There doesn’t need to be anymore fashion—obviously there should be less—but if you’re going to make a magazine, what should it try to communicate? There’s this thing about what people wear when it looks like they don’t know anything about fashion; that’s maybe most interesting to people these days.

Exciting and intriguing, which looks both new, while also echoing Hal Fischer’s Gay Semiotics photo books from the 1970s, Apartamento’s documentary-style reportage, and the best, most free-form seconds from 1990s and early 2000s editions of British style mags, such as The Face, i-D and Dazed & Confused.
The Guardian

Bodies, sexuality, power, titillation, humor.
Creative Review

Fashion magazines have traditionally sold dreams. The mood of Nuts is anxiety and malaise— the abortive night out, the workout gone wrong, the branch of Footlocker about to get looted. Yet there’s something else deep within it, too: for one, the hope that the 21st-century angst expressed by the anonymous voices haunting these monochrome pages might one day be dispelled. For another, the possibility that the strategies of meditation could succeed in stilling a racing mind, or the hope that attempts at connecting to another human being could overcome bashfulness in order to discover something rich and intimate. There’s fear and darkness in these pages, but also an optimism in their relentless examination of street life and self-expression, from the cruisers in the park to the melancholy beachcomber hunting for fragments of civilization, the signs of life amidst the darkness.

Punk positivism. Humor as cultural rebellion. High fashion hijacked. Nuts is a terrible name but is a magazine full of energy that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than an experiment in the form. A black and white fever dream of lo-fi fashion story aesthetics, it’s neither zine nor magazine, book nor artifact, it’s more a document or unfolding documentary of free play. I love the feeling of improvisation, of a 90s DIY early Dazed & Confused playfulness that comes across. Put me down for a subscription.

Fashion should trigger new experiences in you. It should change you on a subatomic level like a particle accelerator. We are floating outside of time and place. Who the hell are these people—it doesn’t matter. Fashion magazines used to be about the latest trends and the brands you should know and then in the 80s and 90s there were style magazines and it wasn’t about what you wore, it was how you wore it: your style, your face, your identity. Your cultural affiliations and what they said about you. How you expressed yourself through art and creativity. And then there was street-style photography and Instagram and it was all about the images you made of yourself, how you turned yourself into an image. On the internet it’s all about your identity. Your identity and your personality: Who you pretend to be, what you are faking. Now it’s not even that. There is no such thing as identity: That’s why we’re always chasing it from place to place through the shadows across the decades; that’s why the places in which it’s supposed to reside are always changing. Your identity doesn’t exist. Your personality doesn’t matter at all and it’s not even real. You are on a journey to eternity. A lot of cutting-edge culture now is just middle-aged British men telling you what to do, at great length. And not in a clear way either. This is a flick-book hypnotic black-and-white phantasmagoric MANIFESTATION: You can simply become whatever you want. Whatever you wish every day. That’s the American Dream! The power of prayer and intention and positive thought. The subject is you. No one reads fashion magazines anymore. No one has read fashion magazines for a very, very long time. No one reads fashion magazines but this magazine can write you. Now you are here. Where do you want to be?

The state of a fashion magazine. Lord help us. I am not a teenage girl in Minnesota anymore. I am not buying stone cold bricks of Vogue at Books-a-Million with the money I made slinging cupcakes for the first gay man who ever employed me. Instead, I am trolling TikTok for women exploding out of piles of fabric. I am getting hyper-specific Instagram ads; high heels for a butch femme. I am judging the pill of sweaters from the palm of my hand. I am debating a shibori workshop in Santa Fe. The state of the fashion magazine is a closet sale held in the house of a fashion-adjacent skinny friend. All my size 9 shoe mamas to the front. The state of the fashion magazine is a wedding in Mexico with a hashtag. The state of the fashion magazine is a case of natural wine at a rave in LA.

Nuts is Nuts! Reminds me of like, Chlöe’s wedding—a real blast! Iggy Pop was there! Mary J. Blige was there! Johnny Thunders was there! Jordan Wolfson was there! Nuts is like just like Chlöe’s wedding because it’s so much stuff, all in one place. Arthur Russell played his cello as Chlöe and Sinisa had their first dance, then GG Allin joined Arthur on stage, and GG sang “Moon River,” which was like totally unexpected ‘cos GG’s normally like, WILD! Then Sid Vicious showed up with, like, Marc Jacobs, and I didn’t even know those guys knew each other! Marc and Sid pushed Arthur and GG off the stage, like totally manhandled them—like, physically! Then Marc and Sid did a duet—“Islands in The Stream”—which was like, totally unexpected also! Especially when ODB got up and joined them and sang so sweet—man! Everybody was just like WHOAAAAAAAAA! Anyways, I didn’t get an invite to Chlöe’s wedding, but I did just buy a copy of Nuts, which is like, the same thing—so COOL!

I checked into the hospital on my birthday and so the bracelet had my birthday twice. The nurse was dressed like a pirate. My birthday is Halloween. When I photographed Lady Gaga, she wanted to wear a Tiffany’s heart necklace because she imagined women like Joanne sitting on a blanket far away from the stage, wearing a Tiffany’s heart. When you got into my bed you took off all your clothes and made a point of throwing your ring onto the floor. A sexy woman is senseless. Doubtless the less you know. That Katherine Hamnett ad with pubic hair. Fuck, it’s Richardson. What can we do about it all. The scarier young people are, the better. But they should all live in the same village.