Fashion and Class: Can Clothes Ever Be Truly Classless?
Fashion has always been a language spoken in dialects of wealth and status. A crisp Savile Row suit whispers old money, a Chanel handbag shouts nouveau riche, and a knock-off designer belt screams aspiration with a touch of desperation. Whether we like it or not, what we wear is stitched with implications of class. Even the decision to reject fashion is a statement in itself, like tech billionaires dressing like permanently lost backpackers. But can clothes ever be truly classless? Can we ever escape the unspoken hierarchies woven into our wardrobes?
The Myth of the Classless Wardrobe
A seductive fantasy persists in fashion: the notion of a truly democratic wardrobe, where a simple white T-shirt or a pair of jeans can transcend economic divides, uniting billionaires and baristas in sartorial harmony. A white T-shirt from a high-street retailer and its counterpart from an exclusive designer label, while superficially similar, are separated by a chasm as vast as that between fast food and a Michelin-starred meal. The distinction extends far beyond mere fabric and craftsmanship; it encompasses the entire universe of meaning each garment carries.
Because of course, fashion is never just about clothes. That would be far too simple. Garments function as stories, statements, and carefully guarded secrets. A plain white T-shirt is never truly plain; it carries the invisible weight of its context. One version is an afterthought, purchased in a multipack and subjected to the industrial cycle of a washing machine. The other is an object of reverence, hand-washed with care and laid flat to dry like a precious botanical specimen. One is worn for its affordability; the other for its prohibitive cost. The difference is encoded not only in the stitches but in the psychological space the garment occupies for its wearer (because nothing says enlightenment like spending £300 on a piece of cotton.)
Clothes exist within a rigid economic ecosystem where branding, material, and exclusivity dictate their position in an unspoken class hierarchy. Even when stripped of overt logos, certain garments betray their origins through subtle cues — the precision of a cut, the specific drape of a fabric, the almost imperceptible details that whisper their pedigree to a knowing eye. An individual of substantial wealth requires no logo to signal their status; they need only the correct fabric weight, the exact shade of ivory, the particular ease of a fit that appears casual yet meticulously considered. This creates the fundamental distinction between a wealthy person’s performance of “I just threw this on" and a poor person’s reality of “this is all I own." The promise of a classless wardrobe is a complete mirage; like a luxury handbag without visible branding, the absence of obvious markers only makes the initiated more acutely aware of what they are truly seeing.
This phenomenon persists even when fashion consciously attempts to strip away status symbols. Take minimalism, the chosen aesthetic for those aspiring to transcend trends and exist outside the frantic consumerist cycle. A uniform of white T-shirts, blue jeans, and an unadorned trench coat presents a wardrobe reduced to its bare essentials, ostensibly free from the noise of logos and seasonal whims. It presents itself as a rejection of consumerism, which is wonderfully ironic given that the “perfect" minimalist wardrobe costs approximately the same as a used car. Minimalism only achieves its effortless appearance for those who can afford the initial investment. True minimalism, a genuine detachment from consumption, would involve wearing whatever is available, cheapest, or handed down. That reality, however, is not considered an aesthetic. It is simply called poverty, and we cannot have that now, can we?
Even normcore, that celebrated anti-fashion movement, was only ever fashion in clever disguise. Its premise was deceptively simple: adopt the style of a 1990s suburban father, blend into the background, and reject the tyranny of being fashionable. Yet to consciously reject fashion remains a form of participation, just as silence in a conversation constitutes a type of response. This movement was pioneered not by working-class individuals for whom this style was a matter of necessity, but by those with the cultural and financial luxury to choose aesthetic anonymity. The supreme irony was that normcore simply repackaged class distinctions. A billionaire in a grey hoodie and generic jeans remains a billionaire, his wealth evident in their impeccable fit, their quality of fabric, and the way they hang on a body nurtured by privilege. It was about cultivating the illusion of achieving true anonymity — an invisibility cloak that functions exclusively for those who can afford to disappear. Irony, after all, is a privilege, and so is the deliberate act of blending in.
