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Volume I — 2026

Manufactured
It Girl

Clara Bow didn't choose the label.
This is the reconstruction.

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Editorials
Crybaby
Editorial — Maguire Magazine

Crybaby

The tiara stays on. The mascara doesn't. What happens after the performance ends and the costume starts to slip.

Photography, Styling & Creative Direction: Ainsley Maguire
Model: Georgina O'Keef

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Staircase Dressing

Staircase Dressing

Editorial
Princess in Her Prime

Princess in Her Prime

Editorial — NYC
Second Skin

Second Skin

Campaign — Coperni
The Turning Point

The Turning Point

Campaign — Nodaleto

The body has value before fashion does anything to it. Fashion does not create the self from nothing. It enters a dialogue with a body that was already there.

Maguire Magazine

Articles
The Inventory — Still Life

Still Life

The Inventory

Open any woman's bag and you have her autobiography. Not the curated one — the real one. The receipt she forgot. The lipstick she chose. The book she carries but hasn't finished. Every object is a decision she made without thinking, which is exactly what makes it honest.

Words by Ainsley Maguire

The Manufactured It Girl

Culture

The Manufactured It Girl

So many girls have been considered "it," and somehow "it" always comes with the best marketing. The new it girl is not a coincidence. Her aesthetic seems so natural, but that is the whole point.

Words by Ainsley Maguire

Another Fashion Show at a Museum?

Fashion

Another Fashion Show at A Museum?

When the runway moves into the gallery, who benefits? The house gets the backdrop. The institution gets the press. But what does the work itself lose when it becomes a set?

Words by Ainsley Maguire

Poems & Behind the Scenes
Behind the scenes
Behind the scenes

Text Editorial

One Man, One Coat

There is a coat. There is a man. Between them, the entire history of dressing. Not the wardrobe — the wardrobe implies abundance, choice, the luxury of discarding. The coat is the opposite. It is what you keep.

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Behind the scenes — guitar detail

Text Editorial

Americana

America does not have fashion. America has costume. The cowboy hat was never practical. The varsity jacket earns nothing. Every American garment is a quotation — a reference to a version of the country that may never have existed.

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Behind the scenes
Behind the scenes

Text Editorial

Go to the Cinema

You do not remember what she said. You remember what she wore. This is the secret contract between cinema and fashion: the camera sees the garment before it hears the line.

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Behind the scenes — on set

Text Editorial

The White Shirt

The white shirt is the most political garment in fashion because it pretends to be neutral. It says: I have nothing to prove. But the nothing is the proof.

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About

Maguire is a fashion magazine built on a single premise: the act of getting dressed is one of the most intelligent, creative, and identity-forming things a woman does. We publish editorials, essays, and cultural criticism that take fashion as seriously as it deserves.

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  • Ainsley Maguire — Editor, Creative Director
  • Based between Paris & New York

Contributors include photographers, stylists, and writers across Paris, London, and NYC. Each editorial is its own collaboration.

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Maguire accepts editorial submissions, pitches, and collaboration proposals. If you have a story about fashion, identity, or the act of getting dressed, we want to hear it.

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Manufactured It Girl

Editorial

Manufactured
It Girl

Photography Carla Rossi Creative Direction & Styling Ainsley Maguire, Matilda Mellbin Westerlund, Vadehi Dubie Model Lys Canton For Maguire Magazine

Clara Bow didn't choose the "it" label. It was assigned, performed, then consumed. This is the reconstruction: the flapper as armour, the pearl as weapon, the peacock as witness.

The It Girl was never hers. The costume is.

The original It Girl, a term she never asked for, applied to a woman whose appeal was that she couldn't be contained. What happens when you take back the costume? The beading, the feathers, and pearls aren't nostalgia. They're a woman dressing for war in the language of the era that tried to own her.

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Staircase Dressing
Staircase Dressing

Editorial

Staircase
Dressing

Photography, Styling & Creative Direction Ainsley Maguire Styling Assistant Matilda Mellbin Westerlund Model Masha Mukhina For Maguire Magazine

Using crumpled layers, mismatched aesthetics, and the movement of a woman, this volume celebrates vulnerability and style. In the midst of mayhem and purpose, the staircase transforms from a changing room into the setting for a stunning, heart-pounding, stylish late-morning tale.

The staircase is the changing room. The changing room is the stage.

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Second Skin
Second Skin

Campaign — Coperni

Second
Skin

Photography Carla Rossi Styling & Creative Direction Ainsley Maguire, Matilda Mellbin Westerlund, Hana Morsi Model Zanelle

There's no distinction anymore between the body you dress and the body you upload. Think leather that curls away to reveal what's underneath, a bag designed for the gesture of carrying it. We shot Zanelle as both subject and screen: the projection of her own image mapped back onto her skin.

