The Shifting Era of Fashion Critique
+ bedroom critique vs industry critics, Coachella thieves, TikTok drama and more
Hey, hi, hello! Welcome back to Fashion Tingz.
The sun has been shining in London this week and it has me feeling some type of way. Maybe it’s the seasonal depression finally leaving my body? Either way, I’m grateful for this mood shift. As is the rest of the city I’m sure.
I’ve been taking even more IRL meetings (the introvert and INFJ in me is shooketh), thanks once again to this newsletter, and there are some exciting things in the pipeline I hope you’ll be pumped about.
Bear with me as I figure this all out. But if I did partner with brands, who springs to mind when you think of Fashion Tingz? And brands, this is a direct call out to you: my inbox is open, and I’m ready to do business.
— J’Nae xoxo
IN THIS EDITION: Fashion criticism as we know it is changing. Highsnobiety and Google Pixel back both tech and people. Rihanna and baby Rocki grace the cover of W. Daylight robbery as Madonna’s Coachella looks go missing. Yohji Yamamoto designs for Aesop. Jaded London fights for its life on TikTok.
Fashion criticism used to arrive with a certain authority: byline first, opinion second, and a quiet understanding that not everyone got to speak. It lived in broadsheets, glossy magazines, and the rarefied air of front rows. Now, it lives everywhere: on our phones, in our group chats, in a stranger’s bedroom filmed against a clothing rack and a ring light. The question isn’t just who gets to critique fashion anymore. It’s what counts as critique at all. Because somewhere along the way, the critic became the content creator. And the content creator became, for better or worse, the critic.
Take the word “influencer.” Once a neutral descriptor, it’s curdled into something closer to an insult. As Jay Choyce Tibbitts neatly put it in a recent TikTok, calling someone an influencer in fashion circles can feel like a polite way of dismissing them entirely. They’re shallow, attention-seeking, algorithm and clout chasing. And yet, that same label now applies to individuals running what are essentially one-person mini media companies, commanding audiences that legacy publications lust over. The irony is almost too on-the-nose: the people dismissed as unserious are often the ones shaping what millions of us see, want, and buy.
So where does that leave traditional criticism? In a state of mild identity crisis. Veteran critics are stepping in front of the camera, adapting to a landscape that rewards visibility as much as insight. But performance is not the same thing as critique. The ability to distil a collection into cultural commentary doesn’t automatically translate into compelling on-screen presence, and vice versa. As the industry leans further into personality-driven formats, there’s a concern that critique is being flattened into content: faster, louder, and optimised for engagement rather than depth. When everything becomes content, the loudest voice is often the one that wins.
This tension came to a head in March 2026, when Style-ish, the Shameless Media podcast, found itself at the centre of a backlash that felt bigger than a single segment. What might once have passed as sharp-tongued commentary was widely read as something else entirely — mean-girl spirited, cyber-bullying coded — after hosts Maddison Sullivan-Thorpe and Anika Joshi-Smith criticised creator Tamsin Wong’s approach to personal style and taste.
The response on TikTok? Swift and unforgiving. Critics of the podcast didn’t just defend Wong; they challenged the very premise of the segment. What does it mean to critique someone’s “taste” in an era where taste itself is being democratised? And who gets to define whether that critique is rigorous… or just reactive? Some responses went further, accusing a whole subset of fashion commentary of lacking intellectual curiosity — of skimming the surface, driven more by vibes than by any real engagement with history, art, or cultural context. Others took issue with the dismissal of Wong’s point altogether: that developing taste requires more than assembling a Pinterest board, it demands understanding why those images resonate in the first place.
It’s a telling debate. Because beneath the drama is a deeper anxiety about what fashion criticism is becoming.
On one side, you have the rise of what I like to call “bedroom critique”: a generation of commentators who didn’t come up through traditional pathways but have built audiences through consistency, curiosity, and a willingness to share what they’re learning in real time. They’re often more accessible, less reverent, and refreshingly uninterested in gatekeeping. For many of us, they’ve opened up fashion in a way legacy media never could.
On the other side, there’s a fear that in opening the gates, we’ve lost some of the scaffolding that made critique meaningful in the first place. Expertise, context, and rigour aren’t always things that trend. And when commentary is shaped by the algorithm and tech overlords, there’s a risk that nuance gets squeezed out in favour of immediacy and clickbait.
But framing this as a simple clash, old guard versus new wave and critics versus influencers, kind of misses the point. What’s happening now is less a battle and more a recalibration. Because the truth is, fashion criticism has always been subjective. What’s changed is the scale and speed at which subjectivity now circulates. A review no longer sits quietly on a page; it ricochets across platforms, refracted through thousands of interpretations, stitched, duetted, debated. Critique has become participatory. And I don’t think that’s inherently a bad thing.