This is the precise point where the myth of the classless wardrobe disintegrates entirely. Clothing is incapable of neutrality. Even the most unassuming garments narrate a story; the simplest sartorial choices are laden with unspoken meaning. A white T-shirt is never just a white T-shirt. It operates as a symbol, a complex social code, a quiet yet unmistakable announcement of one's position in the world. For as long as social stratification exists, fashion will remain inextricably bound to it, its threads forever woven with the invisible lines of class.
The Great Equaliser? The Myth of Uniformity
The proposition that uniforms — be they school blazers, military dress, or corporate suiting — efface class distinction is a notion of charming simplicity. The theory suggests that a landscape of identical garments should, by sheer visual consistency, dissolve status into a neatly pressed illusion. Yet the reality is far more revealing. So-called uniformity does not conceal disparity; it merely provides a new, more subtle lexicon for its expression. What appears standardised to the casual observer is, in fact, a canvas upon which the finer points of privilege are meticulously inscribed.
A school uniform at Eton is not the same as a school uniform at a struggling comprehensive. Both institutions might enforce a rigid dress code, but the type of fabric, the fit of the blazer, the stitching on the collar — they all reveal something deeper than the external surface. At Eton, a blazer is cut from the finest wool, the kind that drapes effortlessly over the shoulders of the wearer, signalling not only wealth but also access to generations of privilege. The tie, crisp and perfectly knotted, speaks of an unbroken tradition, an inherited knowledge of how to dress with dignity. Contrast that with the uniforms in less privileged schools, where even the most earnest attempts at neatness are thwarted by poor-quality materials and ill-fitting cuts. The same basic shape is there, but it hangs differently, betraying the economic chasm that lies beneath.
This theatre of subtle distinction extends seamlessly into adulthood. The black suit, a seemingly universal garment, also comes with its own class code. A black suit from Savile Row moves with the body, it breathes with it, as though the fabric itself were alive. Its precision-cut lines and soft, luxurious wool give off an aura of refinement and control. But a black suit from a department store rack is, in many ways, a different creature altogether. Though its silhouette might be the same, the material is stiff, its seams too pronounced, its drape awkward. Even the act of wearing it — the way it pulls at the chest, creases under the arms, and hangs too rigidly from the shoulders — betrays its origins. The subtle differences become magnified when you consider the deeper connotations of its ownership. A suit like this is a symbol of aspiration, one that people do not just buy, but rather acquire in a quest for recognition that can never quite be fulfilled. A suit, after all, only hides so much.
The distinction, however, extends beyond mere tailoring and cloth. The person who has been fitted for tailored suits since childhood knows how to wear the fabric with ease. Their posture, their movements, are as much a part of the garment as the material itself. There is a confidence that radiates from someone who has never had to think about the shape of their clothes, someone whose sartorial education was woven into their very upbringing. In contrast, someone who did not have the luxury of a bespoke wardrobe walks into the same environment with a sense of self-consciousness. They adjust their tie nervously, tug at their collar, or fiddle with the cuffs, aware of the garment as a barrier between themselves and the world around them. They wear their clothes like armour, not as an extension of their identity, shielding against the insecurities that accompany dressing for a world that does not always feel like it was built for them.
Wealth, it seems, possesses a singular talent for subverting rigid codes. The truly privileged modify, they elevate, they tweak, until their uniform appears effortless, a carefully cultivated symbol of taste. A perfectly measured trouser break, a monogrammed cufflink, or a slight shift in the fabric’s sheen — these are the subtle touches that separate the truly privileged from the merely well-dressed. The unspoken rules of these silent modifications are understood by those who “belong” to the culture of luxury and exclusivity. These alterations, slight as they may seem, are imbued with meaning. They carry the weight of heritage, of lessons passed down through generations, often subtly communicated in the raised eyebrow of an older family member who teaches you when it’s appropriate to leave the tie at home or when to add just a hint of polish to the otherwise rigid uniform.
