Who is fashion week *actually* for?

So here we are at the tail-end of another Australian Fashion Week (technically I still have one more show to attend tonight, but the end is in sight and a restful night’s sleep is imminent). It’s been a whirlwind both on the ground and online. And it hasn’t escaped me that each year, its existence – and that of those who attend – is routinely scrutinised.

I’ve only been a part of the fashion industry for a couple of whirlwind years now, but the concept of fashion week – whether overseas, or our very own here in Australia – has been ubiquitous to me for as long as I can remember.

I spent plenty of years dreaming about what it would be like to be invited; to sit in the esteemed FROW; to be captured candidly by a swarm of paparazzo out front. For many of us who grew up in Australia reading fashion mags or glued to Instagram, the bricked exterior of Carriageworks was a place of mythic proportions: one where colourful creatives and fashion’s insiders congregated. But… for what exactly?

Yes, the obvious answer is for runway shows. But what was their purpose? Was it for buyers? Editors at magazines? To advertise to the public at-large? As the immediacy of social media has taken over, it’s left me pondering how much of fashion week remains industry-oriented, and how much of it has grown to be about spectacle and brand awareness. And why is there pushback on both sides – a reckoning of fashion week’s place and purpose? Who is fashion week actually for?

A brief history of fashion week

A quick history lesson: runway shows began in around the 19th century when designers like Charles Worth and Paul Poiret started to use live models to present garments in Paris. By the early 20th century, designers like Lady Duff Gordon in London transformed these quiet demonstrations into theatrical performances with lighting, music, and front-row seating, essentially establishing fashion as both commerce and entertainment.

By the 30s, Paris was an epicentre for fashion – from Coco Chanel to Elsa Schiaparelli – and Houses began to present collections at exclusively client-only events. Ironically, back then, secrecy was everything and protecting original designs took precedence, so fashion shows unfolded behind closed doors. Photographers were strictly not allowed – a far cry from today’s media-swamped affair.

Two Schiaparelli evening gowns with balloon-sleeved gloves. Exhibition in New York, 1930s.

While the first official Paris Fashion Week happened in 1973 with the formation of the Fédération Française de la Couture, the first official New York Fashion Week began as “Press Week” in 1943 at the height of World War II (when the American fashion guard couldn’t get over to Paris). Milan followed suit in the late 50s, and London in the 80s (coinciding with the formation of the British Fashion Council).

Who goes and why?

Fashion Week’s intention was – and still is – to serve as a critical nexus for the industry  (buyers, stylists, editors, and creative directors) offering an exclusive first look at upcoming collections and setting the tone for the season ahead.

For buyers, it’s an opportunity to curate selections that will define the retail landscape months in advance, forecasting what will resonate with their clientele. Stylists generally attend to uncover new pieces and to cultivate lucrative relationships with designers, sourcing looks for editorial shoots, red carpet appearances, and other jobs they may be working on. Editors and journalists’ attendance has been about shaping the cultural narrative around collections, translating runway moments into the visual and written language that drives global trend cycles.

While the spectacle of Fashion Week may appear performative, at its core it remains a working event – an essential meeting point where commerce, creativity, and cultural direction converge.

What’s changed?

Social media has undeniably democratised fashion, turning the industry into a more accessible space – and the function of fashion week feels more fluid than ever. What was once a closed circuit of editors, buyers and clients is now a globally streamed event. The runway show has become a hybrid: part-working event, part-marketing spectacle, and also part-content engine. The audience has shifted, and with that shift has come friction. Who is the show for these days?

Old guard fashion insiders are encountering formidable challengers for invites. Social media has become the beating heart of fashion culture (let’s be real – it’s the beating heart of just about everything now), and fashion weeks have pivoted in response. In the battle for influence, many designers now stream their shows, or lean on viral sets or guest lists to prop up their engagement.

A show can increase revenue dramatically by filming Alex Consani being silly backstage. Marc Jacobs engaged Emergency Intercom podcast stars Enya Umanzor and Drew Phillips to interview guests on arrival at their 2024 show. The ‘Very Demure’ TikToker Jools Lebron sat front row in custom Bottega Veneta at the House’s Spring 2025 show at Milan Fashion Week. YouTuber Emma Chamberlain is now a fashion week – and Met Gala – mainstay. The list goes on.

“In the battle for influence, many designers now stream their shows, or lean on viral sets or guest lists to prop up their engagement.”

