Martha Stewart's empire seems to be in ruins. Benjamin Wallace recounts some of the more outlandish details about her rise and fall:
At the federal women’s camp in Alderson, West Virginia, she had taught yoga, picked wild dandelion greens, and learned to appreciate the simple virtues of vending-machine chicken wings. Now, standing beside a spray of daffodils, Stewart told her employees she had thought of them every day. They were her heroes, she said. She held up the nubby, scallop-edged poncho crocheted by a fellow inmate that she had worn as she flew home from Appalachia in a Dassault Falcon jet.
She spoke of the “tremendous privilege” of meeting the women with whom she served time at the facility. “I don’t regret everything,” she said. … By the end of that year, it was evident that the humility Stewart had acquired during her legal troubles was not so easy to maintain. In interviews, she stopped talking about the poncho and Francesca the convict and jailhouse yoga and became increasingly confident. In an article in Fortune, she declared her big takeaway from the ordeal to have been: “I really cannot be destroyed.”
And this is just too perfect:
At times, the offices resembled a shelter for battered crafters. “That women’s bathroom,” the editor adds, “there are women in there crying literally all day long.”
Gavon Laessig captions the above photo, taken six months ago:
A bulldog split open Martha Stewart's lip, a story which we'll let you absorb for a second, and Martha decided it was a great idea to meticulously document the process of sewing up the seeping gash in her face.
The Dish 