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Inside the Most Politically Charged Met Gala in Years

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Inside the Most Politically Charged Met Gala in Years

Last October, when the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute announced its next fashion show, “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style,” the political landscape looked very different.

Kamala Harris, the first female vice president and the first Black woman ever to top a major-party ticket, was in the final weeks of her campaign for the White House. The show, the culmination of five years of work by Andrew Bolton, the Costume Institute’s curator in charge, to diversify the department’s holdings and shows in the wake of the racial reckoning brought about by George Floyd’s murder, seemed long overdue.

On Monday, however, when it finally opens to the starry guests at its signature gala, the splashiest party of the year, it will do so in a very different world. One in which the federal government has functionally declared war on diversity, equity and inclusion, as well as programming related to race — especially in cultural institutions.

In February, President Trump seized control of the Kennedy Center, promising to make its programming less “woke.” Then, in late March, he signed an executive order targeting what the administration described as “improper, divisive, or anti-American ideology” at the Smithsonian museums and threatened to withhold funds for exhibits that “divide Americans by race.”

Against that backdrop, the Met’s show, one devoted for the first time entirely to designers of color, which focuses on the way Black men have used fashion as a tool of self-actualization, revolution and subversion throughout American history and the Black diaspora, has taken on an entirely different relevance.

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Suddenly the Met, one of the world’s wealthiest and most established museums, has begun to look like the resistance. And the gala, which in recent years has been criticized as a tone-deaf display of privilege and fashion absurdity, is being seen as what Brandice Daniel, the founder of Harlem’s Fashion Row, a platform created to support designers of color, called a display of “allyship.”

Especially because Anna Wintour, the Met Gala’s mastermind, a powerful democratic fund-raiser and the chief content officer of Condé Nast, said on “The Late Late Show” in 2017 that the one person she would never invite back to the fete was Mr. Trump.

The collision of cultural and current events means the Met is now sitting at the red-hot “center of where fashion meets the political economy,” said Tanisha C. Ford, a history professor at the City University of New York Graduate Center.

“This feels way bigger than just fashion,” said Louis Pisano, a cultural critic and the writer of the newsletter Discoursted. “Putting Black style front and center sends a real message.”

“I didn’t think I would see it in my lifetime,” said Sandrine Charles, a publicist and co-founder of the Black in Fashion Council.

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That has left the companies sponsoring the show and the gala, including Instagram and Louis Vuitton — both of which are owned by corporations actively courting the Trump administration — walking a precarious tightrope. It has raised the stakes around what has become known as “the party of the year.” And it has turned a pop culture event into a potential political statement.

This year, more Black designers are expected to be worn on the opening party’s red carpet, more Black stylists are dressing celebrities, and more Black celebrities are expected to attend than ever in the gala’s 77-year history. Along with Ms. Wintour, the gala’s co-chairs are ASAP Rocky, Lewis Hamilton, Colman Domingo and Pharrell Williams; the honorary chair is LeBron James.

“It’s important that we don’t sit this one out,” Mr. Pisano said. “Not when Black fashion is finally being centered in an institution that has historically excluded it.” He was talking about both the show and the gala. “I’m already bracing for the conservative backlash once they pay attention to it, and that’s why it’s especially important that people show up,” he continued.

Though few specifics are known about the guest list, which is controlled by Ms. Wintour and kept secret until the event, there have been some leaks and confirmations.

Mark Zuckerberg, the chairman of Meta, who has been wooing the president, is not attending the gala this year. Adam Mosseri, however, the chief executive of Instagram, which is owned by Meta, will be there, as he has in the past.

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Bernard Arnault, the chairman of LVMH, who was at the Trump inauguration, will sit the event out, as he has since 1996, but Pietro Beccari, the chief executive of Louis Vuitton, an LVMH brand, is attending. Jeff Bezos and his fiancée, Lauren Sánchez, who attended last year, are not expected to be there this year, nor is Mr. Trump’s right-hand man, Elon Musk, who attended three times before, most recently in 2022. Michael R. Bloomberg, who gave $50 million to support Ms. Harris in the last election, will be attending — and rumor has it Ms. Harris, currently mulling her political future, might as well.

