On October 5th, in the middle of the midterm election campaign, Donald Trump delivered a speech in Nebraska. Nothing new: patriotic grandiloquence and discursive posturing about the greatness of America. Once the speech ended, Y.M.C.A., by the Village People, played—that song which in the seventies became an icon of gay culture and which today Trump has adopted as his campaign soundtrack. The president then gave himself over to his now-characteristic robotic dance, until a movement revealed an unexpected detail: the suit's label, with the name Jos. A. Bank. An American brand that, at first glance, seemed consistent with one of Trump's most recurring proclamations: consuming products manufactured in the United States. But is the case of Trump and his protectionist measures in fashion exceptional?

On September 22nd, the first day of Milan Fashion Week, during the Vogue World fashion show at the imposing Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, there were two people visibly uncomfortable with what they were seeing. Miuccia Prada – head designer of her eponymous brand – and Alessandro Michele – creative director of Valentino – two of the heavyweights of the global fashion scene, were clearly wrinkling their noses while the rest of the attendees applauded, enthralled by the spectacle. The reason? The appearance of four humanoid robots from the Chinese company Unitree acting as acrobats among the models, presented under the title The age of intelligence. While the audience responded with enthusiasm, Prada and Michele seemed to be among the few who did not find it amusing. Perhaps because, behind the spectacle, they saw something more than four robots doing somersaults: the irruption of artificial intelligence into a world, that of fashion, which until now had made the body, hands, tradition, and human creativity its reason for being.

Queues at the doors of Zara stores, items sold out in minutes, resales at double the price, and videos on social media in which shoppers proudly show off their acquisitions are not exactly part of the usual experience at Amancio Ortega's house. But that is exactly what happened on October 1st. And it is not a minor anecdote: the arrival of John Galliano at Zara has altered, even if momentarily, the rules of the game in a territory much broader than that of fashion. Because Galliano is not only one of the great designers of the last decades: he is also a name loaded with symbolic capital associated with an Olympus of creation and luxury that, until not long ago, seemed incompatible with the fashion of common mortals. But what is different about this collaboration compared to the many others that, from time to time and for years, enliven –like a swallow that does not make a summer– the dimmed creativity of fast fashion chains?

Right now we are living in a surreal dystopia stretched between two apparently opposite extremes. On one hand, we are frightened by the possibility that a potentially superintelligent AI might end up annihilating humanity; on the other, we suffer from the human stupidity of a good portion of our political leaders. A paradox between artificial intelligence and natural foolishness that, if it weren't for everything we have at stake, could seem comical to us. Leaders who, all too often, whether out of overconfidence or because they feel in danger, seem to start rambling in their public statements, taking their shortcomings out for a walk. And it is precisely in this context that Donald Trump has decided to imagine a uniform for the Space Force that does not exist... nor does it seem likely to exist.On September 6th, the President of the United States surprised the world with a post on Truth Social. This consisted of the image of a supposed new uniform for the Space Force, the latest branch of the American Armed Forces, created by Trump in 2019, intended to protect and operate the country's military space infrastructure. We are not dealing with astronauts, but with what he has dubbed "guardians": military personnel who, beyond exploration tasks, must dominate, protect, and defend this new military domain. With the Space Force, Trump contributes to transforming the space scenario that, until now, we had associated primarily with science and fiction into a new space for military combat.

Barely two weeks ago, the Catalan clothing brand Desigual launched a campaign mocking the touristification, massification, insecurity, and rising prices currently stifling Barcelona. A campaign that public opinion perceived as a misstep, due to playing frivolously and without a defined critical will with such a poignant social issue, simply to sell clothes. But little did we know that, in a matter of a few days, the brand would manage to completely turn its image around. The sudden change of direction has arrived with the new campaign, titled Born to disobey. A girl, with a defiant attitude in front of a robot, questions the infallibility of artificial intelligence, which collapses in the face of human singularity, and encourages standing up to the dictatorship of algorithms. And looking straight into the camera, she says: “She was designed to obey. I was not.” The brilliance of the ad, however, lies in the fact that its protagonist is not just any model, but Vivian Jenna Wilson: Elon Musk’s trans daughter.

