Nobody enters the fashion industry in search of stability. The very nature of the industry is change — what’s new and next is what keeps it moving. And yet, it feels particularly turbulent right now, which is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it can be invigorating. But it does require navigational smarts. In 2025, we find ourselves amid tectonic shifts in influence that have been building for some time.
With new creative directors having taken the reins at some of the world’s biggest design houses or poised to do so (this show season’s flurry of debuts includes Matthieu Blazy at Chanel and Jonathan Anderson‘s first Dior womenswear collection), established brands going bust (from iconic mall brand Forever 21 to e-commerce platform MatchesFashion) while new ones spring up, an ever-evolving digital landscape that can make heroes (or villains) of people in minutes, and other myriad factors at play — this is an industry in flux. The surest sign that we are on the cusp of an era grounded by new authorities, culture shapers and clout bestowers? The announcement this summer that Anna Wintour was hanging up her hat as Vogue editor-in-chief after 37 years.
When I started working in fashion magazines in London almost 20 years ago, I was told it was a dying industry even then. And sure, the days of personal drivers, $1,000 power lunches and bottomless expense accounts were over, but fashion editors still had the luxury of influence at their disposal, acting as conduits of communication between those in high fashion and the general public.
Now, the lines have blurred. Magazines are far from dead, but their purpose has metamorphosed. TV makes for a compelling runway. Influencers are now insiders. And local brick-and-mortar boutiques defy the world-reaching scope of the Internet. But who really holds the reins on fashion today? Here are the five types of tastemakers shaping what we’re wearing now.
Illustration by Labyrinth of Collages / Photography by Jacopo Raule
The Creative Directors
In a world of fast fashion, of AI-generated mood boards, of celebrity-helmed brands, a question lingers: Do creative directors still matter?
The short answer: Yes. In fact, now more than ever. Anyone with an idea and enough resources can produce a collection of stuff. But what the creative director sitting atop a fashion house provides is a clear vision. And fashion at its best has never been just about stuff.
“The runway is where we see our customers having the greatest inspiration,” says NET-A-PORTER Fashion Director Kay Barron. She adds that the “continued musical chairs” of creative directors gives shoppers a chance to take stock of what and who they already love while also “letting them dream and speculate about collections to come.”
For designer Rae Temily, whose eponymous debut collection sold out three times on Moda Operandi, it’s about evoking emotion — something that cannot be achieved with a design-by-committee approach (or, whisper it, AI). “There’s a hunger for what’s real,” she says. “What’s truly human, in all of its flawed, messy glory. Trends come and go, but what pulls fashion forward into a future worth being excited about are clothes that evoke an emotional response. That’s where the magic is.”
A creative director’s role is not just to design. These are world builders, culture cultivators, talent spotters, and, in some cases, financial controllers. It’s not always sexy, but it’s the truth for a high-risk, high-reward job.
In the past year, this coveted job has been put in sharp focus with a sea change at the top of some of the most influential fashion houses. To recap it all would require a whiteboard sketch, but here’s the CliffsNotes of the key moves: Jonathan Anderson to Dior, Matthieu Blazy to Chanel, Demna to Gucci, with Pierpaolo Piccioli taking the reins at Balenciaga and Glenn Martens succeeding John Galliano at Margiela.
When the cerebral Anderson showed his brilliant debut Dior menswear collection in Paris this June, it ushered in a new era not just for the LVMH-owned maison but for the industry.
Anderson is a champion of un-siloed fashion, masterfully merging the high and low, obtuse and mass, art and commerce. His spring/summer 2026 collection referenced influences as diverse as 18th-century menswear, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jean Siméon Chardin and Dior’s own house codes. To a skeptic, this might sound highfalutin, but come spring, even the stubbornly disinterested might find themselves wearing Pepto-Bismol pink cable knits, apple green jeans, or shirts and ties with double denim.
It calls to mind the oft-quoted “cerulean sweater” monologue from The Devil Wears Prada. The creative director might feel far away in the ateliers of Paris, Milan and London, but their vision filters down to even the most ordinary of outfits. Don’t lace yourself into a corset every morning? Thank Coco Chanel — and while you’re at it, take a moment to appreciate your little black dress, too. Like your suit with a relaxed slouch? Grazie, Mr. Armani. Prefer to don a polo? Kudos to Ralph Lauren.
