How a Vanity Fair Insider Managed Hollywood Egos

On my first day at Vanity Fair, I received a tap on my left shoulder from a woman with cropped blond hair, a voluminous mink, and enormous black sunglasses. She looked out of sorts. “Can you tell me where my office is?” she asked. It was Tina Brown. True, the maze of indistinguishable cubicles was confusing, but was it not odd that the editor in chief didn’t know the way from the elevator to her office? I offered to guide her. I figured we would find it eventually—after all, the maze was roughly circular, designed like a dementia ward, so one eventually finds one’s room. I located her office, and she disappeared into it without a backward glance.

I asked a colleague about the incident, and she said, “Oh yes. Hap­pens all the time. Tina never knows where she is.” Sure enough, it wasn’t the last time I got “the tap.” I learned that her driver had to be given separate instructions on their destination, as she would invariably have forgotten by the time she got in the car. If she was given a note with the information, she would immediately lose it. I figured her mind was on other, more interesting, things. She had rescued the dramatically tanking reboot of Vanity Fair from imminent death and put it in the black, with a bold redesign that mixed Hollywood glitz and gossip with lengthy, in-depth articles on so-called real issues. She hired fabulous writers and photographers, causing an uproar in the magazine world by paying them unprecedented rates.

My new boss, Jane Sarkin, was wiry and intense, with a habit of chewing her hair when nervous, which was all the time. Her job was to come up with the best possible cover subjects and any Hollywood-related features. She often juggled ten different stories at once, han­dling notoriously demanding and aggressive PR people and agents with aplomb and a no-bullshit attitude that demanded respect. She walked fast, she thought fast, and she talked in a classic New York staccato.

Once a cover star was chosen, Jane’s job was to hash out the con­tract with their agent and then produce the shoot. Annie Leibovitz and Helmut Newton shot most of the covers. Annie would only speak to Jane or Tina. When she visited the office, she strode into Jane’s of­fice midsentence and paced around the tiny room, booming demands. Like Jane she hated wasted time, so they got along well. Annie never once acknowledged my existence, though the windowless room was only about 100 square feet. She had eyes only for Jane, and when she left, she strode out as she had arrived: booming in midsentence. Helmut would only speak to the German photo editor, Elisabeth Biondi.

Unlike the other editorial assis­tants I was privy to the magazine’s many dramas. I loved being in the middle of the action.

Every morning started with a double espresso and all the tabloids and trade rags known to mankind. I parsed Page Six, the Daily News, People, Us Weekly, Star, Billboard, Variety, even the National Enquirer for items that signaled a celebrity’s ascent or demise. I circled them with a Sharpie and put them on Jane’s desk for her to speed-read when she arrived. When bored I called the promotions department at Self, just to hear the voice on the other end say, “Self Promotion.” It never failed to make me laugh. The fact-checkers amused me too—in particular one diligent soul who spent days trying to fact-check the concept of a monsoon.

I learned that one way to make an impression at the magazine was to pitch ideas for the page known as “Vanities.” Pitches had to have “pegs” that tied a notable person to events three months in the future. One of my pitches was a very famous singer who was releasing a new album on her seventieth birthday. “Not quite Vanity Fair” was the tepid response. “Old, fat, and Black” was the translation by a more seasoned colleague.

My wages were low, but the perks were sublime. All of New York was at my fingertips. Front-row seats at Carnegie Hall to see Ella Fitzgerald? No problem. The opening of Miles Davis’s nightclub at which he would perform? Done. I enjoyed the full spectrum of the city’s offerings, from the sublime to the ridiculous—Siegfried & Roy, Barry Manilow, and even Julio Iglesias, whose 100 percent Latina au­dience sobbed, “Te quiero, Julio!” throughout the concert at a volume that made him inaudible, their arms outstretched, tears streaming down their cheeks. Marla and I saw James Brown at the Savoy, Eartha Kitt at the Carlisle, Tito Puente and Celia Cruz at the Blue Note—and indelibly, Peggy Lee at the Ballroom, post-stroke, half paralyzed in her Swarovski-studded wheelchair, singing “Is That All There Is?”

At Vanity Fair, my scattershot past turned out to be an asset. My familiarity with the art world, knowledge of the players and celebrities who frequented Indochine, immersion in the fashion world, and extensive travel were all attributes. Most of my peers had come to Condé Nast straight from college and did not have these frames of reference.

