On Monday, tennis' finest assembled in Flushing, New York, for the long-awaited 2020 U.S. Open. And while we’re all rooting for Serena and Venus Williams to dominate the nine-day sporting event as they’ve done in the past, it’s not just the tennis action that’s getting us pumped up for the games. Instead, from now until September 8, we’re focusing our attention on the influx of tennis style inspiration that coincides with the arrival of the Open — more specifically, the tennis skirts.
Over the last year, tennis fashion has seen an uptick in popularity, with retro styles from Sergio Tacchini, Tory Sport, and Lacoste making waves both on and off the court. Even Venus Williams joined in on the action with her brand EleVen’s tennis wear line. Photoshoots now frequently take place on the sport’s signature green surfaces, with Chloe x Halle recently taking to their backyard court to shoot their Fendi Peekaboo bag campaign and Instagram influencers flocking to nearby public courts to garner an aesthetically pleasing shot. In fact, the rise of tennis fashion is so significant that back in June, Lyst reported a 33% increase in demand for pleated tennis skirts in just one month. Now, the real tennis style inspiration is here.
Click ahead to shop this season’s most stylish tennis skirts, from traditional tennis whites to bold, Williams-approved alternatives, all in honor of this week’s opening ceremony.
At Refinery29, we’re here to help you navigate this overwhelming world of stuff. All of our market picks are independently selected and curated by the editorial team. If you buy something we link to on our site, Refinery29 may earn commission.
Retro Tennis Skirts
If you're looking to take a throwback approach to tennis fashion this season, these are the styles for you. Just throw on some tube socks, a varsity sweater, and a pair of chunky, white sneakers, and you'll be all (game) set (match).
Tory Sport Tech Twill Pleated Tennis Skirt, $, available at Nordstrom
Sergio Tacchini Pliage Skort, $, available at Sergio Tacchini
Modern Tennis Skirts
From mesh fabrics to fresh silhouettes, tennis skirts don't all look the same anymore — and these modern styles by Outdoor Voices and L'Etoile Sport are proof.
Outdoor Voices Court Skort, $, available at Outdoor Voices
FP Movement Schooling You Shorts, $, available at Free People
L'Etoile Sport Stretch-Jersey And Pointelle-Knit Tennis Skirt, $, available at Net-A-Porter
White Pleated Tennis Skirts
For those of you who are just now introducing tennis styles to your end-of-summer wardrobes, this is the perfect place to start. Not only does a traditional, white tennis skirt look great on and off the court, it'll also fit right in with the TikTok fashion scene.
American Apparel Gabardine Tennis Skirt, $, available at American Apparel
Lacoste Sport Ultra Dry Pleated Tennis Skirt, $, available at Lacoste
Colorful Tennis Skirts
If your style goal is to stray as far away from the traditional tennis look as possible, look no further than these colorful alternatives by the likes of Girlfriend, Gil Rodriguez, and Nike.
Gil Rodriguez Green Terry Tennis Skirt, $, available at SSENSE
As plus-size fashion continues to grow exponentially — the market is estimated to be worth $24 billion by the end of 2020 — the demand for clothing above a size 16 is more apparent than ever. But as the coronavirus pandemic continues to challenge designers and the current fashion landscape, many are beginning to realize just how valuable this market and community are.
While retailers have been seemingly more receptive to size inclusivity in the last few years, luxury designers have only scratched the surface on the topic: A report published by InStyle in February revealed that only 22% of designers that showed at New York Fashion Week produced up to a size 20 or above. (That number is largely influenced by brands like Chromat and Tadashi Shoji, who have long led the charge for size inclusivity in luxury, too, rather than the collective industry.) But the key to a size-inclusive future is not only through demanding change from pre-existing brands. Rather, it is through preparing the next generation of game-changers to be inclusive from the start, while they are still in school. That requires an increase in size-inclusive education, a topic that is still heavily lacking at many fashion colleges.
“The conversation around plus-size or fat fashion has been seen purely as a social justice issue and an activist issue,” says Ben Barry, chair of fashion at Ryerson University in Toronto, which offers a fashion study program centered on inclusivity of size, gender, and race. “This is a business imperative for the fashion industry.”
While plus-size fashion is being addressed more within school curriculums, most institutions are leaving it as an alternative choice of study, should a student want to focus their final project on it, rather than stressing the importance of plus fashion and the vital role it plays in the future landscape of the industry. This continues to fuel the separation between straight and plus-sizes, while sending the message that plus is a separate and lesser entity.
Meanwhile, according to every educator interviewed for this piece, students crave inclusivity more than ever.
“I feel like creativity and following what you are passionate about was encouraged at my school, but not so much size inclusivity,” says Ian Harris, a former apparel design major at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities, who graduated last year. “Nothing was ever strictly covered in regards to plus-size fashion… but if we wanted to make something in plus-sizes, they would help us work through those potential fit problems.”
He adds, “It’s annoying that if I wanted to make plus-size womenswear, and I needed to drape something or get an accurate fit without a model, I couldn’t really get that.” Cesar Cummings, an L.A.-based designer, had even less help when attending a smaller fashion school in California. In fact, after getting the dean’s approval to design plus-size in his courses, Cummings got pushback from a professor, who told him to just “manufacture clothing” during one of his classes. (Cummings fought back and eventually got to design the plus-size clothing he wanted.)
Many schools — including the Moore College of Art & Design and Kent State University — allow students to focus on plus fashion in their design classes or final projects if they have the desire to do so, and offer assistance in various ways should the student request it. But this fails to make inclusive fashion a core element of the curriculum. Only offering support if a student expresses interest in plus makes straight-size designing the default, and many young designers still learning the ropes of the industry will likely cling to the more standard option of a size 6/8 dress mold.
The COVID-19 pandemic has made the need for plus-size curriculums more apparent. As many schools — including the Fashion Institute of Technology — switch to a fully remote or online-first education system for the fall 2020 semester, students have less of an opportunity to explore the market unless it’s worked into classes. While plus-size mannequins may be available in-person at selected institutions, students may have a hard time finding one to have at home, making it even more difficult to pursue plus-size designing.
On the other hand, virtual schooling can lend itself to a more inclusive education. Virtual seminars and panels can allow students to connect with plus-size fashion experts that they may not have been able to in-person. 3-D technology allows students to design for a wide array of body types, rather than just a size 6 or 14 mold.
All to say: While there’s no lack of opportunity available, it’ll require forward-thinkers to prioritize body diversity in a way that hasn’t been done before.