In a way, the regulations of dress, therefore, exist to be interpreted by those with the requisite cultural capital. The affluent are the ones who can afford to twist the uniform to their advantage, using it to signal their place in the hierarchy, to convey a sense of exclusivity and control. Meanwhile, for those on the outside, the rules are just rules — inflexible directives which, when followed to the letter, often result in a tell-tale awkwardness. The slight imperfections, such as the too-tight collar, the slightly too-short sleeves, are enough to mark them as outsiders, no matter how hard they try to blend in.
Furthermore, the very acquisition of a uniform tells its own story. For the privileged, a uniform is a curated object, bespoke piece that reflects both wealth and taste. These uniforms are made-to-measure, tailored to fit the body in such a way that they become part of it, fitting seamlessly into the wearer’s lifestyle and identity. They are dry-cleaned regularly, replaced at the first sign of wear, and retired only when they are so worn that their status is no longer clear. For those without such means, however, a uniform is often inherited, handed down from older siblings, cousins, or even friends. It is worn until it can no longer be patched, until its seams start to fray, and its fabric begins to lose its original shape. A uniform, in these cases, is not so much a symbol of status as it is a piece of armour, an attempt to blend into a world that never really intended for you to be a part of it.
The same item of clothing, in these two different worlds, carries vastly different meanings. For one person, a suit is a tool for effortless conformity, something that signifies their place in the world and their understanding of its unspoken rules. For another, it is a heavy costume of ambition, a hope that it might someday become a comfortable second skin, a sign that they “have made it.” But as much as they may wish to believe otherwise, uniforms do not have the power to equalise, they only reveal the invisible distinctions that remain, however well-concealed.
Ultimately, the promise of the uniform as a social leveller is a hollow one. It offers the mirage of equality while masterfully reinforcing the very hierarchies it claims to dismantle, proving itself to be not a great equaliser, but a most sophisticated instrument of division.
Luxury’s Contradiction: The Illusion of Accessibility
Luxury brands are masterful at weaving a tantalising illusion of accessibility, like a velvet rope that promises entry but only grants it to a select few. Through capsule collections, designer collaborations with high-street chains, and assorted diffusion lines, the industry projects a carefully managed image of democratisation. “Look,” the advertisements whisper, “even you can own a fragment of the dream.” These moments of ‘affordable’ luxury are engineered to foster a belief that the world of wealth and exclusivity is now a public gallery, open for all to browse.
Yet this accessibility proves as ephemeral as a mirage upon closer approach. The core constituency of luxury remains, in essence, unchanged; a rarefied group possessing the financial and cultural means to consume the finest offerings as a matter of unthinking habit. These collaborative ventures and entry-level products are not truly intended for the masses. They are designed for the aspirational consumer, offered as a diluted sample of what true wealth enjoys effortlessly, like a sip of expensive wine from a bottle that is, in reality, far beyond the reach of the average consumer. It is like being invited to a VIP section of a club, only to find the velvet rope still firmly in place, separating one from the inner sanctum where the real spectacle unfolds.
This dynamic finds its ultimate expression in the recent vogue for ‘quiet luxury’, a concept that has gained significant traction in privileged circles. This philosophy champions expensive items that are deceptively plain, so understated they could be mistaken for mundane high-street purchases. The underlying principle suggests that true wealth, secure in its position, feels no need to announce itself with gaudy logos or conspicuous branding. It is presented as a sign of refined taste, a confidence that requires no external validation.
A Loro Piana cashmere sweater, for instance, might seem an unremarkable garment to the untrained eye. It does not shout for attention. However, for those moving within affluent circles, its recognition is instantaneous. The sublime quality of the fabric, the precision of the cut, and the impeccable artisanry communicate a message far louder than any logo. To the uninitiated, it is merely a sweater; to the cognoscenti, it is an immediate and unambiguous marker of privilege, a silent signal of membership in an exclusive club.
