“Me: fuck capitalism. My mum: aren’t you obsessed with fashion?” This tongue-in-cheek meme encapsulates a dilemma that has nagged many style-conscious radicals . How can one condemn capitalism’s injustices while reveling in the pleasures of clothing and style? The dissonance between loving beautiful clothes and hating the exploitative fashion industry is, as one young fashion enthusiast admitted, “something all of my fashion-loving friends think about” . This dilemma invites a deeper inquiry into the relationship between fashion and capitalism: is an anti-capitalist stance fundamentally incompatible with a love of fashion, or can the two be reconciled? Addressing this question requires a critical exploration of fashion’s cultural, economic, and psychological dimensions through the lenses of anthropology, political theory, sociology, psychology, and philosophy. In examining these perspectives, we uncover the historical evolution of the fashion industry under capitalism, the formation of consumer identity and attachment to fashion, and the systemic issues of exploitation, inequality, and commodification. We also consider whether phenomena like ethical or “slow” fashion represent meaningful alternatives or merely new iterations of the same old patterns. Throughout, a scholarly and critical tone will be maintained, drawing on major theories and case studies, to unravel the contradictions and tensions between anti-capitalist ideals and fashion consumption.
At first glance, the fashion industry appears to be a quintessential product of capitalism, thriving on private profit, continuous growth, and globalized production. The modern fashion system – seasonal trends, mass production of garments, and rapid turnover of styles – took shape alongside the development of industrial capitalism. Historically, clothing was primarily a matter of practical necessity and local tradition, but with the rise of capitalist industrialization, fashion evolved into a dynamic, profit-driven enterprise. As early as the late 18th and 19th centuries, mechanized textile mills and sewing factories enabled garments to be produced en masse, while colonial trade supplied cheap cotton and dyes, laying the groundwork for a worldwide fashion market. By the mid-20th century, the industry had embraced planned obsolescence: styles were designed to fall out of favor so that new ones could be sold. In recent decades this process accelerated dramatically – “fast fashion” brands now churn out new collections at breakneck speed, with global clothing production roughly doubling since the year 2000 . Today, an estimated 100 billion garments are produced annually, of which about 92 million tonnes end up discarded in landfills each year . This unprecedented churn of apparel is not driven by natural human need (we can only wear so many clothes), but by the imperatives of a capitalist market that prizes growth, novelty and profit over sustainability. Fashion under capitalism thus exhibits what Marxist theory would call “production for exchange” rather than for use – a ceaseless drive to create new desires and new commodities to feed the market.
Yet fashion is not merely an economic phenomenon; it is also a cultural and social practice rich with meaning. Anthropologists and sociologists have long observed that clothing serves as a key medium of communication and identity. One of the earliest theorists of fashion, sociologist Georg Simmel, described fashion as a form of social negotiation between the opposing forces of imitation and differentiation. “Fashion is a form of imitation and so of social equalization,” Simmel wrote, “but, paradoxically, in changing incessantly, it differentiates one time from another and one social stratum from another. It unites those of a social class and segregates them from others. The elite initiates fashion and, when the mass imitates it…abandons it for a newer mode.” . In other words, fashion in a stratified society allows individuals to signal belonging to a group (by imitating prevailing styles) while also asserting distinction (as the elite seek new styles to set themselves apart). Simmel’s analysis highlights how fashion’s constant change is not a natural caprice but a structured outcome of social dynamics, especially class dynamics. It implies that the fashion cycle – the perpetual “in with the new, out with the old” – aligns with the interests of an industry that profits from endless consumption. Capitalism did not invent this dynamic of status-oriented dress, but it supercharges it, turning the pursuit of the latest style into a powerful economic engine.
