"What's Wrong with Vogue?"—I'll tell you.

This article from today's Times asks that very question, and, as an answer, mentions staleness and dull socials. The author stands up for Anna Wintour (defending her against silly rumors), which I dig, but no solution is offered to right said "wrongness."

I've read Vogue as long as I can remember. Certain issues from the early and mid-nineties are forever fixed in my brain. It is not so interesting as it was then (though back then, in terms of "interest," we also had Liz Tilberis's superior, cerebral Harper's Bazaar), nor am I as receptive to its particular brand of information. But Vogue still has standards and history on its side. It needs no new editor, no massive redesign. It needs a dose of nonreality. Socials are dull. Actresses are not particularly stylish. Stylists are not particularly smart. Disney teen kulture is the cashiest cash cow on the block, its fictional high school students ruling the rugged wasteland. This real horizon is dim and doomy. I say that Vogue ought to circumvent these ugly truths, and be transportative, unreal, other, theatrical, mysterious. Now, more than ever, we need Vogue to project something sublime, to allow us to travel. Maybe they could weave stories, instead of deifying boring demi-celebrities. Maybe they could publish something a bit more inspiring than a long, expensive, constipated advertisement (peppered with good articles). Maybe they could serialize novels and hire more artists and document travels to places other than spas . . . or maybe fashion magazines are dull by nature, a prissy, limited unrevivable medium.