Never one to shy from spectacle, Miley Cyrus now embraces a new kind of rebellion—quiet, layered, and deeply personal—in this intimate family portrait for The Cut, where legacy meets lived truth.
There’s something almost sacred about the way four women sit together on a wooden bench, their silhouettes framed like a Renaissance painting gone modern. No flash, no fanfare—just raw presence. This is not a red carpet moment; it’s a reckoning. The Cyrus women—Miley, Brandi, Noah, and Tish—are gathered in Los Angeles, not for a premiere or a gala, but for a rare, unscripted communion of blood, art, and survival. And yet, in their stillness, they command more attention than any spotlight ever could.
It begins with Tish Cyrus-Purcell , seated at the edge, draped in a deep black Nina Ricci coat-dress that feels less like fashion and more like armor. The cut is sharp, almost architectural, with a plunging V-neckline that reveals just enough to suggest vulnerability beneath strength. Her blonde hair falls loosely, unstyled, as if she’s been living in the same room with her daughters for days—yet every inch of her posture speaks of quiet authority. She wears Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello shoes, understated but precise, grounding her in the moment. It’s not a look designed to dominate—it’s a statement of endurance.
Beside her, Brandi Cyrus radiates a different kind of power. In a Tom Ford dress—structured, elegant, slightly masculine in its tailoring—she leans forward, hands folded, eyes steady. Her jewelry is minimal: Jessica McCormack earrings, delicate but intentional, catching light in ways that feel deliberate. There’s a warmth in her gaze, but also a guardedness—a woman who’s learned how to wear her heart like a second skin. Her hair, sleek and dark, contrasts with the softness of the fabric, creating a visual tension between control and surrender.
Then there’s Noah Cyrus , perched on the edge of the frame, dressed in a Ferragamo dress that glimmers with a subtle metallic sheen. The silhouette is fluid, almost liquid, hugging her form without constraint. It’s a look that feels both timeless and futuristic—like a ghost of 1970s glamour reborn in 2025. Her makeup is natural, her expression thoughtful, her legs crossed in a pose that says: I’m here, but I’m not playing your game. She’s the quiet storm, the one who sings about pain with a voice that cuts through noise.
And then, front and center, Miley Cyrus —in a Lanvin dress and matching shoes, white cotton shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hint of collarbone, sleeves rolled up, tattoos visible along her forearms. The outfit is deceptively simple: an oversized shirt paired with a lace skirt that seems to float around her. But it’s the details that speak volumes—the way the fabric drapes, the way her curls fall like a halo, the way her hands rest on her lap, fingers interlaced, nails painted black. This isn’t performance. This is intimacy. This is her .
The styling, by Bradley Kenneth, is masterful—not in flamboyance, but in restraint. Hair by Cervando Maldonado (with Fitch Lunar on Noah) and makeup by Janice Daoud and KendELL COTTA create a cohesive palette of earth tones, soft shadows, and natural highlights. There’s no overproduction. No filters. Just four women, breathing, laughing, remembering.
And remember they do. The conversation spills across pages—about music, about love, about loss. About “That Don’t Impress Me Much,” tattooed on Brandi’s arm. About “Cherry Pie” as Tish’s emotional anchor. About Noah singing Bob Seger to her grandmother in a hospital room, the last song she ever heard. These aren’t just celebrity anecdotes—they’re generational heirlooms, passed down in lyrics and laughter.
This is celebrity fashion redefined—not as spectacle, but as storytelling. Not as armor, but as identity. The clothes don’t define them; they reflect them. And in that reflection, we see something rare: a family that has survived the glare of fame not by escaping it, but by reclaiming it.
They talk about being “freakin’ busy.” About cooking tacos in lettuce wraps. About listening to Fleetwood Mac and Lynyrd Skynyrd in the car. About dancing every Christmas to “Five, six, seven, eight.” This is not the life of icons. This is the life of people—people who happen to be famous, yes, but also mothers, sisters, artists, survivors.
And so when Miley says, “I’ve always really admired people who just have a true sense of self because that’s something I haven’t quite found yet,” it lands not as a confession, but as a challenge. To herself. To us.
Because what makes this portrait so powerful isn’t just the clothes, or the setting, or even the names on the page. It’s the silence between the words. The weight of history. The beauty of repair.
So, are we witnessing the end of celebrity as we know it—or the beginning of something deeper? Something truer?
Perhaps it’s just a family, finally, sitting together. And in that stillness, finding their own kind of revolution.
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For more on the evolving narratives of today’s most influential stars, explore our curated collection of celebrity style moments that redefine elegance, resilience, and reinvention.
Never one to shy from spectacle, Halsey fused futuristic sleekness with Old Hollywood glamour in their long-awaited (and frankly, stunning) arrival at the Venice Film Festival.