So, what would a truly inclusive curriculum look like in practice? Best intentions aside, no one has quite cracked the code on how to normalize size inclusivity into their curriculum. While designating instructors to assist those who want to design for above a size 14, as many schools do, can be the first step, more needs to be instituted to show the important role that size inclusivity plays in the future success of this industry.
Jennifer Minniti, the chair of Pratt University’s fashion department, tells Refinery29 that the school is currently rethinking and redesigning its entire curriculum around size inclusivity, sustainability, and gender identity. She says she sees more value in injecting size inclusivity into the program rather than offering plus-specific courses. “We’re trying to find a way to provide critical study in the core curriculum, so where it should really underpin the core curriculum,” Minniti says. “So our students can become agents of change and make serious change in the industry.”
In 2018, the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles brought on Nick Verreos — former contestant and current producer on Project Runway — to be co-chair of its Fashion Design program, hoping he would shake things up and diversify the curriculum. Though much is still in the works at FIDM, Verreos says that students are first taught the foundation of design and then how to translate that on different body types, stressing the difference between a size 18 body and a size 6. “We’re really considering offering [plus-size specific design] electives,” Verreos says. “And we do hear from a lot of manufacturers and companies where a lot of times the young entry-level assistants have come into those kinds of companies [not knowing how to design for plus].”
Lisa Hayes, the Fashion Design program director at Drexel University in Philadelphia, tells Refinery29 that they have been incorporating size inclusivity into their program for about the past decade, bringing in plus speakers and educators to show their students the possibilities available to them. Hayes credits much of this to the smaller size of the program, allowing them to jump on different initiatives early such as plus fashion or adaptive clothing for those with disabilities.
At FIT in New York City, the need for plus-size fashion education became apparent when the school put on a forum titled “The Business of Curves” in 2017 featuring plus supermodel Emme. With 500 students in attendance, the desire for more education on the topic was evident, and so Steven Frumkin, Dean of the Jay and Patty Baker School of Business and Technology, put together a handful of courses in their technical design area to satisfy those students. Pre-pandemic, FIT had continued to host inclusive events and hired a Chief Diversity Officer to push the conversation forward. The program has also incorporated 3-D design into its courses, as have other schools like the University of Minnesota Twin Cities, that allow students to dress for more body types and sizes.
Prior to helping change the narrative at FIT, Emme launched Fashion Without Limits in 2013, an initiative co-founded with Syracuse University’s School of Design professors Jeffrey Mayer and Todd Conover, to teach inclusive design. Fashion Without Limits has since expanded greatly, becoming a four-year program offered by Syracuse. “Every time innovation and newness and change happens within a design program to be more inclusive, everyone wins,” Emme tells Refinery29. “It’s scary being first, but you have to take a stand.”
Former Ford Model Angela O’Riley has created a similar program for high schoolers called The Curvy Lab. Conducted at The High School of Fashion Industries in NYC in 2018, it serves to teach young hopefuls about inclusive designing before they even entered college. “When you’re a designer, you have to be able to make something that’s beautiful for whoever your customer is,” O’Riley explains. “So we’re retraining the eyes of these kids to find what’s beautiful in whoever is in front of us or whoever our customers are, and we’re starting with the size 18 curvy mannequin, because that’s where the industry is, but that we’re not limiting ourselves to that.”
The success of Fashion Without Limits and The Curvy Lab raises a question: Would offering plus-specific design courses and programs, rather than incorporating them into the existing curriculum, in fashion colleges be the most beneficial route? While a majority of the educators interviewed said no, Susan Moses — author of the book The Art of Dressing Curves and a helper in FIT’s change toward inclusivity — thinks otherwise. “There are so many aspects of designing for plus that are different,” Moses says.
Moses makes a valid point: Fit is essential when designing for plus bodies, and too often, brands grade up from a size 8 or 10 without taking this into account. Weight can be added to the body in many different ways making one size 18 woman’s shape different from another’s. If young designers are unaware of the rigors and intense amount of training and experience needed to properly fit fat bodies, they could be set for failure.
A better question may be this: Why not normalize size inclusivity in technical classes while also offering plus-specific ones for students who want to expand in that market? “Incorporating size inclusion and plus-size fashion into the curriculum isn’t about a one-off effort, but about lasting systemic change,” says Barry. “It’s about transforming an entire educational system, not just offering it off for your elective.”
Before students at Ryerson even get to design, they are taught — through readings, documentaries, guest speakers, and coursework — about fat activism, as well as other topics like Black liberation and marginalization. They are taught about stereotypes regarding marginalized bodies in the industry, teaching them the significance and importance of inclusive fashion.
“[Before the pandemic], we were building our own dress forms in our Creative Technology Lab, where we were engaging a diverse group of local fat-identifying people in Toronto that identify as men, women, non-binary, and trans, working with them to actually scan their body and build our own dress form in plus-sizes in order to ensure that we have a variety of different shapes and sizes represented,” Barry says.
He adds, “If we’re going to transform fashion education, we need to invite bodies around the table that bring in life experiences that have been marginalized and erased from fashion because that will help us to really illuminate whose stories and whose bodies haven’t been told, who doesn’t feel welcome in our classroom right now, and what we can do to challenge that.”
While there’s no singular way to satisfy the demand for plus fashion, preparing students for the inclusive future of the industry is likely the best way to do so. The logistics of doing so, as shown, are not easy. Funding, of course, plays a big issue, as does student access to these institutions for those who can’t afford to attend. Now, the pandemic adds another level of challenges to address.
But if inclusivity is not made a core value at these fashion institutions, then there cannot be an expectation that fashion will ever progress to truly represent consumers. The future of fashion is now, and that future is inclusive. As designers struggle to stay afloat amidst the pandemic, young hopefuls would be wise to learn how to design for every body type now, before entering the industry. Diversity is always beneficial to your bottom line, and as the industry landscape faces one of its hardest challenges yet, fashion schools will have no choice but to evolve.
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Even before the pandemic, the problems in the fashion industry — from racism, to worker exploitation, to environmental damage — were enormous. But the last six months have amplified those issues, forcing many fashion lovers to grapple with the fact that an industry that brings them so much joy can also create so much damage. One upside, at least, to all this has been seeing how many brands and consumers are compelled to change their habits, and hopefully lead to a better fashion industry for everyone.
