Perhaps it is sacrilegious to say
so, but the mass production of runway style brings out the iconoclast in us
all. To many, style is synonymous with religion; Vogue is its Bible, Selfridges
its Mecca and Westwood, Galliano
and Lagerfeld among its many prophets. So what happens when this whole belief
system is upended by the mass production of designer trends in High
St stores? And are we essentially bastardizing the
inherent nature of style by defecating where we eat?
The question of whether or not
the mass production of fashion is healthy and sustainable has reared its ugly
head many times in my life, but as I find myself getting older, the question
becomes more pertinent. Browsing through the pregnant racks of London’s
own credit card grave yard, Top Shop, I came to question the ethics of style,
and my own style morality.
In recent years, I have come to
appreciate different things in style. Firstly, and above all else, is
personality. I hold the passionate belief that the way you present yourself
reflects what is inside you. This in turn reflects the way you perceive
yourself, which in turn affects the way others perceive you, and in a society
where so much is based on first impressions, it is often essential to tell
others as much as you can about yourself in one outfit.
Secondly, is the pervasive desire
to seek out quality. I find myself being naturally drawn to garments of
superior material, design and tailoring and have been happily forfeiting
affordability for longevity. Why then, do I still find myself being drawn to
the curious siren song of mass produced clothing? Obviously money is a key
element in this strange lure, however, I feel that I am a savvy enough shopper
and style aficionado to know better.
We live in a time where it takes
mere weeks for the latest catwalk looks to be transformed into mainstream
goodies that are greedily consumed by the ‘must haves’ of generation Y. Nothing
seems sacred anymore, as inferior quality rip-offs prevail in chain stores and
in our streets, bars and clubs. Our generation is spoon fed style and as a
result I feel that we are being crippled, our growth stunted by the text book
looks thrown at us by High St heavy weights like Top Shop, H and M and Zara.
It’s attack of the clones, twenty first century style.
Style is no longer a symbol of
individuality or substance, but a symbol of celebrity. In our star-struck society everyone
is looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. As we turn our lascivious gaze on
magazines like Hello and Grazia, chain stores are cashing in on the phenomenon
of voyeurism that has come to characterize generation Y. Dressing like our
favourite celebrities brings us closer to them, and closer to the lifestyle we
envisage that goes hand in hand with stardom.
Finally, I put the usurpation of
high end style by the masses down to the declining aspirations of our
generation. As children, we were fed with silver spoons and told we could have
it all, and perhaps this resignation to mass style is symptomatic of our upbringing.
Unlike our parents whose every bead of sweat, every drop of blood, and every
salty tear earned them irreplaceable dollars to put towards a Chanel handbag or
a pair of Dior loafers, we lazily meander down to local malls to pick up our
designer fakes without batting an eyelid. We certainly are a generation that
can have it all, and yet a generation that has squandered our good fortune on a
very quiet rebellion of apathy and mistaken ambitions.