yellowed and stained by the sun. It flopped open in the middle, its body softened by time. I always know when a book has lived in the bottom of a woman’s tote bag—that’s where all my books seem to end up, too.
Inside, between the dialogue of Jo and Meg, was a tiny black and white photograph of a baby. A few chapters later: a red ribbon. A little further in, a delicate sketch of a wildflower. These were more than just forgotten keepsakes. They were relics. Evidence of past lives lived alongside the March sisters. Whoever she was, she had tucked her heart into those pages.
It’s the same feeling I get when I stumble across an antique brooch in a flea market stall, or a dainty French perfume bottle from the 1940s nestled behind a row of mismatched china cups. I never just see an object—I see a life. I imagine the woman who once pinned that brooch to her collar before heading to a café in the rain, or the girl who dabbed that perfume on her wrists before a first kiss. These things, seemingly forgotten and left behind, radiate with memory. They feel sacred in their ordinariness. Do they really hold the energy of those who loved them before us? Or is it simply our desire to believe in permanence, in continuity? Either way, there’s something profoundly romantic in the act of caring for what once belonged to someone else. In loving something because it was loved before.
And then there are paintings. That quiet, unspoken thrill when someone speaks of an obscure Pre-Raphaelite portrait or a dusty Rococo landscape and is met with, “I know that one.” It’s like a soft gasp from the universe, a small nod that says yes, you’ve been seen. There’s a rare kind of togetherness in that recognition— Art becomes a bridge. It’s no longer about taste or knowledge—it’s about feeling something that another person also felt. Art, too, binds us in quiet, revered ways. It’s like saying, I’ve seen the same ghost as you. Or I’ve mourned the same thing. I’ve marveled at the same light.
So maybe this is what connection really is. Not grand declarations or cinematic moments, but the subtle synchrony of shared references. The silent, tender knowledge that someone else has stood in the same emotional weather as you. A line in a book. A yellowed page. A photograph between chapters. A wildflower sketched in graphite.
Maybe love—real love—is just the act of handing someone your favorite story, and waiting to see which page they dog-ear first. Not because you’re testing them, but because you’re dying to see what moved them. To learn the language of their feelings. To find out where their heart softened—if it softened in the same place yours did. And if it didn’t, well, maybe that’s even more beautiful. Maybe love is simply the shared willingness to be moved at all.
The air is thick with the scent of damp stone and burning tallow, the flickering light of candelabras casting long shadows across the marble halls. Somewhere beyond the towering arches, a lute strums a melancholic tune, each note carrying the melody of a forgotten age. And in the hush of nightfall, a figure emerges, draped in velvet so dark it seems to drink in the moonlight. The swish of fabric against the cold floor, the glint of metal filigree catching the firelight—this is not the past, but the present, resurrected in silk and steel.
The medieval revival sweeping through fashion is no fleeting fancy, no mere dalliance with nostalgia. It is a grand reclamation of magic and romance, a yearning for the beauty of an era when garments bore weight, both in fabric and in meaning. The modern world, weary of its own transience, turns its gaze to an age where craftsmanship reigned, where every embroidery thread spun a tale and every jewel held the weight of centuries.
Designers, like alchemists of old, have transmuted history into haute couture, conjuring forth gowns that hint at courtly love and adventure. Billowing sleeves catch the wind like the sails of a ship bound for unknown lands. “Stays” (the precursor to corsets), recall the sculpted grace of statues in dimly lit chapels. Chainmail gleams in the candlelight, evoking the silent ardency of knights sworn to their cause. Each piece is an incantation infused in wool and linen.
The artistry of the Middle Ages unfurls anew, its gilded details and celestial motifs finding their way onto rich brocades and flowing cloaks. Like the sacred relics enshrined in gothic cathedrals, these garments demand reverence. Pearls drip like dewdrops from delicate veils, while precious stones nestle in as if plucked from the crown of a long-beloved queen. Even the architecture of the time—a symphony of pointed arches and soaring spires—finds its place in the structured silhouettes and dramatic drapery of this revived aesthetic.
Medieval art, painted in gold leaf and deepest azurite, offers another wellspring of inspiration. The intricate illuminations of manuscripts, their swirling vines and delicate figures, appear once more. Triptychs depicting saints with sorrowful eyes and robes of scarlet and sapphire relay their mystery through the intricate folds of modern pattern design. The glow of stained glass windows lend their color palettes to jewel-toned velvets and rich fabrics. Each piece of this revival mirrors the past, not merely in style, but in spirit—honoring an age where every prayer to beauty was hand-spun.