Since March, many designers have found themselves with piles of excess inventory. This is a result of many things: retailers who canceled orders; consumers who are cash-strapped, don’t need anything new given their current at-home lifestyles, or both; businesses that closed and, thus, were unable to ship products; and more. Whatever the specific cause, this unsold inventory is a very visible reminder for designers of what happens when overproduction is allowed free rein. Some took this time as an opportunity to get creative with archives, turning to leftover fabric for new collections. In June, Marques’Almeida introduced ReM’Ade, a collection made from upcycled fabrics, after noticing how much deadstock fabric it was holding. In July, Danish brand Cecilie Bahnsen released the “first of many” upcycled collections to come. In August, under Virgil Abloh, Louis Vuitton Men’s Spring 2021 show featured looks from a previous collection. Most recently, another Danish export, Ganni, used deadstock materials, as well as debuted a rental collaboration with Levi’s, during Copenhagen Fashion Week.
Consumers have also been forced to reexamine their relationship to one of the most polluting industries in the world. According to ThredUp’s 2020 Resale report, 70% of consumers agree that addressing climate change is more important now than ever. As a result, the report predicts a rise in secondhand shopping and a dip for fast fashion, the biggest offender when it comes to waste and unethical supply chain. Conscious consumers can no longer justify buying a dress just because it’s pretty and cheap, especially if it comes at the cost of the planet. But a change in our fashion habits requires asking some hard questions: What is the right way to consume fashion? Is there a right way?Can you love fashion and be an environmentally responsible and ethical human at the same time?
According to ThredUp’s 2020 Resale report, 70% of consumers agree that addressing climate change is more important now than ever.
While I’ve asked myself these questions previously, this time around, it’s led to some new developments in my shopping habits. While I’ve always personally dismissed a capsule closet, during the pandemic, I discovered that I only wear the same 10 to 15 items on repeat. This is despite the fact that my wardrobe never seems to get smaller no matter how many rounds of spring cleaning I do. (I am on round four since March, but who’s counting?) And while I can’t wait for the day I wear my yellow pantsuit or that indulgent mini bag that I got Before Quarantine, I no longer have the same appetite to purchase something new. Sure, this might mean that I will continue to wear the same thing over and over again, but that’s okay — I should value my clothing enough to want to wear it week after week, rather than just a few times a season.
This concept is nothing new. Slow-fashion brands have been preaching a “buy better, buy less” mentality for years, a movement that evokes fashion’s former ethos. (There’s a reason why vintage clothing can survive decades of use while a lot of new clothing can barely make it through a year.) This mentality has reached the highest echelons of the industry. Designers who churned out anywhere from four to eight collections a year have been halted by the pandemic; with that, they found time to think and make more conscious decisions. In this spring’s biggest fashion news, Gucci’s Alessandro Michele announced that the brand will go from showing five to two collections a year.
“We have to do things more responsibly,” Ganni’s co-founder and creative director, Ditte Reffstrup, told R29 recently. “If you don’t, there won’t be a spot for you in the industry in years to come.”
Fashion has been due for a reckoning of this kind for quite some time now — the pandemic just sped it up. In addition to the pressure that retailers have put on designers to cater to our every social media trend-driven whim, there is the issue of the archaic fashion calendar, which is always hopelessly out-of-season, with summer dresses arriving in the winter and fall coats in the summer. Not only does it not make sense to the consumers, but it’s even nonsensical to the designers who are making the clothes per these deadlines. The latter has had enough. In May, an open letter, led by Belgian designer Dries Van Noten and signed by other designers and fashion leaders, called for the fashion industry’s “fundamental and welcome change that will simplify businesses, making them more environmentally and socially sustainable and ultimately align them more closely with customers’ needs.”
Though the calls for sustainable and mindful shopping were happening well before this year, for those just tuning in now, there has never been a better time to revamp outmoded shopping habits and start to buy more purposefully and responsibly, shop secondhand, and support brands who are kind to the planet and their workers.
So, where do we go from here?
I’ve accepted that I love fashion too much to quit shopping entirely. What I can do, though, is ask the following questions before I purchase anything: Do I need this in my closet? Do I see myself wearing it in 20 years? Who and under what conditions made it? Can I buy something similar secondhand? Is it worth the money? That last question is especially significant because when money is scarce like it is right now, what you spend it on matters.
So, what should we consider spending it on right now? Here are a few ideas: Brands that follow ethical and environmentally responsible practices, and those that are inclusive; designers making high-quality staples that can be worn for years to come; and fashion that brings joy and comfort during a time when there’s little to be happy about or comforted by. Because, while I tend to reach for the same black turtleneck week after week, it’s the yellow, zebra-printed Victor Glemaud pants I bought two months into lockdown that I pair it with when I need something to make myself feel better about my day. And, when it comes down to it, isn’t that how fashion should always make you feel?
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This February, I found myself struggling through an article I was writing about the rash of violence mostly targeting Asian-Americans wearing face masks. How do I convince Americans that, at least to many East Asians, face masks were a good thing — for everyone? The CDC had recently said face masks did little to prevent the spread of COVID-19, the respiratory virus that was ravaging China, but wasn’t yet known to be in America. In fact, at the time, there was consensus that most people who wore face masks were committing a deeply selfish act; every non-medical professional you saw in a mask meant there was one less for doctors, nurses, and other essential workers. So, how could I explain that, among the people who had first-hand experience of SARS, masks didn’t communicate self-centeredness, gullibility, or paranoia? Back in China, not wearing a mask said those same things about you. I tentatively wrote this sentence: “Those who refused to wear [masks] during the outbreak — or wore them incorrectly — drew criticism.” And I hoped that Americans would have the imagination to understand that perspective.
Fast-forward six months, one pandemic, and close to 200,000 American deaths: Everything has changed. We didn’t have to imagine a doomsday. We inhabit it. And it includes masks.
Now, the idea that I’d have a difficult time explaining to the average non-Asian-American how mask-wearing is considered an act of public health is laughable (even though there are many who still don’t believe masks work). Today, there are plenty of Americans who understand the differences between N95s and non-medical cloth masks, who pay attention to the etiquette around wearing them while exercising, grocery shopping, and taking public transportation. They know about the disturbing cultural pockets of mask-deniers for whom personal liberties are more important than their neighbor’s health. Six months ago, most Americans couldn’t tell you where to buy a facial mask. These days, most Americans likely own at least one.
Like so much about this pandemic, the way that masks have entered the consumer market is unprecedented. “I can’t think of anything that has become as ubiquitous over this short a period of time,” says retail analyst Neil Saunders. With the speed of a fad and the urgency of an essential item, masks went from nowhere to omnipresent in the span of a few weeks. Today, masks can be found in drugstores, big-box stores, and even gas stations. They are — aside from perhaps underwear — the most regularly worn item in America right now.
