Vanity Fair Attempts Recession-Proofing of Socialites, Makes Mockery Of Itself

Vanity Fair is one of those magazines I like in theory because a visually pleasing, reasonably well-written melange of culture, style and current events appeals to me in theory. In reality, it usually proves a mishmash of things I don’t care about, like Jessica Simpson’s weight and who got the short end of Brooke Astor‘s money stick. My emotional response to the mag’s usually an apathetic Meh. But last week, mid-pedicure and uber bored, I picked up the June Issue, and saw something repulsive enough to transform my former indifference into a current (and likely permanent) state of vexation toward this sham of a publication.

Something that’s always been far-removed from my life and yours; something that’s drooled over by VF and Vogue editorial alike; something only marginally significant in the best of economic times; something overwhelmingly irrelevant in the worst.

Vanity Fair’s deeming Socialites worthy of a twenty page feature is bad enough. But the mag’s attempt to frame Fortune’s Children in the context of a Recession makes me think it’s living in the same bubble as the heirs and heiresses gracing its pages.

I’m fairly certain that flipping through this precious little collection of photographs of “the next generation of some of the world’s greatest fortunes” made me dumber, but I’m not about to let that stop me from having a rant-riddled field day with this pitiable excuse for an editorial feature. The piece opens with this compelling question:

What’s it like being young and beautiful, with a 24-karat pedigree and inherited wealth, in populist, economically perilous 2009?

I obvs don’t know, which must make me curious about and fascinated by those who do. Wait…WHAT? I’m broke as fuck and not inheriting jack: You think I want to read about the economy’s effect on the ‘ambitions’ of trust-fund babies? As a mere peon, I’m not quite sure why I should care about the young upper crust’s “making privilege count,” but I’m probs not refined enough to see the logic. Maybe a sampling of their profiles will enlighten me.



BIANCA BRANDOLINI D’ADDA – Don’t know don’t care.
Parents: Count Ruy and Countess Georgina Brandolini D’Adda. Still don’t care.
‘Job’: Currently at Studio Pygmalion acting school in Paris. Groundbreaking.
Quote: ‘I would love to have children with the man I love and then many, many, many, many years later get married to him.’ You don’t need a fortune to bear children out of wedlock, dollface.

GABRIELECORTO MOLTEDO – Too fascinated by the robe to care about the person.
Parents: Laura and Vittorio Moltedo, founders of Bottega Veneta. Def owns a murse.
‘Job’: Founder and designer of leather-goods company named after himself. Def owns a LOT of murses.
Quote: ‘I use mass transport to get places and stuff.’ Hobbies include showing off murses in public.



AMANDA HEARST – Lemme guess, you like clothes.
Education: Choate Rosemary Hall, Fordham University. Somebody didn’t do so hot at boarding school.
Quote: “Doing philanthropy just seems natural. I’ve never questioned it.” A good thing too, seeing as you don’t currently have a job.

HAYLEY BLOOMINGDALE – Lemme guess, you like clothes too.
‘Job’: Marketing intern at Diane von Furstenberg. Aww, do you get to hang with the crew from The City?
Quote: “I’m from L.A., so I like to wear a lot of color.” I’m from N.J., so I really don’t give a shit.

This isn’t me choosing the worst of the worst here: The bulk of Fortune’s Children either have low-paying glamour jobs, jobs via nepotism, or no jobs at all.

All Vanity Fair’s tribute to them does is affirm the obvious: Where personality, intellect, and ambition are concerned, there’s no poison more lethal than limitless wealth.

To deem this crop of privileged youth worthy of a magazine feature is to frame money as a birthright of the aristocracy in lieu of what it is: Something anyone from anywhere can make, particularly if they know how to use their brain and bust their ass. In a recession, I want to see profiles on people who came from nowhere, worked hard, and ended up somewhere better. Not photographic love letters to spoiled shitless kids, pretty as they may be.

All heirs and heiresses pictured align themselves with some sort of Philanthropic Cause, and I sincerely hope their charity extends to lifestyle mags.

Because someone needs to buy a certain Conde Nasty publication some fucking common sense.