Leigh Magar, a milliner turned textile artist, slow-fashion designer and indigo grower who created handmade garments and artworks, died on April 16 at her home on Kauai, in Hawaii. She was 57.

The cause of death was breast cancer, her husband, Johnny Tucker, said. Last summer, the couple moved to Kauai from Johns Island, S.C., to give Ms. Magar a tropical respite.

Before she grew her own indigo, fermenting the leaves to create the deep blue dye prized by ancient Mesopotamians and using it to embellish her fabric designs and artwork — a practice known as “seed-to-stitch” that mimics the ethos of the farm-to-table food movement — Ms. Magar was a high-end milliner.

For decades, she made singular hats from her studio in Charleston, S.C., selling them at a storefront boutique, Magar Hatworks, and at Barneys New York and other high-end outlets.

Her creations were fanciful and bold. She made sculptural millinery that defied description: confections of feathers, fabric and felt, as well as more conventional, if elevated, fare — bespoke trilbies, pork pies and Panamas that were sought after by artists and performers, including Eartha Kitt, Nick Cave and Michael Stipe, for whom she made a deconstructed felt fedora.

She and Mr. Tucker, an architect and artist, were an integral part of Charleston’s creative community, said Mark Sloan, a former director and chief curator of the Halsey Institute of Contemporary Art there.

For a time, the couple lived in a vine-covered former candy shop at the back of a property in the historic district. During their tenure, it was all bohemian funk and decay — a Southern gothic artist’s atelier — with plaster flaking off the walls and exposed lath, battered antiques and statuary, vintage appliances and found artwork.

“They had the air of people not of this time,” Mr. Sloan said, recalling an early visit during which Ms. Magar was hard at work steaming her creations on antique hat blocks. “There was a certain drama to their lives.”

Of her hats, he added: “The shapes were outrageous, and so beautiful. Some looked like underwater sea creatures, or single-celled organisms.”

Mr. Sloan included a few in his 2005 group exhibition “Alive Inside: The Lure and Lore of the Sideshow,” which spread out over four locations in Charleston, including Ms. Magar’s King Street storefront. For the show, she designed hats for imaginary sideshow performers — including a tiara for a human pincushion, a spiky crown made from knitting needles.

By 2013, however, Ms. Magar had closed her store and started working with textiles, hand-dyeing fabric with various botanicals and other materials and selling them under the name Madame Magar. During one artist’s residency in a former mill town, she began experimenting with dyes made from rusty railroad ties.

Also in 2013, she and Mr. Tucker moved to Johns Island, where they rented a modernist house on nearly 400 acres. Ms. Magar began to research the site of their new home, where a cotton and indigo plantation had once stood. She learned that in the 18th century, plantations on the island began growing indigo with the labor of enslaved Africans, many of whom brought with them from their home countries methods for cultivating the plants and extracting the dye.

Indigo was a boom crop throughout the Lowcountry. Eliza Lucas Pinckney, the daughter of a Charleston-area plantation owner, is often credited (though perhaps not quite accurately) with starting the boom in 1738, the year she turned 16 and took over the management of her first plantation.

When Ms. Magar decided to grow indigo herself, and to use it in her work, she had to reckon with the plant’s tainted history. “I had to go through the light and dark of it,” she told The New York Times in 2024. “It was ‘open your eyes, white girl.’”

Seeds were not easy to come by. Through South Carolina’s indigo community, a zesty cohort of makers and growers, she met Father John, an Eastern Orthodox monk who had been growing indigo for decades and using it in his artwork. (Why indigo? “As a monk, one often develops a heightened focus,” he said in an interview, “and learns how to sublimate.”)

He shared seeds and tips with her, as did Arianne King Comer, a Charleston-based indigo artist and grower. Thus armed, Ms. Magar planted her own patch and began to experiment with techniques for extracting the dye from the plant and for dyeing fabric.

“She really ran with it,” said Father John, whose order traditionally forgoes surnames. “She tried it all.”