This has predictably thrown an already unstable fashion industry for a loop. The pandemic upended production capabilities and supply chains, as well as ransacked consumers’ pocketbooks, and thus their abilities and appetite to purchase new clothing and accessories. But to some fashion companies, masks presented an opportunity. Designers like Christian Siriano, Rachel Comey, and Dov Charney quickly pivoted, using their factories to create non-medical PPE (personal protective equipment) to be donated to medical facilities. For them, producing masks was not only a charitable act, but also a potential financial life raft to help offset the loss in revenue of apparel, occasion-wear, and other typically reliable fashion categories.
Some brands I spoke with, like Vida and Brave New Look, believe their decision to manufacture and promote masks has given them a newfound relevance, as well as an essential new revenue stream. Etsy reported that it earned $346 million in three months alone from face masks — a category that didn’t exist the previous quarter. Gap, which owns Old Navy and Athleta, reported $130 million in quarterly sales. The brand Lisa Says Gah offers a popular-selling affordable mask that introduced the company to a new range of customers; 70% of those who bought masks were first-time buyers, a 10% increase from her typical shoppers. A spokesperson from Sanctuary — whose five-pack of masks has become a best-seller across the internet — confirmed that their PPE line has been a boon: “We immediately added PPE masks as a way to keep our business going. We’ve seen an enormous return, and quite frankly, it’s kept us in business.”
For other fashion labels with more established brands and identities, making this transition has been complicated for some of the same reasons that I’d initially struggled with writing about masks in the first place: The initial messages that came out from our government institutions and health organizations were confusing for brands as well as for the population at large. It wasn’t until early April when the CDC finally acknowledged that non-medical masks were effective in slowing the spread of COVID-19 that folks were able to wear them with science on their side; by then, more than 10,000 Americans had already died. Brands felt pulled in two unsavory directions: Start producing “fashionable” masks and risk being labeled as opportunistic (a real hazard, given the ferocity and speed of cancel culture). Ignore it, and risk being seen as negligent.
Making the wrong decision could be catastrophic in ways beyond a brand’s financial health or public image. Dov Charney’s LA Apparel factories, which reopened to churn out masks to a swarm of positive press, soon became a hotbed for infection. Over 300 workers contracted coronavirus and four died before the county’s Department of Public Health ordered the factories to close.
One segment of fashion retail has steered clear of all this chaos, but perhaps to its detriment: luxury brands. You won’t find face masks on high-end retail sites like Net-a-Porter. Matches Fashion didnt’ stock them until this month. And while heritage labels like Louis Vuitton and Prada committed to creating masks and gowns for medical use, they have never sold them to consumers. “If you’re charging high premiums for masks, as some luxury brands will do, you do run the risk of people saying you’re cashing in on a health crisis,” explains Saunders. “Unfortunately, the political debate has become so heated, that even selling masks or offering masks is a lightning rod for criticism. I don’t know any other product that’s been as politicized to the extent that retailers feel the need to bury them away and hide them.” When you search for “face masks” on luxury fashion retailers, you’re more likely to come across $95 SKII facial treatment sheet masks than PPE. Net-a-Porter declined to provide a statement, and Matches did not respond to questions about why they waited until August to stock masks on their site.
High-end designer versions of masks do exist, but they’ve been created by younger, more progressive labels like Marine Serre, Collins Strada, and Off White. A couple department stores, including Nordstrom, offered masks from their existing vendors. “It was a seamless process to add masks into our accessories and we’re excited to offer customers different styles and designs,” a Nordstrom spokesperson said.
But many higher-end retailers who carry these masks are reticent to talk about it. Farfetch never responded to queries, and after a month of discussions with Shopbop for an interview about their decision to highlight masks as one of their top categories on its site’s navigation bar, it eventually pulled out of the interview.
Masks were never going to be an uncomplicated win for the fashion industry — or even an easy one. One of the reasons that masks have been so difficult to introduce is the inherent challenge of designing comfortable, high-quality, safe masks. Masks, writ large, are uncomfortable to wear: They fog up glasses, pull on ears, slide down faces, and give wearers mascne. Certain fabrics that feel good against skin are among the least effective at protecting the wearer or the public. Masks that come with an exhalation valve are more comfortable to wear, but more dangerous for others. Add to that the lack of regulations, standards, or guidelines; for consumers, there’s immense pressure and risks involved with buying the right mask, but very little reassurance that we’re making the right decisions.
Designers and retailers have a responsibility to get it right — and quickly — which Saunders points out is key to retailers establishing masks as a more permanent fashion category. “What you don’t want [as a retailer] is to offer masks that people buy on the basis that they’re going to be protected, and they somehow find out that your masks do a lousy job at protecting people,” he says. “That’s very, very important.”
As common as masks are now, there’s also the very attractive prospect that upon the implementation of an effective vaccine, they will disappear as quickly as they arrived. And, there’s no guarantee that masks will be something people continue to buy for as long as contracting COVID-19 is a daily threat — after all, how many masks does one person even need? Some fashion designers who already cannot afford to take on more risk are wary of investing too much in designing and manufacturing masks, lest the public’s need and desire for non-medical masks disappear after a vaccine. But, if we look at East Asian countries that dealt with the SARS epidemic, mask-wearing has remained a habit. In Japan, where disposable blue and white medical masks are as common an accessory as sunglasses or headphones, established mask-wearing norms likely slowed the rate of COVID-19 spread.
But it’s reasonable — if cynical — to expect that pandemics will become a more common occurrence, as climate change, antibiotic resistance, and globalization become more a part of our reality. And if that happens, it’s possible that Americans’ instincts towards self-expression and originality will lead to a real opportunity for fashion masks to flourish, unlike in Asia, where, for the most part, masks are a purely utilitarian accessory, and “fashion masks” are rare. That spirit, coupled with America’s robust fashion manufacturing capabilities and wide-range of retailers and businesses, could be meaningful for masks’ ability to become an everyday fashion accessory, even more so than in Europe, where fashion brands have largely chosen to skip out on masks and where infection rates are much more under control.
“It says something about American culture that we immediately pivot from wearing something that is functional and does the job, to wearing something that expresses my personality or that makes me look or feel good,” says Saunders. “That pivot from essential item to fashion item is something that’s quite peculiar to the American market. It speaks to the American sense of individuality, but also entrepreneurialism.”
