Features

I suppose it’s only fair we pay some attention to the men. Whilst some are convinced this is solely a two-horse race between the only true duo Sincaraz, sorry Raducaraz nation.

I’m that friend who tries to tell you I haven’t put that much effort into my Wimbledon picks, when in reality I’ve been thinking about them since Carlitos hit that running FHDTL winner back on June 8. Let’s start with the women though, as—let’s be real—they are delivering at the moment.

Werner Bronkhorst, a South African artist who shares his process so vividly on social media, has a unique view of play as both practice and philosophy. We caught up with Bronkhorst in London as he was finalizing a mini collection ahead of Wimbledon he is calling "Singles," and we had a conversation touching on tennis, canvas, social media and the deeply human urge to create.

"As the observer, it’s respecting those unseen acts of perseverance. I don’t know what it’s like to be in their shoes. But my effort to honor it is to document these moments of power and grace, preserving them in time."

Roland-Garros isn’t just a tennis tournament—it’s a style summit masquerading as sport.

Whether you’re attending the US Open or killing it on your local court, our annual Summer Must-Have list goes beyond the basics. We’ve rounded up the best in fashion, wellness, and accessories to bring your warm-weather play to the next level.

I looked out at the courts, and what did I see but 30 kids, under the age of ten, dressed in tennis gear, sitting in a circle, legs crossed, eyes closed, meditating. 

We ask the eminent and the imminent for their takes on the greatest things they’ve ever seen on a court, and damned if they don’t deliver—each and every one. The first in what will likely become a very long, storied series is by broadcaster, former pro and absolute national treasure Mary Carillo. Hers might just be the greatest of the Greatest.

Tennis Changed One Photographer's Relationship with His Hometown

Something to know about me in 2025 is that I’ve become the neighborhood voyeur. Four freshly renovated tennis courts opposite my apartment beckon me daily; a hooked index finger tempting me with good, honest time. An hour’s all I need to thrash about, try and prove something inconsequential to myself, defog the mirrors of my mind and leave a better woman. Only instead of playing, I watch.