In the summer of 1995, Vogue’s glossy pages crackled with an eerie sensation. Among its spreads was an editorial titled “Courrèges Edge,” a photographic essay presented as if intercepted through security footage — grainy, clinical, and cool. The subject? Kate Moss, eternally elusive, captured not in traditional glamour but in a hyper-modernist narrative of surveillance and intimacy. The editorial was the byproduct of a video project titled "Diamonds", directed by Nick Knight — a visual artifact reflecting the paranoid poise of a decade grappling with its own visibility.
Set against the sharp rise of closed-circuit surveillance systems in the mid-’90s, Diamonds was less a fashion film than a cultural mirror. The story behind this idea as told by Knight, is that he recalls a moment where he had been at an airport shooting with Lisa Evangelista and looking up to notice they were being watched by the multitude of cameras that were now installed at every corner of not just these airports but everywhere in public spaces. The video, Diamonds inspired by that moment, follows Moss through a clinical, anonymous space somewhere in the city of New York— sterile walls, tight corridors — as she speaks on the phone with artist Sarah Morris. Over the call, she recounts the tale of a lost and recovered diamond necklace, a gift from her then-boyfriend Johnny Depp. The story, according to Knight, was real. But its retelling — distant, caught on camera, disconnected from the body — becomes something else entirely: something of a commentary on the rising anxiety that society was developing through the unknown, that was technology.
In an era when paparazzi culture was metastasizing and digital voyeurism was entering the domestic sphere, Knight's “Diamonds” struck a chilling chord. The camera had become an unknown eye, a watcher.
The clothes worn by Moss at first glance, seemed to directly reference the crisp, mod futurism of André Courrèges — the 1960s French designer known for his vinyl miniskirts, space-age tailoring, and stark white palettes. But while the title “Courrèges Edge” led readers to believe they were witnessing high-end homage, the truth was far more democratic. The garments worn by Moss were not archival Courrèges originals, nor even designer replicas. They were made from Vogue Patterns— templates readers could find at the back of the magazine, to cut and sew at home.
This was where Vogue displayed its genius. Editorials like this didn’t just show readers what was fashionable — they inspired them to recreate it. The magazine became a kind of high-fashion lookbook meets instruction manual, transforming passive consumption into creative participation. By placing home-sewn garments on a global icon like Moss, styled by professionals and shot by Nick Knight, Vogue elevated the idea of DIY fashion from something quaint to something aspirational. Readers weren’t just following trends — they were being invited to make them real, with their own hands.
This approach drew from a long tradition of fashion publishing, where pattern magazines once served as lifelines for the stylish middle class. In the '90s, reviving this model felt both nostalgic and rebellious. It blurred the line between consumer and creator, couture and craft. And in the case of “Courrèges Edge,” it made the act of sewing — often relegated to the domestic or amateur sphere — feel like an act of cultural participation, even subversion.