And what of the stories? The great tales of honor and heartbreak, of knights who ride into the night never to return, of love letters penned on parchment and doused in ink from quill feathers? They, too, live again. The very essence of medieval literature—its devotion to enchantment, its obsession with fate—seeps into the folds of these garments, turning them into wearable poetry. To don them is to step into folklore, to hear the distant clamor of a joust, to feel the hush of a moonlit garden where lovers meet in secret.
Why now? When the fashion industry has long replaced its looms for factories? Perhaps it is because we seek the permanence that the Middle Ages promised. In an age of haste, we long for the patience of hand-stitched garments, for the weight of a gown heavy with history. Fashion, ever the mirror of desire, has answered with an invitation: step through the cordiform book, into a time when every piece was a story.
In a moment of yearning to keep the Medieval aesthetic from becoming “too online” I posted to my instagram “Medieval revival trending in 2025! This era literally courses through my veins but yea..” coupled with imagery of a chainmail pouch, a middle ages costume design sketch, and the unicorn rests in a garden tapestry. Though with all intentions of being a gatekeeper. Here is where I met Samantha Pleet.
Samantha Pleet has created a world where fashion feels like a fairy tale, where traces of magic are interlaced into the seams of everyday wear. Her designs are a portal between past and present—melding medieval romance, mythological grandeur, and historical silhouettes with a modern sensibility. Whether drawing inspiration from Joan of Arc’s fearless spirit or reimagining the unicorn tapestries in her textiles, Pleet’s work is a witness to the power of clothing as both armor and narrative. In this conversation, she shares the inspirations behind her collections, the role of storytelling in her creative process, and the enduring enchantment of fashion.
Interview With Samantha Pleet
Lauren Jane: With medieval-inspired fashion trending in the fast-paced world of micro-trends, how do you feel about this medieval resurgence aligning with your long-standing aesthetic, particularly as a designer committed to slow, intentional production? Does the trend’s fleeting nature challenge or complement your vision?
Samantha Pleet: I love seeing people embrace medieval-inspired looks because dressing up should always be fun. As a designer, I’m happy to see people experiment with fashion and don’t take trends too seriously. I also hope that some of this inspiration lingers beyond the trend cycle, even if it just becomes a small part of someone’s personal style. Fairy tales and magic should always have a place in the wardrobe.
For me, this aesthetic isn’t a passing phase, it’s intrinsic to who I am. My love for fairy tales, films, and legends has shaped my work from the very beginning. When I was little, I had a magical old Victorian trunk filled with family heirlooms that I completely tore apart to create my own costumes and stories. I was obsessed with Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre and would weave my own narratives from those inspirations. Later, at Pratt, I studied the history of costume and spent hours in the archives at The Met. Traveling to places like Venice and Paris deepened my passion for historical fashion, and those influences became the foundation of my first collection in 2007, where we dressed models in coats and hardies, tricorn hats, and harlequin tights. That inspiration has never left me, and it continues to inform everything I do.
Lauren Jane: Your designs feel like a bridge between the past and present, with medieval, mythological, and art historical references merged into contemporary silhouettes. What draws you most to historical narratives, and how do you reimagine them for modern wearers?
Samantha Pleet: You can see my love of history in the way I name my pieces, they are inspired by legends, myths, and historical figures. For my Fall 14 collection, I drew inspiration from Joan of Arc, even creating a short film to bring the story to life. The silhouettes in that collection echoed armor, and we incorporated Joan of Arc embroidery as a nod to her legacy. But beyond the historical references, I want people to feel like they’re stepping into a story when they wear my designs. Fashion should make you feel like the heroine, or hero of your own adventure. That was also the season I first introduced our beloved Illuminated Print.
Lauren Jane: Fashion often serves as armor for self-expression. What is one piece in your collection that feels most like armor to you?
Samantha Pleet:The Shield Corset, not only does it have the silhouette of armor, but it also feels powerful when worn, it accentuates and protects the form. I love pairing it with matching pants as my interpretation of a suit, or sometimes with long gloves for an even more dramatic effect. There’s something magical about the way it all comes together. It makes you feel ready to step into the world even if your fairy tale for the night is a gallery opening instead of a duel.