The irony, Ms. Wintour said, is that “the show was never about politics, not in conception, not now.” Rather, she added, it was about “self-determination, beauty, creativity and holding up a lens to history.”

At the same time, she acknowledged, “the Met recognizing and taking seriously the contributions of Black designers and the Black community in fashion has a heightened meaning in 2025.”

Back in 2021, when Mr. Bolton first started thinking about the exhibition, which is based on a 2009 academic text called “Slaves to Fashion” by Monica L. Miller, a Barnard professor whom he also enlisted as co-curator of the show, there were other concerns about how it might be received. Specifically, whether the Costume Institute — a department that has never had a Black curator, and part of a museum with its own history of racism — would botch an exhibition about the sartorial reclamation of the Black male body and the use of fashion as a tool of liberation.

Adding further complications was the fact that Ms. Wintour, the department’s greatest champion (it was renamed the Anna Wintour Costume Center in 2014), had in the past faced her own allegations of creating a racially insensitive workplace at Vogue. Not to mention that, despite the many D.E.I. initiatives after 2020, the fashion world has seemingly failed to make good on those promises; of the more than 15 appointments at the top of major brands this year, not a single one was a designer of color.

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Mr. Bolton and Ms. Wintour were “self-aware enough to know that they could not pull this off without the deep involvement and advice of the community involved,” said Gabriela Karefa-Johnson, a stylist and Vogue’s former global contributing editor at large (she left in 2023).

That meant bringing in not just Professor Miller but the modern dandy Iké Udé as a consultant. It meant working with a who’s-who of prominent Black creatives: Torkwase Dyson on the show space, Tanda Francis on the mannequins, Tyler Mitchell on the catalog and Kwame Onwuachi on the menu. It meant having the first “host committee” since 2019, and holding special advance panel discussions at the Apollo Theater in Harlem and the Billie Holiday Theater in Bed-Stuy.

There were also some concerns about whether “Hollywood would understand the assignment,” Professor Ford said, referring to worries about how certain guests might dress for the gala. “Would there be people who perhaps misrepresented Black culture and Black dress?” she went on.

Ms. Karefa-Johnson put it more dryly. “I just really don’t want to see any floor-length durags or pimp canes,” she said. (Still, she called the fact the show is happening in the current climate “poetic.”) Jeffrey Banks, a designer whose work is included in the exhibition, called it “revolutionary.”

“I have immense respect for the fact they’ve decided to have this conversation and stand strong in the face of that risk,” Téla D’Amore of Who Decides War, a brand also featured in the exhibition, said of the Met.

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Still, unlike the Smithsonian, the Met’s dependence on government funds is negligible. As a private institution, the Met is not subject to the government’s anti-D.E.I. policies. The museum’s diversity statement is still posted on its website for all to see. (A 13-point “antiracism and diversity plan” unveiled in 2020 was incorporated into the museum’s strategic plan in 2022, according to a spokeswoman and is no longer available.)

Its most significant relationship with the government may be through the federal Art and Artifacts Indemnity Program, an initiative administered by the National Endowment for the Arts that insures art that travels to or from American museums, providing peace of mind for lenders that their masterpieces are protected by the government, and defraying institutional costs. The Met has its own insurance, but it applies for federal indemnity for its largest, most high-value shows, giving the government some leverage.

Which is why many involved with ”Superfine” are focused not just on the gala evening, with all its star-studded glamour, or the exhibition’s reception, but on what happens next.

“Does it swing all the way back next year?” asked Maxwell Osborne, the designer of anOnlyChild. “Like, you know, we had Obama for two terms, and then we go all the way back.”