Returning from vacation does not just mean resuming schedules, routines, or obligations, but also recovering a much more serious, prudent, and restrained way of dressing. During the holidays we allowed ourselves to wear bright Hawaiian shirts, show off loose hippie dresses, wear shorts all day long, or go in a bikini and sarong to buy an ice cream at the beach bar. Through clothing, we experience a pleasant sense of freedom and comfort that we rarely enjoy during the rest of the year. But why does all of this end in September?Now it is time to make an appointment at the hair salon urgently. If until now we haven't worried that the hair dye color was a total mess, upon setting foot on solid ground it becomes an unavoidable priority to recover the brown shade of number 4.0 before our colleagues see us. Also, the thin-strap tank tops or minishorts are over: the body becomes more gaunt and now it is time to cover it with fabric again. And if our feet have enjoyed almost absolute freedom thanks to flip-flops, now they must be covered and put back in order. Even Crocs have allowed us to enjoy the comfort of putting on and taking off our shoes without even bending over. But now the laces return to contain our feet and, with them, a small example of the bodily discipline that runs through us during the year.

The Catalan clothing brand Desigual has once again pulled a Juan Carlos in Botswana with its now iconic "I am very sorry... it will not happen again." The reason? The latest campaign, in which, with a clearly sarcastic and mocking treatment, it makes gentrification, touristification, overcrowding, rising prices, and insecurity in Barcelona the central theme to promote its latest collaboration with the Berlin brand Ottolinger. A campaign that has ignited social media and received a mostly negative reception. Firstly, because many have perceived it as a trivialization of the problems that currently stifle the Catalan capital. Furthermore, this treatment, beyond the fact that a brand based in Barcelona is shooting itself in the foot by ridiculing the city's image, does not aim upwards as a form of denunciation. What we must be clear about is that not all irony is a critique. And if, in addition, all of this is done to sell a few t-shirts, it is even harder to find any real desire to question anything.And I say that they have pulled a Joan Carles again because it is not the first time, in recent times, that Desigual has had to rectify its advertising campaigns. The most recent one, in 2025, starred actress Ester Expósito wearing the slogan Not a doll(I am not a doll), with an apparently feminist intention of women's empowerment. The problem is that, in parallel, the t-shirt campaign Protect the dolls was taking place, to support the trans community following the attacks and harassment by Donald Trump's American government. A campaign that, in no case, was minor, but rather had a great reach, with the adherence of renowned figures such as actor Pedro Pascal, singer Troye Sivan, or designer Haider Ackermann. The campaign itself could have been good, provided it had been carried out in a parallel world. The problem is that contexts are fundamental and seeing Expósito proudly wearing a t-shirt with the phrase "Not a doll", at that moment made the reading go from feminist to transphobic.In December 2012, it launched the campaign Tengo un plan, composed of three advertisements in which three conventionally beautiful women dressed up, in a sexy and uninhibited attitude, in front of the mirror while they explained their future plans. The first, to travel to Thailand to have sexual adventures and leave her life behind, including her boyfriend. The second, to tell her family that she had a female partner. And the third, that she had decided to sleep with her boss. A campaign that, despite wanting to empower women, fell into a false representation of equality by the adoption, on the part of these three women, of behaviors traditionally associated with men.The most serious one, however, was released following Mother's Day 2014, titled Tú decides. A normatively sexy girl, after putting a pillow under her dress to see what she would look like pregnant, took a strip of condoms and poked holes in them. An advertisement that clearly treats women's freedom of choice in the clumsiest way, since, apart from ignoring the other person's reproductive consent, it disregards the risk of contracting sexually transmitted diseases.Seeing, therefore, the promotional trajectory of Desigual, we could think that at the head of the marketing department they have a monkey at the wheel, with a total disconnection from the world and what is cooking. But, seeing the repeated blunders, perhaps what they have is a clever person who, in the face of a company that is struggling with sales, has opted for the old formula that says "let them talk about us, even if it is badly". A dangerous tactic that must be executed very well so that it does not end up being bread for today and hunger for tomorrow.In any case, perhaps the latest campaign regarding the touristification of Barcelona is better thought out than we locals have been able to see. With a brand owned by the Swiss Thomas Meyer and sales directed mostly to the international market, perhaps the campaign was not intended to amuse the people of Barcelona. Perhaps, precisely, its audience was those who experience the city from the other side: as a backdrop to visit, consume, and, now also, wear.