One day while bushwhacking at home, she followed a blue dragonfly through the brush and discovered a patch of wild indigo, likely descended from a crop that had been grown on Johns Island three centuries earlier. She felt it was a sign, and began to tend that patch, too.

At that point, she was well and truly hooked, captivated by all things indigo — not an unusual trajectory for artists who come in contact with the stuff.

“We’re like cigarette smokers,” Ms. King Comer said. “We can’t help ourselves.”

Ms. Magar made shift dresses dipped in indigo, and baskets and rag dolls woven from fabric scraps. She followed the Japanese practice of shibori, which involves folding fabric before placing it in the dye — essentially, an extremely precise version of tie-dye. She made collages from indigo squares; housewares like napkins and coasters; and epic quilts and portraits that she called scrap silhouettes. Among her subjects were Nina Simone and Eliza Lucas Pinckney.

“Indigo is the never-ending story of the Lowcountry,” Virginia Theerman, the curator of historic textiles at the Charleston Museum, said in an interview. “Today, there’s a community of artisans and farmers involved in a growing cottage industry.”

Ms. Magar “was coming at it from an artist’s perspective,” she added. “It was personal, yet tied into the history of indigo here, and to women’s history. Hers was a single-minded vision, and she was both passionate and exacting about her work.”

Jennifer Leigh Magar was born on June 30, 1968, in Spartanburg, S.C., and raised by her mother, Jennifer (Edwards) Fly, and her stepfather, John Fly, a textile executive.

Spartanburg is a former mill town, and Leigh’s maternal grandmother and great-aunt worked in the mills. She remembered them coming home flecked with lint from their labors.

Still, textiles were not her first love. She briefly studied culinary arts at Johnson & Wales University in Charleston, and worked for a time as a chef there, when she met Mr. Tucker, an architecture student at Clemson University.

They moved to New York City together in the early 1990s, and Ms. Magar studied millinery techniques at the Fashion Institute of Technology, graduating in 1995. Soon after, she and Mr. Tucker returned to Charleston; they married in 1997.

In addition to Mr. Tucker, she is survived by her mother and stepfather; a brother, Brian Magar; two stepsisters, Caroline and Katherine Fly; and a stepbrother, Ashley Fly.

Ms. Magar’s cancer was diagnosed in 2023. A year later, she began to work on a piece for “Reimagined Fashion: Creations of the Future Past,” an exhibition that opened at the Charleston Museum in 2025.

One of 18 local designers invited to make something inspired by the museum’s collections, she was drawn to the 19th-century quilt squares and to a collection of late 19th-century hair wreaths. (The wreaths are Victorian memento mori, made from twisting and braiding a loved one’s hair into flowers and leaves; they are beautiful and deeply weird.)

For the exhibit, she made what she called a Healing Gown. It had a Victorian feeling, with a nipped waist and trailing skirt. The bodice she fashioned from scraps of indigo-dyed fabric, a ruffle of feathers and her own waist-length hair, which she had cut off before starting chemotherapy; the skirt was made from hospital sheets.

At her death, Ms. Magar had moved on from indigo. She was working with Kauai’s iron-rich volcanic soil, practicing a technique called dirt dyeing. She was excited about orange.

Nearly four years after his death, a retrospective of the multidisciplinary work by the self-taught American artist Daniel Brush — encompassing sculpture, paintings and jewelry in materials as diverse as steel, Bakelite and gold — is scheduled to open June 8 at the Paris location of L’Ecole, School of Jewelry Arts.

“Daniel Brush: The Art of Line and Light” will be the fifth time that L’Ecole has exhibited the artist’s work. But its president, Lise Macdonald, said she believed Mr. Brush’s legacy warranted repeated consideration: “He is a very niche artist, but he is excellent — really one of the greatest artists of the 20th and 21st century.”

The diversity of his creations has been part of his appeal, she said. “We don’t really consider him as purely a jeweler but more a protean artist where jewelry was part of his approach.”