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With Vanity Fair on the rise, the offices were given a glamorous new makeover. The warren of dusty brown cubicles was demolished and replaced with a dramatic white open-plan scheme that maximized the windows. The new design had a long walkway leading from the eleva­tor to Tina’s office. Even she would not be able to get lost now. Jane and I ended up with the short stick, as our office was one of the few in the redesign with no window. However, it had the great advantage of proximity to Tina. This meant that unlike the other editorial assis­tants I was privy to the magazine’s many dramas. I loved being in the middle of the action.

Style director, former model, and major YSL muse Marina Schiano strode the new hallway as if it were a catwalk in her black cape, topped with a gash of red lipstick and industrial-scale sunglasses. She was always furious, her deep Italian voice echoing around the office. Edi­tor at large Bob Colacello would burst into Jane’s office as if it were an emergency, his Ralph Lauren cable-knit cashmere around his shoul­ders. In urgent sotto voce he would frantically share the latest gossip into Jane’s ear as I desperately tried to eavesdrop from my desk in the corner. Then one day I heard him say, “So then Halston said to Liza…and Bianca said to Andy…” and I realized that Bob was talking about things that happened ten years ago. He was living the past as if it had happened last night. David Kuhn, the arts editor, talked and walked faster than anyone I’d ever met, and never sat down.

I chased him down the halls pitching stories. He was smart and amusing, if one could keep up with him long enough to hear his quips. Elisabeth Biondi, the photo editor, was a German redhead who dressed as if star­ring in a Fassbinder film. Sharon Delano was the editor for writers of the weighty editorial pieces, such as John Richardson, Paul Gold­berger, and Ron Rosenbaum. She was prone to barking terse prophe­cies of doom from under a helmet of white hair. She did not suffer fools, so I was flattered when she took a shine to me. I recognized a postcard of a Zubarán still life on her pinboard, and she found it re­markable that a minion knew of this painter. She adored Tina but was always railing against the “fucking Hollywood crap” that littered the pages—though she well knew this high/low recipe was precisely what made Vanity Fair so successful. I had a suspicion she secretly loved the trashy part too.

When visiting the office, the writers perched on Jane’s sofa and chatted all afternoon, happy to find a way to avoid writing. This was a cast of extreme characters—on one end of the spectrum the dishev­eled James Wolcott, with his subversive, irascible persona and hilari­ous rants, at the other, Ben Brantley, with his elegant, birdlike manner, erudition, and razor-sharp wit.

Stars of a certain caliber demanded certain privileges in their con­tracts: quote approval, cover approval, cover-or-nothing…Vanity Fair wished to appear to grant these privileges but really had no intention of doing so. The initial contracts were drawn up by the Condé Nast lawyers and faxed to the star’s agent, then faxed back with requested adjustments. I was enlisted to word the adjustments in a way that re­tained subtle legal loopholes for the magazine. The newly worded document would be sent back upstairs to the Condé Nast lawyers, and so on. Sometimes the negotiations went back and forth for days, but eventually the star always signed. Nobody ever said no to a Vanity Fair cover.

When Diana Ross was the cover, she naturally demanded both quote and cover approval. Lynn Hirschberg was to write the piece, and Annie Leibovitz to photograph it. After the shoot Diana was in­vited to view the selects with Annie, Tina, and the creative director. She swept into the office, her perfumed hair and fur coats billowing behind her as if she had a personal wind machine. Everyone genuflected. A bottle of Cristal was summoned. On the viewing shelf, three mockup covers were placed in a row. There appeared to be options, but Diana was actually being shown Tina’s pick alongside the two worst photos from the shoot. The choice was an illusion. Diana wasn’t happy with any of the photos and played her own card: the right to insist on a reshoot. Annie shot Diana again, and again she swept into the office—hair, fur, wind machine, bowing, Cristal—only to face the same ruse with three different mockups. She relented and chose the photo she was supposed to choose.

Lynn Hirschberg went to Los Angeles and interviewed Diana three times. She isolated Diana’s quotes and sent them to her; Diana approved them. When the article came out, Diana sued Condé Nast, claiming that she had been misquoted. I was tasked with listening to the tapes of the three interviews with Diana’s quotes in front of me. I had to make sure that she had in fact said all the things in the article. I confirmed that she had.

