How Vogue Is Committing Suicide
Great institutions rarely collapse from lack of resources. They collapse from lack of nerve. Vogue was not invented to be agreeable; it was invented to be authoritative. For most of its history it understood this perfectly. It did not ask us what we liked, It taught us what to like. It created hierarchies, fantasies, and aspirations with the arrogant confidence of a museum curator deciding what deserves to hang on the wall.
Somewhere along the way, the magazine decided that authority was unfashionable. Today Vogue behaves less like a tastemaker and more like a beautifully produced newsletter summarizing the internet. It no longer leads culture; it follows it with immaculate photography and impeccable manners. The result is a publication that reads underwhelming, looks soulless and feels strangely weightless, like a palace built entirely out of press releases.
Vogue’s decision to make itself irrelevant exemplifies the pitfalls of politicizing everything. Fashion, which once dealt in fantasy, has been recast as a vehicle for moral positioning. The magazine that taught generations how to dream now spends much of its energy proving how virtuous it is for dreaming at all. But fashion without edge is simply retail with better lighting, and aspiration edited for maximum comfort quickly becomes indistinguishable from advertising.
Even the symbolism has grown confused. Nuclear Wintour now appears increasingly comfortable in the company of mass convenience, as if hierarchy were an outdated inconvenience rather than the very mechanism that made Vogue powerful. Watching an institution built on exclusivity align itself with the logic of online shopping feels a bit like the Four Seasons announcing that its new culinary inspiration is the supermarket freezer aisle. Possible, of course, but spiritually incoherent. It feels like leaving a Michelin star restaurant… starving.
The problem is not that Vogue has become more inclusive. The problem is that it has mistaken inclusion for vision. A magazine that refuses to offend anyone eventually refuses to say anything. Fashion thrives on distance, selectivity, and the occasional act of elegant cruelty. It survives by telling people “not this, but that.” Modern Vogue seems terrified of the word no, and a tastemaker incapable of refusal is merely a catalog with opinions.
This is how institutions end—not with scandal, but with politeness. By trying to represent everything, Vogue has slowly relieved itself of the burden of meaning anything in particular. The pages remain glossy, the events remain lavish, and yet nothing truly lingers. Fashion is supposed to seduce, to unsettle, to provoke longing. When it chooses consensus over conviction, it does not evolve; it evaporates.
The franchise behaves like a publication that has mistaken exposure for authority and coverage for authorship. It no longer produces the impulses that move the industry forward; it waits for someone else to take that risk, generate them and then transcribes the echo.
And so the world’s most influential fashion magazine has embarked on a remarkably elegant form of self-erasure. No explosions, no rebellions, no dramatic finales—just a gradual retreat from the very idea of authority. That being said, I consider it’s only fitting to say that Vogue is both architect of its own rise and executor of its own demise.
WRITTEN BY FREDDY ESPINAL