And the numbers don’t lie. According to Launchmetrics, nearly half of all fashion week media impact value now comes from Instagram alone. WWD reported that Kylie Jenner’s appearance on the Coperni runway at Disneyland Paris generated $16.8 million in media exposure. It’s a fact that, in today’s climate, virality is currency. And it’s not just about generating traffic.

Broadcasting fashion shows live — through both official streams and the social channels of personalities — invites audiences to engage with the spectacle in real time. It fosters a kind of consumption tied to the energy, allure, and narrative of the brand. It allows fans to engage on a deeper level with the emotion; absorb the soundtrack, and experience the collection as it unfolds — often with a clearer view than some of the guests seated inside.

I can still remember the energy of staying up to stream Sabato de Sarno’s Gucci debut late one September evening in 2023. The energy was palpable. My friends and I had a running commentary going in my Instagram DMs as each look appeared – and it’s still one of my favourite collections of the last five years.

But despite its surface-level embrace, there are still those in the fashion industry that harbour a quiet ambivalence – if not outright disdain – for the growing dominance of social media and influencer culture at fashion weeks. Once a bastion of exclusivity and rigorous taste, the mythic front row has increasingly been infiltrated by digital personalities – and for many within the industry’s old guard, this shift represents a dilution of authority; the spectacle beginning to eclipse the substance. The traditional fashion buyer, once an arbiter of style, now shares space with a carousel of sponsored content creators. They hold a fear that fashion’s once-codified language is being flattened; a resistance to the perceived erosion of discernment.

“They hold a fear that fashion’s once-codified language is being flattened; a resistance to the perceived erosion of discernment.”

And its not just guests. Brands like The Row have rebuked – instilling a no phones or photos policy for their Autumn Winter 2024 collection during Paris Fashion Week. Isabelle Hellyer’s label All Is A Gentle Spring followed suit at their runway show at Australian Fashion Week last year too. Needless to say, the internet lit up in response – ironically proving the very point. In denying access, these brands amplified allure; in withholding images, they sparked desire. In a landscape where everything is instantly visible, the most radical gesture might just be a touch of mystery.

@toryburch We 💘 women in STEM #alexconsani #tiktokfashion #nyfw #fashionweek ♬ original sound – TORY BURCH

Model Alex Consani backstage for Tory Burch.

But let’s be real for a second here – the fashion industry is one that, historically, was built on a foundation of exclusion. It’s an ecosystem where access, thinness, whiteness, influence, and visibility were reserved for the privileged few. Its codes of beauty, style, and worth were (and sadly still are) shaped by gatekeepers who controlled not only what was seen, but who was allowed to be seen.

I’d argue that a large part of the resistance from factions of the industry has to do with a loss of this sense of exclusivity – a perceived slipping of power from the hands of the few into the feeds of the many. The mythos of fashion’s inaccessibility has begun to unravel, and for some, that’s deeply… uncomfortable. Suddenly, the very mythology that kept fashion feeling rarefied is no more.

“The dissolution of exclusivity makes space for a richer, more dynamic fashion culture – one that reflects us as we truly are, not just as a select few have imagined it.”

But here’s the thing — that unravelling is good. It means more ideas, more bodies, more perspectives are finally being seen – amplified even – and are shifting fashion from a monologue into a conversation. The dissolution of exclusivity makes space for a richer, more dynamic fashion culture – one that reflects us as we truly are, not just as a select few have imagined it. We’re witnessing the rise of a more pluralistic, democratised vision of style — and more seats at the table are always something to celebrate.

So, what does this all mean?

Maybe the answer lies in embracing the paradox. In understanding that fashion week, like fashion itself, has always been both industry and performance. There’s no doubt in my mind that social media and its grip hold on the fashion industry will only continue to tighten – but the reality is, there will always be a seat for legacy media, fashion buyers and stylists at the table (or aside the runway). One can no longer exist without the other. And underneath it all is a shared fascination for industry, for the clothes. That’s perhaps the throughline we forget sometimes when people get caught up in online discussions about who is getting an invite, or dissecting whether people deserve to be there based on what they chose to wear.

So, who is fashion week really for? Maybe it’s for whoever believes in the power of clothes enough to keep showing up — in person, online. Whether you’re seated in the front row or watching through a pixelated livestream on your phone at 2am. It’s for the artistry. For a well-cut coat that makes someone cry. For shared references and spontaneous reactions. For people — young, old, online and off — to feel seen. Fashion week might not hold the same mystique it once did, but its emotional power? That endures. And it’s for those who keep coming back.