Instagram Is Creating Style Clones - Observed Over The Rim of an Overpriced Espresso Martini
And my current 90s moodboards I am looking to for inspiration instead. (Skip to the end if you solely came for the moodboard section)
I spent Sunday afternoon shopping and sipping in the Lower East Side, and I noticed something strange. I felt a bit like I was living in Groundhog Day; Outfit Edition. Scrolling Instagram and seeing the same outfit silhouette isn’t surprising - I’ve curated this digital storyboard for myself by selecting the people I follow. But stepping into downtown Manhattan and seeing the outfits was almost, dare I say, jarring? I’ve been a Cobble Hill girl for two years now, and prior to that I enjoyed all the luxuries (doorman, valet, in-unit laundry!) of a Wall Street highrise. I would not call either of these neighborhoods a hotbed for fashion. My Brooklyn block is mostly families, so I remain somewhat removed from the TikTok influence in my everyday life. Wall Street was flush with finance bros, so you get the idea - Patagonia vests were working overtime. I do make frequent stops in SoHo, but there are enough people running around that it’s a bit of a mixed bag in terms of fashion versus function. Well, let me tell you, these few blocks by the Delancey-Essex subway station had me questioning my perception of reality. My friend and I stopped in for a mid-afternoon aperitivo at Trapizzino. As I was waiting for my espresso martini and fingerling potatoes (a glamorous combination, I know) I couldn’t help but notice the outfits around me. The same silhouette on everyone. Straight (not too skinny, not too loose) leg jeans, a crew or v-neck sweater with a t-shirt peeking out, either ballet flats or Sambas sneakers, and, in most cases, a vintage designer bag. I saw a Gucci horsebit, this Ferragamo bag, and a Fendi monogram baguette.
It wasn’t jarring in the sense that I felt overwhelmed, but instead in the sense that in trying to stay relevant everyone looks the same. Which to me begs the question, will being relevant always mean that we need to look the same as everyone else? All our lives we have aimed to fit in, and even into adulthood this does not change. But with everyone dressing the same, we become less individualized and it is easy to simply fade into the greater collective. And this may be what some people want, and they may enjoy the ease of copying outfits they saw online - there is a recipe already written out, affiliate links and all. But knowing the trends versus seeing them on such a repeated scale is a huge reality check, and all of our outfits are beginning to feel derived from a handful of influencers. I am in fact a huge proponent for the jeans and sweater combo and I am not trying to claim I am “different” or better than the girl sitting next to me. This is my everyday outfit when I do not want to think about tackling my closet - but it is still possible to wear these outfits without feeling like a replica of whatever influencer you saw first on your feed this morning. Change up your shoes - maybe a loafer instead of a flat. Wear a different jacket - maybe a vintage leather instead of the oversized wool coat sold out at Zara. Try a layer underneath - I love a button down peeking out of a crewneck. Maybe even try a different cut of jeans. Learn what truly flatters your body. We already share so much of ourselves with others - Instagram stories from every second of our trips, try-on hauls, GRWM TikToks; It would be nice to have something that is just ours. We listen to the same popular music, buy the celebrity makeup lines, eat at the trendiest restaurants. So what better tool than our clothing to keep as a part of our individual identity? What I am trying to say, and maybe not very successfully, is that in an effort to show we are hip and cool and fashion-forward, we may be losing a sense of our own identity.
I’ve been working on gathering inspiration from places other than Instagram. Currently, I have an obsession with 90s looks - street style and red carpet. This was the pre-stylist, post-fame era that captured the authenticity of celebrities - they were actually just like us. They had a favorite leather jacket they would wear over and over. They wore jeans and blazers to the airport - none of that early 2010s stiletto-on-a-plane nonsense (how were they not freezing?). I think I go back to this era for inspiration time and time again because these looks feel attainable and truly lived-in. The rise of influencer culture has made outfit repeating a fashion crime, and celebrities now will call paparazzi to simply shoot them leaving their hotel. Running down the block for lunch? They had a stylist put together their outfit. Red-eye flight? Stylist. For some it works in their favor - looking at you J.Law. But for others, their entire lives feel like one giant manufactured ad campaign - Kendall Jenner jumps out in my mind. Remember that pants-less look and the viral orange dress/Coca Cola moment?
So, without further ado, I present to you my current 90s moodboards. I prefer putting them together myself instead of just referencing Pinterest - this way I have to be intentional with the photos I select and decide the overall elements I am drawn to.
And in true 90s fashion, I have printed these out and pinned them to my wall. It will be nice to have a physical copy of my favorite looks and I won’t have to rely on my phone every morning.
this piece shares so many similar sentiments to one I wrote a few weeks back. It takes a concentrated effort to cut through the noise of the social media and this one-dimensional style.
I also think we feel this pressure to have newness, constantly in our outfits today. When, realistically elements of consistency and repetition are what make ones personal style.
I like the advice of following what looks best for one's shape. A lot of people get upset over using any sort of body typing, but it really has nothing to do with weight.