In these six months of mixed messaging, masks — even without bells and whistles (or rhinestones and beaded strawberries) — have clearly communicated a whole catalog of expressions: They’ve signaled political beliefs, tastes and preferences, as well as how neighborly, considerate, and kind their wearer is. The fact that a single garment can convey all of that is unusual, unprecedented, and unbearably heavy. These are qualities that uniquely define our commitments to one other in 2020
If anything is up for that task, it’s face masks — worn in sickness, and hopefully, in health.
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When the protests against police brutality, sparked by Minnesota police killing George Floyd, spread across America this summer, much of the fashion industry expressed solidarity in various ways with the protestors and the Black Lives Matter movement at large. And while monetary contributions, public statements, and promises to “do better” are important, despite even the best intentions, they are not enough to address the industry’s systemic racism. After all, in an industry that has been built on exclusivity — starting with who gets hired to design clothes and ending with who can afford to wear them — how can fashion become truly inclusive without changing from the ground up?
And it continues, despite the industry’s recent anti-racist pledges. In July, just a month after countless messages were posted in support of the Black Lives Matter movement, Italian luxury label Marni could be found apologizing for a “Jungle Mood” campaign, which featured Black models in chains. Not long after, H&M suspended employees over the use of a racial slur relating to the name of a hat from its sister brand & Other Stories.
Whenever another offensive product or campaign emerges, the question everyone asks is: Why didn’t anyone stop this?
All too often, the answer is: There was nobody in a decision-making role who recognized these as instances of racism. This doesn’t excuse the white people who don’t understand what racism is, but it does make clear that, when people of color aren’t hired in leadership positions and sitting at the table when decisions are made, racism persists. Over the last few months, many designers have pledged to do better, by starting diversity and inclusion departments and initiatives and vowing to hire more BIPOC employees at their brands. But, as many in the industry have pointed out, as long as the executives and higher-ups remain white, real change is hard to enact — but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen through different parts of the industry.
Many people working in fashion are committed to addressing the issue head-on. In June, Teen Vogue Editor-in-Chief Lindsay Peoples Wagner and PR executive Sandrine Charles announced the Black in Fashion Council — a collective made up of over 400 creatives, editors, executives, models, stylists, and more — with a mission to hold brands accountable and advance Black talents to all levels of the entire fashion industry.
Because fashion brands aren’t the only ones who are going through a reckoning. Media companies that cover said labels — ranging from Conde Nast (which owns Vogue, among other titles) to Man Repeller and Refinery29 — have also been called out for their mistreatment of Black employees. In June, following former and current Refinery29 staffers sharing their experiences of racism at the company, former editor-in-chief and co-founder Christene Barberich resigned. The editorial union (that I am a part of) stood in solidarity with everyone who came forward and demanded accountability from management, including requests for diversity in leadership and anti-racism training. Since then, Vice Media Group (the parent company of R29) has hired independent investigators to review the complaints shared, launched a pay equity analysis and a training program, and created a Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion strategy.
In August, the Black in Fashion Council launched with 38 partners ranging from Tommy Hilfiger, TheRealReal, and Prabal Gurung to Conde Nast and Glossier. (Recently, the latter apologized after racism allegations came to light.) With the support of the Human Rights Campaign, Peoples Wagner and Charles are developing an equality index score (not unlike the Corporate Equality Index for the LGBTQ community), to provide an inclusivity benchmark; they will then track the work that companies who’ve signed a three-year commitment pledge are doing to support their Black employees. “Any brand can pledge $1 million to the N.A.A.C.P. on Instagram, but who will follow up and check that they did it?” Peoples Wagner told the New York Times. She is right: Brands can claim to be anti-racist and put out diverse campaigns and imagery, but is that all just a facade?
Take, for example, the Marni campaign that, while featuring Black models and shot by photographer Edgar Azevedo, went horribly wrong after the images were retouched post-shoot without the photographer’s approval. Or fashion brands with Black models on the runway but all-white teams backstage, including ones for hair and makeup who often have no experience working with Black hair or darker skin tones. How can fashion address this? For one, fill their boardrooms and creative teams with people who actually reflect the diversity in the images they put out into the world.
There’s also reason to be optimistic about the Council of Fashion Designers of America (CFDA), the organization founded to promote American designers. A year ago, it welcomed Black fashion and bridal designer Carly Cushnie and sustainable, Chilean-born designer Maria Cornejo, as well as Abloh and Jean-Raymond to fill seats on its board. “I’m rearranging the board so that it is more diverse in age and more diverse in every way,” CFDA chairman, Tom Ford, told WWD at the time. “Lots of people voiced a concern that the board, and the CFDA, was not diverse enough.”
Following the onset of the recent protests, the CFDA released a statement with its plan of action. The initiatives outlined — intended to “create systemic change within our industry” — include placing Black talent in all sectors of the fashion business, creating a mentorship program and an internship program focused on placing Black students and recent graduates, a diversity and inclusion training program, and monetary contributions to the NAACP and Campaign Zero. (The CFDA, with Vogue, also awarded $1 million to ICON 360, a nonprofit launched by Harlem’s Fashion Row’s Brandice Daniel to help POC fashion companies impacted by the COVID-19 later that month.)
While the initiatives outlined may appear to be meaningful progress for fashion, many with intimate knowledge of the industry said they weren’t enough. Soon after the CFDA’s statement was released, the Kelly Initiative — led by writer Kibwe Chase-Marshall, editor Jason Campbell, and creative director Henrietta Gallina — sent a letter to the organization. Signed by 250 Black fashion professionals including designers Victor Glemaud and Romeo Hunte and stylists Patti Wilson and Jason Bolden, it called on the CFDA to increase its anti-racism efforts. “The CFDA is falling far short of the broader culture’s rapidly solidifying zero-tolerance policy for Anti-Blackness,” it read. “Amid these realities—in addition to those of a pandemic’s disproportionate toll within Black communities and amplified visibility of law enforcement’s disregard for the value of Black life—we remain unfettered in the pursuit of our seat at the table.” The statement concluded by proposing a four-point initiative, which called for manager bias mitigation training, meritocratic hiring practices, accountability audits, data disclosure, and support of Black professionals, among other things.