Lauren Jane: There’s an undeniable sense of storytelling in your collections—from Persephone’s journey through the underworld to Arcadian dreamscapes. How do literature, folklore, and mythology shape your creative process?
Samantha Pleet:Storytelling is at the heart of everything I create. I need a reason and a passion behind each piece. My Persephone collection felt particularly epic, it embodied the balance of light and darkness that I think makes any design compelling. Right now, I’m preparing to re-release my Elizabeth collection, inspired by Queen Elizabeth ! who is such a fascinating, complex character. The embroidery in that collection is something I imagine she might have worn herself! I love thinking about what these historical figures would wear in a parallel, modern day universe.
Lauren Jane: If you could step into any painting or literary world and design garments for its characters, where would you find yourself, and what would you create?
Samantha Pleet:An obvious one for me is Midsummer’s Night’s Dream. I can just imagine all the magical clothing I could design for the characters to run around an enchanted forest and fall in love in, I have always wanted to do a short film inspired by this.
Lauren Jane: From rosettes to ribbons, texture plays such a role in your designs. Are there any historical garment techniques, silhouettes, or forgotten crafts you dream of reviving that you haven’t already?
Samantha Pleet:There are so many techniques I’d love to explore further! I’d like to try beading and the idea of creating custom jacquards has intrigued me.
One of my favorite explorations of historical craft is my Unicorn Tapestry print, that’s what I’d like to do in a jacquard. I designed the print based on the famous medieval tapestries but removed the people so the unicorns could be truly free. I loved the idea of taking something so iconic and slightly altering the narrative letting the unicorns exist in their own world. It’s this kind of storytelling through fabric that excites me.
Lauren Jane: Magic is at the heart of your brand. What does magic mean to you in the context of fashion, and how do you spin it into every collection?
Samantha Pleet:I get a visual image that appears in my mind, and it takes me on a magical journey, becoming something you never imagined. What you have in the end, that is magic. what takes shape after playing around with color, silhouette, technique, and fabric and how it all comes together on the form. It’s an emergent quality where the process leads to the magical result.
After all, we all wish to feel like the free unicorn from the tapestry—untethered, ethereal, and part of a story larger than ourselves. Samantha Pleet’s designs offer just that: a way to step into a world where history, myth, and fashion intertwine. Her work proves that clothing is more than fabric; it’s a form of magic, a means of storytelling, and a way to embody the spirit of the past while moving boldly into the future.
There is a peculiar irony that lingers in the pages of history: some of the greatest love stories ever written were crafted by women who never lived them. Jane Austen, who gave us the sharp-witted and swoon-worthy Mr. Darcy, never married. The Brontë sisters, whose novels are infused with lust and longing, lived quiet, uneventful lives, largely untouched by romance. Emily Dickinson, whose poetry reads like the breath of a love-stricken heart, spent much of her life in solitude, sending letters to an unnamed beloved who may never have truly existed.
And yet, these women captured love better than those who lived and lost it. Their words are corroded into our collective consciousness, their stories devoured by generations who turn to fiction in search of the love they cannot find in reality. Why is it that the women who understood love so deeply, who could write it into existence so convincingly, never found it for themselves?
To be a woman writer in the 18th and 19th centuries was to make a choice. The quiet comfort of marriage or the wild freedom of the mind. Few could have both. Marriage, for most women of that time, was a legal and financial transaction, one that rarely allowed room for creative ambition.
Jane Austen, whose novels overflow with canniness and romance, knew this reality all too well. She had her chances, there was Tom Lefroy, a youthful flirtation that was cut short by his family, and Harris Bigg-Wither, whom she briefly accepted before recoiling at the thought of a life bound in uninspired matrimony. In the end, Jane chose her pen over a ring, writing to her niece that “anything is to be preferred or endured rather than marrying without affection.”
The Brontës, too, lived in a world where marriage was often a compromise rather than a grand love affair. They were raised in near isolation on the Yorkshire moors, their imaginations fed by the rolling hills and the books they devoured. Emily Brontë, the most reclusive of the three, never married, never seemed to have a lover, and yet she wrote Wuthering Heights—a novel so feverish, so consumed by passion, that it seems impossible that it came from the mind of a woman who had never known love herself. Perhaps, for Emily, love existed more beautifully in her imagination than in reality.
