In the world of fashion, “taste” and “trend” are often used interchangeably. Yet, when we pause and look closer, they couldn’t be more different. Taste, in its truest sense, is not fast. It doesn’t appear overnight with the swipe of a screen or the ping of a notification. Taste is built quietly, through time, exposure, reflection, and lived context. It’s cultivated through observation, memory, culture, and curiosity. It is deeply personal, but also deeply social. French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, in his seminal work Distinction (1979), argued that taste is a “socially coded language”, a way of signaling what we value and why. What you choose to wear, eat, read, or even listen to isn’t just about preference. It tells the world something about your roots, your aspirations, your worldview. Taste is never only about aesthetics, it is about meaning. But today, in a world that feels more fragmented and accelerated than ever, trends have overtaken taste. Instead of slow-building awareness, we are caught in a whirlwind of micro-aesthetics: from inflatable kitsch to dopamine dressing, from “tomato girl summer” to “blokecore.” Each week delivers a new “-core” to embrace, and each algorithm tells us that if we’re not participating, we’re being left behind.
The issue isn’t whether these aesthetics are “good” or “bad.” It’s that very few of us stop to ask why. Where did these visuals come from? What histories or subcultures are they referencing? What signals do they send? More often than not, we don’t ask, because we’ve been trained not to. Our scrolling fingers move faster than our thinking minds. A 2023 study by the London College of Fashion’s Fashion Futures Insight Lab revealed that 68% of Gen Z respondents admitted they adopt trends they see on TikTok or Pinterest without ever researching their origin, designer, or cultural context. Taste, it seems, is no longer a process, it has become a performance.
The Death of Discernment
Algorithms have replaced instincts. What used to be shaped by lived experience and gradual exposure is now flattened into feedback loops where virality becomes validation. If enough people “like” it, it must be good. But true taste was never about consensus. It isn’t a popularity contest. It requires something that trends rarely allow curiosity, consciousness, and the willingness to push back. Cultural critic Shumon Basar put it powerfully in The Age of Earthquakes when he wrote, “We are living through a time when we outsource thinking to the network. Feelings are filtered through filters.” That applies to fashion taste too. Scrolling through Instagram or TikTok, it’s easy to confuse trend fluency with discernment. People swap opinions as easily as accessories, often without pausing to ask what those opinions are built on. Fashion, in turn, flattens into meme aesthetics and branded nostalgia. The space for nuance shrinks. The result? Many of us are consuming without really tasting. It’s the difference between wolfing down fast food and slowly savoring a home-cooked meal. One is engineered for instant satisfaction and disposability. The other stays with you; layered, nourishing, memorable.
What Real Taste Looks Like
So, what does real taste even mean in 2025? If algorithms and trend cycles are running the show, how do we reclaim the art of knowing what we like, before the internet decides for us? For me, the answer lies in slowing down. Real taste doesn’t come from the For You Page. It comes from lived experience, from travel, from the things you grew up with, from a sari your grandmother wore or the smell of cinnamon buns in your childhood home. It comes from walking into a museum and sitting with a painting until you feel something, instead of just taking a selfie in front of it. It comes from returning to the same book or song again and again, letting it reveal new meanings over time. Taste, in other words, requires a relationship. A relationship with culture, with history, with memory, with yourself. It is slow to form, but precisely for that reason, it lasts.
Fashion as Performance
Fashion, at its best, has always been about self-expression. But increasingly, it has turned into performance, content for others rather than clothing for ourselves. When we buy into micro-trends without thought, we outsource our style decisions to algorithms. The danger here isn’t just personal, it’s cultural and environmental. Every fleeting trend requires production, and every production cycle adds to fashion’s already devastating footprint. We chase the new, discard the old, and repeat. The irony is that what once signaled individuality now signals conformity. The more we dress alike in the name of trendiness, the more invisible we actually become.
Beyond Trends: Building Conscious Taste
So, how do we shift? How do we build taste in an era where trends are everywhere? Here are a few practices worth trying:
- Ask “why” before “where.” Before you click “buy,” ask where the trend came from. What is its history? Who started it? What culture does it belong to? By digging deeper, you not only gain knowledge, but you also gain appreciation.
- Learn to sit with style. If something catches your eye, don’t purchase it immediately. Save it. Revisit it a week later. If it still speaks to you, maybe it’s more than a passing trend.
- Look inward, not outward. Build your style around your memories, values, and experiences, not just what is popular. Think about what feels like you, not what looks good on an influencer.
- Invest in longevity. Real taste values durability. Choose pieces that can live in your wardrobe for years, not weeks. Fashion that outlasts cycles becomes part of your story.
- Stay curious. Read about design history. Visit exhibitions. Talk to artisans. Ask why certain patterns, fabrics, or silhouettes matter. Taste grows through learning, not scrolling.
Why This Matters
At first glance, the debate between taste and trend might feel like an abstract, almost elitist question. But it isn’t. It touches every part of how we consume culture and fashion today. If we keep chasing trends without reflection, we risk hollowing out our sense of identity. We also risk deepening the environmental crisis of overproduction and waste. But if we learn to slow down and cultivate taste, we not only create wardrobes that are richer and more meaningful, we also begin to shift the system itself. Taste is political. Taste is cultural. Taste is ecological. And most importantly, taste is ours to define, if we’re willing to step away from the scroll long enough to think, feel, and choose.
So, what are we actually consuming when we consume fashion? Are we tasting, or are we simply following? Are we making choices, or letting algorithms make them for us? In Beyond the Seams, I often return to this truth: fashion is never just fabric. It’s a mirror of our values, our relationships, and our ways of seeing the world. Taste, when cultivated with care, can help us anchor ourselves amidst the noise of trends. Perhaps the work now is not to reject trends altogether but to approach them with discernment. To ask the questions algorithms won’t. To build wardrobes that reflect not only what’s popular, but who we are. In a time when “viral” so often replaces “valuable,” maybe real taste is the quietest kind of rebellion. I’d love to hear your thoughts, stories, or questions. Write to me, share your experience, or tag me if you’re building a more mindful wardrobe, one choice at a time.