At the 82nd Venice International Film Festival, Halsey descended upon Hotel Excelsior, not just as a musician or actress, but as a walking testament to the power of a perfectly sculpted gown. The look, styled for the premiere of their film How to Shoot a Ghost , was a masterclass in modern femininity, proving that celebrity style can be both timeless and forward-thinking.
Halsey wore a Vivienne Westwood Nova Cora Draped Gown , a piece that seems to shimmer with a liquid-like quality. The fabric, a lustrous, dove-gray satin, draped effortlessly, creating a silhouette that was both structured and fluid. The off-the-shoulder neckline, a Westwood signature, exuded a certain quiet drama, while the cinched corset torso gave way to a gently pooling skirt, which Halsey held with a poised, almost regal, grace. It’s a dress that doesn’t shout; it whispers, and the effect is infinitely more powerful.
The entire look felt less like a costume and more like a second skin. Halsey’s sharp, choppy pixie cut, a hallmark of their recent style, provided a stark, rebellious contrast to the gowns classic lines. This tension between hard and soft was what made the look so compelling. The accessories were minimal yet impactful: a Brilliant Earth Infinite Icon Lab Diamond Choker Necklace added a subtle sparkle at the neckline, and a simple, dark-brown clutch provided a grounding element. The makeup was equally restrained, focusing on a clean, sculpted face and a bold, smoky eye that held the attention without competing with the rest of the outfit. This is the kind of celebrity fashion that signals confidence and a clear artistic vision.
Never one to shy from spectacle, Sarah Paulson fused high drama with architectural precision in her commanding (and frankly unforgettable) cover for The Cut’s Fall 2025 special issue—where fashion becomes performance, and posture a statement.
There are moments when a celebrity’s look transcends mere clothing. When it feels like a manifesto. When the fabric itself seems to breathe with intention. This is not just a portrait of Sarah Paulson—it’s a declaration.
She stands center frame, arms crossed, eyes locked, a woman who has mastered the art of being seen without needing to be loud. The image is arresting: a monochrome world split by a single, blazing slash of crimson. That color? Not just red. It’s blood-orange , rich as aged velvet, structured like armor. The coat—by Maison Margiela’s Artisanal Collection—is a sculptural marvel. Its exaggerated shoulders form geometric wings, almost military in their authority, yet softened by the deep V-neckline that draws the gaze inward. The fabric is thick, matte, weighty—a textile that demands reverence. Every fold, every seam, feels deliberate, like architecture built for power.
But the real genius lies in the contrast. Against this boldness, she wears black gloves , long enough to reach her forearms, their sleekness a quiet counterpoint to the coat’s volume. They’re not theatrical—they’re functional . A touch of old Hollywood, yes, but reimagined with modern restraint. Then there’s the jewelry: three strands of pearls, layered with surgical precision, ending in a delicate knot at the collarbone. It’s a nod to vintage glamour, but also to control—like a leash on emotion, or a promise kept.
Her hair is pulled back into a tight, severe chignon, sharp as a knife edge, framing a face painted with minimalist elegance: flawless skin, defined brows, and lips stained a deep, unapologetic red. No smoky eyes. No glitter. Just clarity. The pose—arms crossed, chin lifted—isn’t defensive. It’s possessive . She owns this space. This moment. This look.
And then, in another spread, she appears again—but transformed. Same hair, same makeup, same intensity—but now clad in a full-length Maison Margiela ensemble that looks like it was stitched from ancient parchment. The coat-dress is patchwork, textured, layered, its surface a collage of burnt browns, tans, and rusted golds. It’s raw. It’s tactile. It’s alive . She holds a matching helmet in one hand, the other outstretched as if offering an invitation—or a challenge. The boots? Tabi claw boots, part of the same collection, grounding her in something primal, something fierce. It’s less fashion and more ritual. Less costume and more armor .
This isn’t just styling. It’s storytelling. The imagery evokes John Singer Sargeant’s Madame X —a painting Paulson herself once described as “shocking for the time”—but updated for an age obsessed with identity, legacy, and the performative self. Her presence here isn’t about vanity; it’s about endurance. About surviving the spotlight and still choosing to stand tall.
She’s been inside the Met Gala five times, filmed Ocean’s 8 at the museum, and now, here, she returns—not as a guest, but as a sovereign. There’s a quiet fury in her stillness. A kind of whiplash chic that only comes from someone who has lived through the industry’s cycles and come out the other side unbroken.
It’s no surprise she’s become a fixture in fashion discourse. From her iconic American Horror Story wardrobe to her recent collaborations with designers like Thom Browne and Balmain, Paulson has always understood that clothes are extensions of character—even when she’s just walking down the street. But this? This is different. This is iconography .
And while the rest of us debate whether the new Y2K revival is overdone or overdue, Paulson reminds us that true style isn’t about trends. It’s about timing. About knowing when to burn bright—and when to go quietly, but never unnoticed.
So, is this couture’s final act of rebellion? Or simply Sarah Paulson, once again, proving that the most powerful fashion statements are made not in motion, but in stillness?
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