It is natural to assume that a writer must experience these moments to write it well, but history proves otherwise. In fact, distance may have given these women an even greater ability to understand love. Free from the distractions of real-world relationships which are often messy, mundane, and often disappointing. They were able to construct love in its purest, most idealized form.
This may be why their love stories endure. Their understanding of romance was not clouded by the small, inevitable disenchantments of everyday life. They wrote of soulmates, of passion that defied reason, of love that burned so intensely it could only end in tragedy or eternity.
Emily Dickinson, for example, wrote poetry that oozed with longing. Her words were intimate, secretive, as though written in the dead of night for a lover she could never touch. “Wild nights—wild nights! / Were I with thee,” she wrote, though history gives us little proof that she was ever truly with anyone at all. Perhaps she didn’t need to be. The craving itself was enough.
Another aspect, a tale the modern woman now knows too well, is that maybe the reason why so many of these women never found love, is that they were simply too extraordinary for the time in which they lived. The men around them could not match their minds, could not keep up with their wit, could not understand the depths of their ambition.
Imagine being a woman in Austen’s time, capable of crafting dialogue so sharp it could draw blood, so perceptive it could dismantle an entire social structure in a single sentence. What man could keep up? Imagine being Emily Brontë, so enraptured by the profundity of her imagination that no earthly love could compare. Who could be her Heathcliff?
It is tempting to mourn for these women, to wish they had known the great, sweeping loves they so beautifully captured on the page. But perhaps, in some way, they did. Perhaps their love was not meant for one man, for one fleeting romance, but for something far greater. Their love was for the world, for the women who would read their words centuries later and find themselves within them.
Love, after all, is not just something to be lived—it is something to be imagined, to be felt, to be created. And in that, these women were never without it.
Would love have made their work greater, or would it have dulled the longing that made it so extraordinary?
There is something about female rage… Something beautiful. Something terrifying. And throughout art history, it has been documented, commodified, feared, and worshipped in equal measure.
But then, sometimes, female rage doesn’t come with soft-focus lighting and a poetic backstory. Sometimes, it claws its way out in blood-red brushstrokes, in disjointed limbs and grotesque expressions. An art that makes the viewer wonder… Should I take a dagger to the thigh?
Women’s anger, when it makes its way into art, is often dressed up in tragedy—Mad Ophelia sinking into the river, Medusa a deterrent example, Judith slaying Holofernes but still looking poised and elegant. Although there are few examples of women in this state depicted in Pre-Raphaelite oil paint, those that do exist hold a special place in my mind’s gallery.
Take Artemisia Gentileschi, the original feminist painter, who pawed through the pages of the Bible story of Judith and Holofernes and said, “Let’s make this realistic.” The result? A painting where Judith isn’t just delicately smiting her enemy—she’s hacking at his throat with pure, unfiltered rage. Blood spurts. Tendons snap. Holofernes is not dying a cinematic death; he is dying ugly, and Artemisia made sure we knew it. This was personal.
Compare this to Caravaggio’s Judith Beheading Holofernes, where Judith’s expression is one of disgust and hesitance. She looks almost reluctant, as if she’s completing a distasteful chore. She wears an elegant white blouse, crisp and untouched by the carnage, making her seem distant from the violence she is committing. Meanwhile, Gentileschi’s Judith is fierce and determined, her sleeves rolled up, fully engaged in the act of revenge. She is not repulsed—she is resolute. This is the difference between painting a woman’s rage from the outside and painting it from within.
The theme of female suffering and defiance is also captured in Portia Wounding Her Thigh, where Portia, the wife of Brutus, self-inflicts a wound to prove her strength and ability to bear pain. A dramatic and guttural moment, this act is both an assertion of willpower and an act of desperation.
We also see this theme in Artemisia Gentileschi’s Lucretia, where Lucretia, moments before her tragic suicide, is painted with raw emotion. Unlike other depictions that focus on her beauty or the elegance of her suffering, Gentileschi gives her a sense of agency—her expression is one of painful resolve rather than passive despair.
Even in more restrained works like Auguste Toulmouche’s The Reluctant Bride, the simmering frustration is present. The bride, adorned in silks, sits frozen in place, her body language betraying a deep reluctance. It’s a quiet, suppressed rage—the kind that has long been expected of women. The kind that doesn’t get to scream, but still refuses to disappear. It is all in the eyes.
