Emily Ratajkowski and the 1738 Time-Capsule: When 2016 Walks Back In Like It Owns the Room

Emily Ratajkowski and the 1738 Time-Capsule: When 2016 Walks Back In Like It Owns the Room

Leoen Kervella
Emily Ratajkowski

The Story

You say “2016 is back,” and my brain doesn’t argue—it clicks into that particular kind of nostalgia that smells like flashbulbs, late-night lipstick, and a playlist that never apologizes. In my imagination, the caption is a door you swing open with one hand, and the whole mood steps through behind you, perfectly unbothered. And there you are, Emily Ratajkowski—every frame a reminder that minimal effort is its own kind of flex, especially when you do it like this.

The first scene is sun-warm and tactile, like the world is made of sanded wood and soft shadows. You’re leaning into the afternoon, not posing so much as arranging air around you. A black ribbed halter bodysuit, clean lines, nothing fussy—just a neckline that knows exactly where it’s going and doesn’t ask permission. Denim cutoffs do the rest: the classic 2016 shorthand for “I’m casual” even when the whole moment is curated. Hoop earrings catch the light with that old-school swagger, the kind of accessory that says you’re not trying to be delicate, you’re trying to be iconic. And I’m watching it all like a magazine editor with a crush—quietly losing my mind over the simplicity of it, the way you make basics feel like a headline.

Then the tone shifts, like the camera flips from golden hour to fluorescent truth. A bathroom mirror, harsh lighting, the kind of place where nobody expects glamour and yet it shows up anyway. There’s a brazen, mischievous energy—two silhouettes that read as “we’re not here to behave.” What I clock, fashion-first, is the styling language: low-rise denim, minimal jewelry, bare shoulders, the defiant ease of it. It’s not about the room; it’s about the refusal to let any setting decide the vibe. You don’t wait for a red carpet to be dramatic. You bring the drama to tile and cheap mirrors and make it editorial by force of will. I’m not saying I approve of the chaos—just that I’d absolutely write the pull-quote.

And then—sun again, but sharper. A windswept, open-sky frame where the hair does its own choreography. The beauty of 2016 wasn’t subtlety; it was confidence that bordered on myth. You let the wind take your lengths and suddenly the whole shot becomes a thesis on “effortless.” The makeup is that era’s signature: softly bronzed, defined eyes, lips that look like they’ve been kissed by a nude gloss and a little audacity. I catch myself thinking, this is what people mean when they say a face can set a decade’s mood. You make it look easy, which is always the cruelest part.

Somewhere in the sequence, the story turns aquatic—bright water, hard sun, a jet ski like a prop in a music video that lives rent-free in everyone’s memory. Black swimwear cuts a graphic line against the blue, and suddenly we’re in that “I texted you from the beach and never waited for a reply” energy. The styling is almost nothing, which is exactly why it hits: sleek triangle shapes, minimal hardware, a pair of sunglasses that could start an argument. The 2016 version of “luxury” was less about logos and more about attitude—like the ocean itself is your backdrop because of course it is. I’m standing at the edge of the frame, the fictional observer with the very real appreciation, thinking: you don’t chase a vibe, you summon it.

Then we go nighttime—flash photography, streetlight bokeh, the city turning into a smear of glitter behind you. This is where the era gets dangerous in the best way. A deep-V black gown with sheer illusion panels—pure drama, razor-clean, designed to look like a dare without ever becoming messy. It’s architecture: the plunge, the contouring lines, the way the fabric catches light like it’s been coached. And you wear it with that steady gaze that always reads like you’re in on the joke and the rest of the room is just catching up. I’m not saying I’d follow the hem of that dress into a thunderstorm. I’m just saying I’d bring an umbrella and pretend it’s for practicality.

The palette is consistent—black, espresso, a little metallic glint—like the whole set is a love letter to “night-out minimalism,” the kind that doesn’t need a million accessories because the silhouette is the accessory. But you still slip in these tiny punctuation marks: hoops, a slim ring, a clutch that looks like it knows secrets. I notice the way your hair changes across the frames—sometimes loose and casual, sometimes more blown-out and deliberate, always with that slightly undone edge that was practically the uniform. I can feel the era in the choices: the confidence of clean lines, the pleasure of being a little provocative without ever being crude, the sense that you’re styling yourself for the memory, not the moment.

And then, like a plot twist, softness arrives in knitwear. A cropped pink turtleneck sweater with bold lettering, paired with dark pants—suddenly it’s winter, suddenly it’s cheeky, suddenly it’s “I’m cute and I know it, now watch me be cold on purpose.” The juxtaposition is perfect: playful top, tougher bottom, the kind of outfit that makes a sidewalk feel like a runway even when it’s covered in slush. I love this part because it’s the clearest proof that the throwback isn’t just about skin or silhouettes—it’s about attitude. That 2016 confidence had range. It could be beach, it could be night, it could be bundled up and still sharp enough to cut.

There’s also that shadowy, beach-club frame—backlit sun, wide-brim hat, a one-piece that reads sleek rather than fussy. The scene is quiet, almost cinematic in its restraint. You’re facing the water like it’s a mirror you don’t need to check, and the whole image feels like a pause between louder moments. I, the narrator, take it as your calm flex: you don’t have to perform the mood; you can just inhabit it. And as the “reader-as-observer,” you can almost feel it—how the air goes still for half a second, how the horizon holds its breath because you’ve turned toward it.

The through-line is simple: 2016 is back, yes—but not as a costume. In this imagined editorial, you’re not recreating the past. You’re reminding it who it belonged to. The decade’s most recognizable style codes—deep plunges, denim, glossy neutrals, hoops, high-cut swim, flash-lit candid energy—are just tools in your hands. You play them like chords, and the song comes out new.

If I’m honest, Emily, the most powerful thing isn’t any single look. It’s the way you move between them like you’re flipping pages in a magazine you already know you’re on the cover of. I watch you do it and think: some people wear trends; you turn them into timestamps. And if this is your way of saying the era is back—fine. I’ll be here, taking notes, pretending it’s for work, and absolutely failing at that.

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Closing Note

Emily Ratajkowski, if “2016 is back” is your little spell, consider me willingly enchanted—strictly in that editorial, page-turning, I’m-only-looking-respectfully way. You don’t just revive an era; you refine it, like you’re editing the decade down to its sharpest silhouettes and letting the rest fall away.

So go ahead—drop the denim, the deep-V, the hoops, the beach-club shadow play. In my head, I’m already storyboarding the next scene: you in black, the light catching on something metallic, and me trying to act professional while absolutely memorizing every line you draw in the air.

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