Thorstein Veblen, writing in the 1890s, offered a scathing sociological critique of fashion as part of what he termed the “pecuniary culture” of the leisure class. In The Theory of the Leisure Class, Veblen argues that the wealthy use conspicuous consumption and leisure to display social status. Fashion, especially high fashion, exemplifies this tendency: expensive or impractical clothing serves as a visible marker of status precisely because it signals wastefulness and an exemption from productive labor. “Our dress,” Veblen wrote, “should not only be expensive, but it should also make plain to all observers that the wearer is not engaged in any kind of productive labor” . Elegant attire has value in this pecuniary logic “because it is the insignia of leisure”, demonstrating that the wearer can afford to consume without producing . He pointed out how, in his era, women’s fashion often exaggerated this principle: for example, the cumbersome styles (tight corsets, long skirts, or high heels) intentionally impeded physical work, thereby proclaiming the wearer’s distance from menial toil . Veblen’s insights underline that much of fashion’s allure in class society hinges on conspicuous waste and the display of wealth – values that are fundamentally at odds with an anti-capitalist ethos of equality and social utility. If one loves fashion for its glamour and luxury, one might unwittingly be loving the very symbols of inequality that capitalism produces.
From a Marxist political-economic perspective, fashion is deeply implicated in the commodity culture of capitalism and the fetishism of commodities. Karl Marx famously analyzed how under capitalism, social relations between people assume “the fantastic form of a relation between things” – this is the essence of commodity fetishism . In the context of fashion, the fetishism of commodities means that a luxury handbag or a pair of trendy sneakers comes to be seen as inherently desirable, powerful objects, divorced from the human labor and social conditions that produced them. A consumer in a boutique sees a stylish coat as an object of status and aesthetic delight, not as the end result of a supply chain that might involve underpaid garment workers, dangerous factory conditions, or environmentally destructive processes. The commodity’s shiny surface conceals the exploitation and inequalities behind it, leading people to “no longer see the social relations which produce a commodity and instead begin to fetishize the commodity” itself . Moreover, capitalist markets actively encourage this mystification: advertising and branding invest fashion items with glamour, aspiration, and identity, so that buying a dress or watch isn’t about obtaining a piece of cloth or metal, but about purchasing a dream or a persona.
Indeed, consumer capitalism entwines commodities with personal identity to an extraordinary degree. Critical theorist Herbert Marcuse observed in 1964 that “people recognize themselves in their commodities; they find their soul in their automobile, hi-fi set, split-level home, kitchen equipment” . We could easily extend Marcuse’s list to fashion: people today often find their “soul” in their sneakers or streetwear, their designer handbag, or their carefully curated outfits on social media. This is not a trivial point – it speaks to a psychological and cultural transformation under capitalism wherein having is conflated with being. As fashion writer Tansy Hoskins succinctly puts it, “Under capitalism people are locked into a mindset where having is more important than being. We learn to value things only when we directly possess them rather than looking for happiness in ourselves, in labour, in society or in nature” . Fashion, as a consumer good, becomes a vehicle for self-expression and self-worth, which simultaneously reinforces consumerist values. The very act of cultivating a personal style through clothes can feel empowering and deeply fulfilling – a form of creativity and communication – yet it typically operates through the purchase of commodities in the marketplace, tying one’s identity formation to capitalist production.
The psychological attachment to fashion can thus create profound internal conflicts for the socially conscious consumer. On one hand, clothes are a meaningful part of how we present ourselves and navigate social life; on the other hand, engaging in fashion as it exists today often means participating in an industry fraught with ethical compromises. Sociology and social psychology offer insight into why resisting fashion’s appeal is so difficult. Erving Goffman’s classic analysis of everyday life as a stage reminds us that appearance (including clothing) is integral to the “front” we present to others . The styles we choose become part of the shared symbols through which we communicate our social roles, status, or subcultural affiliations. A punk’s ripped denim and spiked hair, a banker’s bespoke suit, a student’s thrifted vintage ensemble – each sartorial choice signals identity, values, and group belonging in the social theatre. Appearance is “a vehicle of standardization, allowing others to understand the individual on the basis of projected character traits that have normative meanings” as Goffman explains . In simple terms, what we wear heavily influences how we are perceived and even how we experience ourselves. Little wonder that even those who rail against capitalist consumer culture find it hard to opt out of fashion entirely; doing so could mean marginalization or loss of important aspects of self-expression. There is a psychological need for recognition and aesthetic pleasure that fashion fulfills, and any effort to live anti-capitalist values in daily life must contend with that need.