Lately, when I try to buy a bikini, I have to face the search and capture of an increasingly difficult piece to find: one that covers my entire buttocks. While the part that covers the breasts is not problematic, when we get to the bottom part, it seems that we only have at our disposal the minimum expression of what a panty should be. Among the available options, the thong is quite present, which mysteriously disappears between buttock and buttock, given the apparent comfort of the user, and front panels so minimal that I myself wonder how it is possible to fit the entire pubic area into such a narrow strip without it protruding from either side. Suddenly, wanting a panty that generously embraces the buttocks and lower abdomen has become almost an extravagance. It is paradoxical that this occurs in parallel with the clear retreat of the topless, caused by the increase in aesthetic pressure and rising conservative values but, above all, by the threat of camera phones, capable of forever archiving your breasts on social media without your consent. But why do these fears, which have caused the liberation of women's breasts to recede, not have the same effect on the buttocks?

When we think of Dolly Parton, who died Tuesday at 80 from cancer, we think of mythical songs like Jolene and I will always love you, but also her spectacular looks. And it is that Parton was not only an extraordinary musician, but a pop icon who consciously built her own image until it became an inseparable part of her work. An aesthetic that cannot be fully understood without taking into account the context in which she moved: that of country.

At the beginning of August, during the royal family's stay in Mallorca, Infanta Sofia caused some surprise among the media for an apparently unusual gesture in the protocol of royal houses. The reason? She was wearing a Desigual dress that Queen Letizia had already worn in 2023 and that Princess Leonor had reused in 2025, during the respective Marivent receptions. In fact, Queen Letizia has repeated dresses on more than one occasion, and each time the fact has become news. But what does it say about us, as a society, that it seems so exceptional to us for a queen to repeat a dress?The reuse of clothing has been an inherent practice in fashion throughout pre-industrial history, when clothes were scarce, expensive, and often had to be passed down from parents to children. It was a practice that affected all social strata, including European courts. Royal families had record-keeping systems to document existing garments, specifying their characteristics, measurements, and decorative elements, as well as the repairs and modifications they had undergone, with the aim of facilitating their reuse within the same family. Everything indicates that clothing was conceived less as strictly individual property than as dynastic heritage capable of circulating among different members of the lineage. And when clothes ceased to be used, they could become diplomatic gifts or be passed on to members of the service to ensure alliances and loyalties. Likewise, fabrics were dismantled and reused in new garments, ornaments, furniture, or liturgical objects, and only when they had exhausted any possibility of use were they destined for paper manufacturing. The wardrobe was thus understood as a true reserve of material resources and political strategies. Therefore, what has changed between the old European courts and the current royal family for something that was completely normalized in the past to have become an exception today?

