Inside Vanity Fair: How Tina Brown's Machine Outplayed Hollywood's Biggest Stars

Photographer Jessica Craig-Martin's new memoir, I Regret I Am Able to Attend: A Life Among Artists (Random House, 2026), opens with a telling scene: on her first day at Vanity Fair, editor in chief Tina Brown tapped her on the shoulder and asked, "Can you tell me where my office is?" Brown, Craig-Martin soon learned, routinely got lost in the magazine's circular cubicle maze. Her driver needed separate instructions for every destination, because she invariably forgot where she was going by the time she reached the car.

Brown's absentmindedness came with results. She had rescued the tanking Vanity Fair reboot from imminent death, put it in the black, and stirred up the magazine world by paying writers and photographers unprecedented rates for a mix of Hollywood glitz and long-form journalism.

What does the excerpt reveal about how celebrity covers actually worked?

The core mechanism: stars of a certain caliber demanded contract privileges — quote approval, cover approval, cover-or-nothing clauses. Vanity Fair appeared to grant them but, as Craig-Martin writes, "really had no intention of doing so." Her job as editorial assistant was to word contract adjustments so they retained subtle legal loopholes for the magazine.

The Diana Ross cover shows the system in action. Ross demanded and received quote and cover approval. After Annie Leibovitz's shoot, Ross was shown three mockup covers — Tina Brown's pick flanked by the two worst photos from the session. "The choice was an illusion." Ross invoked her contractual right to a reshoot, sat through the same ruse with three new mockups, and relented, choosing the photo she was supposed to choose.

Then came the lawsuit. Lynn Hirschberg interviewed Ross three times in Los Angeles, isolated her quotes, and sent them for approval; Ross signed off. When the article ran, she sued Condé Nast for misquotation. Craig-Martin was assigned to check the interview tapes against the printed quotes and confirmed Ross had said every word. The problem was juxtaposition: Hirschberg had stitched together quotes from day one and day three — Ross on not having "too much," segueed into the walk-in closet for her furs. Legally sound, editorially devastating. Condé Nast won.

Jodie Foster fared differently. She held a cover-or-nothing clause, but Brown gazumped her for Princess Diana and placed Foster inside the issue. Foster sued and won — but still endured an A-list film release with no cover story. S. I. Newhouse, Craig-Martin notes, had factored in occasional hits like these and ultimately trusted Brown's instincts.

The culture extended to photographers and assignments. The magazine's operating attitude, per Craig-Martin: "Whatever a star wants, we will give them the opposite — because we can." If Madonna requested Helmut Newton, she'd get Herb Ritts — or no cover. Annie Leibovitz negotiated only through Jane Sarkin or Brown; Helmut Newton spoke only to photo editor Elisabeth Biondi.

Who populated the office?

The cast Craig-Martin describes includes:

• Jane Sarkin, her boss, juggling ten Hollywood stories at once and handling aggressive publicists with "a no-bullshit attitude that demanded respect."
• Marina Schiano, style director and YSL muse, storming the new hallway in a black cape, always furious.
• Bob Colacello, editor at large, sharing decade-old gossip — "So then Halston said to Liza… and Bianca said to Andy…" — as if it had happened last night.
• Sharon Delano, editing writers like John Richardson and Paul Goldberger, railing against the "fucking Hollywood crap" she knew made the magazine successful.

The perks compensated for low wages: Carnegie Hall to see Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis's nightclub opening, Tito Puente and Celia Cruz at the Blue Note, and Peggy Lee at the Ballroom, half-paralyzed in a Swarovski-studded wheelchair, singing "Is That All There Is?"

An L.A. assignment for a MOCA benefit gala brought a $100 taxi to Malibu and tea with David Hockney at his beach house, among portraits of his dachshunds Stanley and Boodgie. "I came six thousand miles for a cup of tea," Hockney told her.

Why did she walk away?

After two years, Craig-Martin realized she wanted none of the ladder — not Sarkin's job, not even Brown's. The tipping point came in an elevator: she berated two young Condé Nast colleagues for planning to spend vacation days at a spa, then recognized the claustrophobia was hers, not theirs. The following week she handed in her notice.

Her verdict on the two editors defines the book's sharpness: Anna Wintour is "a monomath" operating the magazine world from its nucleus, while Tina Brown is "a polymath" on the outside, playing with the orbits "like balls on a billiard table." The excerpt leaves readers with a portrait of a magazine that always won — and an assistant who decided she didn't want the prize.