At the same time, anthropology and material culture studies caution against viewing all consumption as simply a capitulation to false needs. Anthropologist Daniel Miller, for example, argues that much of what we call “consumerism” is interwoven with genuine social and emotional practices. In a study of London shoppers, Miller found that buying goods – including clothes – was often motivated by love and care (e.g. a mother shopping for her family) rather than pure self-indulgence . He provocatively concludes that for most people, “commodities are not about waste, commodities are about love”, and that people “are not going to give [them] up readily unless we absolutely have to” . Miller also points out that a blanket critique of consumer culture often overlaps with a simplistic critique of “capitalism” which ignores important nuances . Historically, socialists were not against material goods per se – quite the opposite, early socialist movements wanted to expand access to goods (clothing, food, shelter) for the masses, not celebrate asceticism. “One of the failures of left wing critiques during the twentieth century,” Miller notes, “was that it increasingly confused the need for equality and redistribution with a growing distaste for commodities as the tainted spore of capitalism” . This perspective is a useful reminder that there is nothing inherently shameful in enjoying clothing or other goods; the problem lies in how they are produced and distributed. An anti-capitalist who loves fashion might thus argue that it is possible to separate the creative and joyful aspects of fashion from the exploitative capitalist mode of production. As Hoskins puts it, the goal would be “abandoning what makes fashion bad while keeping what makes it good – the beauty, the creativity” . The crucial question is whether such separation is feasible under the current system, or whether the “harmful industry” is inseparable from fashion as we know it .
To untangle that question, we must examine the systemic issues of exploitation, labor abuse, and environmental degradation bound up with fashion under capitalism – in other words, “what makes fashion bad” today. The fashion industry’s dark underbelly starkly illustrates capitalism vs. the people. Perhaps the most visceral example that i mentioned many times was the 2013 Rana Plaza disaster in Bangladesh. An eight-story building housing garment factories collapsed, crushing 1,134 workers to death and injuring over 2,500. Most victims were impoverished women sewing clothes for global brands, paid only a pittance for their labor . The day before, cracks had been noticed in the building, but factory owners – facing pressure to fulfill big orders cheaply and quickly – ignored the warnings. This tragedy became a grisly symbol of how the relentless drive for profit and cost-cutting in fashion supply chains literally costs human lives. It was, in the words of one workers’ rights advocate, “the inevitable result of greedy corporations putting profit ahead of workers’ lives and safety” . While Rana Plaza was an unusually horrific incident, the conditions that led to it are not isolated. Across the Global South, tens of millions of garment workers (the majority women, often in countries like Bangladesh, India, Vietnam, and China) endure sweatshop conditions: poverty wages, excessive hours, unsafe buildings, and suppression of unions – all to feed the demand for cheap, rapidly produced fashion in wealthy markets.
The inequality of power and wealth between fashion’s producers and its corporate owners is staggering. A report by Oxfam highlighted that the gulf between top executives and garment workers is so vast that “it takes a CEO from one of the world’s top five fashion brands just four days to earn the same amount a Bangladeshi garment worker will earn over her lifetime.” . In a very literal sense, four days of a fashion billionaire’s time equals a Bangladeshi woman’s entire working life at current wages. Cheap fast-fashion has indeed made billionaires – the founders of brands like Zara and H&M are among the richest people on the planet – while relying on some of the world’s lowest-paid workers, predominantly women of color in developing countries . This is a textbook case of Marx’s analysis of capital accumulation: wealth piles up at one pole, misery at the other. And because the production is geographically distant from the consumption, it is easy for consumers to remain oblivious to these realities, unless spectacular disasters like Rana Plaza briefly pull back the curtain.
