Celebrities aren’t wearing necklaces on the red carpet anymore. This is an example, some argue, of “recessioncore”. The term, first coined on TikTok (it’s a ‘core’, of course it was on TikTok) by fashion commentator Delaney Bryant, pointed to a lack of jewellery at the Golden Globes last month as a sign of a looming recession. “I feel like celebrities don’t want to appear ‘out of touch’, so they don’t want to be dripping in diamonds during a cost of living crisis,” Delaney says in her video. “Fashion and politics and the economy all go hand in hand.” And she’s right, to an extent.
It’s true that fashion doesn’t exist inside a vacuum. It’s also true that economic collapse is looming: a poll from the World Economic Forum found that two-thirds of economists think we’re headed for a recession in 2023 (nice). We’re all struggling more than ever with the costs of living, and fashion will, of course, reflect this. It doesn’t have to even be on the red carpet, seen through designer labels and celebrities; along with a lack of ostentatious jewellery, trend forecasters have also begun to allude to the Hemline Index, which first emerged in the aftermath of the Great Depression, as another indicator of recession (when prices rise, the theory goes, so do our skirt lengths; look no further than Miu Miu’s micro-mini moment as evidence). The Telegraph is calling it “frugal boujie”; the growing split between looking like you have a lot, but not too much, while having nothing, and looking like you have a lot, but not too much, while you have loads.
But, as many have pointed out in online coverage of so-called recessioncore, there’s no authenticity to this as a fashion trend. It’s simply “an opportunity for celebrities to cosplay being poor”. The term is obviously catchy enough for us to project our economic and sartorial worries onto; under the hashtag ‘recessioncore’, TikTok creators are using it to talk about the decline of post-pandemic ‘dopamine dressing’, logomania and the un-ostentatious displays of wealth through fashion — but it’s ultimately a misnomer. Recession doesn’t come for the uber-rich and famous the same way it comes for us normals, but by pretending it does, they can try to save some face during the looming collapse. So we don’t eat them. Or at least cancel them (remember the backlash to Ellen Degeneres calling her 15 million dollar mansion a ‘prison’ during the first global lockdown?). The rich and famous trying to shield themselves through fashion is not recessioncore, then, it’s revolutioncore.
This is a tactic that existed long before TikTok, the 2008 financial crash or even The Wall Street Crash of 1929. During the last truly chic economic disaster (The French Revolution), the rich and famous’ status as kind of relatable but separate led to ruin, as we know well. Some historians believe that what finally sent peasants rioting on the streets of Paris was the sight of nobility eating crunchy white baguettes while they faced shortage and famine. Nowadays, our modern-day bourgeoisie can stop history from repeating itself; even before people come for their bejewelled necks, they know that conspicuous consumption is out.
This kind of revolutioncore doesn’t just take the form of micro-minis and bare necks. Our growing economic ennui is being reflected back to us on the runways too. Last month, Gucci’s AW23 menswear collection consisted of striped Les Mis style Breton tops, billowy shirts and overcoats (and a total absence of buccal fat). Diesel released a micro mini-belt-skirt short enough to scandalise the flappers over at Hemline Index. Last week, SS Daley opened his show with a performance of “The Coming of Arthur”, one of 12 narrative poems from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, which tells the story of the rise and inevitable fall of an empire, just a week after “Not My King” protests came for the actual King as he toured the country before his coronation (the designer said he wanted the collection to be “a stark contrast to the Eton-esque, collegiate stripes from before”).
On social media, too, celebrities are becoming more cautious, less conspicuous. When was the last time you saw an A-lister post a selfie from a private jet, once a grid staple? And when there’s little attempt to hide the excess at all — for the influencers whose brands are built on unrelatable luxury, and who can’t now extricate themselves from that reputation — images of guillotines stitched to their TikToks and in reply to their tweets are often not far behind. Remember when lifestyle influencer Lydia Millen said she’d checked into the Savoy to “make full use of their wonderful warm water” at the peak of the UK’s energy cost crisis? Or back in the first lockdown, when J. Lo posted her child hoverboarding in front of her house that closely resembled the house from Parasite. Many asked, “Checked your basement recently?”
Even small attempts to bridge the gap between celebrity and the proletariat haven’t landed well recently. When Harry Styles commented to the audience after his Grammy win that this “didn’t usually happen to people like him”, the internet didn’t buy it and quickly told him how misguided this belief was. When Cardi B and Taylor Swift are joking about the cost of eggs, it’s funny, sure, because we know eggs cost a lot too, but it’s not exactly relatable, which we imagine was the intent.
As our everyday lives are becoming harder, we’re naturally becoming more jaded about the abuse of labour that goes into maintaining incredibly wealthy lifestyles. Some have heralded the rise of ‘de-influencing’ as a worthy adversary to the social media throne, in which creators desperately try to maintain or build platforms by telling us to buy less (under the guise of cost-effectiveness or sustainability) as though this too isn’t a fallacy. In films, our horrors have become fantasies about eating and destroying the rich and powerful (The Menu, Infinity Pool, Triangle of Sadness…), so much so that we’re even becoming fatigued with that. Perhaps cinematic revolutioncore just doesn’t hit like it should any more. We want the real thing instead.
When times were better, enjoying a privileged lifestyle in public was easier. It was easier for us to pretend it was relatable, rather than seething over the distance in lifestyle. Maybe we didn’t have a Kardashian house, but we could organise our kitchens like Khloe. Maybe we couldn’t afford the same ingredients, but we could still cook along with Florence Pugh. Some of the lowest rungs on the aspiration ladder are out of reach now. We are witnessing the chasm between them and us expand week by week. Ass-cheek-bearing mini-skirts and bare necks aren’t going to disprove that, and everyone knows that you, me, Selena Gomez and Ana De Armas are not going to experience this coming recession in the same way. In all recessions, one thing is certain to happen: the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. Recessioncore, like deinfluencing, is just a fake term to pretend that reality won’t come to pass. Revolutioncore is much more accurate. Put on the maxi skirt. Wear the necklace. Storm the Bastille.