In July, the organization announced the 2020 CFDA Fashion Awards nominees. While names like Christopher John Rogers, Kenneth Nicholson, and Telfar Clemens made the list, it was mainly made up of established veterans — most of them white. Tom Ford — who won the ceremony’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 2014, is currently the chairman of the CFDA, and has won six other awards in the past — is up for two nominations this year. Also included on this list are Marc Jacobs, Thom Browne, and The Row’s Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen who, while all incredible designers, have previously won numerous CFDA awards. “I am not saying that among the many recidivist winners are not some newish, disruptive names, as well as designers of color. But you can count their number on one hand, which means they feel more like token additions than an actual shift,” Vanessa Friedman wrote in the New York Times. While we have yet to see what steps the organization takes next, it recently named CaSandra Diggs as president, making her the first Black woman to hold the title since the CFDA was founded in 1962, and announced “strategic changes” to create opportunities for Black talent in fashion.
Another segment of the fashion industry that has also come under scrutiny for implicitly racist practices is retail. In May, Brother Vellies founder Aurora James launched her 15 Percent Pledge, calling for retailers to commit to buying 15 percent of their products from Black-owned businesses. “So many of your businesses are built on Black spending power. So many of your stores are set up in Black communities. So many of your sponsored posts are seen on Black feeds,” James wrote in an Instagram post. “This is the least you can do for us. We represent 15 [percent] of the population and we need to represent 15 [percent] of your shelf space.” This pledge has resonated with many people for its simple approach to fixing what has long been seen as a complex problem; with retailers committing to investing in Black designers in an actionable way like this, real change could actually be ensured. Since its launch, companies ranging from Sephora and West Elm to Rent the Runway and Vogue (whose September cover featured James) have joined the pledge.
In an interview with Bloomberg Business in June, when asked about what fashion-oriented companies can do, Carly Cushnie responded with this: “They need to be hiring Black people at the executive levels so that change can really trickle down. Big corporate companies should be establishing education programs, scholarship opportunities, internships specifically for Black people so that Black people can get the support, the knowledge that they need to enter these industries.” (In August, Cushnie, along with other retail and fashion executives, launched RaiseFashion, an organization that will provide mentorship programs for Black-owned brands and industry professionals.)
Companies will also need to make space. “I think if people in power, specifically white people in positions of power, actually want to change the world for the better, they need to say, ‘Okay, I have to take a hit,’ or ‘I have to step aside for other people, specifically minorities, to be in spaces and to have access,’” Christopher John Rogers recently said in Vanity Fair. “If we’re expecting Black excellence, we can no longer accept white mediocrity.”
With this in mind, it’s time fashion takes a look in the mirror — and then does its part in initiating change within corporate structures, by hiring more people of color in all positions but especially at decision-making, creative, and leadership levels, and committing to supporting Black talent, financially and through grants and scholarships.
And if it doesn’t? Well, then it’s hard to imagine much of a future for an industry stuck so firmly in the past.
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Really great memes have a way of crystallizing that thing that’s been nagging at you but that you don’t fully know how to articulate. I had a moment like this when @fatannawintour, an Instagram account run by fashion student Anastasia Vartanian, posted a picture of a young boy scratching his head. Above the photo, the text reads, “Me: fuck capitalism. My mum: aren’t you obsessed with fashion?” Me: … ” It’s an exchange I’ve had, if not with my own mother, then with myself on several occasions recently, as the ills of late-stage capitalism become increasingly apparent, thanks to factors like the coronavirus pandemic, racial justice protests and reckonings, and soul-crushing unemployment numbers — and I nevertheless sit here plotting my next fall dress purchase. Vartanian makes me feel only slightly better when she says the dissonance between loving clothes and hating fashion industry practices is “something all of my fashion-loving friends think about.”
Tansy Hoskins, fashion journalist and author of Stitched Up: The Anti-Capitalist Book of Fashion, agrees. “Capitalism is what is wrong with fashion,” she says. “And we don’t need the fashion industry to make fashion or beautiful clothes — any glimpse into the margins shows that the global explosion of design and creativity that would occur without this harmful industry would be far more exciting than anything it has achieved.”
Abandoning what makes fashion bad while keeping what makes it good — the beauty, the creativity — is a lofty goal, one that, prior to a year like this one, would have mostly been a pipe dream. But, as those who frequent leftie Twitter know, we’re living in the Cool Zone now — a period of time when a set of uniquely terrible, eye-opening circumstances converge in a moment where anything and everything feels possible. Including, in this case, a mass rejection of the capitalist, consumer-driven system into which we were born. Among young people especially, anti-capitalist sentiment has been building for years, championed by democratic socialist politicians like Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and bolstered by the fact that the old way of doing things just doesn’t seem to be working for most Americans. Many are calling for policies once considered “fringe,” like defunding the police, providing a universal basic income, and enacting single-payer health care — ideas that make even more sense now that America’s many injustices and inequalities have been made glaringly apparent.
Across social media, you’ll increasingly find the testimonies of young internet revolutionaries, like Vartanian, who want to overthrow the government, but also a cool pair of boots to do so in. Is it possible to have both? Is it possible for the fashion industry, a mighty tentacle of our late-stage capitalist social order, to reform itself, to be less sexist, racist, classist, fatphobic, shitty to workers, and both literally and metaphorically toxic? What do we want from fashion designers and brands in a post-2020 world — and which ones are willing and able to give it to us? Fashion has always been good at reflecting the zeitgeist, but can it actually be a part of it? These are questions industry watchers have been mulling over for a while, but they feel more pressing now, in the midst of, well… everything, and especially as brands both big and small fumble and come up short in their attempts to meaningfully align themselves with social justice and sustainability initiatives.
“Fashion brands are not people, they don’t have personalities or hopes or dreams,” notes Hoskins. “They are corporate entities who have one goal: To make more money than their competitors. If they stage a hollow imitation of a protest, it is because they are responding to swells in public opinion which they are no longer able to ignore.”
She adds: “Social change will never come from fashion corporations, and it is wrong to believe that it ever could.”
It’s true that social change isn’t going to start on the catwalks at Paris Fashion Week. But the question is, if change does come from a place that can actually enact it, can fashion even evolve accordingly? In many ways, the fashion world has already been undergoing its own revolution. Coronavirus has called into question the traditional fashion calendar, with many brands pledging to show their collections online, rather than having packed aisles of highfalutin insiders at physical shows. Gucci announced in May that it will abandon the “stale,” “worn-out” ritual of producing what has long felt like an unnecessary cavalcade of seasonal collections, with other brands following suit, and buyers at sites like MatchesFashion, Net-a-Porter, and MyTheresa expressing interest in seasonless looks.