Most middle-aged men, throughout the year, resort to a very limited range among all the possibilities that fashion offers. Faced with the infinite possibilities it provides, they tend to opt for discreet pieces, neutral tones, predictable outfits, and unpretentious silhouettes. But summer temporarily alters this established order. The climate, holidays, and the feeling of being outside the routine open a small crack in this monotony. And it is precisely through this crack that such an unexpected and revealing piece slips in: the Hawaiian shirt.When we see this shirt, with floral prints and the name it has been given, we quickly suppose it represents the essence of this Pacific archipelago and the cultural past of Polynesia. But the reality is very different. Far from referring to ancestors, these shirts were born in the thirties of the 20th century, when Hawaii had lost its independence for decades and lived under American rule. Turned into a plantation economy, the islands attracted successive migratory waves, especially from China and Japan, thanks to which fabrics, artisanal techniques, and ways of dressing also arrived. In this context, the Japanese tailor Koichiro Miyamoto began to make them in 1935 under the name Aloha Shirts.The first manufacturers resorted to the materials they had at hand: rolls of Japanese fabric originally intended for making kimonos. For this reason, the first prints showed bamboo plants, fans, cherry blossoms, waves, or cranes (tsuru), motifs typical of Japanese iconography. Asian fabrics but on a garment with the morphology of the North American sports shirt. The Hawaiian shirt was therefore not the expression of an intact culture, but the product of a colonial society in which American patterns, Japanese fabrics, and Asian hands had ended up sewing a new identity. Once again, history showed that cultural purity resembles fiction much more than reality.In the late thirties, Hawaii was already a tourist destination for Americans, a phenomenon that after World War II intensified with the popularization of commercial aviation. And, with tourism, the shirt also became tropicalized: cranes gave way to hibiscus, surfers, and ukuleles. The finishing touch, however, was given by Hollywood, when it invented a consummately idyllic Hawaii. Elvis Presley, with Blue Hawaii (1961), ended up stereotyping it as a cultural myth of paradisiacal beaches, surf, women dancing hula and floral necklaces. The return of thousands of soldiers stationed in the islands also contributed, bringing back photographs, ukuleles, and shirts.And if we fell captivated by the warm sound of Elvis's steel guitars, the private detective Magnum finished the job. What man didn't want to wear a Hawaiian shirt if this meant living, even if just for a few days, the carefree and eternally summery life of Thomas Magnum: living in a mansion by the sea, drifting a red Ferrari, and the promise that happiness could be worn with a floral print?

«Kini» is no longer just the end of bikini: has become almost a suffix. Over the past few decades, it has been combined with all sorts of words to designate new ways of dressing – or undressing – the body on the beach. From the foundational bikini to monokini, the trikini, the tankini, the microkini, the burkini, the seekini or the most recent skirtkini. But if there was a turn that few of us saw coming it was the facekini: a piece that, instead of revealing more skin, completely covers our face to enter the sea. Before, however, that the brother-in-law reflex is activated and someone says that "the fashion world has once again invented another stupidity," it is worth giving it the benefit of the doubt. Because this disconcerting piece, in addition to the face, hides a story much less frivolous than it seems and, above all, offers an opportunity to question the way we look at clothes when they come from other cultures.

It's hot. Very hot. Too much. And I don't formulate this evidence as an experienced climatologist, but as a simple inhabitant of a world increasingly close to boiling point. Faced with this climatic exceptionality, which is already sensed as the new normal, the much-coveted air conditioning units, despite the immediate well-being they provide, contribute to heating the outside even more. Perhaps that's why, in the midst of a climate emergency, the oldest solutions are once again proving their validity. And is there anything more ancestral than a fan?Just a few years ago it seemed that this object had been relegated to a simple folkloric souvenir, adorned with inevitable kitsch Hispanism motifs. Today, on the other hand, it has regained its place as one of humanity's oldest, simplest, and most sustainable technologies. But, has this always been its function: to make wind? And, despite being an inseparable complement to the flamenco stereotype, is Spain really its place of origin?