On reading the article I realized why Diana was apoplectic. Lynn had taken quotes from different days of the interview and juxtaposed them. This made for several eye-popping moments, such as Diana talking about her philanthropic deeds and belief in not having “too much,” with a segue straight into a description of her mansion, with a walk-in closet just for her furs. These quotes were from day one and day three of the interviews. Lynn’s artistic license made Diana look dumb, out of touch with reality, and basically like a complete asshole. Legally, however, Diana had not been misquoted. Condé Nast won the suit.

Jodie Foster had a cover-or-nothing clause, but Tina gazumped her for Princess Diana and put Jodie inside the issue. Jodie sued. She won, but she had to endure the shame of being an A-list star with no cover story for her new film. Magazine mogul S. I. Newhouse could not have been thrilled with Tina that day, but the company had factored in occasional hits such as these, and he ultimately trusted Tina’s in­stincts.

No matter the scenario, the stars always lost. There was an attitude at the magazine: Whatever a star wants, we will give them the opposite—because we can. If Madonna requests Helmut Newton, give her the aesthetic antithesis. “It’s Herb Ritts or no cover!” If she had requested Herb Ritts, they would have insisted on Helmut Newton. Maintenance of the impression of absolute power, often at the ex­pense of logic, was simply part of the culture. I flew to Paris to smug­gle Gaultier chainmail into New York for the shoot.

Stars who were given the editorial equivalent of blowjobs were never happy with the results. Following each publication day Jane was bombarded with calls from livid agents and threats of lawsuits. Even the puff pieces by Jesse Kornbluth resulted in paroxysms of fury and accusations of betrayal. They all swore they would never work with Vanity Fair again. They all did. As Mae West noted, it’s better to be looked over than to be overlooked. But even the most shameless media whores flinch at having their oyster publicly shucked.

Soon after I joined the staff, Vanity Fair hosted a glamorous party to celebrate the magazine’s fifth anniversary. I wore Yasuo’s Armani tux and Manolo Blahniks—black velvet and cream grosgrain heels with square diamanté Pilgrim buckles that Jan bought me to celebrate the new job. With my short dark hair slicked back, I felt I cut a good silhouette. Bob Colacello made my night by mistaking me for Tina Chow. All the glittering ’80s characters from both coasts attended the party. The Los Angeles editor, Caroline Graham, had been flown in to help organize it. She had been a demanding and irritable second boss to me for two weeks. I took my revenge on the dance floor, when I saw her dancing with super-agent Swifty Lazar.

I should have desperately wanted a promotion. But there was no job that I yearned for at Vanity Fair or any other magazine.

“May I cut in?” I said, and Swifty whirled me away, leaving Caro­line with her jaw on the floor. Swifty was about five feet tall and extremely strong. I had no need for the steps—in Swifty’s tenacious grip I floated an inch above the floor, appearing to dance impeccably, my chin resting on his bristly head. When the dance was over, he stood back and looked at me. He said, “My dear, you’re marvelous! Give me a call at my office tomorrow!” And he handed me his card. I didn’t call. What could Swifty do for me? As far as I was concerned, I had everything I wanted.

I was sent to Los Angeles for two weeks to assist the editors in or­ganizing a benefit gala at MOCA. Caroline Graham was still miffed about Swiftygate, but Wendy Stark was friendlier. I couldn’t believe how much L.A. was like a movie about L.A. Famous people were everywhere. I got used to realizing that the Michelle we were meeting for lunch was either Phillips or Pfeiffer. At the gala I was seated be­tween David Hockney and his boyfriend, Troy, a twenty-two-year-old self-proclaimed “Valley Girl.” David was happy to be reacquainted and invited me to visit his beach house.

The following afternoon I took a $100 taxi to Malibu. Troy greeted me at the door. He waved as he left for the gym in his Porsche: “Ciao!” David showed me around his beach shack, which seemed suspended directly over the Pacific Ocean. We visited his studio, overflowing with portraits of his dachshunds, Stanley and Boodgie.

“I keep thinking, What am I doing, painting my dogs? But then I look at Stanley and think, I’d better make another one.” He laughed. “Fancy a cuppa?”

Holding chipped English teacups, we stepped onto the deck. The wind blew our hair about, and waves swept up the beach just below us. Seabirds hovered and the sun blazed. In moving to L.A., David had found a place where the palette matched his own.

