Autumn collections apart, many of Russia's big spenders have been left reeling by the bursting of the bubble. However, Alyona Doletskaya, the editor of Russian Vogue, seems almost unbothered by the Russian mega-rich. Their purchasing power is crucial for keeping the most lucrative advertisers on aboard. But the 40-year-old Doletskaya does not regard them as her main target readership. Instead, she talks enthusiastically of "a very quickly growing middle class. There are, of course, the nouveaux riches. But they don't constitute 150,000 Russian readers." She argues that the definition of a prosperous Russian has undergone a radical change. "Four years ago, I would have known exactly what a `new Russian' was. It was a banker with a Mercedes, whose wife drives a BMW and doesn't work. He wears Versace and has three bodyguards. She has 18 hours of massage." Now, though the chauffeur-driven rich still exist, she believes that a different kind of Russia has begun to appear. "PR, consultancy, lawyers, computers, advertising. It's very different."
She emphasises Vogue's dual role - "both reality and dream: very close to earth and very glamorous" - and is excited at the letters that have come in response to the first issue from all parts of the country, from people who have neither the time or money to order anything from Cartier or Gucci, but who still get pleasure from lapping up Vogue. This is shopping terapia, in the words of a Russian Vogue headline, - even if it comes without the shopping. One of the enthusiastic letters comes from a woman in the Siberian city of Novosibirsk, who declares: "I was so depressed and then - oh miracle! - I saw the magazine in a kiosk window. I hugged it all day. Now I'm reading it and am happy."
Russian Vogue may sometimes seem unattainable. There are a clutch of foreign names who are involved with the project. But almost every article has a Russian frame of reference which Western editors would scarcely recognise. A fashion shoot with schoolchildren takes as its implied context the rituals played out on the first day of the Russian school year; the headline to a selection of classic Vogue photographs refers obliquely to a once-compulsory and soporific work by Lenin, the Concise Course of Communist History; the writer Tatyana Tolstaya reminisces about shoes and stockings in her Soviet youth; Russian designers and models get a spread of their own. In short, this is more than just a foreign Anschluss by dictators of fashion from abroad. Russia, old and new, is a tangible reality.
Doletskaya, who studied American and English literature in the Brezhnev years, talks proudly in her inaugural Letter from the Editor of a favourite old photograph of her parents, whose "taste of the era, beauty, and youth" made them look as though they "could have come from the pages of an old Vogue". In short: style was possible, even in the old USSR. Dressed now in elegant black-grey-black simplicity (Dolce & Gabbana, Max Mara, and her favourite, Jean-Paul Gaultier), Doletskaya remembers with awe when she first saw a copy of the magazine. Her father, a surgeon, had been sent it by a colleague in the West. "I couldn't believe my eyes. I kept that magazine for years."
Her direct exposure to the West, too, is relatively recent. She first visited the US eight years ago as a translator for a group of Russian architects. She remembers visiting a supermarket - and being overwhelmed. "I began to cry. It was a very strange feeling. I thought: it's so simple, there's nothing complicated. What prevented us from having all this, too?"
From tears in a supermarket to launching Russian Vogue is a remarkable transition in just a few years, as Doletskaya herself acknowledges. "I sometimes have to pinch myself and think: is this true?" Admittedly, Vogue provides an unlikely reason for giving any kind of hope about the direction that a society is going. But Doletskaya's enthusiasm is partly infectious. In the West, Vogue is associated with snootiness. In Russia, it may prove to be more down to earth.