Although men currently hold the majority of creative director jobs at big houses, it’s female designers who hold powerful sway over what women really wear. It’s thanks to the likes of Chloé’s Chemena Kamali and New York City designer Ulla Johnson that we find boho swishing back into the fashion fold after spending some time in the wilderness. Miuccia Prada’s Miu Miu is a dominant cultural force wrapped up in an impish, playful package — she may be seen in a nightie and knee socks, but the Miu Miu girl is indeed setting the tone for the season ahead. And both customers and fellow designers continue to be influenced by what the electrically talented Phoebe Philo proposed at Celine (a gig she left in 2017), now longing for the confident touch of quirkiness or jolt of sex appeal that makes her work so singularly special.
It is at Celine that Michael Rider, in his first headline role, also debuted this year. An alum of Philo’s Celine, Nicolas Ghesquière’s Balenciaga and Ralph Lauren (where he led the Polo offering), he makes a compelling case for hiring the designer who has worked hard behind the scenes.
Although we will no doubt see the influence of Rider’s Celine in the inevitable resurgence of pops of Yves Klein blue, bourgeois silk scarves and the Phantom bag, it will also be writ in the spirit. His proposition of pieces is made to last as well as capture the mood of the moment.
The real strength of the creative director is to develop something that resonates with our personal “inquiry into the unattainable and undefinable style,” as per Anderson’s Dior show notes. “Style as a way to hold oneself, a manner in creating appearances, bringing together decisions that are quick and spontaneous, allowing us the chance to dress up and become a character.” And that is exactly what the best creative directors give us guidance — and permission — to do.
Illustration by Labyrinth of Collages / Photography by Amy Sussman
The Power Influencers
When Hailey Bieber sold her 3-year-old brand Rhode to e.l.f. Beauty for $1 billion earlier this year, it showed an influencer operating at the peak of her powers. Because make no mistake, what people are buying is not solely the Peptide Lip Tint or the Glazing Milk, but proximity to Bieber. She is a top-tier influencer whose brand — by which I mean her — is fueled by the mimetic desire of fans and followers. (The ubiquity of the jumbo blazer is very much thanks to her; during my time at women’s magazines, Bieber was digital gold dust.)
In the mid to late 2000s, when bloggers (those first-generation digital influencers) slowly began attending fashion shows, it irked much of traditional media. But their days of being perceived as fashion outsiders are long gone. It now seems naïve, even laughable, that anyone would be surprised by the presence of an Instagrammer or TikTok star in the front row of a FOMO-inducing fashion show. These former interlopers are now the establishment.
The boundaries between celebrity and influencer are more porous than ever. In her post-royal Netflix-and-preserve era, domestic Duchess Meghan Markle plays the part, launching a ShopMy page featuring “a handpicked and curated collection of the things I love — I hope you enjoy them! Please note, some products may contain commissionable links.” Meanwhile, Addison Rae’s pivot from TikTok queen to pop princess has opened her up to a whole new audience. And where to even begin with the one-family industry that is the Kardashians — that perfect paradigm of the celebrity/influencer, outsider/insider intersection? Their ability to sell product cannot be overstated.
What they have so astutely done is channel their clout into selling not just other brands’ products, but their own. Simply put, they are both the salespeople and the product. SKIMS, Kylie Cosmetics, Good American, Poosh, 818 Tequila, Khy, Khloud and the like have helped catapult their collective net worth into the billions.
They’re not the only ones parlaying social capital into actual capital. Today, the design collaboration is a rite of passage for online’s biggest names (Style Not Com for Zara, Leandra Medine Cohen for Aflalo, Camille Charrière for Stripe & Stare), as is the influencer-founded and -built brand (We Wore What, Frankies Bikinis, Rouje). But if the influencing game is more lucrative than ever, it’s also harder to conquer than ever. In the market of digital influencing (which passed its saturation point long ago), how do tastemakers cut through the noise? And when they do, what does it mean for fashion?
Earlier this year, a TikToker slammed New York City influencers as “boring as fuck and all carbon copies of one another.” Was user @MartiniFeeny being too harsh? Perhaps, but you can’t deny the beigification of the algorithm. There was even the “sad beige lawsuit,” in which influencer Sydney Nicole Gifford sued Alyssa Sheil in Texas federal court for systematic copying (she later dropped the case).
