In the late 1990s, a significant shift was underway at Condé Nast, the powerhouse of American publishing. The decision by billionaire publisher SI Newhouse to relocate the company’s headquarters from 350 Madison Avenue to 4 Times Square stirred unease among employees of flagship magazines like Vogue and Vanity Fair. Although the new location was a mere two blocks away, it symbolized a departure from the familiar elegance of the past to a setting perceived as gritty and unrefined. Concerns were voiced not just about the aesthetics of Times Square but also about practical matters like closet space for designer coats and proximity to cherished dining spots, particularly an upscale Italian restaurant where staff enjoyed indulgent meals.
To quell the dissent and inspire enthusiasm for the move, Newhouse and then-editorial director James Truman devised an ambitious plan: to create a state-of-the-art cafeteria that would serve as a vibrant hub for employees. Their vision came to life through the genius of architect Frank Gehry, who designed a stunning dining space allegedly costing upwards of $30 million. With 39 cozy banquettes designed for casual conversations and 76 panels of Venetian glass shimmering overhead, the cafeteria became an emblem of excess. Notably, Gehry incorporated distorted mirrors in the columns to create an illusion of slenderness, which Truman described as a “witty architectural gesture” that encouraged employees to feel good about themselves.
In his new book, “Empire of the Elite: Inside Condé Nast, the Media Dynasty that Reshaped America,” Michael M. Grynbaum details this lavish lifestyle, painting a picture of an organization where extravagance reigned supreme. He notes that Newhouse empowered his editors to embrace a lifestyle of luxury, where “sizzle and status often mattered more than breaking even.” This ethos permeated the culture at Condé Nast, allowing editors to indulge in a life of high spending that few other publishers could afford to match.
Consider the case of renowned photographer Annie Leibovitz, who, in a moment of negotiation, requested a $250,000 raise from Vanity Fair. Newhouse’s response was to instruct the magazine’s then-editor, Tina Brown, to acquiesce without hesitation, stating, “Don’t nickel and dime her.” Such a sentiment encapsulated the broader philosophy at Condé Nast — to invest in talent and maintain an environment of opulence.
The culture of excess extended beyond mere salary increases. Alan Richman, a food writer for GQ, once submitted an expense report for a two-week trip to Tokyo totaling $14,000, only to be met with skepticism from an editor who asked, “Is that all?” Similarly, Richman was flown to Italy not for fashion coverage but to select wines for entertaining, showcasing the blurred lines between work and luxury that defined the era.
High-profile editors like Graydon Carter and Anna Wintour were also beneficiaries of generous practices. Carter famously borrowed a million dollars from the company to purchase a second home, where he entertained staff in a competitive atmosphere that sometimes culminated in prizes like a Hugo Boss suit for the tennis champion. Meanwhile, Wintour demanded her daily cappuccino to be prepared to perfection, with a restaurant staff member starting the brewing process ten minutes before her arrival to ensure it was just right.
The hiring practices at Condé Nast reflected the elite culture as well. Aspiring assistants at Vogue were subjected to an oral examination that tested their knowledge of high and low culture, from directors to luxury hotels, ensuring that only those who could navigate this sophisticated landscape were admitted. New hires often found themselves adapting to a world where even their names could be altered to fit a more “chic” persona, as seen in the case of Carolyne Volpe, who was encouraged to adopt a more aristocratic-sounding name.
Despite the idyllic portrayal of the Condé Nast lifestyle, the company was not impervious to the economic realities of the publishing world. By the mid-1990s, reports indicated that nearly two-thirds of Condé’s magazines were unprofitable. The lavish spending continued unabated, with extravagant photo shoots that often resulted in wasteful practices, such as the destruction of expensive jewelry for the perfect shot or the shipping of 23 trunks of clothing for a single shoot in Kenya.
As Grynbaum notes, the golden age of Condé Nast began to wane, highlighted by the $20 million loss reported in 1994. The decline was further exacerbated by the launch of Portfolio magazine in 2007, which, despite a hefty $100 million investment, ultimately folded two years later amidst the financial crisis after its extravagant photo shoots, including one that involved renting a live elephant, failed to yield profits.
Reflecting on the legacy of Newhouse after his passing in 2017, it becomes clear that Condé Nast’s era of opulence was both a product of visionary leadership and a cautionary tale of excess. As Carter poignantly remarked, “You never know when you’re in a golden age. You only realize it was a golden age when it’s gone.” The rise and fall of Condé Nast serves as a compelling study of an influential media dynasty, where the pursuit of glamour and status was both a driving force and, ultimately, a double-edged sword.