In fact, some of the most exciting voices in fashion right now are the ones actively resisting both extremes. The anti-gatekeepers who treat fashion as something to be explored rather than dictated. They’re the industry insiders digging into runway history, unpacking brand narratives, and connecting trends to wider cultural movements. They’re not just reacting to what the algorithm serves up; they’re interrogating it. They make the case that critique doesn’t have to be exclusionary to be intelligent, and that accessibility doesn’t have to come at the expense of depth.
I’ve been lucky enough to discover quite a few of these voices on TikTok, Substack, and elsewhere deep in the depths of the digital abyss, for which I’m better educated and more informed on the ins and outs of the industry due to their work. Here are some of my favourites: rian phin on TikTok and Substack (I interviewed Phin a few years ago when I was agency side; Phin’s depth of knowledge is unmatched), Mandy Lee @oldloserinbrooklyn on Instagram, TikTok and Substack, Ashantéa on Instagram, TikTok and Substack, Ryan Yip on Instagram and YouTube, Ken Sakata on Substack and TikTok, and a ton more I can’t fit into this newsletter.
So maybe the real shift isn’t that fashion criticism is being devalued. It’s that it’s being redistributed. Authority is no longer centralised; it’s scattered. Messier, yes. Sometimes louder than it needs to be. Occasionally, less informed. But also more diverse, more dynamic, and, at its best, more reflective of the culture it’s trying to interpret. This is a win in my books.
The challenge now isn’t to mourn what’s been lost, or to romanticise what’s new. It’s to figure out how to hold onto what makes critique valuable while embracing the formats and voices that are reshaping how it’s delivered. It’s platforming context, curiosity, and a point of view in ways that make sense for the times we live in. Because fashion has always been about more than clothes. And criticism, at its best, has always been about more than opinion. The medium may have changed. But the mission hasn’t.
Highsnobiety and Google Pixel have teamed up to launch the Pixel Institute of Fashion & Technology (PIFT). This yearlong initiative is built to back the next wave of creative entrepreneurs operating where style meets circuitry, in a move that seems to be both tech and people-first. Equal parts classroom and creative playground, PIFT claims it isn’t interested in preserving the status quo; it’s here to disrupt it. Through structured learning, mentorship, and hands-on experimentation, the program opens up access to tools, insights, and industry networks that were once gatekept. Less “who you know,” more “what you can build.”
Rihanna and baby Rocki for The Pop Issue cover of W Magazine. Gagged!
Madonna’s archive appears to have staged its own disappearing act after her surprise Coachella weekend two cameo with Sabrina Carpenter. And now she’d like the mystery guest to take a bow and return the goods. “These aren’t just clothes, they’re part of my history,” she wrote on Instagram, noting that several pieces from the same era have vanished. She’s holding out hope that a kind-hearted, or at least reward-inclined, individual will reconnect her with the missing looks. The irony? These weren’t just any relics, but the very boots, corset, and jacket she wore on that same Coachella stage 20 years ago.
Timothée Chalamet has made it official with indie watchmaker Urban Jürgensen. For months, the actor has been dropping hints on his wrist, stepping out in the brand’s timepieces. Now the soft launch is over: he’s taking a minority stake in the Danish brand and signing on as its creative advisor. The partnership with the Rosenfield family, Urban Jürgensen’s owners, feels like the right place, right time. As traditional watchmaking searches for relevance beyond collectors and connoisseurs, aligning with someone who embodies modern cultural cachet is a smart play.
Jacob Elordi is officially the new face of Chanel’s ‘Bleu de Chanel’ fragrance. For a brand that doesn’t technically do menswear, they really are collecting Hollywood it boys one by one.
Yohji Yamamoto made Aesop employees their own jackets, and I have never been more jealous. Do you see the silhouette? The softly wrinkled texture? It’s simple brilliance? I need it yesterday.
I saw this Jaded London drama online, and it tickled me. Pay $180 for “designer” streetwear, flip the tag, and it’s giving fast fashion déjà vu. That’s the situation sparking chaos online after a viral TikTok exposed a label mix-up that shouldn’t exist. Jaded London claims it’s all imitation, not collaboration. But critics have a fair question: copies don’t usually come pre-sewn into the original. Whether it’s a warehouse blunder or a supply-chain reality check, the takeaway is clear: were fed up with overpaying high prices for what feels like budget quality. The brand was really fighting for its life in the comment section.
Joan Burstein, the visionary behind Browns, the London-based luxury department store, dies aged 100. Known universally, and affectionately, as Mrs B, she co-founded Browns in 1970 with her husband Sidney Burstein. Together, they treated retail less like commerce and more like curation. Browns became a launchpad for talent both homegrown and global, championing designers who would go on to define eras. Her instincts were legendary. In 1984, she bought John Galliano’s entire Central Saint Martins graduate collection. Designers like Hussein Chalayan and Alber Elbaz found in her not just a buyer, but a believer.
The Tamsin discussion is something I also delved into a bit, though from a very different perspective! (What Does Good Taste Mean) It definitely feels like things are heating up in a very "seismic shift" "the tectonic plates are moving" kind of way across the media landscape.