Never one to shy from spectacle, Miley Cyrus now embraces a new kind of rebellion—quiet, layered, and deeply personal—in this intimate family portrait for The Cut, where legacy meets lived truth.
There’s something almost sacred about the way four women sit together on a wooden bench, their silhouettes framed like a Renaissance painting gone modern. No flash, no fanfare—just raw presence. This is not a red carpet moment; it’s a reckoning. The Cyrus women—Miley, Brandi, Noah, and Tish—are gathered in Los Angeles, not for a premiere or a gala, but for a rare, unscripted communion of blood, art, and survival. And yet, in their stillness, they command more attention than any spotlight ever could.
It begins with Tish Cyrus-Purcell, seated at the edge, draped in a deep black Nina Ricci coat-dress that feels less like fashion and more like armor. The cut is sharp, almost architectural, with a plunging V-neckline that reveals just enough to suggest vulnerability beneath strength. Her blonde hair falls loosely, unstyled, as if she’s been living in the same room with her daughters for days—yet every inch of her posture speaks of quiet authority. She wears Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello shoes, understated but precise, grounding her in the moment. It’s not a look designed to dominate—it’s a statement of endurance.
Beside her, Brandi Cyrus radiates a different kind of power. In a Tom Ford dress—structured, elegant, slightly masculine in its tailoring—she leans forward, hands folded, eyes steady. Her jewelry is minimal: Jessica McCormack earrings, delicate but intentional, catching light in ways that feel deliberate. There’s a warmth in her gaze, but also a guardedness—a woman who’s learned how to wear her heart like a second skin. Her hair, sleek and dark, contrasts with the softness of the fabric, creating a visual tension between control and surrender.
Then there’s Noah Cyrus, perched on the edge of the frame, dressed in a Ferragamo dress that glimmers with a subtle metallic sheen. The silhouette is fluid, almost liquid, hugging her form without constraint. It’s a look that feels both timeless and futuristic—like a ghost of 1970s glamour reborn in 2025. Her makeup is natural, her expression thoughtful, her legs crossed in a pose that says: I’m here, but I’m not playing your game. She’s the quiet storm, the one who sings about pain with a voice that cuts through noise.
And then, front and center, Miley Cyrus—in a Lanvin dress and matching shoes, white cotton shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hint of collarbone, sleeves rolled up, tattoos visible along her forearms. The outfit is deceptively simple: an oversized shirt paired with a lace skirt that seems to float around her. But it’s the details that speak volumes—the way the fabric drapes, the way her curls fall like a halo, the way her hands rest on her lap, fingers interlaced, nails painted black. This isn’t performance. This is intimacy. This is her.
The styling, by Bradley Kenneth, is masterful—not in flamboyance, but in restraint. Hair by Cervando Maldonado (with Fitch Lunar on Noah) and makeup by Janice Daoud and KendELL COTTA create a cohesive palette of earth tones, soft shadows, and natural highlights. There’s no overproduction. No filters. Just four women, breathing, laughing, remembering.
And remember they do. The conversation spills across pages—about music, about love, about loss. About “That Don’t Impress Me Much,” tattooed on Brandi’s arm. About “Cherry Pie” as Tish’s emotional anchor. About Noah singing Bob Seger to her grandmother in a hospital room, the last song she ever heard. These aren’t just celebrity anecdotes—they’re generational heirlooms, passed down in lyrics and laughter.
This is celebrity fashion redefined—not as spectacle, but as storytelling. Not as armor, but as identity. The clothes don’t define them; they reflect them. And in that reflection, we see something rare: a family that has survived the glare of fame not by escaping it, but by reclaiming it.
They talk about being “freakin’ busy.” About cooking tacos in lettuce wraps. About listening to Fleetwood Mac and Lynyrd Skynyrd in the car. About dancing every Christmas to “Five, six, seven, eight.” This is not the life of icons. This is the life of people—people who happen to be famous, yes, but also mothers, sisters, artists, survivors.
And so when Miley says, “I’ve always really admired people who just have a true sense of self because that’s something I haven’t quite found yet,” it lands not as a confession, but as a challenge. To herself. To us.
Because what makes this portrait so powerful isn’t just the clothes, or the setting, or even the names on the page. It’s the silence between the words. The weight of history. The beauty of repair.
So, are we witnessing the end of celebrity as we know it—or the beginning of something deeper? Something truer?
Perhaps it’s just a family, finally, sitting together. And in that stillness, finding their own kind of revolution.
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For more on the evolving narratives of today’s most influential stars, explore our curated collection of celebrity style moments that redefine elegance, resilience, and reinvention.