The thing about female rage is that it has always been there, but the world has spent centuries trying to dull its edges. Art is where those edges get sharpened again. And frankly, there is nothing more powerful—or more satisfying—than that.
Chorus Leader: You would become the wretchedest of women.
Ah, Heroin Chic. Even the name drips with controversy, conjuring images of hollowed-out cheekbones, smudged eyeliner, and a willowy frailty that could snap in a stiff breeze. If the ’80s were cocaine-dusted, champagne-fueled opulence, the ’90s dragged the party into the bathroom stall and turned on the flickering fluorescent light. This wasn’t just fashion; it was a full-blown aesthetic manifesto: decay, addiction, and rebellion served up as sexy, gritty art.
Kate Moss—our poster child for the movement—was the face of this revolution. Waifish and wide-eyed, she became synonymous with the look. Who could forget the first time you stumbled across the infamous quote on Tumblr, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” paired with Kate’s haunting gaze? It’s an image seared into the collective memory of anyone who’s ever searched “edgy thinspo” at 2 a.m. Designers like Calvin Klein lapped it up, splashing this aesthetic across runways and ad campaigns. It was androgyny, fragility, and just rolled out of a bar fight with my rockstar boyfriend chic—a sharp pivot from the ’80s supermodel era, where big hair, big smiles, and big egos reigned supreme.
Behind the scenes, photographers like Corinne Day and David Sims doubled down on the rawness. Their work didn’t just flirt with the spirit of this aesthetic—it French-kissed it in a back alley. Unapologetically romanticizing the messy, tragic seduction of addiction and alienation. The aesthetic bled into pop culture, turning up everywhere from Vogue to MTV. It was grunge for your closet, nihilism in a mascara ad.
But not everyone was clapping. Critics—and there were plenty—called the whole thing out for what it was: a thinly veiled glorification of addiction and an unhealthy body image. The timing couldn’t have been worse. While Heroin Chic’s hollow-eyed muses smoldered on magazine covers, the heroin epidemic was wrecking communities across the world. Addiction, suffering, and death weren’t chic—they were devastating.
And let’s not forget the body image disaster. This era did a number on how we define beauty. Models looked less “fashionably thin” and more “haven’t eaten since the Clinton administration.” For anyone struggling with body image, this was gasoline on an already raging fire. Eating disorders spiked, and young people everywhere were left chasing an unattainable ideal.
By the late ’90s, the pendulum started to swing back. Fashion had its oops, maybe we went too far moment. Healthier bodies began to appear on runways, and Heroin Chic was quietly shuffled into the “bad idea” file of fashion history. But the damage was done. The ripple effects—on both the modeling industry and society at large—are still felt today.
And speaking of the modeling industry, sure, we’ve made progress. Runways now host a kaleidoscope of body types, and “body positivity” is more than just a trending keyword. But the shadow of Heroin Chic still looms, a cautionary tale wrapped in chiffon and eyeliner.
So let’s call Heroin Chic what it was: a moment of rebellion that danced with danger but left us with scars. It challenged beauty standards, but at a cost we’re still paying. The toll? Hormonal wreckage, mental health crises, and a generation of young people who think happiness comes in size 0. While we might be tempted to romanticize it in the warmth of nostalgia, let’s not forget the cold, hard truth: some trends should stay buried in the archives.
There’s something deliciously compelling about the combination of lace and limestone, the curve of a coquette’s skirt twirling past the soaring arches of a gothic cathedral. Architecture and fashion, though seemingly worlds apart, share a magnetic pull: both seek to define space, to tell a story, and to captivate anyone who dares to look. This dance between the delicate and the dramatic has never been more relevant as coquette fashion finds itself in an unexpected romance with the shadowy architecture. What’s funny is that, on paper, these two styles couldn’t be more different—the whimsy and blush of coquette versus the ominous majesty of the gothic—but opposites, as they say, attract.
Picture it: the image of a high-collared blouse with puff sleeves against the backdrop of a towering cathedral. The ruffles catch a gentle breeze, the soft fabrics swirling around pillars carved with ancient figures. The coquette look might seem delicate, but much like the gothic facade behind it, it holds an edge beneath its softness. This isn’t a damsel but rather a modern spirit with a vintage soul, strolling through the cathedral’s nave like it’s just another Tuesday. Coquette fashion, with its heart-shaped buttons, dainty bows, and feminine details, whispers sweetness, but when paired with something as grand as my favored architecture, the style transforms, gaining a sense of gravity.