But there is change afoot. In rejection of the algorithmic flattening of style, there is a hunger for personality. Authenticity and relatability are the most valued attributes for followers, with “68% of respondents being unhappy about the high volume of sponsored content on social media,” according to the 2024 Business of Fashion/McKinsey State of Fashion Consumer Survey.
Bored of choreographed perfection (and admit it, a bit bored of beige, too), there is room for humor (see Gstaad Guy, whose parodies of the 1% have earned him some 1.4 million followers and lucrative brand deals), opinion, even mess. We want our influencers to say something, to have a personality as much as a look (like Charrière, whose forthcoming memoir, Ashamed, tackles topics like mental health and infertility). And being polarizing is preferable to being blah (at least people are talking about you). Just look at Nara Smith, who has turned a distinct niche known as “tradwife” into 12 million TikTok followers and a high return for brands that partner with her, like Marc Jacobs and Revolve.
The specificity of Smith’s aesthetic talks to a hunger for personal style. Which is one of the reasons why the fashion Substack ecosystem is thriving (see Becky Malinsky’s “5 Things You Should Buy” or Medine Cohen’s “Cereal Aisle”). With their personable tone and the freedom to wander down whatever style rabbit hole they might fancy, these hark back to the early days of blogging. This time around, however, nobody will be calling them outsiders.
Illustration by Labyrinth of Collages / Photography by Samir Hussein
The Celebrity Stylists
Law Roach, Zendaya’s stylist, prefers to be known as an “image architect.” Some might scoff, but really, isn’t he spot on? Today’s stylist, particularly the celebrity stylist, is indeed an architect. They compose, plan and build a look from the ground up. They might not design the clothes themselves (although they sometimes do that, too), but they design an aesthetic. To do this well takes precision and exactitude as much as it does vision and flair. And sometimes, like the creative powers behind the world’s most impressive buildings, the superstar stylist becomes a household name, their signature recognized by a quick glance.
Today, everyone from Kamala Harris (working with Leslie Fremar) to the NFL (which appointed Kyle Smith as its first-ever fashion editor in 2024) knows the power of a stylist. Of course, their work is most obvious on the red carpet. There is no pretense that they don’t exist; those gowns and tuxes cast no illusion that they were plucked out of the back of a closet at the last minute. The inference of a glam squad is all part of the dream.
On press tours and during award season, the stylist can make both the client and the project headline news. The foremost example of this is Andrew Mukamal, who worked with Margot Robbie on her Barbie duties, making “method dressing” mainstream. His undiluted and immersive vision in pink ushered in a new age of joy and levity. And isn’t this what fashion is supposed to be all about?
Sometimes the work is quieter but the impact just as great. Recently, Danielle Goldberg — whose stylings are seen on Ayo Edebiri, Solange Knowles and Greta Lee — has become the cool girl’s go-to. Her art-inflected aesthetic is a pitch-perfect indie-luxury mix, and her work signals a fashion-literate gusto in her clients. Entering new eras of their careers, both Jodie Comer and Saoirse Ronan have recently called on Goldberg’s services — a strategic move, making people (crucially: directors, casting agents, brand CEOs) see them in a different light.
It’s not just “talent” that stylists can catapult to new levels. They can also work wonders for emerging brands. To cite a handful of examples, look at Jamie Mizrahi putting Oscar winner Mikey Madison in breaking designer Colleen Allen, Chris Horan calling on buzzy brand All-In for Charli XCX’s “Party 4 U” video, Jamaica-born Jawara Alleyne’s designs seen on Rihanna (under the masterful eye of Jahleel Weaver, who also works with Kim Kardashian) or Harry Lambert putting Harry Styles in a duck cardigan by British designer S.S. Daley, thus propelling him to a new level of industry recognition (the singer has since gone on to invest in the brand).
Lambert has also helped reframe how we think about clothes, challenging the traditional gender binary. Rather than framing Styles as a cut-and-paste heartthrob, he has festooned him in flamboyant get-ups that range from pearls to feather boas to “officially” womenswear. (The boy band stars of yesteryear would never!) It’s an attitude that clearly has resonance beyond celebrity circles. A testament to Lambert’s mass appeal, he has created two capsule collections for Zara.
