

At a Halloween party in New York, Julia Fox turned up dressed as Jackie Kennedy. Not her White House version, but the Dallas, 1963 version. Pink Chanel-style suit, pillbox hat, and — because subtlety is dead — red blood stains across the fabric, meant to mimic the blood of her assassinated husband.
Cue the internet collectively gagging, and not in the “slay queen” way.
Jackie Kennedy’s grandson Jack Schlossberg called it “disgusting, desperate and dangerous.” He’s not wrong about the desperation part. Dressing up as a woman mid-trauma for party optics is less statement on femininity and more performance art gone tone-deaf. Julia, ever the philosopher of shock, claimed it was about “power, trauma, and resistance.” Sure, and my grocery list is about existential dread.
Let’s be honest — Julia Fox is no fool. She knows how to light up a news cycle faster than a sparkler on a gossip blog. But here’s the problem with this brand of performance provocation: the message always gets buried under the mess. When you use real bloodshed as an aesthetic, you’re not making a point — you’re hijacking grief for engagement.
Jackie Kennedy’s pink suit was a political and personal scar — a visual of composure in chaos. Julia turned it into a club look with commentary slapped on top like a PR band-aid. There’s a difference between channeling pain and costume-shopping it.
That said, this is a mirror to our moment: a time where every outfit is a manifesto, every shock a content strategy. Julia Fox just played the game better — or worse — than anyone else this week. The real question isn’t whether she crossed a line. It’s whether we’ve left any lines standing at all.
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