For more than three decades, Freud, who lives in London, has run an eponymous fashion label, whose distinctive aesthetic spans three-piece pants suits, button-up shirts with Peter Pan collars, and knits with unusual slogans (“GINSBERG IS GOD”). The line is calculated to appeal to a clientele of women rather like Freud herself—bohemian, elegant, subtle, ironical. Occasionally, her creations whimsically allude to her weighty intellectual inheritance, as with a T-shirt bearing the words “Fashion Neurosis” or a scent called Psychoanalysis (featuring, inevitably, tobacco flower). A few years ago, when she was in her late fifties, she was seized by a longing to move beyond clothes and experiment with the art of conversation: a TV show, or perhaps an online-video series, inspired by the kinds of confidences traded behind the scenes at fashion shows or in the corners of parties. After several false starts—the pandemic didn’t help—the project became an obsession. “I thought, If I don’t do this, I will die, actually—I will go to my grave thinking there was something that I really wanted to do and I never did,” she told me.