Herein resides the central paradox: quiet luxury, far from being a classless or egalitarian aesthetic, functions as a badge of exclusivity in its most potent form. It operates as an inside joke among the affluent, a subtle wink that conveys, “If you know, you know." Those who adopt it are signalling something far more significant than mere sartorial preference; they are identifying themselves as members of an elite group with access to the world's most superlative offerings. The very subtlety of quiet luxury renders it more, not less, recognisable to those already initiated into its discreet codes. This is about demonstrating a shared knowledge of its quiet language. It operates as a sophisticated currency of exclusion.
The act of wearing such an understated piece becomes a statement in itself, yet one that only resonates if the observer is already part of the conversation. To engage with quiet luxury is to participate in a dialogue that exists beyond the material object, a discourse visible only to those who comprehend its deeper significance. The value extends beyond the product itself to encompass the considerable cultural capital required to possess it — the silent understanding that one is displaying a symbol of a very particular place in the world.
The Row Winter 2024 Lookbook (Photographer: Jamie Hawkesworth)
This is where the fundamental contradiction emerges. By offering these capsule collections and high-street collaborations, luxury brands create the impression that they are throwing open the doors to their exclusive realm. Simultaneously, however, they are engineering a new, more insidious form of exclusivity, built on the subtlety of its presentation, rather than overt displays of wealth. These items are created for those who wish to purchase a prop in the luxury narrative, if only for a single act. The reality for the aspirational buyer remains stark: owning a piece of the dream does not constitute an invitation to the ball.
You may sip the wine, but you are still standing outside the vineyard.
Furthermore, the notion of quiet luxury as a form of classless dressing is itself a clever illusion. This aesthetic does not erase class distinctions; it renders them more distinct and more difficult to decipher for outsiders. It is a coded language, fluent only to the initiated, where concepts of “taste" and “quality" function as cultural markers that meticulously distinguish the elite from the rest. The comforting promise of accessible luxury is a masterful sleight of hand, a distraction from the unyielding reality that luxury is about maintaining distance. It is a world that, no matter how many drawbridges it appears to lower, remains systematically and tantalisingly out of reach for the majority.
In the end, the genius of modern luxury is its ability to deepen its own exclusivity precisely through gestures of apparent inclusion. The capsule collections, the high-street collaborations, and the cult of quiet luxury all serve to reinforce the central tenet that there exists a realm which can only be fully understood and appreciated by a select few. They offer a glimpse, a taste, yet they never truly bridge the chasm between the privileged and the aspiring. And one might conclude that this is entirely the point. For what would luxury be without the formidable power of its own exclusivity, without these silent codes that so effectively demarcate the boundaries between those who belong and those who are merely window-shopping? It is this very contradiction — the beguiling mirage of accessibility maintained within the firm grasp of exclusion — that keeps the entire enchanting, and utterly elusive, dream alive.
Can Second-Hand and Sustainable Fashion Break the Cycle?
In an era where consumption functions as a primary marker of status, the rising tides of vintage fashion, charity shopping, and sustainable clothing present a beguiling vision of escape. They suggest a potential route out of the rigid sartorial codes of class, a chance to redefine ourselves through curation rather than mere acquisition. The perfectly thrifted outfit, in this idealised view, tells no straightforward tale of income, speaking instead to individual taste and a narrative of conscious discovery. This vision proposes clothing as a neutral territory, a common ground accessible to all, regardless of bank balance or background. Yet, upon closer inspection, even this promising realm of second-hand and sustainable fashion reveals itself to be thoroughly entangled with the very class structures it purports to bypass.
