Sabrina Impacciatore wore a full burgundy corduroy suit with pointed heels for Interview Magazine during Sundance Film Festival, January 2026.
Somewhere outside a half-drained hotel hot tub, Sabrina Impacciatore sits with her knees wide, elbows heavy on thighs, exuding absolute stillness in an outfit that feels like it could weigh ten pounds. A full burgundy corduroy set — oversized wide-leg trousers , a matching coat pushed back just enough to let the shirt breathe, and a tucked-in belted button-down in the same deep tone. Not quite maroon. More crushed pomegranate. It’s all textured and matte and drapes like it’s decided not to comply with the body unless asked nicely.
The pants nearly touch the floor. You catch just a flash of sharp pointed-toe black boots , shaped like they could crack a sidewalk clean if she felt like it. Her hair is undone, maybe second-day waves, middle-parted, and effortless in the way that takes at least two trained stylists and a wind machine. Face serious. Eyes soft. Zero embellishment.
What works here isn’t the statement — it’s the refusal to make one. A uniform in a single statement color. Skin untouched by highlight. Hands gloved in chocolate brown leather like she just walked off a Fellini set. And the backdrop? Stripping the fantasy. Banquet chairs. Cement. An empty pool. Perfect.
It’s what fashion looks like when it doesn’t flinch — just folds into the landscape and dares you to question it.
Olivia Wilde wore a black Aje Athletica sports bra and leggings after a workout in Studio City on January 30, 2026.
Spotted walking out into sunshine with sweat still visible on her cheeks, Olivia Wilde wore what most people imagine when they think “morning reset.” No gloss. No flash. Just clean, monochrome utility worn hard. Her look? A black AJE ATHLETICA sports bra, form-hugging, barely-there with micro straps, paired with high-waisted black leggings that hold everything without making a scene.
Footwear was uniform: thick-soled black Hoka sneakers (recognizable by shape alone), made more for impact absorption than aesthetics — though they noticeably make the look feel planted. And in each hand, items of modern ritual: a white Lululemon bottle and a green phone with a minimal case. No jewelry, no watch, no fluff. Just a slightly crinkled canvas shoulder bag.
Her hair — pulled into a high ponytail — was damp enough to signal real effort. Not styled, just tied back. Sunglasses sharp, cat-eye shaped, functional but also slightly smug in the best way. The entire posture reads like exit strategy. Done, moving on. Not posing for the camera but not hiding from it either.
This is what celebrity street style looks like when it actually belongs to the street — running errands, sweat unapologetically showing, and no brand logo shouting for attention. It’s what happens when off-duty means exactly that.
Sometimes the best look is the one that leaves absolutely nothing to interpret — here’s the day, here’s the sweat, that’s it.
Michelle Mao wore a faux-fur jacket, floral mini skirt, tights, and pointed flats for Interview Magazine during Sundance 2026 in Utah.
It’s not quite backstage. Not quite a red carpet. Not even outside. But on the carpeted floor of a hotel elevator lobby, Michelle Mao is crouched — applying lip color with one hand, iPhone angled in the other like a mirror. A candid moment, deliberate in posture but still incredibly everyday.
She’s layered up, soft but smart. A blush-mauve faux fur coat , oversized enough to look like it belongs in someone’s closet from another decade. Underneath, a muted floral mini-dress with a subtle flare and hem that cuts just mid-thigh. Black opaque tights , not too matte, not shiny. Her shoes peek out — brown pointed-toe flats that feel thrifted rather than styled. The whole outfit leans cozy but not curated.
And there’s a pink top-handle bag resting on the floor beside her — bowed detail at the seam, zip slightly open. It looks thrown, not placed, and that’s the quiet genius of this shot. The stained glass glows above her. She’s positioned beside a glass wall and paneled wood like she wandered into the wrong party and made it her dressing room.
There’s something a little defiant in the squatted stance — an implicit rejection of pristine, posed femininity. She gets ready on her own terms, on her own floor, with her own mirror.
It’s not elegance for admiration — it’s softness set down like luggage: lived-in, a little wrinkled, and distinctly hers.