“Come and sit,” he said, turning his back to the view. He’d built a fireplace into the cliff. There was a carpet, upon which the dogs had thrown themselves. The deck was shaded by palms and sheltered from the wind. David and I sat in armchairs, sipping tea in front of the fire, the sound of the ocean behind us. I flashed back to the palm-tree sculptures and the fireplace in his Notting Hill flat and told David my memory of that visit.

He laughed. “Nothing’s changed. I came six thousand miles for a cup of tea.”

The gala was a success, and I was offered the chance to move to L.A. to work for Caroline and Wendy, with a view toward eventually becoming an L.A. editor. I was intrigued by the idea of life in Holly­wood, but there were two major caveats. I couldn’t drive. And after two years of romantic drought, I had a strong suspicion that back in New York, I was falling in love.

If asked to describe the difference between Anna Wintour and Tina Brown, I would say that Anna is a monomath, while Tina is a polymath. Anna was born to do the job she has done so well. She is devout in her observance of the magazine world’s planetary order and rotations, and sees the world primarily through the lens of the fashion business. She is inside her world, operating it from the nucleus. An­na’s DNA does not contain a nucleotide for irony. She means it. Tina does not consider herself bound by the magazine world’s foundations, maintaining a “what-if” insouciance toward the establishment and the precise order and movement of its orbs. She is on the outside looking in, wondering how to break precedent. Her passion is for serious, well-written content, but she knows that can’t be served dry. She plays with the orbs like balls on a billiard table, observing with delight the collisions she has set in motion.

While I worked at Vanity Fair, Tina was asked in a televised interview to describe the magic formula she’d created to successfully modernize the magazine where others had failed. She spoke well, conveying the importance of Vanity Fair’s longform articles on politics and world events, and then casually added something like “Of course, we need a bimbo of the month to lighten things up.” She was referring to the monthly full-page portrait of a starlet, with a blurb about their immi­nent success. The use of the word bimbo was the only thing anyone heard in the whole interview, and Tina got major flak for it. But it was something else she said that caught my attention. Tina talked about how magazines function, how there are “inside people” and “outside people,” and how it’s the outside ones who feed the magazine—the writers, photographers, and cartoonists.

As the emergencies, disasters, and triumphs repeated at the maga­zine, the job started to chafe. After two years, I should have been angling to work my way up the corporate ladder. To do this I needed to apply for jobs within the company, with an increase in responsibility and better pay. I should have desperately wanted a promotion. But there was no job that I yearned for at Vanity Fair or any other magazine—not Jane’s, or any other editor’s—not even Tina’s. The thought of spending the rest of my twenties in that building, in any building, made me panic. I looked at Jane’s collection of VF covers and felt the future being carved out in interminable identical monthly servings. In this business, the higher one climbed, the less freedom one had. I overheard editors comparing vacation days with competi­tive glee: “I have sixteen days I haven’t taken!” “Sixteen? I have thirty!” I didn’t want vacation days; I wanted to see the world while I was young.

One morning I entered the elevator in my sunglasses holding my double espresso, as I had a thousand times before, and pressed 4. Two girls about my age stood behind me. They had blow-dried hair with frosted tips, and I assumed they were in equivalent jobs to mine at Self or Glamour. As the doors closed, one said to the other, “So, wherrrerya goin’ on ya vacation?” The other said, “I dunno, I thought I’d go to a spa.” I turned around and lowered my glasses. “You have ten days off a year and you’re spending them at a fucking spa?” Startled, they looked at me. The one with the vacation days said nervously, “Or maybe St. Barts?” The elevator doors opened. I stepped off and turned around. “Same fucking thing!” I said, and watched the doors close on their appalled faces. I was also appalled. It was not even 9am and I had already yelled at two complete strangers in an elevator. By the time I reached my desk I’d had a minor epiphany. I’d arrogantly as­sumed that everyone my age felt the same claustrophobia I did, that it was just part of the job. These girls weren’t claustrophobic at all. They loved being enveloped by Condé Nast and had no trouble with the job’s parameters. Why was I shouting at them? It was my problem, not theirs. The following week I handed in my notice.

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Excerpted from I Regret I Am Able to Attend: A Life Among Artists by Jessica Craig-Martin. Copyright © 2026 by Jessica Craig-Martin. All rights reserved. Published by Random House, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.