Rage against the (Performative) Machine!
When sustainability becomes an aesthetic, not a value.
A photo framed in soft light, a caption that begins with “Being in sustainability means questioning yourself all the time.”
There’s gratitude for a recent feature, a nod to perseverance, and a reminder that “one person who cares matters more than a thousand who don’t.”
eguipireuvhqdisxmcvwdfbn^qetooteq....Apologies, I must have fallen asleep on the keyboard.
I am so bored by this overused narrative, because that’s exactly what it’s become, a narrative. Scripted empathy. A template for a purpose that circulates endlessly through social feeds, detached from the reality it pretends to address.
It’s the language of purpose. Polished, emotive, hashtagged. And yet, scroll a little further and the same voice is trying on designer outfits, filming from a walk-in wardrobe the size of a Parisian pied-à-terre, and tagging luxury brands under the banner of “rewearing with intention.”
Disclaimer: what sparked this reflection wasn’t the concept itself, but a recent Forbes feature celebrating so-called sustainability advocates at a Fashion Week in the US. The article paired a respected designer genuinely integrating sustainability into his craft alongside a lifestyle figure whose “mission” revolves more around optics than overhaul. That kind of pairing says everything about the state of fashion storytelling, where visibility often outweighs veracity.
Profiles like these blur the line between those doing the work and those performing it. They reduce complex, systemic change into digestible human-interest stories. None of this is new. Performative sustainability keeps getting repackaged as revelation. “A tale as old as time, reason over rhyme,” as Angela Lansbury once sang. Exactly that. The storyline hasn’t changed, just the lighting and the hashtags.
Somewhere along the way, sustainability turned from a verb into an aesthetic.
It’s not about doing differently, but about appearing aware.
We’ve traded systemic change for soundbites and spotlights. And too often, the loudest voices are the ones least willing to change their own habits of consumption, travel, or self-promotion.
Sustainability has become performance art. Beautifully staged, algorithmically sound, and entirely detached from the uncomfortable reality it claims to confront.
We rarely talk about this contradiction because the industry thrives on polished narratives and personal branding. But maybe it’s time we do. Not to shame individuals, but to protect the integrity of the movement itself. Otherwise, sustainability becomes just another aesthetic, and we lose the point entirely.
Beautiful words. But when they arrive perfectly framed, filtered, and hashtagged, I can’t help wondering who the message is really for.
Fashion doesn’t need more sustainability influencers, sorry, sustainability thought-leaders! It needs practitioners, people willing to trade visibility for value, content for contribution. Let’s start celebrating those who quietly dismantle systems of overproduction, who share their resources, and who embody the message they preach.
Real change doesn’t happen in curated captions, carousel posts or TEDx soundbites, or under ring lights or filters. If your version of “doing better” still involves constant newness, first-class flights for shopping sprees, and unboxing content, then maybe it’s time for a different kind of reel.
I, on the other hand, am happy to fly premium economy. Credibility travels lighter. ;)
It’s a contradiction to talk about circularity while posing amid fabric waste, and amassing wardrobes big enough to rival a showroom. It erodes trust and turns one of the most urgent conversations of our time into a marketing strategy. In these narratives, the waste rarely comes from their own wardrobes.
Maybe next time, the Get Ready With Me video could be something different.
Get ready to pack those untouched designer pieces and deliver them to young designers who’d actually upcycle them.
Now that’s a reel worth watching.
Let’s normalise calling this out; not out of cynicism, but because credibility in fashion depends on accountability. If you claim to stand for circularity, start by consuming less. If you talk about re-wearing, show your wardrobe doing the work.
True sustainability is uncomfortable. It demands humility, restraint, and re-evaluation of privilege. It’s about the quiet work: donating, repairing, repeating, mentoring, not the content-friendly moments of “intention.”
And it’s not just influencers who shape this narrative. Media outlets and event organisers share the responsibility.
When Forbes profiles someone as a sustainability leader, or when fashion weeks invite influencers to sit on panels about circularity, education, and upcycling, without verifying the depth of their contribution, the result is predictable: visibility replaces credibility.
Before handing someone a microphone or a magazine feature, do the homework. Look beyond the hashtags, the curated closets, the soundbites. Does this person live the message they preach? Do they actually support the next generation, share resources, or redirect privilege where it’s needed?
This isn’t a criticism of schools or emerging brands collaborating with these figures. I understand the need. Access to visibility, guidance, or even a kind word can feel like gold when you’re starting out. Many young designers will take advice from anyone who seems established enough to offer it. The issue isn’t their openness. It’s that the loudest voices often set false expectations. When sustainability is presented through the lens of affluence, it risks deceiving the very audience it claims to empower.
That’s why education and mentorship carry responsibility: to show the real work of building a brand responsibly, the constraints, the financial strain, the unglamorous process, not the illusion of effortless luxury disguised as consciousness.
When platforms fail to fact-check, the damage goes beyond bad optics. It’s not just about image, it’s about influence. When someone whose lifestyle is built on luxury consumption mentors small brands or students scraping together funds for a collection, something feels deeply off.
Conscious creation requires credibility, not affluence. If you’re going to teach it, you should live it.
Because there are people walking the talk. The Giuggioli siblings, for starters. Livia and Nicola, first through Eco-Age and now with Quintosapore, consistently champion change through action, not aesthetics. Livia, who also produced The True Cost documentary and is the founder of the Green Carpet Challenge, helped redefine responsible fashion storytelling. There’s also Matteo Ward, advocating for ethics and equity in production systems. And with them, countless others who have built careers on integrity, not curation.
As someone who has spent years teaching and mentoring within fashion education, I’ve seen what true responsibility looks like. It’s not about scale or spotlight; it’s about integrity, and that’s something no algorithm can fake.
Watch out, Marina Abramović. There’s a new performative thought-leader artist in town.
I could not agree more with you! I started noticing how toxic this was becoming when I started working freelance and giving trend workshops, where designers thought that to be sustainable they had to work with a specific color palette and aesthetic. We need to go back to the basics, and fashion education is the place to unpack all of this AND learn what it truly looks like.