She is the projection. Coperni's Second Skin dissolves the line between body and broadcast.

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The Turning Point
The Turning Point

Campaign — Nodaleto

The Turning
Point

Photography Francesca Beltran Styling & Creative Direction Ainsley Maguire, Nathalia Cerde, Matilda Mellbin Westerlund Model Linda Belle

Built from the heel up. The shoe decides the posture, the posture decides the woman, the woman decides the room. Heel first. Everything else follows.

The shoe decides the posture. The posture decides the woman.

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Princess in Her Prime
Princess in Her Prime

Editorial — NYC

Princess in
Her Prime

Photography, Styling & Creative Direction Ainsley Maguire Model Katarina Watson

Princess in Her Prime maps one woman's New York across a single night. From scaffolding to karaoke bar, gold elevator doors to the back of a taxi. The styling treats leopard print not as a statement but as a second skin, layered against pearls and the particular glamour of someone who got ready in ten minutes and looks like it took three hours.

The city isn't a backdrop. It's the other outfit.

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Crybaby
Crybaby

Editorial — Maguire Magazine

Crybaby

Creative Direction, Styling & Photography Ainsley Maguire Model Georgina O'Keef For Maguire Magazine

The tiara stays on. The mascara doesn't. Crybaby is about what happens after the performance ends and the costume starts to slip. It's the beauty queen at 2am, the parts of femininity that aren't supposed to be photographed.

The tiara stays on. The mascara doesn't.

Next Editorial

Manufactured It Girl

Text Editorial

One Man,
One Coat

On the singular garment. The reduction of fashion to its most essential gesture.

There is a coat. There is a man. Between them, the entire history of dressing.

Not the wardrobe — the wardrobe implies abundance, choice, the luxury of discarding. The coat is the opposite. It is what you keep. The garment that outlasts the season, the trend, the lover who bought it for you. It carries the shape of the body it covered. It remembers rain.

A coat does not decorate the body. It defends it.

Barthes wrote that fashion operates through combination — the assemblage of garments into a system of meaning. But what happens when the system is reduced to one? When the rhetoric of the outfit is stripped to a single article? The coat becomes a monologue. Not what you chose to wear, but what you could not bear to take off.

There is a particular kind of man who wears one coat. Not from poverty — though poverty produces its own elegance — but from conviction. He has decided. He has stopped negotiating with the mirror. The coat is his answer to every occasion, and the answer is always the same: I am here. I brought myself. That is enough.

The wool remembers what the body forgets —
every doorframe, every station platform,
every night walk home alone.
The coat does not judge the weather.
It answers it.

We photograph coats differently than we photograph dresses. A dress invites the gaze inward — toward skin, toward the body it reveals. A coat pushes outward. It is architecture. It has shoulders that exceed the man inside. A good coat makes you larger than your skeleton.

Think of every photograph of a man walking away. It is always the coat you remember.

Fashion says: look at everything I could be. The coat says: look at what I chose.

This is an editorial about a garment that was never shot. It exists here as text because the image would have been redundant. You already know what the coat looks like. You have seen it on your father, your professor, the stranger on the métro who looked like he had been somewhere and was going somewhere else. The coat is the most photographed garment in history, and still the least understood.

One man. One coat. The rest is weather.

Words — Ainsley Maguire

For — Maguire Magazine, Volume I

Text Editorial

Americana

The myth of a country that dresses itself in its own fiction.

America does not have fashion. America has costume.

The cowboy hat was never practical. The varsity jacket earns nothing. The prom dress is a performance of innocence staged at the exact moment innocence ends. Every American garment is a quotation — a reference to a version of the country that may never have existed, dressed up in denim and sincerity.

Americana is not a style. It is a nostalgia for a place no one actually lived.

The rodeo queen applies lipstick in a gas station bathroom. Her boots cost more than her rent. The fringe on her jacket moves like it is trying to leave. She is performing the West for an audience that has only seen it in photographs, and the photographs were staged too. This is the loop: America dresses as America dressing as America.

Davis called this undercoding — when garments signal ambiguity rather than clarity. The flannel shirt means logging town or Williamsburg or Kurt Cobain's closet or your mother's boyfriend in 1994. It resists fixed meaning. It drifts. Americana lives in that drift, in the space between what the garment was and what it has become.

The diner waitress in the pink uniform
did not choose the pink.
The pink chose the decade, and the decade
chose her mother, and her mother
chose this town, and the town
never left.

There is a violence in American dressing that no one names. The cheerleader's skirt is regulation length. The soldier's dress uniform requires seventeen precise folds. The beauty pageant sash sits on the body like a verdict. These garments do not liberate. They conscript. They say: this is what we look like here, and if you do not look like this, you are somewhere else.