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She Had Seen Her in Photos. Then They Met in Real Life.

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She Had Seen Her in Photos. Then They Met in Real Life.

The kiss finally happened at a Halloween party Chatterjee hosted at her apartment, while the two were watching “American Psycho” on the couch at 3 a.m., when everyone else had gone out for food. “We’re sitting so close our legs are touching and I’m freaking out,” Braggins said.

“I looked at Abby, and I was like, ‘I’d rather kiss you than watch this,’” Chatterjee said. So they did. About a month later, they were official.

On April 10, Braggins suggested they take a trip to Home Goods in Brooklyn. When they ended up at Coney Island Beach instead, Chatterjee was none the wiser. It was an early morning, so the two, along with the dog they adopted together, Willow, enjoyed having the beach to themselves.

Braggins ran ahead with Willow and crouched behind some rocks. When Chatterjee got a glimpse of Willow, there was a bandanna tied around her neck. It said, “Will you marry me?” Braggins pulled out a shell with a ring in it. The answer was yes.

A few days before, Chatterjee had proposed to Braggins amid a gloomy, cloudy sky on top of the Empire State Building.

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The two were married on April 21 at the New York City Marriage Bureau, in front of three guests, by Guohuan Zhang, a city clerk. Afterward, they celebrated at Bungalow, an Indian restaurant in the East Village, with a few more friends.

Though Chatterjee’s parents were not present at the wedding, one of the couple’s most meaningful moments came in 2023, when Braggins traveled to India to meet Chatterjee’s family for the first time. Chatterjee had never brought a partner home before, and she had warned Braggins that same-sex relationships were still not widely accepted there. But by the end of the trip, Chatterjee’s mother had embraced Braggins as family, telling her, “I have two daughters now.”

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L.A. Affairs: We were integrating our worlds and families. Then came the boob texts

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L.A. Affairs: We were integrating our worlds and families. Then came the boob texts

I was comfortable being called “weekend girl” and had even coined the nickname. We met running on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Our first date followed: a run through Pacific Palisades. We talked about food. Our second date: dinner. We talked about running. I was coming out of a sticky romantic relationship and into a new job, so a casual fling seemed appropriate. We had endless common interests; making plans was easy. He was the best kisser I’d ever come across, but I still liked my solo weeknights.

It continued that way for a few months. There were sleepless nights of laughter and love-making. I didn’t care where he was on a Wednesday. I had a dumpy, dark one-bedroom further south on the disregarded part of Bundy Drive, and he had a well-appointed and nicely lit two-bedroom, so weekends were at his place or occasionally the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. Things were light and fluffy until he made a proposal.

“Do you want to be adventure buddies?” he asked while we dined at the hotel bar.

“Well, yes, I like that title. Does that mean I’m not ‘weekend girl’ anymore?”

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“Adventure buddies” had a nice ring, but it was vague.

“I was thinking we can clear out a closet at my place, and you could spend more time there.” He faced forward.

We organized the closet the following weekend. I was wearing a T-shirt and just my underwear, while he was wearing his sleeping shorts, no shirt. We agreed it was a fantastic Friday night. I woke up in the morning to a warm California sun and hot coffee, sipped on the balcony. Noticing that the outdoor space got just enough light to wring out some tomatoes, we headed to the nursery to top off our nest.

I had been a serial apartment dweller with limited outdoor space, so I never knew the color of my thumbs. We plucked three healthy tomato plants and three pots. We added plant food and tomato cages to the cart. The staff offered their expertise several times, and I wondered if I was wearing something that screamed “gardening noob.” We declined the help, as it seemed easy enough; put the plants in the dirt and water them.

Two blissful months later, we were getting some tomatoes and lots of loving. We were planning adventures, date nights and what we would cook with our forages from the farmers’ market. It was effortless. We spent most of our time just the two of us, but we were slowly integrating our respective worlds and families. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I felt fortunate. Gratitude is due when your biggest problem is the sad-looking tomato plants on your balcony. Something was wrong.