The contrast is part of the magic. Gothic architecture was, after all, designed to make you feel small, to inspire reverence and a certain awe. But coquette fashion—a delightful mix of flirtation and femininity—softens this grandiosity, coaxing out a sense of intimacy. The cathedral becomes less foreboding and more like an enchanting scene from a period drama, with our coquette stepping in as the heroine. It’s as if she’s waltzing through history, adding her own gentle defiance to a space traditionally associated with solemnity. Who said you couldn’t bring a little blush-pink into the hallowed halls?
The coquette-gothic romance isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s a story of character. Gothic cathedrals are celebrated for their grotesques and gargoyles, little carved creatures that peer out from hidden corners. In fashion terms, these are the delightful quirks of the ensemble: the tiny unexpected elements—a bow, a velvet ribbon, a cheeky brooch. In both realms, there’s an appeal to detail, to the intricacies that make each element memorable. And while a cathedral’s gargoyle might look slightly intimidating, the coquette’s dainty pearl necklace or delicate lace.
Historically, coquette fashion and gothic architecture both emerged from periods of transformation and upheaval. Gothic architecture blossomed in the Middle Ages, when Europe was reimagining itself through culture, spirituality, and art. Similarly, the coquette style, with roots in 18th-century courtly flirtations and revived in various forms since, has always symbolized a sense of playful rebellion against societal expectations. While the cathedral stands as a reminder of enduring tradition, the coquette brings in the winds of change, a little charm, and perhaps a hint of defiance to shake things up.
For those willing to blend these styles in everyday fashion, a touch of gothic coquette can be surprisingly wearable. Imagine a fitted blazer with lace trim, paired with a ruffled blouse or velvet skirt—a combination that nods to gothic grandeur but is still light enough for the modern coquette. Accessories can do much of the work here: think ornate earrings reminiscent of stained-glass windows or delicate gloves that bring to mind the finery of a past era.
In the end, the romance between the coquette and the cathedral reminds us that style is a playful exploration of contrast and character. By blending these two seemingly opposed aesthetics, we’re invited into a world that’s both soft and strong, whimsical and powerful. It’s the kind of love story that doesn’t take itself too seriously, winking at tradition while giving it a gentle nudge into the present. After all, who says you can’t wear your heart on your sleeve—or, in this case, a ruffled blouse and a gothic brooch—while standing beneath the arches of history?
Audrey, Diana, Jackie, and Jane—what do they have in common besides fabulous wardrobes that are forever cemented in the universe of fashion? Well, when you’re the walking definition of chic, it’s basically a requirement to inspire a handbag. That’s right—if you haven’t been the muse for some designer’s “It” bag, are you even a fashion icon? From Audrey and Jane’s jet-setting escapades to Diana and Jackie’s unfortunate oversized marital accessories (now more commonly known as King Charles and JFK), these women didn’t just set trends—they were, quite literally, the blueprint of fashion. And nothing says “immortal style” like a handbag that bears your name.
Let’s dive into the early 1960s when women’s accessories were either delicate and dainty for evening events or large and cumbersome for travel. Also, when people wore much more than Lululemon leggings and a fjall raven Kanken backpack to the airport (can you imagine?), when air travel was glamorous, Audrey Hepburn was flitting from set to set, filming iconic movies like Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Naturally, she needed a bag as elegant and functional as she was. Enter Louis Vuitton.
At the time, the Louis Vuitton Speedy was already a staple for stylish travellers, but it came in sizes that were, well, speedy in name but not exactly petite in design. The original sizes (30, 35, and 40) were ideal for jet-setting, but Audrey had other ideas. She requested a smaller version—a size that would fit into her everyday life. Vuitton obliged, and thus, the Speedy 25 was born. This bag quickly became her signature accessory, often nestled on her arm as she sauntered through airports and film sets.
Its balance of form and function made the Speedy 25 revolutionary. Before Audrey’s influence, handbags were often too structured or over-embellished for casual use. The Speedy, however, was crafted from Louis Vuitton’s signature coated canvas, which made it both durable and lightweight—perfect for the demands of an international star but practical enough for anyone. The bag’s rounded shape and roomy interior also meant you could fit your essentials (and let’s face it, a little more than just a lipstick and compact). The smaller size gave it a more feminine and refined edge, aligning perfectly with Hepburn’s aesthetic. I, too, own the speedy 25-brown monogram for this exact reason. When I carry this, I hope I exude her elegance and hopefulness for kindness in the world.