Moreover, the environmental toll of fashion is another front in the battle of “industry vs. the people,” if we consider the planet and future generations as “the people” who suffer the costs. The fashion industry today is frequently cited as one of the most polluting industries in the world. By various estimates, it is responsible for between 2% and 10% of global carbon emissions – roughly equivalent to the entire aviation and shipping sectors combined . It also generates about 20% of global wastewater , due to the water-intensive processes of dyeing and finishing textiles (often with toxic chemicals that contaminate rivers). The sheer volume of clothing waste – those 92 million tonnes of discarded garments per year – speaks to a culture of disposability that is environmentally unsustainable on a planetary scale . Landfills in the Global South are filling up with cast-off clothing; in Ghana, for example, vast dumps of “dead white man’s clothes” (secondhand fast—fashion items from Western countries) create environmental and social problems. In Chile’s Atacama Desert, mountains of unsold or discarded clothing lie rotting, leaching chemicals. From the pesticides and water used to grow cotton, to the microplastic pollution from synthetic fibers, to the carbon footprint of global shipping, fashion’s ecological impacts permeate every stage of the product life cycle. These impacts disproportionately harm the poor and vulnerable – for instance, communities near textile factories suffer polluted water, and climate change (worsened by emissions) has global effects. Capitalism’s fashion model externalizes these costs to “the people” broadly, while concentrating profits in corporate hands.
It becomes evident that the mainstream fashion industry, as structured under global capitalism, thrives on practices that contradict core anti-capitalist values: exploitation of labor, commodification of basic needs and identities, vast inequality, and ecological destruction for profit. To be anti-capitalist and love fashion, one must somehow navigate or resolve these contradictions. Some might argue that fashion itself is not the culprit – capitalism is. Hoskins bluntly states, “Capitalism is what is wrong with fashion” , suggesting that beautiful clothing and creative self-expression could exist bountifully without the capitalist industry, if only we reimagined how fashion is produced and consumed. Indeed, history offers hints of what fashion beyond capitalism might look like. For example, revolutionary societies have sometimes deliberately reshaped dress norms: Maoist China in the 1960s encouraged citizens to wear simple, utilitarian “Mao suits” in lieu of stylish attire, aiming to erase class and gender distinctions in dress. This was a form of “anti-fashion” as political statement – a rejection of bourgeois style as decadent. While it temporarily created a uniformity in appearance, it did not extinguish people’s desire for variety and self-expression; a thriving black market for Western clothing (like blue jeans) emerged. In the Soviet Union, blue jeans became “coveted symbols of freedom, via Western capitalism,” to the extent that youths would risk punishment to obtain them . Ironically, an attempt to banish fashion under state socialism only heightened the mystique of forbidden styles. These cases illustrate that even in ostensibly anti-capitalist systems, clothing carries social meaning and desire that are hard to suppress. They underscore a key point: fashion per se – the human impulse to adorn, differentiate, and express through clothing – is likely universal or at least very deep-seated. What anti-capitalists criticize is not the love of adornment or creativity, but the specific organization of fashion under capitalism: who controls it, who benefits from it, and who is harmed by it.
One might then ask: can we transform the fashion system in line with anti-capitalist principles, keeping the creativity while eliminating exploitation and inequality? This question animates various movements and ideas in contemporary fashion. The rise of ethical fashion, sustainable or slow fashion, and calls for a “fashion revolution” attest to growing awareness of these problems. “Slow fashion” proponents seek to resist the wasteful, profit-driven model by encouraging quality over quantity, timeless style over trends, and local or artisanal production over sweatshops . For instance, designers in the slow fashion movement often emphasize using organic fabrics, natural dyes, and paying fair wages, even if it means the garments are more expensive and produced in smaller numbers . This approach echoes an ethical ideal: clothes should be made in a way that honors the workers and the environment, rather than maximizing profit. Some small companies operate as cooperatives or strive for transparency, inviting consumers to “know who made your clothes” (the motto of the Fashion Revolution campaign that emerged after Rana Plaza). There are even thought experiments about a post-capitalist fashion sector: writer Tansy Hoskins envisions disbanding giant fashion corporations and redistributing their assets to garment workers and environmental cleanup, alongside establishing local “clothing libraries” and community sewing workshops as public services . These utopian ideas aim to “reorient production away from corporate profit and towards communal need,” treating clothing as a human right and creative commons rather than a commodity for endless sale .