These calls for change have been a long time coming. In addition to not making sense seasonally for designers, many in the industry have complained that the twice-yearly global fashion month spectacle is exhausting, wasteful, and no longer even really about clothes or creativity, but rather an endless and increasingly boring parade of celebrities and influencers in designer outfits they’re being paid to wear. The constant churn of the industry and its desire to pressure consumers into buying new clothes every season has also felt out of step with larger cultural imperatives to pair down, appreciate what we have, and consider our environmental footprint. But there’s still a lot more work to be done, especially in terms of inclusivity, labor policies, and the abolition of environmentally damaging practices. And it’s still unclear what it might take for old-school luxury brands, especially, to remain culturally relevant beyond a small circle of uber-rich patrons.
At its best, fashion design is about envisioning the future, reflecting the present, and paying homage to the past. It’s an art form and a means of communication and self-expression. Which is why it’s so painfully ironic that, like so many other kinds of art, it’s gotten all mixed up in the business of making money for faceless, soulless shareholders. That’s not to let designers or fashion media off the hook — plenty of creatives and editors are part of the problem as well. It’s important, however, not to conflate the fashion industry machine for every person within it. There are, and have always been, designers using their platforms for good, who have built brands with activism and a rejection of industry norms in their DNA. Consider Vivienne Westwood, who has always been fiercely independent and loudly anti-capitalist (and who recently suspended herself in a giant birdcage to protest the extradition of Julian Assange); Norma Kamali, another longtime independent designer who has championed gender-neutral clothing since before it was trendy; Kerby Jean-Raymond, who has baked activism into his brand, Pyer Moss, since the very beginning, via clothing that often reflects Black Lives Matter messaging; or Stella McCartney, a pioneer of eco-friendly and vegan fashion. But it’s hard for brands — even the “good” ones — to break away from bad capitalist practices when we’re, you know, living under capitalism. And yet, among many young designers, especially, there’s a palpable desire to try.
Esther Leslie, a professor of political aesthetics at Birkbeck, University of London, and a researcher of Marxist theories of aesthetics and culture, posits that under an anti-capitalist system, the fashion industry might look a lot like Etsy. “Lots of tiny producers, creating not to stay alive, to make money out of others’ incompetence, but in order to showcase their abilities, their ideas,” she explains. “I suspect that a genuine anti-capitalist forum — ‘marketplace’ sounds already and irreversibly capitalist — would have so many micro fashions and so much experimentation that fashion itself would become meaningless and, instead, there would be self-expression to the max.”
Indeed, there has recently been a spate of maker-driven upstart brands taking off on platforms like Instagram and Depop, crafting small-batch clothing and accessories that have been known to sell out in a matter of hours, thanks to superfans who rival Supreme collectors in their dedication. And while it’s obviously still about buying and selling things, it’s not far from the experimental, decentralized fashion utopia that professor Leslie imagines. For one thing, wares often have much better price points than those of more established labels, and the difficulty of getting them adds a certain mystique that we haven’t seen since back when people cared about H&M collaborations. Call it Zara Fatigue, but the consensus increasingly seems to be that, if you’re going to shell out for a new dress, why not get one that you really love, that you won’t see on every other girl on the street, and that hopefully, is better made and will last longer than the standard mall fare?
Kimberley Gordon is the designer behind the independent brand Selkie, which has made a name for itself on Instagram thanks to its iconic “puff dress” and unapologetically feminine yet inclusive aesthetic, with sizes ranging from XXS-5X. She says many of her customers use AfterPay or save up to buy her pieces, most of which are in the $100-to-$300 neighborhood. “It’s so nostalgic,” she says of buying something custom or small-batch. “Think of our parents — think of the things in your mom’s wardrobe that you wanna take from her, those are things that she’s kept forever, that she maybe had made, or that she bought from the shop down the street. I think that part of us knows that we want that for our own future generations.”
The promise of small brands that create unique things and leverage social media to grow their audience organically, rather than being beholden to the whims of big investors, buyers, influencers, and editors, is a balm for anyone who thinks it’s not possible for the industry to break away from the old ways of doing things. Those individuals who have enjoyed power under the old structures and hierarchies will fight this evolution, of course, but the secret is, it’s consumers who have the real power in fashion. We always have. We just didn’t fully realize it until recently. But that’s complicated, too.
“It’s not fair to put all the responsibility on consumers,” argues Vartanian. “I love the fashion industry, but it’s deeply flawed in many ways, and it needs to change. This needs to be fostered from within the industry as much as without, since low-income customers who support unethical brands out of necessity can’t be held accountable for the wrongdoings of massive companies.” Gordon, meanwhile, wants to see customers push harder for brands to invest in more sustainable and environmentally friendly practices. “If more people demanded it, then it would force these big brands to have to do it, and then the prices go down. That’s how you get prices to be competitive, is when people start ordering a lot of it.” While a 2018 report from Nielson says 75% of millennial consumers are willing to spend more for sustainable goods, other data, like a 2019 survey from the ecommerce platform Nosto, reveals that while customers want to see products crafted sustainably, they’re not necessarily willing to pay more for it.
But then, there are some on the other end of the spectrum — call them the true anti-capitalists, perhaps — who are so disillusioned with the hypocrisy and wastefulness of the industry that it’s put them off buying new altogether. Lily Fulop, author of the book Wear, Repair, Repurpose: A Maker’s Guide to Mending and Upcycling Clothes (as well as a designer at Refinery29), limits her purchases to vintage and secondhand clothing. In her book, she provides tips and strategies for making and mending your own clothes, both as a means of self-expression and as a way of rejecting the status quo. She thinks it’s crucial that we question the ways the industry — with its insatiable hunger for us to buy, buy, buy — has poisoned our minds by making us feel habitually less-than should we not attempt to measure up to its inflexible standards of beauty and style.
“We need to adjust our own habits and mindsets — the ones that support this unsustainable industry. Why do we feel like we need to be on-trend? Why are we so quick to get rid of things? Why are we afraid to wear the same thing twice?” she asks. “These are cultural conversations that need to be had, and ones that can be facilitated by embracing visible mending. When you wear a patch on your shirt, you’re saying, ‘I repaired this instead of buying new. I care about reducing waste. I’m rejecting what capitalism tells me.’”
Like most things, there’s no easy solution for fixing the fashion industry. Nor is there one for simultaneously holding anti-capitalist beliefs and loving clothes. “It is possible to do both, and that happens all the time,” says Leslie.