Similarly, in 1983, Jane Birkin, famous for her bohemian charm, French-girl style, and being Hermes’ muse, As legend has it, she found herself on a flight from Paris to London. Seated next to Jean-Louis Dumas, the head of Hermès. Mid-flight, Birkin spilt the contents of her famously overstuffed straw tote all over the aisle. As she scrambled to collect her things, she complained to Dumas about how difficult the search was to find a leather weekend bag that was both practical and stylish. As one for a challenge, Dumas sketched the design of what would eventually become the Birkin bag on an air sickness paper bag.
This impromptu brainstorming session resulted in a handbag that was large, supple, and effortlessly chic—just like Jane herself. It was designed with a spacious interior (to avoid another mid-flight spill), sturdy leather, and a shape that could easily transition from airport style to Parisian café cool. Thus, the Birkin was born.
She wasn’t just the perfect ambassador for a bag; she was a walking embodiment of it, and her personal style reflected the changing attitudes toward fashion in the late 60s and 70s. Birkin’s appeal was all about breaking the rules. She wore mini-dresses and flats to formal events, embraced androgynous fashion long before it was trendy, and made baskets look like haute couture. So when Dumas created a bag for her, it wasn’t just a nice accessory—it was designed with her lifestyle in mind. The Birkin bag had to be functional and roomy yet still exude that undeniable luxury that comes with the Hermès name. And that’s precisely what the bag became.
Jane was famously nonchalant about the bag that bore her name. She used it to carry everything from baby bottles to scripts and even slapped stickers on hers to make it feel more personal. It is a reminder that the most luxurious things in life often come from the most unexpected moments—like a spill on a plane and a creative spark that followed.
Another pairing I adore is between Dior and Princess Diana. Diana’s influence on fashion was nothing short of revolutionary. And among the many stylish moments she gave us, none is more quintessential than her association with the Lady Dior bag. Given by the French First Lady, Bernadette Chirac, when Diana received the beautifully quilted, structured handbag, something magical happened. She loved it. So much so that she began carrying it everywhere, from official visits to her philanthropic engagements. Soon, the bag became her go-to accessory, photographed alongside her wherever she went.
Just like Diana herself, It could easily transition from day to night, from a charity gala to a stroll through a Parisian garden. This adaptability mirrored Diana’s evolution from a shy, young princess to a confident, self-assured global humanitarian. Her love for Lady Dior reflected her growing independence and how she wielded fashion as a personal power statement.
She inspired a movement of women who saw her as a beacon of strength, compassion, and independence. And that’s what makes the Lady Dior so much more than a handbag—it’s a reminder of Diana’s powerful influence and her unwavering ability to redefine what it means to be stylish and robust.
Another favourite story of mine is a nod to one of fashion’s most iconic muses: Jackie Kennedy Onassis. The former First Lady of the US was so smitten with this particular handbag by Gucci. Initially introduced in the 1950s, it was known as the “Constance,” a sleek, hobo-style handbag crafted from soft leather and featuring the brand’s signature piston-shaped closure. The Jackie bag was also ahead of its time in terms of functionality. Jackie Kennedy was known for her practical approach to fashion—everything she wore had a purpose, and the Jackie bag was no exception. It was roomy enough to carry all her essentials. The design was minimal yet luxurious, which probably caught Jackie Kennedy’s eye in the first place.
Whether she was stepping off a yacht in Capri, strolling through New York, or dodging paparazzi in Rome, the bag was always by her side. It became clear that this wasn’t just any handbag—it was Jackie’s handbag. Gucci made a strategic decision by recognising the marketing gem they had in the form of Jackie’s adoration for their design. They renamed the bag the “Jackie” in honour of the woman who had made it an international sensation.
The story of the Gucci Jackie isn’t just about a bag—She didn’t follow trends; she set them. She knew what worked for her, and the world followed suit. The Gucci Jackie reflects that same spirit—classic, versatile, and always relevant.
Rest in Peace Joan of Arc, You would have loved Good Luck Babe by Chappell Roan.