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Back to the garden center we went, bringing a leaf as a specimen. They said we had an unidentified pest and pointed us to the neem oil. We got back to our babies, and as we started to spray, there they were: hornworms. They were bright green with pokey stinger-looking things on their butts, and they were as long as my index finger. There were dozens of them. We loaded them into a giant mason jar, but it was too late. My green dreams were now caterpillar nightmares. Maybe we should have asked more questions in the beginning? How did I not notice this sooner?

“Wanna get froyo?” I was a sucker for mochi and figured that would cheer me up.

“Sure, just gonna take a quick shower.” He set his phone down and hopped in. I went to grab my mascara and saw the white and blue messages light up.

“I wish I were with you tonight, but Em is here.” No name, just a number. I scrolled up — boobs but no face. Who was this girl?

I didn’t move to L.A. to become an actor, but I sure put on a performance that night. I let the phone go black without a word as the shower shut off. We ate the yogurt and called it an early night. I lay mummy-style and wide-eyed next to him through the sleepless night. By daybreak, I had a plan.

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I spent the next morning with his iPad reading through text chains. “You’re so gorgeous,” or “I’d love to take you to dinner,” or “I am not with that girl; you are the one for me.” There were nudes and sexts and I love yous. And so, so many people. I gasped and shook while reading the first few lines, but it became more like entertainment as the minutes passed. It was more than two hours of reading material. I was hungry and had planned to get my nails done, so I grabbed the wallet he had left on the table and helped myself to a champagne lunch and a mani-pedi.

I got home before he did and prepped myself for the fireworks. The bubbles and the “five-more-minutes” foot massage helped boost my confidence.

“Babe!” he exclaimed, excited and clueless.

“Babe!” I parroted. “I just finished reading your iPad! What a productive morning!”

I was calm while he paused.

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“Oh my god. Get out. I can’t believe you violated my privacy,” he yelled.

I responded without defensiveness. “It’s sad. I thought I loved you. But it turns out you love 13 others — and that ain’t gonna work for me.” With calculated confidence, I directed him to pack my things from the closet. I was eager to get back to my dungeon-like, safe apartment.

“I hope you get help. It seems like you need it.” I really did care for him, and it was hard to drive away.

It was a lot to take in over a short time, but I am grateful for the lessons. For me, integrity is paramount and asking questions up-front is a must. Even when the dating gets tough, I won’t settle for less than the truth. This summer, I will be companion planting basil, dill and marigolds with my tomatoes and an occasional spritz of a natural insecticide.

The author is an entrepreneur and working on a book about overcoming betrayal. She splits her time between L.A. and Michigan. She’s on Instagram: @emilybrynwilliams.

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L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

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Why Everyone Was So Mad About the Met Gala

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Why Everyone Was So Mad About the Met Gala

There are, as I’m writing this, just shy of 500 reader comments on our recap of our 15 favorite looks from the Met Gala on Monday. The top comments are almost all negative.

“I’m sorry. I find this display of ‘fashion’ disgusting and I wish the NYT wouldn’t celebrate it,” reads the most recommended comment. “I’m struck by how out of touch and unrelatable this feels for the average American,” is the one just below that. A few down we get the first of many comparisons to the elitist incongruity captured in “The Hunger Games.”

The uneasy state of the American economy watered the soil for this sentiment to grow. Gas prices have soared since the onset of the war in Iran. The cost of groceries remains stubbornly high. The word “inequality” came up five times in the comments section of our story. It seems that the gala, to some, landed as a financially frivolous, Marie Antoinette-like affair.

For a few years, the Met Gala has ignited these “Hunger Games” comparisons, as the event has mutated into a competition of which attendee can wear the most baroque, procession-halting dress. I lost count of the celebrities who proudly shared how many hours it took to make their ensembles.

This, more than anything, seemed like the point where they were misjudging the simmering animus toward them.