But the beauty — and there is beauty — lives in the failure. The prom dress that doesn't fit. The cowboy hat on the subway. The varsity letter for a school that closed. When Americana breaks, when the costume admits it is a costume, something honest emerges. Not the myth. The person underneath it, trying.

Every American outfit is a homecoming. The question is whether anyone is home.

This editorial was planned as a photographic series — gas stations, diners, borrowed trucks, the golden hour that only exists in countries with too much sky. It is presented here as text because sometimes the image you planned says less than the longing that produced it.

Words — Ainsley Maguire

For — Maguire Magazine, Volume I

Text Editorial

Go to
the Cinema

Fashion as frame. The costume as the character you remember longest.

You do not remember what she said. You remember what she wore.

This is the secret contract between cinema and fashion: the camera sees the garment before it hears the line. Costume is the first dialogue. Before the actress opens her mouth, the dress has already told you who she is, who she was, and who she will pretend to be.

The cinema does not document clothes. It consecrates them.

Think of every outfit that became a character. Audrey's black dress was not a costume choice — it was a thesis statement. It said: elegance is the refusal to explain yourself. Mia Wallace's white shirt said: I am dangerous and clean. The red coat in Schindler's List said: you cannot look away. The garment carries what the screenplay cannot.

There is a particular loneliness to getting dressed for the cinema. Not for the screen — for the audience. The act of choosing what to wear to sit in the dark. No one will see you. The lights will go down. And still, you chose that jacket. Still, you put on lipstick for a room that will forget your face. This is fashion at its most honest: dressing for yourself, witnessed by no one, in a room built for looking at someone else.

The cinema seat holds the shape of everyone
who sat there before you.
In the dark, all clothes are the same colour.
In the dark, the dress you agonised over
becomes invisible, and you become
only eyes.

Goffman would say the cinema is a frame within a frame — the audience performs spectatorship while the screen performs narrative, and the costume mediates between the two. We dress up to watch people dress up. We project onto projections. The garment in the film is not real cloth. It is light. And the garment you wore to watch it is not really for the film. It is for the version of yourself who goes to films.

This was meant to be shot in cinemas — the red velvet, the exit signs, the particular beauty of someone sitting alone in a matinee. Silk against a fold-down seat. Heels on sticky floors. The editorial exists here in language because the cinema itself is language: a dark room where images replace words, and fashion replaces everything.

We dress for the dark the same way we dress for love — with irrational hope that someone is watching.

Words — Ainsley Maguire

For — Maguire Magazine, Volume I

Text Editorial

The
White Shirt

Minimalism as refusal. The nothing that says everything.

The white shirt is the most political garment in fashion because it pretends to be neutral.

It says: I have nothing to prove. But the nothing is the proof. The white shirt requires maintenance — bleach, press, starch, the labour of keeping something clean that wants to show every stain. It is the garment of people who can afford to start over. Every morning, a fresh white shirt is a small resurrection.

The white shirt does not simplify. It edits.

The nineties understood this. When fashion exhausted itself on maximalism — the logos, the gold, the performance of excess — it retreated into a white shirt and black trousers and called it minimalism. But minimalism was never the absence of fashion. It was fashion holding its breath. Jil Sander knew. Helmut Lang knew. They stripped the garment to its architecture and the architecture was the point.

There is an arrogance to the white shirt that no one discusses. It enters every room assuming the room will adjust. It pairs with everything because it acknowledges nothing. It is the garment equivalent of a person who listens without responding — present, composed, giving nothing away.

The iron moves across the cotton
like a hand smoothing a letter
before it is sent.
What is a white shirt
if not a blank page
worn against the body —
the essay you carry
but never publish.

Entwistle wrote that dress is a situated bodily practice — it exists only on the body, in context, in motion. The white shirt tests this. On a hanger, it is nothing. On a body, it is a declaration. It reveals the collarbone, the wrist, the architecture of the person inside it. Every other garment adds something. The white shirt removes everything that is not you.

This editorial was conceived as a study in reduction — one model, one shirt, one room, no styling. It exists here as text because the white shirt has been photographed ten thousand times and not once has the photograph been as interesting as the feeling of putting one on.

The white shirt is fashion's silence. And silence, when it is chosen, is the loudest thing in the room.

Words — Ainsley Maguire

For — Maguire Magazine, Volume I

Still Life

The Inventory

Open any woman's bag and you have her autobiography. Not the curated one. The real one.