To coincide with his role as a biker gang leader with a taste for BDSM in queer romance Pillion, Alexander Skarsgård recently enlisted Lambert. The result? A kinky-daddy vibe via short shorts and thigh-high Saint Laurent boots. It’s an example of how an adroit stylist can harness the power of clothes to reframe a star’s image. Brad Pitt recently tapped Taylor McNeill, who styles Timothée Chalamet and put Kendrick Lamar in Celine flares for his Super Bowl performance. Pitt’s eclectic crushed velvet Willy Chavarria and lilac silk shirts signaled the arrival of a new era more than any talk show appearance ever could. See, too, the Internet’s boyfriend, Pedro Pascal, who has entered his leading man moment with the help of Jamie Mizrahi. She has proposed a more dapper, elegant look — think Tom Ford and The Row — that chimes with the actor’s next-level status.
The work a celebrity stylist does for red carpets and press tours is obvious, but often they are stealthily choreographing casual looks, too, be it a handbag, sunglasses or gym ensemble. In a digitally astute age, the seemingly impromptu, off-duty looks — captured arriving at the airport, departing a hotel, heading out for dinner — have a covetable authenticity, and for brands, it directly translates to sales.
Although celebrities garbed in stylist-curated ensembles might reach the most eyes, their work in fashion can really appeal to the masses. Note, for instance, the critical and commercial clout that Lotta Volkova has. She and Miuccia Prada have collaborated on Miu Miu collections since 2020 and are one of the most powerful designer/stylist duos today (retail sales were up 93% last year). The viral itty-bitty micro mini of spring/summer 2022 was one of the most talked-about collections of the decade, while other Miu Miu items (bag charms, ballet pumps) have edged into the mainstream. And like all the best architects, no matter the style, you see the work before you see the person.
Illustration by Labyrinth of Collages / Photography by Alamy
The Costume Designers
This summer, when prolific showrunner Ryan Murphy teased a first look at the forthcoming American Love Story, chronicling the relationship between John F. Kennedy, Jr. and Carolyn Bessette, he probably swiftly wished he hadn’t bothered. The online backlash was brisk and brutal, most of it focused on Sarah Pidgeon’s Bessette — specifically, her look. Her Hermès Birkin is deflated! Her hair too icy in tone! Her camel coat all wrong!
If that furor proved one thing, it’s that fashion and television have never been so closely intertwined. And if a poorly dressed character can spark copious clapback, a stylish one can ignite trends and fuel sales.
In the wardrobe trailers of HBO, Hulu and Netflix, television’s costume designers are quietly establishing themselves as fashion’s power players. These masterminds may be behind the scenes, but their work certainly shines on the characters starring in your latest binge-watch. And that work is having an impact on how we all dress.
But let’s rewind a moment. Of course there has always been stylish television, and it has always had influence. Carrie Bradshaw’s Sex and the City closet is the stuff of fashion legends, and her trajectory is the origin story for many a woman’s obsession with Manolo Blahnik heels and Fendi Baguette bags.
What marks the difference between the stylish TV of then and now is our ability to get a hold of what our favorite characters are wearing — be that SJP’s disco Terry de Havilland shoes, the Merz b. Schwanen T-shirt worn by Jeremy Allen White in The Bear or the old-school camera phone case brandished by Lily Collins as the plucky lead in Emily in Paris.
But the show that has most dominated the fashion mainstream in recent years is Succession. Costume designer Michelle Matland’s deft touch with the Waystar Royco empire ushered in a new type of power dressing and crafted a whole new aesthetic vocabulary with no-nonsense neutrals, luxe knits and a $600 Loro Piana baseball cap — all key parts of the language. Dubbed “quiet luxury” or “stealth wealth,” this understated affluence sent the industry scrambling to catch up, and fast fashion churned out dupes by the dozen (which, yes, rather misses the point).
And now? Although the term “quiet luxury” has been overused to the point of extreme tedium, more than two years after the final Succession episode aired, we are still seeing the show’s effects, with a continued interest in “corpcore” (a riff on traditional officewear). Think ties, pinstripes and tailoring, on the runways and in real life. Could there be a dash of Severance in there, too? I can see it.