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If the intention was to laud the work and elevate the craftsmanship involved in making garments like these, it was ringing hollow in this forum, where tickets cost upward of hundreds of thousands of dollars for a table. The opulence of the clothes became another example of billionaire class entitlement for a cause most people don’t benefit from.

It’s not an entirely new conversation, even if the critiques were louder this year. Five years ago, when Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wore a dress splayed with “Tax the Rich,” she sprayed lighter fluid onto a hot conversation about the class politics of this particular charity event. (At this year’s gala, Sarah Paulson arrived with a dollar bill stretched over her eyes, an intended critique on the influence of money that many viewers saw as a hollow gesture.)

The discourse roared with a particular fervor in the lead-up to Monday for the marquee presence of Jeff Bezos and his wife, Lauren Sánchez Bezos, one of the world’s wealthiest couples.

Placing the Bezoses at the apex of the gala ratcheted up the sense that something already well outside the reaches of the average person had been taken to a new tier of exclusivity. There were protests centered around Bezos, and at the event Christian Smalls, a former Amazon union leader, attempted to storm the carpet. He was arrested and charged with two misdemeanors.

“It shouldn’t be that way when you have all of this money and wealth,” Smalls said of Bezos in an interview with The Times on Wednesday. “He should pay his workers a fair share.”

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In responding to cries of elitism, the Met Gala’s organizers have long pointed to the money that the event raises. They did so again this year. At a news conference on Monday introducing the Met’s new fashion exhibition, Anna Wintour, the event’s longtime chair (and the global editorial director of Vogue magazine), shared that this was the most successful Met Gala ever, having raised $42 million.

“That money could feed and clothe many hundreds of less fortunate people,” read the top comment on our Met Gala story.

We’ve come to expect anti-celebrity comments when we cover cultural events. “Who cares!” is a common, if slightly disingenuous, refrain given how many readers clamor to see and vote on their favorite looks from awards shows.

But there’s a meaningful difference between the Met Gala and many other red carpet events. At the Oscars or the Emmys, the arrivals lead to a star-studded performance the public can watch, shows with a purpose — celebrating talent (subjective though that is) — that is self-evident. For the viewing public, the Met Gala ends at the doorstep of the museum. If you’re watching at home, the gala can be seen as nothing more than a bunch of grandiose clothes that lead nowhere.

In reading up on the life of Ted Turner, who died Wednesday at 87, I perked up at this five-word sentence in Malcolm Gladwell’s 2010 profile of the media mogul: “He dressed like a cowboy.” It led me to scroll through photos of the Cincinnati-born businessman — especially in the 1970s, when he was sailing in a piqué polo and an incongruous striped conductor’s cap or taking in his Atlanta Braves with his button-up shirt undone to mid-chest.

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Turner, a college dropout, who was a prolific drinker (and philanderer), looked rugged — swashbuckling even. He was, it should be said, handsome. In some images, Turner, with his modest mustache, looks like Robert Redford’s body double. But it’s remarkable to visit these images now, when all corporate titans — of media, tech and otherwise — dress so alike. They’re Sun Valley clones in their fleece vests, stretch chinos and dad caps that they theatrically pull low in front of cameras.

But Turner was indeed a telecom cowboy, upending how networks ran in his rugby shirts, knit ties and denim. He looked suave. How few media C.E.O.’s can we say that about now?


Everywhere I go I see young men in ribbed tank tops, sometimes with unbuttoned shirts on top, but often not. The tank tops can be black, white or gray, but they’re worn with everything — not just as undershirts, as I was taught was correct. What is going on? — Richard, Philadelphia

The tank top may seem basic — just a sleeveless cotton top with a scooped neck — but as a garment it contains multitudes. It has roots in the working class and the professional class, the military and the farm, men’s wear and women’s wear, sports and Hollywood, gay culture, rap culture, gym culture and indie sleaze. Read more …


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