The French beach of Pampelonne, which during the seventies and eighties became one of the great symbols of European body liberation, is far away. Press photographs showed stretches of sand dotted with umbrellas and bodies where the "topless was not the exception, but the rule. Neither were the Costa Brava, the Costa Daurada, the Costa del Sol or Ibiza, where the spirit hippy and the impulse of the sexual revolution turned the bare breast into an expression of freedom. Slim Aarons' photographs immortalized that carefree way of inhabiting Mediterranean leisure, where the semi-naked bodies of bathers were part of the landscape naturally, without dramatization or scandal. It was not about sexualizing the body, but precisely about freeing it from the gaze that turned it into an object and lightening it from the weight of centuries of moral demonization.That landscape, however, today seems almost an archive photograph. Not only because fifty years have passed, but also because the reality it represented has been fading away. The topless, which for decades was part of the usual landscape of Mediterranean beaches, is today an increasingly exceptional practice. Data suggests that, compared to the eighties, it has decreased by two-thirds. And the paradox is that the women who continue to practice it the most are precisely those who grew up during the sexual revolution. The youngest, on the other hand, have barely even incorporated it. What has happened for what seemed like a conquest of bodily freedom to have retreated?Breasts are exactly the same as forty years ago. What has changed is the world that observes them. When a woman decided to leave them exposed, she knew who would see them, how, and for how long. Upon leaving the beach, that exposure also ended. Today, however, a woman can leave the sand, but if someone has taken a photograph of her, her image will continue to circulate indefinitely on others' screens, becoming, in the best case, content for social media and, in the worst, an advertisement for sexual content pages. The moment a photograph escapes our control, so does a part of our body.Furthermore, social networks, along with the media, have exponentially intensified the pressure on bodies, which seem to have to respond more than ever to canons of perfection to deserve to be shown. Beaches and swimming pools have ceased to be friendly spaces for body diversity. Bodies forced to coexist with the scrutinizing gaze of others and, above all, with their own, often even crueler, the result of low self-esteem eroded by a system that turns insecurity into a business.When the feminist struggles of the seventies denounced the sexualization of women's bodies, they already sensed that this battle would not be easy. Half a century later, it continues to be one of the great open fronts. There will be those who consider it inevitable to sexualize female breasts, as if it were a natural instinct against which it were useless to rebel. But history shows precisely the opposite. During the first half of the 20th century, male nipples were also the object of censorship and scandal. Only when men began to uncover their torsos normally on beaches did that moral burden gradually fade. The sexualization of the body, therefore, is not immutable, but simply the result of a cultural construction, even if we want to dress it up as natural.The paradox is that we have never lived with so many images of naked bodies and, yet, for decades these have not been so unfree. Captives of aesthetic pressure and the surveillance society, the youngest have inherited more images of the body than their mothers, but less freedom to inhabit it.

Fashion is political. When we decide to wear flat shoes instead of heels, put on ripped jeans, or tie a tie, we are making a statement about how we want to position ourselves in the world. As feminists proclaimed in the seventies, drawing heavily on countercultural thought, the personal is political. It is no wonder, then, that throughout history institutions, ideologies, and parties have tried to appropriate the symbolic power of clothing to persuade, construct identities, and, at times, also dominate.The latest episode has been starred by Pedro Sánchez's government, which a few days ago presented DMOCRACIA, a graphic campaign built with all the codes of a streetwear brand, with a slogan that leaves no room for doubt: "When you dress, you position yourself". The initiative, framed within the acts commemorating fifty years of democracy, aims to bring this political system closer to the younger generation, with an urban aesthetic and the accompaniment of a battalion of influencers. The first reaction, I confess, is to look around for the hidden camera. It's hard to decide if we are facing an institutional campaign or a parody of gigantic proportions. But, once the absurdity is accepted, it's worth asking: is it a genuinely Spanish extravagance, or does dressing political ideals have a history older than it seems?The Neoclassical painter Jacques-Louis David, known for works such as The Death of Marat or The Oath of the Horatii, played an active and committed role in the French Revolution. Convinced that, in addition to establishing a new political and social order, it was also necessary to give it a visible form, he designed various outfits to define the appearance of the new republican citizen. Through the three colors of the flag, references to Republican Rome, and inscriptions such as Liberty, Equality or French People, he aimed to create a new visual code for a society governed by revolutionary ideals.However, the project did not prosper. History has shown that, apart from regimes that impose a certain appearance – as in the People's Republic of China, where the Zhongshan suit (Mao suit) became hegemonic attire under strong pressure – fashion is not adopted by decree. People do not simply wear what a government prescribes, but what emerges from a complex network of desires, identifications, aspirations, and social dynamics. Politics can try to dress an ideology, but not decide what society will wear.

We are immersed in Paris Haute Couture Week. The collections presented these days have left absolutely spectacular pieces, especially from Daniel Roseberry for Schiaparelli and Jonathan Anderson in his haute couture debut for Dior. But, despite the creative display that is capturing all eyes these days, there is a dress that is eclipsing them all. A very unique dress because, in reality, no one has seen it yet. And the more time passes without knowing what it looks like, the more conversations, speculations, and expectations it generates. I'm referring to the one Taylor Swift wore at her wedding to American football player Travis Kelce, held on July 3rd.Beyond the possibility that the images will be reserved for a future exclusive, this situation fits perfectly with the logic of the attention economy. In fact, a good part of the fashion world revolves around a concept that has become commonplace in the sector: hype. More than promoting a product, hype consists of building desire for it before it exists – or before it is accessible – by feeding rumors, leaks, small clues, and waiting periods that keep the conversation alive. In short, hype is the art of turning waiting into desire, because whoever controls time also controls the narrative and decides when, how, and who will have access to what everyone is waiting to see. Precisely at a time when we have become accustomed to getting almost anything immediately, it is here that marketing strategies manage to trap us. Desire, after all, usually reaches its peak intensity when we don't yet have what we want, but it dissolves with surprising speed as soon as we get it.

