L ast year, many people got many things wrong about how the pandemic might change our lives.No, cities did not die; yes, people still blow out birthday candles and risk spreading their germs.But few 2020 forecasts missed their mark so spectacularly as the oft-repeated claim that, as the world reopened, we’d return to it in sweatpants .
If any single event crystallizes this misfire, it’s last month’s announcement that the direct-to-consumer loungewear brand Entireworld was going out of business .The company had been a breakout darling of 2020, its cheerfully hued cotton basics poised at the fortuitous intersection of “cute enough for Zoom” and “cozy enough to work, sleep, and recreate from bed in, for the bulk of a calendar year”.News outlets, meanwhile, pointed to Entireworld’s astonishing 662% increase in sales last March not as a right-place, right-time one-off, but an indication of our collective sartorial destiny.
A shopper sporting an Entireworld sweater at Fahm Market, Los Angeles.Photograph: Ray Tamarra/Soul B Photos/Rex/Shutterstock “[T]he sweatpant has supplanted the blue jean in the pants-wearing American imagination,” declared GQ last April.The New York Times Magazine followed suit a few months later with an Entireworld name-check in its August 2020 cover story , headlined “Sweatpants Forever”.
But it wasn’t to be.
Instead, as 2021 brought forth the world’s reopening, I noticed a style sensibility that seemed to defy last year’s housebound pragmatism.From Instagram to the streets of my New York City neighborhood, the people were turning looks.Kooky looks, to be precise, from platform Crocs to strong-shouldered silhouettes.My online window shopping exploits turned up scores of sundry garments, across brands, all in the same exuberant hue of 90s DayGlo green.From sensible underpants to faux fur–trimmed tops, I subconsciously catalogued the color labels assigned to each (“celery”, “gross green”, “slime”).
This new, psychedelic palette seemed like a spiritual departure from Trump-era minimalism and its many shades of beige .Less dutiful, more winking.
Sweatpants seem destined for a mere supporting role.
Jessica Richards, a trend forecasting consultant based in New York City, agrees that the pandemic has changed the way we dress.“It’s actually for the better,” she says – and in more ways than one.
Metallic not-sweatpants at New York fashion week in September.
Photograph: JP Yim/Getty Images It’s no coincidence that the styles of the Great Re-entry reflect a certain giddiness, says Dr Jaehee Jung, a University of Delaware fashion studies professor who researches the psychology of fashion and consumer behavior.“The fact that there are more opportunities to present ourselves to others makes us excited about the clothes we wear,” Jung tells me.
“I’m definitely seeing people taking more risks, in terms of color choices, prints and patterns, even shapes and silhouettes that they wouldn’t have worn before,” says Sydney Mintle, a fashion industry publicist in Seattle.
“People are like, ‘life is short, wear yellow.’”
‘Life is short, wear yellow.’ Neon yellow at New York fashion week in September.Photograph: Andrew H Walker/Rex/Shutterstock Tamar Miller, CEO of the women’s luxury footwear brand Bells & Becks, has seen this fashion risk-taking impulse first-hand in her company’s recent sales.“My absolute, number-one, kind of off-the-charts shoe is one I did not expect,” she says.
That shoe, per Miller’s description, is a pointed-toe loafer in black-and-white snakeskin leather, topped by a prominent decorative tab with hardware detailing.It’s a bold choice, and one that affirms the demographic breadth of the desire to make a statement.
Miller’s target customers are not members of Gen Z, but rather their parents and grandparents.
Secondhand clothing – and its promise of luxe-for-less – has also found its time to shine.
2020 was a banner year for the online resale market.
Digital consignment platforms like Depop, ThredUp, and Poshmark swelled with the sartorial discards of an estimated 52.6 million people in 2020, 36.2 million of whom were selling for the first time, according to a survey by ThredUp.A majority of millennial and Gen Z consumers indicated that they plan to spend more on secondhand apparel in the next five years than in any other retail category, a sentiment expressed by 42% of consumers overall.
It’s a phenomenon that may also be contributing to the moment’s ethos of mix-and-match experimentation.“Gone are the days of sleek, edited ‘capsule wardrobes’, and in their place are drawers overstuffed with vintage treasures sourced from Poshmark or Depop,” writes Isabel Slone in a recent Harper’s Bazaar article headlined “How Gen Z Killed Basic Black”.
This doesn’t necessarily mean that fast fashion is on its way out.(“Some of those brands are doing big business, and the numbers don’t lie,” Mintle sighs.) But the boom reflects, and may have helped accelerate, a growing departure from trend-chasing and disposable, low-cost wares.You might even say that reflexive participation in fads is so 2019 – not least because the US is struggling with supply chain bottlenecks as we enter the holiday season.
But our Roaring Twenties may be on the horizon.For 2022, Richards anticipates sparkle, novelty, “shoes that go ‘clunk’” and “really maximalist styling”.She didn’t mention sweatpants..