It’s far from the only show dominating our closets. Consider the sway of Heidi Bivens, and her glittering Gen-Z-takes-on-Y2K vision for Euphoria. Or take Bridgerton season one costume designer Ellen Mirojnick, who launched a “regencycore” craze with her puckish, candy-colored take on the past, giving the audience just enough modernity to transport the look to today. Or see how in knowing exactly what to be faithful to and what to interpret, The Crown season four costume whizz Amy Roberts introduced a whole new generation to the charms of a young Princess Di.
During my time at women’s magazines, we would regularly see interest in TV show wardrobe pieces — be that a Love Island bikini or Sienna Miller’s Max Mara Manuela coat on Anatomy of a Scandal — outstrip demand for even a buzzy catwalk collection. Brands took notice, too. The results are tangible and immediate, as Emily Campbell, owner/creative director of If Only If, noticed when Megan Stalter donned one of the brand’s nighties on the poster and in episode one of Lena Dunham’s new Netflix show, Too Much. “The first weekend after the launch of the show, we sold out of all sizes,” Campbell recalls. (Luckily, they already had more stock on order.) “We had a hunch it might happen — just not quite at the speed it did!”
No wonder fashion labels want in. Take season three of White Lotus. Designer Simon Porte Jacquemus created a custom look (seen on professional party girl Chloe), while H&M buddied up with the HBO show for a resortwear collection.
So what makes TV such an effective runway? It’s not necessarily because it shows the clothes at their best, but rather because it shows them really living. There is a sartorial intimacy to the long-form medium of a series. We see the clothes in the context of life rather than the up-and-down confines of a runway show. It also reminds us that the best fashion is made to really move, live and express something about ourselves to the world. Clothing amplifies the character that we want to show the world.
Illustration by Labyrinth of Collages / Photography by Spacecrafting
The Boutique Owners
Beyond the flagship stores of Los Angeles’ Melrose Place or New York City’s SoHo, far from Harrods or Galeries Lafayette, the independent boutique is shaping the looks you see in a neighborhood near you. What these brick-and-mortar stores — think Charleston, South Carolina’s Hampden or Minneapolis’ MartinPatrick 3 — do is more than sell clothes. They connect clients with curated fashion that exists beyond an algorithm.
It’s the curatorial eye that gives the boutique its power. The buyers have the freedom to act like the editors of yesteryear, shaping narratives while remaining commercially savvy. And interactions with clients create meaningful opportunities for intentional trend forecasting and product sourcing.
Belma Gaudio, founder of KOIBIRD in London, took the surprising step of shuttering the online side of her business this year. “What sets small boutique owners apart is their ability to truly know their customer and be there for them through their evolving needs and tastes,” she says. “This isn’t something you can automate or guess from behind a screen. It’s about being there, on the floor, speaking with clients, observing what catches their eye, listening to what they want before they even know it. That kind of insight only comes from being immersed in the experience.”
A local boutique’s influence can extend far beyond its ZIP code. Take Maryam Nassir Zadeh, an eclectic store that defined the look of an achingly cool pocket of Manhattan’s artsy Lower East Side. But through her established brand, the namesake proprietor’s “look” has gone further. See too how the likes of The Webster (founded in Miami by Laure Hériard Dubreuil) and Austin, Texas’ ByGeorge (“where a curation of the world’s best collections meets the uniquely Texan approach to getting dressed,” as its website articulates) have grown not just in number but also in reputation, like mini brands in their own right.
But the local boutique must tread a fine line when it comes to size. The best can combine intimacy and expansion and find its power in the small but mighty stature. As Kiley Colombo, vice president of retail and strategy at Minneapolis jewelry boutique the Loupe explains, “In a retail landscape dominated by overwhelming choice, we provide clarity, focus and a point of view. Our store is intentionally small, and that’s part of our strength.”
It’s that strength that’s one of the more uplifting shifts in fashion today. The conglomerates and multi-million-follower names might domineer the headlines, but read between the lines and you’ll see that they’re not the sole gatekeepers of power, access and taste anymore. And that, surely, is worth celebrating. The ebbs and flows are substantial right now — but that’s all part of the fun of fashion.