Words by Ainsley Maguire

Still Life — The Inventory

I have this theory that you can know someone entirely by the contents of their bag. Not their wardrobe — their wardrobe is a performance, a curated edit of who they want to be that day. The bag is different. The bag is unedited. It carries the things you grabbed on the way out the door, the things you forgot to throw away, the things you keep because you might need them or because you cannot let go. The bag is the subconscious of getting dressed.

There is a receipt in here from three weeks ago. A lipstick chosen at speed. Keys to a place I am not sure I still call home. A camera because I always think I will take a photo and sometimes I actually do. Sunglasses for the version of me that wakes up early and goes outside. A book I started on a plane and haven't touched since. These are not accessories. They are evidence.

The bag is unedited. It carries the things you grabbed on the way out the door, the things you forgot to throw away, the things you keep because you cannot let go.

In fashion, we obsess over what is visible. The outfit, the silhouette, the way the coat falls from the shoulder. But the bag holds everything the outfit cannot say. It holds the mess. It holds the in-between. It holds the morning you left in a rush and the evening you are trying to prepare for. If the outfit is the sentence you rehearsed, the bag is the notes you scribbled in the margin.

Barthes talked about fashion as a system of signs — every garment a word in a sentence the body writes. But the bag resists that system. The bag is the punctuation no one sees, the footnote at the bottom of the page. It does not signify in the same way a dress does. It accumulates. It layers. It holds contradictions without resolving them: the self-help book next to the cigarettes, the face cream next to the crumpled Post-it with a phone number you will never call.

We shot this as a still life because that is what it is. A nature morte of the everyday. No model, no styling, no art direction beyond the act of opening the bag and letting it speak. The objects arranged themselves. They had been arranging themselves for weeks, through taxis and cafés and studio floors and the bottom of a closet. Every still life is a portrait. This one just doesn't have a face.

If the outfit is the sentence you rehearsed, the bag is the notes you scribbled in the margin.

I think about the women I admire and I think about their bags. Not the bags themselves — I do not care about the label on the outside, or I try not to, though the industry makes that difficult. I think about what is inside. What they cannot leave the house without. What they carry that is useless but essential. What they would reach for if the bag caught fire. That is the inventory. That is the real wardrobe. Everything else is just clothes.

Culture

The Manufactured It Girl

So many girls have been considered "it," and somehow "it" always comes with the best marketing. Her aesthetic seems so natural. That is the whole point.

Words by Ainsley Maguire

The Manufactured It Girl

The it girl plays a key role in today's pop culture. Across almost every social feed, fashion campaign, and casting choice, she is familiar before she is known. From niche to mainstream, she is the girl of the moment, or the girl just before the moment. Brands that want to resonate with Gen Z are searching high and low for the it girl who will guarantee views, likes, and shares. And here is where we ask ourselves: are it girls really "it" if they do not innately have it?

So many girls have been considered "it," and somehow "it" always comes with the best marketing. And that is the thing nowadays: marketing a woman who is publicly confident in herself as the new it girl is not a coincidence. Her aesthetic seems so natural, but that is the whole point. Her public appearances are rarely solo. She is always with her posse: hair-stylist, makeup artist, stylist, creative director, and much more.

We often look at the it girl of the moment, see her life, and want it, admiring the nonchalance and desiring the ease.

The construction of the it girl is itself a fashion act. She is dressed, styled, positioned, and lit before the camera ever arrives. The "natural" is rehearsed. The effortlessness is the most effortful thing in the room. And yet we consume it as though it were accidental, as though some women are simply born with a quality that the rest of us lack.

What if the it girl is not a person but a garment? Something put on, adjusted, worn for a season, and then retired. The label has never belonged to the woman wearing it. It belongs to the industry that assigned it, the audience that consumed it, and the cycle that will replace her when the next one arrives.

Fashion

Another Fashion Show at A Museum?

When the runway moves into the gallery, who benefits? The house gets the backdrop. The institution gets the press. But what does the work itself lose when it becomes a set?

Words by Ainsley Maguire

Fashion and Museums

Another season, another show staged inside a museum. The marble floors, the institutional lighting, the silent authority of art history pressed into service as a runway backdrop. It has become the default move for any house that wants to signal seriousness: borrow the weight of the museum, dress the models in its gravitas, and let the Instagram grid do the rest.

The question is not whether fashion belongs in museums. It does. Clothing is material culture, and the best of it is as complex as anything hanging on the walls. The question is what happens when the museum becomes a set rather than a context. When the paintings become wallpaper. When the institution's authority is borrowed rather than earned.

The museum becomes a set. The paintings become wallpaper. The institution's authority is borrowed rather than earned.

There is a version of this that works. When a designer's practice is genuinely in conversation with the art — when the collection responds to the space rather than just occupying it. And there is a version that is simply real estate: a beautiful room, rented for the evening, emptied of meaning by the time the front row sits down.