Let me just set the runway for you: supermodel mother with a career span of 30 years and counting, billionaire publishing mogul-cum-husband, two ambiguously gay sons of 20 and 17, a mansion in Connecticut, Linda Evangelista and Naomi Campbell for godmothers, supposedly pretty much anyone who’s anyone in fashion on speed dial, etc. The absolutely ridiculous list goes on, but I’m going to stop there for the sake of laserbeams of jealousy shooting from my eyeballs reaching my keyboard and burning my fingernails off.
They’re called “the Brant Brothers”. The first time I heard of this C-list fraternal duo, I was about a month into my internship at Vogue and a fellow intern had emailed me an article with the subject line “Wtf”. The article was centered around Peter Brant, Jr.’s infamous kiss-on-the-mouth to his bikini’d mother (the Stephanie Seymour, 45) on the beach, which I wasn’t too distracted by. “Poor guy just got snapped in the wrong position at the wrong time” is pretty much all I had to say about that. But when I noticed the writer’s underlying fascination with the boys as I read on, I couldn’t help myself and momentarily pushed my transcriptions to the side to Google stalk. And what I gathered was that while the lil’ guys seem to be mildly obsessed with the idea of fame, they can’t seem to break the walls of the fashion industry. I don’t know what you call famous, but me don’t agree.
So I decided to ask my dad to help me out in determining who the heck these dudes were (and just for a little self-gratitude and giggles, of course).
My father is so out-of-touch with mainstream culture outside of the great walls of the pretty-fucking-hard-to-miss state of Texas that I trust his every word when it comes to the who’s-a-whos and who’s-a-nots. So when I asked him who the Brant Brothers were and he replied with “No idea. Goddangit! I forgot to put another BudLight in the freezer,” I was pretty friggin’ sure I’d hit the nail on the head in passing them up in conversation when I saw my fellow internette in the Condé cafeteria later that day.
So look— if Papa Peoples doesn’t know who the Brant Brothers are, I don’t need to either. But I just— we just cannot ignore this photoshoot and accompanying article of the family published in this month’s Harper’s Bazaar. Everyone’s talking about it!
When I look at the photos, I can’t help but picture myself in the same poses with my family and there’s just absolutely no fucking way in Hell that would ever make it into any edition of Harper’s Bazaar, much less a sidebar advertisement in a friggin’ TV Guide. (I actually suggest everyone else to do the same for a good laugh.) And it’s not because my mom was never a supermodel or because I’d never seriously pose in a fashion magazine clad in polka dot PJs or a ribbed tank, but just because I don’t think they get an excuse for being “pretty”.
I find it interesting, though, how the Photoshop and the fashion (Versace, Tom Ford, Manolo Blahnik, Dolce & Gabbana, the list goes on…) work together in elevating the integrity of the shoot but also bring it down to a softcore porn type of ground level at the same time. I don’t think the shoot goes as far as somehow trying to make incest fashionable, but various poses do cross the line. One photo in particular shows Seymour backing-that-ass-up onto her older son while she rests her airbrushed hand against her krotchal area - which is undeniably not cool and there’s no way you can convince me that it remotely is - where another shows the boys caressing their mum’s supermodel gams who find themselves unfortunately placed between both of the boys’ own legs.
"Society obsessions?" I don’t know, guys. What do you think?
I will say, however, that I do find the entire spread incredibly hysterical and to be catalogued as just another one of those tone-deaf fashion editorials that we all talk about for a few days and only search for again when something similar happens in the future. It is creepily adorable, too, how much the boys worship their mother, which any queen of any age can indentify with. But if you really can learn a lot about a man by observing the way he treats his mother, then you heard it here first:
Peter Brant, Jr., with your 20 years of age— no, I would not mind a practice makeout sesh if you ever needed one, or like, a first date or something or whatever in the very distant future in the privacy of your own mansion, if I have to. OK?
Thus, I rest my Brant Brother case and return to gawking at the true heiresses of fashion: The Hiltons.
That is hot.
Photos by Sebastian Faena for Harper’s Bazaar