L’Ecole Paris, which operates in an 18th-century mansion in the Ninth Arrondissement and is supported by Van Cleef & Arpels, has prepared programming to complement the show, from conversations with experts on Mr. Brush’s work (to be held on site and streamed online) to jewelry-making workshops for children. Details of the free exhibition and the events are on the school’s website; the show is scheduled to end Oct. 4.

The exhibition is to include more than 75 pieces, which span much of Mr. Brush’s five-decade career. They have been selected by Olivia Brush, his wife and collaborator, and by Vivienne Becker, a jewelry historian and author who said she first met the couple more than 30 years ago. Some exhibits, they said, have never been seen by the public before.

Ms. Becker, who wrote the 2019 monograph “Daniel Brush: Jewels Sculpture,” said the artist had possessed vast knowledge of the history of jewelry and shared her belief that jewels “answer a very important, very basic human impulse to adorn — that it’s essential to customs, beliefs, and ceremonies around the world.” She also has written a book documenting the L’Ecole exhibition — and with the same title — that examines the artist’s preoccupation with the themes of light and line.

“He loved the idea of making a real, intransigent, opaque metal into something that was almost translucent, or transparent,” said Ms. Becker, citing as an example a trio of bangles made in 2009 to 2010 that are called the “Rings of Infinity.” The lines that he engraved on the aluminum pieces functioned, she explained, to “elevate the jewel from a trinket to a great, great work of art.”

A series of engraved steel panels titled “Thinking About Monet” used the interplay of line and light to achieve a different effect, she said. Mr. Brush made individual strokes in tight formation on the panels, producing gently rippling surfaces whose color changes with shifting light conditions.

The effect “is really hard to understand. I couldn’t,” Ms. Becker said. “So many people ask, ‘Are they tinted? Are they colored?’ It’s absolutely nothing. It’s just the breaking of the light.”

Though Mr. Brush was a widely acknowledged master of skills such as granulation, the application of tiny gold balls to a metal surface, both Ms. Brush and Ms. Becker said the exhibition’s goal was not to highlight his virtuosity — nor, Ms. Becker said, was that ever a concern of Mr. Brush’s. “He didn’t want to talk about the technique at all,” she said. “Technique has to just be a means to an end. He just wanted people to be amazed, to have a sense of wonder again.”

The works selected for the L’Ecole exhibition reflect his range, which veered from diamond-set Bakelite brooches inspired by animal crackers to a steel and gold orb meant to be an object of contemplation. “He didn’t want to have boundaries,” Ms. Brush said. “He wanted to do what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it.”

The couple met as students at what is now called Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, and her 1967 wedding ring was the first jewel that Mr. Brush made.

All of Mr. Brush’s works were one-of-a-kind creations, completed from start to finish by him in the New York City loft that served as a workshop as well as a family home. Photographs of the space, which contained a library with titles on the eclectic subjects that preoccupied him — Chinese history, Byzantine art, Impressionist painting — and the antique machinery that inspired him and that he used to make his tools, are featured in the exhibition and reproduced in Ms. Becker’s book.

Ms. Brush is a fiber artist in her own right, but Mr. Brush also frequently credited her as an equal participant on pieces bearing his name. “I did not physically make the work,” she explained, “but the work would not have evolved or happened the way it did if it were not for the way we lived our lives,” she said.

The first time Pop’s Social, a catering company in South Orange, N.J., that specializes in dirty soda, served an alcoholic drink at an event, something strange happened.

At the event in December, its nonalcoholic offering, a spiced pear-cider seltzer with vanilla and peach syrups, cream, lemon and cold foam, was a hit. The Prosecco-spiked version? Not so much.

“People were more interested in the mocktail than the cocktail,” Ali Greenberg, an owner of the business, said in an interview.

Dirty soda — a customizable blend of soda, flavored syrup, creamer and sometimes fruit, served over pebble ice — has been crossing into the mainstream for years, especially after the cast of “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives,” the hit reality show that premiered in 2024, frequented Swig, the Utah chain that started it all.