In practice, however, attempting to live an anti-capitalist ethic via fashion choices is fraught with complexities. “Ethical fashion” under capitalism can be a minefield of marketing and hidden trade-offs. For one, genuinely ethical brands (those that pay living wages, source sustainable materials, etc.) often sell at a higher price point – reflecting the true cost of production that is usually squeezed out in fast fashion. This creates a class paradox: only relatively affluent consumers can easily afford these ethical options, which means the moral burden falls unevenly. It would be perverse to shame a low-income person for buying a $5 T-shirt made in a sweatshop if their budget leaves them little choice. As one sustainability commentator notes, fast fashion’s very success comes from being affordable, and it can be “hypocritical and classist” to judge individuals for purchasing cheap clothes when “there are very few affordable ethical clothing brands” available . In fact, insisting on ethical consumption can itself become a marker of privilege – a new kind of status symbol – which is ironic for a supposedly anti-capitalist stance. A related phenomenon is the gentrification of second-hand shopping: thrifting, once stigmatized as a poor person’s necessity, has become trendy among wealthy shoppers, driving up prices in thrift stores and making it harder for the truly needy to find cheap clothing . Capitalism has a way of commodifying even the alternatives to its own excesses: selling “sustainable fashion” as a premium lifestyle, or turning recycling into a virtue-signaling exercise.
There is also the pervasive issue of greenwashing. As consumer awareness of sustainability and labor issues grows, many brands have adopted the rhetoric of ethics without fundamentally changing their practices. Greenwashing refers to companies misleadingly portraying themselves as environmentally friendly or socially responsible. In fashion, this might look like a fast-fashion giant launching a “conscious collection” made from a few percent recycled fabric, while 95% of its business remains exploitative and wasteful. Often, firms spend more effort advertising minor eco-initiatives than actually improving their supply chains . This is a classic case of capitalism trying to co-opt and neutralize resistance by selling it back to us – an insight drawn from cultural theory. Indeed, cultural theorist Dick Hebdige observed how countercultural styles and subversive symbols tend to get quickly incorporated into the mainstream commodity culture. He described the “process of commodification, where subcultural styles are co-opted by the fashion and music industries” . Punk fashion, for example, began as a DIY anti-establishment statement – safety pins, shredded shirts, repurposed trash as clothing – a visual protest against consumerist norms. But within a few years, those very signifiers of rebellion were being mass-produced and sold in boutiques; you could buy pre-ripped jeans and designer leather jackets covered in spikes at a hefty price. Capitalism’s genius (and perhaps its diabolical trick) is that it can swallow critique and spit it back out as product. The aesthetic of “aesthetic resistance” itself gets commodified. Even T-shirts with anti-capitalist slogans can be found on Amazon, ironically feeding the beast they claim to fight.
From a philosophical point of view, this raises questions about whether fashion under capitalism can ever be truly divorced from the logic of the “spectacle” and simulacra. Situationist theorist Guy Debord argued in The Society of the Spectacle (1967) that in modern consumer societies, social life is increasingly dominated by images and appearances – the “spectacle” – which serve to uphold the capitalist order by distracting and pacifying people. Fashion, with its glossy magazine spreads, runway shows (now Instagram feeds), and obsession with image, is a prime component of the spectacle. Every season’s new look serves as “capital accumulated to the point that it becomes image,” to paraphrase Debord. Postmodern theorist Jean Baudrillard went further to suggest that fashion is a system of signs without deep referents – “the pure sign which signifies nothing” beyond its own cycle . In Baudrillard’s view, fashion’s constant play of surfaces and trends exemplifies how consumer culture creates meaninglessness through ceaseless novelty. One might not fully agree that fashion signifies nothing – clothes certainly can carry political or personal meaning – but Baudrillard captures a cynicism that many feel when faced with, say, the absurdity of luxury brands selling pre-distressed sneakers for $800. It all can seem like a hall of mirrors: a game of status and sign-value detached from real human needs.