While the rise of vintage fashion, second-hand shopping, and ethical clothing offers a sense of rebellion against fast fashion, it does not, and cannot, entirely escape the gravitational pull of economic distinctions. For the affluent, thrifting often becomes a leisurely pastime, a genteel hunt for high-quality vintage pieces that complement an already established and refined aesthetic. This practice is a form of curation, a quest for unique items that lend an air of authentic eccentricity to a wardrobe. It is, at its core, a significant luxury — predicated on the surplus time, educated eye, and the fundamental privilege of choosing second-hand for stylistic reasons rather than financial compulsion. This act aligns perfectly with a cultivated sense of taste, a discernment shaped by considerable cultural capital.
On the other hand, for a great many in the working class, second-hand shopping originates from a place of necessity. Thrifting becomes survival rather than choice, a way to stretch a limited budget or to fill gaps in a wardrobe without the luxury of spending money on new, full-price clothing. The driving force is utility, not the appreciation of artisanry or the thrill of the hunt. The working class might not see the charm of a vintage jacket the way a designer-conscious buyer might, because the value of these garments is rooted in utility, not in the appreciation of craftsmanship or the uniqueness of a piece. And though there are undoubtedly pleasures to be found in thrifting, perhaps even a thrill in discovering a hidden gem, these are secondary to the fundamental reality that, for many, second-hand shopping is still not a choice but a necessity. The same activity, therefore, carries two entirely different social weights: one a voluntary statement of ethics and style, the other an involuntary adaptation to economic constraint.
This chasm of intention exposes the enduring divide within the world of sustainable fashion. To choose a pre-owned garment as a deliberate, conscientious rejection of mass consumerism is a gesture of personal virtue. To rely on that same marketplace because full-price retail is an impossible stretch is a testament to economic reality. The wealthy may wear vintage as a badge of individuality, while those with fewer means often wear it as a simple, unadorned necessity.
But even when we move beyond the realm of second-hand shopping, the question of sustainability in fashion raises a similar contradiction. At first glance, ethical brands, slow fashion, and organic fabrics might seem to offer an egalitarian solution to fashion’s class-based distinctions. After all, if we all begin to care about where our clothes come from, the materials used, and the labour involved, we might collectively break the chains of fast fashion’s exploitation. However, sustainability itself remains wrapped in privilege. Ethical clothing, whether made from organic cotton, recycled materials, or produced with fair labour practices, often comes with a price tag that is not accessible to all. To dress sustainably, in many cases, requires more money, not less.
Those with substantial means can afford to invest in high-quality, sustainable clothing because they have the financial security to choose slower, more thoughtful consumption. They can wear organic cotton and support ethical brands as a way of aligning their purchases with their values, without putting a strain on their budgets. For them, the cost of sustainability is often just a fraction of their disposable income, a choice made with little real financial sacrifice. Meanwhile, individuals and families managing tighter budgets might feel the burden of fast fashion, but they also face the very real challenge of accessing sustainable options that fit their budgets. For many, the alternative is not an ethical wardrobe, but one that is made of cheaper, mass-produced garments — many of which are designed to be discarded after only a few wears.
It is important to note, too, that it is not the poor who are filling landfills with cheap, disposable clothing. The responsibility for environmental degradation caused by fashion falls more squarely on the middle class and above, who cycle through disposable trends at an alarming rate. The abundance of cheap, fast fashion that dominates high-street retailers is primarily targeted at this demographic, creating a culture of constant consumption. For the middle class, the drive to stay on top of trends, to remain relevant in a hyper-competitive world, leads to a cycle of overconsumption that is as environmentally unsustainable as it is socially irresponsible. This is the class that contributes disproportionately to the fashion waste crisis, driven by the desire to stay fashionable while remaining within an acceptable social status.
Even within the sustainable movement, there is a tendency to overlook how privilege shapes the ways in which people can participate. Ethical brands and slow fashion, while admirable in their efforts to promote sustainability, frequently fail to make their products accessible to the very people who might benefit most from them. The wealthy possess the time, money, and cultural confidence to engage in careful, conscientious consumption. In contrast, those who are struggling to make ends meet are systematically excluded from this virtuous circle, lacking the resources to invest in alternatives that remain, for them, prohibitively expensive. It is a classic case of the rich getting richer and the poor remaining stuck in the system that sustains inequality.