But it’s still tricky, and it likely means breaking up with some potentially long-held beliefs about what purpose fashion serves in your life, what style looks like, and what’s actually worth coveting. Maybe you don’t really want that Chanel bag or those Gucci loafers or that same silk skirt that every influencer has, you’ve just been conditioned for years to think that you do. (Or maybe you really, really do — and that’s okay, too.) It likely means making sacrifices, depending on what works for you and what you decide you really value. It could be shunning fast fashion, or committing to buying a percentage of your wardrobe secondhand, or something else entirely. It likely means interrogating your relationship with money, especially if you’ve often fallen into the trap of feeling like you need more money to buy more clothes to feel good about yourself, or feel like you fit in. How helpful are those thoughts? What else could you be doing with that money to free yourself and others from the work-earn-spend hamster wheel? It also means speaking up and not being afraid to tell companies, publications, people you follow on Instagram — whoever has power and isn’t wielding it for good — how you want to see them do better.
But until major changes happen across society — and hey, they might, it truly feels like we’re closer than ever — capitalism is gonna capital. The industry is still dominated by mega-conglomerates. It’s still overwhelmingly white and wealthy and prioritizes a very narrow worldview (and body type, for that matter). It’s still about making money, no matter the cost. We can and should try to change that, but we can’t beat ourselves up too much when it doesn’t happen overnight.
We can, however, take solace in the fact that if the fashion establishment doesn’t change with the times — not just in terms of design and marketing and the incorporation of trendy new buzzwords, but in terms of the way things are actually done — it runs the risk of alienating a generation of people who, as much as they love beautiful objects, are quickly realizing that they love the beauty of equality, fair treatment, and our planet more, and that maybe there are enough things in this world already, anyway. At this point, it’s not just about doing the right thing, it’s about self-preservation. But then, for those at the top, the people for whom the system is working just perfectly, the revolution is often impossible to see until it’s too late.
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First came the black squares — dark marks amidst the otherwise-colorful flow of Instagram. What was supposed to be a gesture of solidarity for Black Lives Matter became an awkward blip in the movement; more than just an aesthetic anomaly, all that emptiness flooded a hashtag normally filled by activists, making it unusable as an actual resource, taking up space from those looking to have their voices heard, replacing action steps with an empty promise, and an easy way to perform solidarity without actually doing anything much at all.
It’s not surprising, then, that within Fashion Instagram, the black square was ubiquitous. Brands, influencers, and editors aren’t necessarily known for their ability to wrestle with tough topics — and when they do so, it’s often on a superficial level. But after countless protests sparked by the unjust killings of Black men and women, an industry best known for its smoke and mirrors began to realize that real change was being demanded of them, and that it was time to participate in the revolution, or risk getting left behind. After some performative fumbles — those black squares, multiple people using that same Desmond Tutu quote, and other desperate ally missteps that stood in harsh contrast to the painful stories that Black men and women who worked within fashion shared about their experiences — the fashion industry at-large finally took stock and did something tangible, by focusing on how best to support Black-owned businesses.
According to Google Trends data, there was a 300% spike in searches for “How to find Black-owned businesses in your area” from June 1 to June 2 in the United States; searches for “Black-owned restaurants near me” also increased by 300%. Black Wallet, a Black-owned business directory, saw a 115% increase in app downloads from May 28 to June 4.
The industry responded by pointing toward e-commerce sites, shops, and pop-ups that facilitate finding and purchasing Black-owned products and pieces. In June, the 15% Pledge, created by Brother Vellies’ Aurora James, called on major retailers and publishers to pledge 15% of their shelf space to Black-owned businesses, to align with the fact that Black people make up about 15% of the U.S. population. Sites and initiatives that launched before this year have also gotten renewed attention, like Tulsa’s Official Black Wall Street, that offers a mass directory of local Black-owned brands; Black-Owned Brooklyn, run by Cynthia Gordy Giwa and Tayo, that documents “Black Brooklyn’s people, places and products;” BLK + GRN, a site showcasing high-quality wellness brands like Golde and Hunny Bunny; and We Buy Black, an Amazon-like marketplace that curates everyday products exclusively from Black-owned brands, replacing our “default” buys from white brands.
But how can we be sure that people continue to buy from Black-owned brands in the future?
While Black businesses and brands are booming right now, sustaining this pattern in the years to come requires a massive change in habit from everyone. Though Black consumers’ buying power has reached $1.2 trillion annually, and Black people have long known to buy within our communities, sometimes whether or not we do so comes down to accessibility, affordability, and ease. Even I find myself heading to Google in search of a particular product, and thoughtlessly purchase things I need, without thinking about who and what I am supporting.
Beyond that, it’s essential to remember that it’s not up to Black people to secure the place of these brands. To effect real change, all consumers must do their part. For some non-Black shoppers, their changes in consumption came from a place of guilt. But guilt fades. What we need from non-Black shoppers is the same energy during all seasons, for long after 2020 becomes history. We need everyone committed to buying from these businesses if we’re ever to normalize Black-owned brands’ visibility, spread, promotion, and shoppability at a global scale. We need everyone to do it without someone having to die as a reason to change our spending habits.
We also need it to happen with humanity. Angry customers attacked Telfar when the brand couldn’t ship as quickly as people were suddenly spending. With that, the brand released a new slogan: “Not for you, for everybody.” To fully appreciate Black-owned brands, we must accept that they don’t have the institutional power behind them that many comparable non-Black-owned brands do. Relatedly, we must remember Black-owned brands don’t yet have the infrastructure to make mistakes, but they should be allowed them.
For real change to happen, we need the fashion community to commit to their declarations of inclusivity, and to make sure we put in just as much effort into supporting emerging labels as we do established heritage brands. For the influencers who posted one black square and then continued to fill their feeds with lattes, lavish ensembles, and vacations abroad — they, too, need to keep their foot on the gas and dedicate their platforms to highlighting Black-owned products.
This said, having been a fashion writer for years, this is the first time I’ve felt real hope that consumers are making their decisions because they support a designer and their mission. I’ve been heartened to see that Black-owned brands are finally receiving the recognition they’ve always deserved. Those I reached out to, like Carly Cushnie and Pyer Moss, have been flooded with press requests, interviews, and features across a variety of publications. Months after the first protests, they are still booked and busy.
On July 7, a one-day initiative to only purchase from Black-owned brands was launched to great effect, making it clear that such action has real impact in the industry, and shouldn’t be limited to one day. Instead, in tandem with the collective action in the streets and the understanding that activism happens outside of our pocketbooks, it’s our job as lovers and creators of fashion to ensure that Black creatives have a marketplace. In order to move forward with any respect, we must immerse ourselves in Black-owned brands with the same fervor, reverence, and intentionality we give any other collection.
Those black squares were a great starting point. But we still have a long way to go.
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