Dressing as historical figures is a way for celebrities to blend the past with modern-day culture. Connecting their art with well known stories of the women who paved the way before them. This trend allows public figures to embody a character or a historical moment, adding layers of meaning to their look. Here are a few notable instances.
Chappell Roan as Joan of Arc at the 2023 VMAs
With Sword in hand and chain mail flowing around her body, Chappell Roan’s appearance at the 2023 MTV Video Music Awards dressed as Joan of Arc featured a modernised armour-inspired outfit. Armour traditionally represents protection and defence, and by wearing it, Roan was symbolising the emotional and psychological armour that one builds to protect themselves. In the context of “Good Luck Babe,” the armour could represent a stark contrast to the vulnerable lyrics at play. Joan of Arc is often seen as a powerful female figure for taking on a traditionally male role as a soldier and leader. Similarly, Roan wearing armour as a female artist coincides with what she stands for.
Rihanna as the Pope at the 2018 Met Gala
Rihanna’s 2018 Met Gala look was another distinctive example of red carpet fashion inspired by historical and religious figures. Rihanna was encrusted with custom pearls, crystals, and intricate beadwork from Maison Margiela by John Galliano; she embodied the Pope, complete with a mitre hat. The theme created a space for her to reimagine Catholic iconography through fashion, reflecting both the divinity and the grandeur associated with papal garments. By dressing as the Pope, Rihanna invoked the highest figure of authority in the Catholic Church. The Pope represents religious power, and spiritual leadership. Wearing a papal mitre (the Pope’s ceremonial hat) and a bejewelled robe, Rihanna’s look could be interpreted as an eloquent statement on female empowerment.
Madonna at the 1990 MTV VMAs as Marie Antoinette
At the 1990 MTV Video Music Awards, Madonna’s performance of “Vogue” drew inspiration from Marie Antoinette’s courtly fashion. She wore an elaborate wig and gown that referenced the extravagant clothing of the French aristocracy. The performance was a modern take on the 18th-century aesthetic, combining historical elements with pop culture references. Madonna, by embodying this figure, tapped into the image of excess and luxury, aligning herself with the same sense of grandeur. The performance was an assertion of Madonna’s own dominance in the music industry, using the queen’s lavishness to highlight her own cultural influence. Madonna drew a parallel between herself and the French queen, positioning herself as a controversial and rebellious figure. Marie’s reputation for defying court conventions and engaging in scandalous behaviour became part of her legacy. Similarly, Madonna was no stranger to controversy, frequently pushing the boundaries of what was considered acceptable in mainstream media. The performance, with its sensual undertones and provocative nature, was a reflection of how both women were scrutinised and often vilified for their behaviours in the public eye.
Beyoncé as Nefertiti at Coachella 2018
Beyoncé’s performance at Coachella 2018 paid homage to Queen Nefertiti, the ancient Egyptian ruler, in her costume design. With an enchanting headpiece and regalia reminiscent of ancient Egypt, Beyoncé embodied Nefertiti’s status of power, heritage, and feminine divinity. Nefertiti, the queen of ancient Egypt, is remembered as one of the most powerful and influential women in history. She ruled alongside her husband, Pharaoh Akhenaten, and was considered a co-ruler, an unusual position of authority for a queen. Beyoncé’s decision to embody Nefertiti at Coachella—one of the most widely watched and culturally significant music festivals—was a way of reclaiming this powerful historical figure. It brought Nefertiti and her African roots into the global spotlight.
Lana Del Rey as the Virgin Mary at the 2018 Met Gala
Lana Del Rey took to the 2018 Met Gala draped in an ornate robe, stabbed with swords, and crowned with feathers, she embodied the Virgin Mary. She wore a custom Gucci gown with intricate detailing of a sacred heart and a headpiece resembling a halo with a golden ray. The Virgin Mary symbolises purity, grace, and divinity, She is also seen as a figure of immense suffering, particularly in her role as the grieving mother of Christ. Lana Del Rey, by embodying the Virgin Mary, highlighted themes that are central to her music, such as spiritual longing, the tension between purity and sin, and the pain of love. The Virgin Mary, especially in her role as Mater Dolorosa (Mother of Sorrows), is an archetype of feminine suffering. Comparatively, Lana’s lyrical universe is filled with stories of melancholy and longing.
Atelier Lauren Jane 