The central question, therefore, is whether second-hand and sustainable fashion can ever genuinely break the cycle of class-based consumption. Can we ever move beyond the boundaries that dictate how and why we buy what we buy? The answer, in many ways, is that while these movements can certainly challenge the prevailing narrative, they are ultimately incapable of erasing the deep-seated economic structures that govern our choices. Even in the most sustainable of fashion revolutions, class remains the ultimate arbiter of who can access the better choices and who is left with the remnants. Sustainability, as a cultural movement, is often as much about social capital as it is about environmental responsibility. The ability to shop sustainably is a privilege, one that is often limited by financial, social, and cultural barriers.
Ultimately, the rise of second-hand shopping and sustainable fashion may offer a more equitable pathway than the destructive treadmill of fast fashion. Yet it cannot, by itself, dismantle the class structure that shapes our relationship with what we wear. As long as the price of a clear conscience remains beyond the reach of millions, the dream of a truly classless wardrobe will persist as exactly that — a pleasant, yet distant, fantasy. The more pertinent question shifts from whether fashion can be sustainable, to whether its sustainability can ever be truly inclusive, transcending the invisible, enduring boundaries that continue to define who belongs, and who is merely browsing.
The Political Body: How Clothes Signal Class Even in Rebellion
Fashion operates as a relentless dialect of power, identity, and belonging. Yet even in rebellion, which, no matter how vehement, consistently fail to shed the structuring influence of class. The punk movement of the 1970s, with its studded leather jackets, safety pins, and torn T-shirts, was a visceral rejection of the status quo — a loud, defiant shout against authority and conformity. For all its anarchic posturing, the movement was never a purely working-class phenomenon. Its key architects, figures like Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren, were distanced from the gritty economic hardship their style often mimicked. Westwood, for example, was the daughter of a telephone operator and, while she embraced the anarchistic spirit of punk, was also embedded within the fashion establishment she critiqued. McLaren’s ideological rebellion was frequently viewed through the lens of middle-class privilege, an artistic provocation rather than an outcry born of genuine deprivation. In this sense, punk can be seen less as an organic working-class revolt and more as a sophisticated appropriation of rebellion by the cultural vanguard. The raw anger and frustration it embodied were systematically packaged and commodified by the very commercial forces it sought to dismantle.
Likewise, the grunge movement of the 1990s, which was founded on thrift-store aesthetics and a deliberate disdain for consumerist gloss, was quickly co-opted by the upper echelons of the fashion world. Marc Jacobs, the genius behind grunge's transformation into high fashion, elevated the dishevelled, “uncared for” look into a luxury trend. The torn flannel shirts and scuffed boots that were once worn out of necessity and poverty by young people from working-class backgrounds became high-end, coveted items, sold to the very people who had never known the financial constraints that birthed them. Grunge, like punk before it, was redefined as an aesthetic of calculated coolness, sold to a clientele who had never experienced the financial realities that birthed the style. The working class provided the raw material of rebellion, while the upper classes possessed the power to refine, market, and profit from it.
Balenciaga FW22 Ready-to-Wear
This dynamic is far from new. Historical moments of rebellion and social upheaval have often been accompanied by fashion trends that purport to reject wealth and excess, only for them to be co-opted by the very class they were trying to critique. During the French Revolution, for instance, aristocrats famously adopted the sans-culotte aesthetic — simple linen shirts and homespun fabrics — as a performance of solidarity with the revolutionaries. But this appropriation was a carefully crafted illusion. The aristocracy’s romanticisation of peasant life was still rooted in their privilege, and their imitation of poverty was, at best, an act of self-indulgent performance. The peasants themselves, meanwhile, had no such luxury to play dress-up. They wore such garments out of sheer necessity, not as a fashionable political statement. The aristocratic desire to “dress down” represented a self-indulgent engagement with populist sentiment, a theatrical display that left their social and economic power entirely intact.
