In the era of Sophocles and Euripides in Ancient Greek theater, when players would don enormous masks with frozen faces and (in satirical plays) massive prosthetic phalluses, the idea of the “stock character” first emerged. The stock character’s presence served the same purpose as the mask: to quickly inform the audience of a character’s nature and motives. Many of these plays tended to push the story along rather than focus on the characters they were portraying. The coy love interest whose only trait is their adoration for the hero; the villain who acts cruelly for cruelty’s sake; the comedic relief character who’s only good for witty one-liners. These tropes appear to be as ancient as the tradition of storytelling itself, while others (the tartaglia and the brighella) have passed with their bygone eras; however, certain stock characters have endured.
In the same vein, cultural movements are named partly to flatten them to equally consumable levels. Bohemians, hippies, punks, hipsters, dandies — all of these words attempt to condense large movements into a small number of easily discernible attributes. Few counterculture movements go by their own names; instead, they are frequently categorized, branded or defined by those who want to have something specific to oppose. Of course as soon as there is money to be earned, these movements will eventually become nearly totally commercial and ingrained into whatever mainstream culture is. What if alternative culture didn’t stop with commercialization, but started it?
We live in a world of “niche aesthetics,” a collection of identity and fashion groups that are typically identified by two words, such as “heroin chic,” “ballerina sleaze,” and “cottage-core.” These microtrends emerge, enjoy a transient heyday, and then promptly vanish, beginning with clothes and accessories and then branching out into a sort of lifestyle philosophy. There are numerous articles criticizing these rapidly evolving microtrends, delving into the effects of our excessively consumerist culture and the stress it places on the labor force in the Global South and the environmental impact of the textile industry.
However, the psychological cost of our enthusiastic self-tropification is more subtly felt. Some have characterized the embrace of niche aesthetics as liberating: there is no longer a single mainstream trend; instead, consumers can choose from an expanding selection of carefully curated looks that are neatly packaged in Pinterest boards with self-mandated diversity quotas and hyper-specific keywords. These voices contend that people might discover their own sense of fashion through the use of niche aesthetics. The absurdity is, of course, that personal style — something distinctive to an individual — cannot be expressed in two-word phrases that are spread amongst hordes of people.
Everyone uses their appearance to immediately convey social cues. This is often visible through pieces of clothing being covered with a particular designer’s emblem, bright patterns or eye-catching colors, or apparel and uniforms connected to specific job fields. It would be ridiculous and historically inaccurate to argue that clothes aren’t revelatory; they are a fabricated secondary skin. But these “niche aesthetics” are not social identities that were later made into commodities in accordance with our modern notion of identity. Consumption comes first; any kind of cultural or intellectual cohesion is a byproduct. A commodity serves as the foundation for a group identity; one need not possess this item, but rather, they may aspire to what it symbolizes and join a community of like-minded customers.
Social media’s organizational frameworks strongly support commodity-based niche aesthetics. Influencers, celebrities and socialites have always persuaded others to buy products or follow certain fashions and fads. The function that algorithms play in creating our consumer identities is particular to the media environment of today. The For You page, which is continuously produced using an algorithm, is TikTok’s key feature. Both on its Explore tab and in its main feed, Instagram has consistently increased emphasis on suggested content. On the basis of a user’s prior interaction history, particular things become units of data, like a geotag or hashtag, that may be studied and promoted. A social media algorithm may identify, without any human participation, that certain viewers who appreciate media about The Bell Jar might also be interested in ketamine-assisted psychotherapy treatment (these are actually my regularly recommended ads as they only ever fall into one of two categories: 1. alternative therapies for treatment-resistant depression, or 2. Reunion BBQ Boston).
The algorithm then favors material that combines the pictures, concepts, and goods that are most in-trend. In this approach, modern social media intentionally generates niche identity groups rather than reinforcing them by choosing the precise goods and services that may be combined to appeal to and target niche audiences. And these trends created by fusing commodities and ready-to-wear personas are progressively getting more bizarre. Dollette-core has risen in popularity, defined by a hyper-feminine, angelic, school girl soft look with a touch of sensuality. But what is innovative or imaginative about a lady who keeps her lips shut, dresses like a kid and still preserves an adult’s seductive allure?
We observe combinations of commodities, classify them as trends and movements, give them ideologies and then choose to adopt the stock characters we didn’t even create. Worst of all, we mistakenly think that our likes and preferences are some type of inborn or natural phenomenon rather than products of a lifetime of indoctrination and a media culture that deliberately chooses the things that will give us a sense of group identification. The fetishization of the commodity is misconstrued as an expression of oneself, and the consumers within said trend misread it as a community connected in solidarity. Clothing is communicative, political and historical. Fashion’s subtleties shouldn’t be reduced to data-driven input for algorithms and ad targeting.
Perhaps the whole thing seems exaggerated, inconsequential or a too-close reading into something as stupid as current trends in clothing. However, the reason that fashion trends are given such little importance is because clothing is crucial in daily life. It is filled with ideologies and narratives that elicit subliminal connections in our minds, controlling our capacity to evaluate others and ourselves without ever appearing particularly significant or existential. Our use of clothes and the discourses around it show how we view social structures, labor, commodities, our personal value and our relationships to power.
The worth of the worldwide textile business for the year 2022 was over $1 trillion, despite the fact that it is riddled with human trafficking, slavery and environmental catastrophe. If the discourses around consumerism are of importance to those who control the manufacture of clothing, then they must also be of concern to us since they wield enormous economic and political influence. Of course, it is natural for people to desire to be perceived in a certain manner and to identify with a certain group, culture or movement. Our communities need to know what our values are because they help us find safety, friendship and love. But accepting algorithmically produced shopping lists and polyester paradises that vary with the seasons without question is not the answer.