If one loves fashion, one presumably loves something about it – the colors, the shapes, the creativity of design, the thrill of putting together an outfit that expresses who you are. None of that is inherently capitalist. Humans adorned themselves long before capitalism; personal style can be a form of art or storytelling. The anti-capitalist lover of fashion might therefore seek to reclaim those human aspects of fashion from the clutches of big capital. Practically, this can mean curating one’s wardrobe in conscious ways: buying second-hand or vintage (to reuse what’s already produced), supporting small independent designers or worker-owned brands, learning to sew or upcycle clothes (making one’s own fashion rather than relying on big companies), and pushing for systemic reforms in the industry (such as stronger labor laws, environmental regulations, and corporate accountability). It can also mean using fashion as a means of resistance in itself – what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu would call using “cultural capital” for social critique. For example, choosing to wear only unbranded, plain clothing could be a statement rejecting consumerist logo culture (though as Bourdieu would remind us, that choice itself can become a mark of distinction, a sort of reverse status claim among an educated class ). Alternatively, embracing styles that reflect solidarity with the oppressed – such as the Keffiyeh scarf as a symbol of Palestinian solidarity, or clothing made from handwoven fabrics supporting indigenous artisans – can embed one’s dress with political meaning. There is also a long history of “dressing down” as class protest: from 1960s hippies wearing second-hand and military surplus clothes to signal anti-capitalist, anti-war sentiments, to the present-day normcore trend which deliberately adopts bland, unfashionable attire as a rejection of the fashion system. Each of these sartorial strategies has its limitations and can be co-opted, but they represent attempts to subvert fashion’s role in reinforcing hierarchy and exploitation.
Crucially, being anti-capitalist and ethical in one’s fashion choices does not wholly remove the paradox of complicity. Even the act of buying a fair-trade artisan-made dress for $300 might involve complicities – perhaps the raw cotton came from a plantation with labor issues, or perhaps only wealthier folks can buy it, thus reinforcing other inequalities. This has led some on the left to assert that “there’s no ethical consumption under capitalism.” In a strict sense, this slogan means that as long as the overarching system is exploitative, every product in the market carries some taint of that exploitation (through supply chains, externalities, etc.), so one cannot shop one’s way to salvation. From this perspective, personal consumption choices, while morally significant, are insufficient. The truly anti-capitalist stance would require collective action to transform the system itself – supporting garment worker unions, demanding stronger regulations, perhaps even working towards alternative economic models for production and distribution of apparel. It is telling that Hoskins argues, “Social change will never come from fashion corporations, and it is wrong to believe that it ever could” . She points out that brands, by their very nature as profit-maximizing entities, will at best make superficial nods to justice (“hollow imitation of a protest…responding to swells in public opinion”). Real change, she suggests, must come from grassroots movements, from political pressure that forces changes in law and culture – essentially, from “the people” rather than from the industry’s elite.
In light of all this, is it possible to be anti-capitalist and love fashion? The answer depends on how one defines both “anti-capitalist” and “love” in this context. If being anti-capitalist is taken to mean a purist refusal to engage in any capitalist commodity activity, then loving fashion would indeed be a betrayal – akin to a temperance advocate sipping secret cocktails. But few people live as purists. Most activists and theorists recognize that we are all enmeshed in capitalism’s web, to varying degrees, simply by living in capitalist societies. What matters is one’s political stance toward that system and one’s efforts to change it. One can sincerely critique and oppose the injustices of capitalism while still living in the real world where buying clothes is necessary and even joyful. The challenge is to mitigate hypocrisy and reduce harm: to align one’s love of fashion with one’s values as far as possible. This might mean curbing the worst excesses of consumerism – for example, rejecting the fast-fashion habit of buying piles of new, disposable clothes each season – and instead cultivating a more mindful relationship to clothing. It might mean finding alternative modes of fashion enjoyment that do not feed the most exploitative parts of the industry: swapping clothes with friends, thrifting, investing in a few high-quality pieces that last, or reveling in the styling of outfits more than in the accumulation of them.
Meanwhile, loving fashion can also fuel one’s anti-capitalist critique. The more one cares about clothing – about its beauty, its craft, its cultural meaning – the more one may feel angered by how the profit motive debases those qualities. Many fashion-lovers-turned-critics point out that capitalism has made fashion more vulgar and exploitative than it needs to be. For instance, the pressure to reduce costs and speed up production has arguably reduced the quality and artistry of mass-market clothing. Skilled dressmakers and small ateliers have been pushed aside by giant factories. Trends have become homogenized globally, often dictated by a handful of corporations and fashion magazines. One could argue that a non-capitalist or post-capitalist fashion system might actually produce better fashion: more creative, diverse, and human-centric. Hoskins fantasizes about “a global explosion of design and creativity” in the absence of the current industry’s constraints . This view suggests that capitalism, far from liberating creativity, often stifles it by chasing safe trends and profit, whereas a more people-centered approach could unleash truly exciting fashion possibilities.
