It’s a famine of beauty!
André Leon Talley said it first: “It’s a famine of beauty.” Fashion today feels stripped of its soul, fantasy and depth. It is not that collections are poorly made—many are impeccably constructed—but rather that they are stripped of feeling. The world of fashion, once a temple of wonder, now often resembles a boardroom where profitability has taken precedence over artisanship. The clothes are not ugly. They are competent, commercial, designed to please shareholders rather than stir the soul. Competence, however, is not inspirational.As a consumer, as an observer, as someone who grew up surrounded by great style and fashion—I find myself yearning for answers. Where is the fantasy that once made us delirious? Where is the spectacle that would pull me out of my mahogany reading chair and send me sprinting to the store with one of my parents’ credit cards? Where is the drama that could make you weep, laugh, and covet all at once? Even the escaparates have flattened into glorified billboards. A window at McQueen was once more mysterious than a reliquary. Now it’s as thrilling as an Apple Store.
Fashion shows themselves have fallen prey to this flattening. The grandeur of Galliano’s Dior—where models were given roles, narratives, characters—felt like a fairytale. His shows had this theatrical element that undoubtedly was one of the things that made us viewers, rewatch, rewatch and rewatch. A wedding with parents, priest, guests, and gossip. A whispered story between model and audience member. A world you entered, a world you didn’t want to leave.
Today, most shows don’t linger in the mind. They are consumed as quickly as an Instagram reel and forgotten just as fast. A true show should move you. It should stay alive in the memory, demanding interpretation, discussion and obsession.
But here lies the darker truth: the famine of beauty is not just the industry’s fault. It is also ours, society’s. We have cheered for “acceptance” so loudly that we forgot the importance of standards. Balance is everything — even virtue needs a corset. High fashion is not meant to be a public park; it is meant to be a palace. Not everyone belongs in couture, just as not everyone belongs in the front row at the opera. And that is not cruelty. That is curation.
Let me be clear, if I haven’t already… Couture will always look better on a tall, slender girl than on a prosperous, voluptuous one. That is not ideology, that is proportion. It is not cruelty to acknowledge measurements. To worship beauty is to surrender to its laws. Fashion has always belonged to those who master form, not to those who demand entry.
And if I am striking a nerve, then so be it. Truth has a habit of doing that. The reason high fashion favors slender bodies is not ideological, it’s architectural. On the runway, a narrow frame is the cleanest canvas. It allows fabric to move as it was conceived. The proportions have room to speak without distortion, and craftsmanship to reveal itself in full clarity. The body, in that context, is not the message — it’s the medium.
When a plus-sized model walks a show, many of us struggle — quietly, perhaps even unwillingly — to envision ourselves in the clothes. Why? Because deep down, we do not aspire to that image. Fashion has always sold aspiration, not reality. And when aspiration falters, so does desire. If consumers cannot imagine themselves in a look, they will not buy it. And in an era where creative directors are pressured to prove profitability above all else, this dissonance is lethal.
Of course, roundness has its place, just as severity. But the tragedy of modern culture is the belief that everyone belongs everywhere. Absolutely not. The world, like a wardrobe, needs compartments. Spaces must be filtered and selective. Because the people inside are not just guests — they are the ambassadors of that circle. And when a circle stops guarding its gates, it ceases to be a circle and becomes a food court.
Fashion, true fashion, should never be a food court.
Yet hope exists. Designers like Erik Charlotte remind us that there is still breath in the lungs of beauty. If Galliano and Westwood had a child, it would be Erik Charlotte. Her designs — excessive, camp, nonsensical — prove that luxury must have room for madness. After all, what is the point of balloon sleeves so big they could suffocate you? None. Which is exactly the point. Fashion should not justify itself. Fashion should make us surrender.
So yes, André, the famine is real. But I say the feast is possible. The question is whether the industry and society still have the appetite for life and the hunger for more.
I know I do.
WRITTEN BY FREDDY ESPINAL