Teyana Taylor, an American actress and singer, presented the iconic show "Saturday night live" in January dressed in an unexpected piece: a white t-shirt, completely embroidered with sequins, featuring one of the most iconic logos of the 20th century: "I❤️NY". The piece was part of Chanel's Métiers d'Art 2025/26 collection, the line with which the French house showcases its maximum artisanal virtuosity each year. This time, however, the most exquisite luxury had allied itself with one of the most kitsch objects of tourist culture: the souvenir t-shirt. The episode could have remained an anecdote if it weren't for the fact that, since then, other celebrities – especially from Generation Z – have also revived this same symbol.

Lately, Donald Trump has been depriving us of one of the most characteristic elements of his aesthetic: his hair tuft which, with improbable aerodynamics and a generous amount of hairspray, defies the Newtonian laws of gravity. Instead, he is gifting us with a new element that is becoming a personal trademark, especially since the invasion of Iran: the baseball cap. A cap that has become a patriotic symbol and political slogan, alternating the colors of the United States flag and two embroideries depending on the occasion: "USA" and "Make America great again" (MAGA). When Trump puts on his red cap, more than simply repeating an electoral strategy, he is reactivating a much older tradition: that of turning a head accessory into a flag.

There is an idea that we have normalized to the point of not seeing it: that happiness can be bought. And we are not talking about that one-off acquisition of a long-desired object, but about a happiness built on a constant drip of small purchases, apparently insignificant but which, in perspective, draw a pattern of behavior and almost a horizon of meaning. Through consumption we build ourselves, we relate to each other, we articulate our free time and, in short, we shape our lives. This way of inhabiting the world is consolidated especially from the Second World War, when in the United States consumption projects itself beyond the strictly economic sphere to become an identity factor, even patriotic, and a mechanism of social stabilization that will end up being exported on a global scale. And, among the areas that most intensely participate in this logic, we find, in a paradigmatic way, fashion. But why does buying a new sweater or acquiring seasonal shoes make us happy?The key to this feeling is not so much in the acquisition itself, nor even in the moment we wear that skirt we liked so much in the store for the first time. The decisive moment — the one in which dopamine is activated, more linked to desire and expectation than to satisfaction — occurs just before the purchase: when we look for the item, pursue it, imagine ourselves wearing it, or leave it waiting in the digital cart. It is in this interval, in this tension between what we do not yet have and what we project, where the most intense peak of pleasure is concentrated. The purchase, on the other hand, does not end it: it reactivates it. The cycle resumes immediately, and with it the need for a new object, a new impulse.However, although the collective imaginary has associated compulsive buying addiction almost inseparably with women, it should be understood that it is a transversal behavior, inscribed in the very logic of capitalist economies. The idea that women cannot restrain themselves in front of a pair of shoes is constructed throughout the 19th century, in a context of profound contempt that uses this stereotype to question their moral capacity and justify their exclusion from the rights and freedoms derived from liberal revolutions. Consumption thus appears as proof of supposed weakness, of an inability to govern one's own impulses, in contrast to a masculinity defined by self-control.

Once upon a time, footballers seemed to have only one dimension: when they weren't sweating it out on the field, they were always seen in tracksuits. People programmed solely to perform athletically, as if there were no boundary between athlete and person. And when they appeared in street clothes, they conveyed the same discomfort as men who only dress up for weddings: outfits that seemed to wear them rather than the other way around. Times that, seeing the national teams' arrivals at the World Cup, seem absolutely past. But this transformation has taken several World Cups to crystallize.