The rich have long been fascinated with the aesthetics of the working class, a fascination that finds its most absurd contemporary expression in trends like “poverty-core” or “hobo chic.” Balenciaga’s infamous £1,700 bin bag, which was a high-fashion take on the cheap, plastic bags often used by homeless people or those who cannot afford to shop at luxury boutiques. This bag was never intended for practical use; it functioned as an art piece, an ironic commentary on wealth, or perhaps a cynical demonstration that anything, even destitution, can be commodified. But what this form of “rebel” luxury underscores is the privilege that allows the wearer to engage with “poverty” as a concept, rather than a lived reality. The wealthy can adopt a poverty-inspired aesthetic and remove it at will, discarding the discomfort once the trend has run its course. The working class, by stark contrast, does not enjoy the luxury of retreating from the poverty that defines their daily existence.
To reject fashion is, ironically, still to engage with it. The very act of choosing to wear rags deliberately, to embrace discomfort and disarray, marks an engagement with fashion’s code, its rules, and its power structures. It becomes a statement, a style choice that places one within the framework of fashion itself. Wearing rags as an act of rebellion is a performance, much like any other fashion statement. It requires thought, intention, and access — both to the clothes and the cultural space in which they are seen as subversive. The wearer of ragged clothes, in this case, is no longer a victim of poverty but a participant in a narrative of rebellion, one that is once again shaped by the forces of privilege.
Conversely, the individual who wears worn-out clothing out of sheer necessity is constrained by that reality. Their dress is not a performance of dissent but a testament to survival. This chasm between choosing discomfort and having it imposed is crucial. It highlights the essential difference between employing fashion as a tool for expression and being subjected to the limitations of what one can afford. The wealthy can afford to mock or reject the trappings of style; they can wear distress as a badge of coolness. For the poor, however, the absence of choice is simply a condition of their lives. The attempt to commodify rebellion in fashion, whether it is in punk, grunge, or poverty-core, only highlights the inescapable link between clothing and class. Even in rebellion, fashion remains a signifier of who we are, where we come from, and the power we hold.
Ultimately, sartorial rebellion, much like its political counterpart, is never a classless endeavour. To attempt to reject fashion is, in itself, a way of engaging with it. The punk movement, grunge, and the various iterations of anti-fashion are all reminders that even when we try to escape the system, we remain embedded within it. The political body of fashion, whether we like it or not, is one that is inextricably tied to class. And as much as we might protest its limitations, fashion remains an unflinching mirror of the world around us. Rebellion, it seems, is just another way of conforming — just with a bit more attitude and a few safety pins.
So, Can Clothes Ever Be Classless?
In the end, the question answers itself. Fashion functions as a mirror, and the frame of that mirror is invariably, inescapably gilded. Garments cannot exist in a social vacuum; they are imbued from conception with the hierarchies of the world that produced them. An item as ostensibly simple as a plain white T-shirt is never truly neutral. Its fabric, its fit, its brand, and even the context of its wearer conspire to assign it a place in a rigid social order. The very notion of a classless wardrobe is a charming fantasy, one that would necessitate a society itself stripped of the economic and cultural distinctions that define human interaction. We would require a world where privilege ceases to dictate our posture, our opportunities, and the space we are permitted to occupy.
And so, in the absence of that utopia, we continue to dress. We signal our allegiances and our aspirations through cloth and stitch. We perform roles in a grand theatre where the costumes, no matter how rebellious or humble, are drawn from a pre-scripted wardrobe. Fashion persists as an exquisite paradox: it offers the tantalising promise of self-invention while simultaneously confining us to categories established long before we entered the stage. The hems may rise and fall, the colours may shift with the seasons, yet the underlying system of sartorial value remains stubbornly, impeccably intact. The performance continues, season after season, because while the costumes may change, the script is a classic that never goes out of print.
S xoxo
Written in London, England
6th February 2025