But its reach has gone far beyond the Mormon corridor, and its rise in popularity has dovetailed with an overall decline in U.S. alcohol consumption. “There’s not a lot of Mormon people in our neighborhood,” said Greenberg. “But there are a lot of people who are sober-curious or not drinking.”

The reality show, which follows a group of Mormon influencers in Utah, helped popularize dirty soda beyond the Mountain States and inspired a wave of TikTok videos on the subject. Swig rapidly expanded — growing from 33 locations in Utah and Arizona in 2021 to now more than 150 locations in 16 states — along with other Utah chains, and spawned copycats nationwide.

Dirty soda has joined other Mormon cultural exports, like tradwife influencers, a “Real Housewives” franchise in Salt Lake City and Taylor Frankie Paul, the Bachelorette who wasn’t, that have captivated America.

With the recent rollouts of dirty soda at McDonald’s, Chick-fil-A and Dunkin’ — behold the Dunkin’ Dirty Soda: Pepsi, coffee milk and cold foam — and the appearance on grocery shelves of Dirty Mountain Dew and a coconut-lime Coffee Mate creamer for homemade dirty sodas, we may have reached peak dirty.

The idea for dirty soda came out of a desire for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which has millions of followers in Utah and surrounding states, to have more options for social drinking, as the church prohibits the consumption of alcohol, hot coffee and hot caffeinated tea.

When Swig introduced dirty soda in 2010, it filled a need, providing a pick-me-up for car-pooling moms and an after-school treat for their kids. It was quickly adopted by many in the community.

“In other cultures, parents go, they pick up their coffee in the morning, and for me and for a lot of my other friends’ parents, it was, ‘Let’s go pick up our dirty soda,’” Whitney Leavitt, a breakout star of “Mormon Wives,” said in an interview.

Leavitt was surprised when her dirty soda order became a recurring question from reporters in recent years. “They were so excited to hear all of the different syrups and creamers that we add to our drinks to make whatever your go-to dirty soda is,” Leavitt said. (Hers is sparkling water with sugar-free pineapple, sugar-free peach and sugar-free vanilla syrups, raspberry purée, a squeeze of lime, and fresh mint if she’s “feeling really fancy.”)

In April, Leavitt became the chief creative and brand officer at Cool Sips, a beverage chain based in New York that sells dirty sodas.

“Mormon Wives” inspired Kaitlyn Sturm, a 26-year-old mother of three from Jackson, Miss., to post recipes for dirty sodas on her TikTok. The one she makes the most contains Coke or Dr Pepper, homemade cherry syrup, a glug of coconut creamer and a packet of True Lime crystallized lime powder, which she combines in a pasta-sauce jar filled with pebble ice. “It kind of has become like a ritual, where I make one for my husband as well, and we have it most evenings,” Sturm said in an interview.

The trend has also hit fast-food menus. The new “crafted soda” menu at McDonald’s is riddled with dirty soda DNA. The Dirty Dr Pepper, with vanilla flavoring and a cold-foam topper, is the chain’s version of what has shaped up to be the universal dirty soda flavor. Since 2024, Sonic, beloved for its porous, soda-absorbing pebble ice, has offered “dirty” drinks — your choice of soda plus coconut syrup, sweet cream and lime.

These drinks might feel new, but there are antecedents in the Italian sodas of the ’90s (fizzy water and a pump of Torani syrup); the Shirley Temple (ginger ale or lemon-lime soda with grenadine and maraschino cherries); and the egg cream, a tonic of seltzer, chocolate syrup and milk. And what is a dirty Dr Pepper with cold foam if not a descendant of the root beer float? “It’s just a soda fountain from 125 years ago,” Kara Nielsen, a food and beverage trend forecaster, said in an interview.

Though Leavitt moved to New York City with her family in December, her dirty soda ritual has remained consistent, with one key difference. “In Utah, we don’t get to walk to dirty soda shops,” Leavitt said. “We have to drive there.”