In the end, navigating the intersection of anti-capitalism and fashion comes down to a tension between one’s ideals and one’s aesthetic or personal desires. It requires continual critical reflection. One must ask: Why do I love fashion? Is it the thrill of novelty (which the capitalist industry manipulates)? Is it the social status it confers (which is tied to class and thus antithetical to equality)? Or is it the genuine aesthetic and sartorial joy, the historical and cultural storytelling through dress (which can potentially be separated from exploitative production)? By peeling back the layers, an individual can strive to love fashion in a way that minimizes complicity – for example, cherishing vintage couture for its craftsmanship without endorsing present-day sweatshops, or celebrating personal style as a form of art while rejecting the idea that one must constantly consume new products to be stylish.
Crucially, an anti-capitalist approach to fashion also means solidarity with those who suffer for fashion. Loving fashion cannot be an abstraction; it ought to compel one to care about the hands that sew the garments and the communities that bear the pollution. This means supporting efforts to improve garment workers’ wages and rights, such as the Bangladeshi labor unions and international accords formed after Rana Plaza . It means acknowledging, as Oxfam’s report did, that the wealth concentrated in fashion’s upper echelons is unjust and unsustainable . It could even mean reimagining one’s relationship to ownership and possession: some futurists suggest models like renting clothing or communal wardrobes could fulfill fashion desires with less waste and less commodification. In a sense, to be truly anti-capitalist and still love fashion, one might have to love fashion in a different way – less as a consumer and more as a curator, creator, or collaborator. This aligns with what some psychologists call shifting from “having” to “being.” Rather than defining oneself by the having of the latest fashion items, one could locate the joy of fashion in the being of a creative dresser or the doing of styling and making clothes. Such a shift resonates with Hoskins’ call for “ways to fulfill our humanity that go beyond possession” .
In conclusion, the relationship between anti-capitalism and fashion is undeniably fraught with contradictions, but it is not an outright impossibility. It is possible to love fashion while critiquing and resisting the capitalist system – many designers, writers, and activists do exactly that, working to reform or revolutionize the industry. However, it requires a keen awareness of the ethical and political dimensions of fashion. It means loving fashion critically – appreciating its artistry and joy, while relentlessly interrogating its supply chains, labor practices, and environmental impacts. It means being willing to change one’s consumption habits and to support collective actions that challenge the status quo. The paradox in the meme (“fuck capitalism, but I love fashion”) captures a real tension, yet it can also be a productive tension. It can spur important questions – Who made my clothes? Under what conditions? Do I really need another pair of shoes? – and those questions, in turn, can lead to meaningful action. In a sense, to be an anti-capitalist who loves fashion is to live in a state of creative dissent: enjoying the aesthetic and personal empowerment that style can offer, even as one pushes back against the unjust system that currently produces it.
Ultimately, fashion does not have to be the “favorite child of capitalism,” as some have dubbed it . One can envision a future in which fashion is “for people” rather than for profit – a source of beauty, identity, and cultural expression that enriches society without exploiting anyone. That vision aligns with the ideals of anti-capitalism, even if achieving it is a formidable challenge. Until then, individuals will continue to grapple with compromises: buying second-hand here, saving up for ethically-made items there, or sometimes indulging in a fast-fashion piece and feeling a pang of guilt. Such is the reality of living in what many call late capitalism. The hope is that by keeping the critical conversation alive – by acknowledging the contradictions rather than dismissing them – we inch closer to a world where loving fashion no longer means being complicit in oppression. In that world, perhaps the phrase “anti-capitalist fashionista” would not be an oxymoron but a norm, and the love of style and the love of justice could walk hand in hand. For now, the question itself sparks precisely the kind of reflection that can drive change: it forces us to imagine what fashion might look like under different economic arrangements, and what it means to align our ethics with our aesthetics in everyday life. Such imagination is the first step in transforming the reality.