Anna Wintour will stay at Vogue for the rest of her life because a vital part of her body is embedded in the Saarinen womb chair in her office, and because without Anna, Vogue withers on the vine.
It has been rumored that Wintour will step down from her perch as editor-in-chief, a job that she’s held for almost 40 years, but those rumors were squashed like a gnarly lil’ cockroach in a statement from Condé Nast CEO Bob Sauerberg. “Anna Wintour is an incredibly talented and creative leader whose influence is beyond measure,” it read. “She is integral to the future of our company’s transformation and has agreed to work with me indefinitely in her role as @voguemagazine editor-in-chief and artistic director of Condé Nast.”
Okay! Sounds good. Anna Wintour will never be able to leave Condé Nast because she is chained to her desk with a pair of Chanel handcuffs that match her sunglasses. Anna Wintour will never be able to leave Vogue because without Anna Wintour’s presence, Vogue’s relevancy is completely erased. Like the magazine itself, Wintour is a cultural institution. Who is Vogue? Anna Wintour. Lift up the panel under her sharp bob, unhinge the latch, and you’ll find the cover of every September issue she’s worked on in her tenure, held together with a binder clip.
Let us imagine the future—dark, apocalyptic, full of wasps. Deep in the darkest recesses of Condé Nast, past the copy machines and around the corner from a mouldering stack of life-sized Graydon Carter cut-outs, a husky voice calls out from a corner office, its glass windows hazy with a century’s worth of dust and smog. “It’s me,” she says. “It’s 2067. I’m Anna Wintour....I’m here indefinitely.”