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.

On Tuesday, June 2, the presenter of the TVE program Al cielo con ella, Henar Álvarez, starred in an unusual scene that soon went viral. During her usual opening monologue, she complained that not a week goes by without some viewer asking her why she presents the program "dressed as a man". The question is not anecdotal.

Tulles, bows, sequins, pearls, corsets... could be the ingredients of a Parisian haute couture fashion show, but these days they are part of one of the great stages of world sport: Roland Garros. Tennis player Naomi Osaka has once again turned her entrance onto the court into a visual event, with a series of outfits designed by Swiss creator Kevin Germanier that have generated as much conversation as some of the tournament's matches. It wasn't the first time. Last year she had already surprised with a spectacular Robert Wun dress inspired by a jellyfish. This year, Osaka took to the court dressed to the nines, with a transparent tulle skirt and a bodice made from recycled pieces. Once in place, however, she sheds this first layer to reveal another, copper-colored one that blends with the clay court, but at the same time emits metallic reflections inspired, according to Germanier himself, by the night lighting of the Eiffel Tower. An authentic scenic transformation thus occurs: first Naomi the celebrity appears, almost as if walking down a red carpet; then Naomi the sportswoman emerges, ready to compete. This structure of revelation traditionally belongs to the language of fashion and spectacle rather than sport. It is not surprising that some commentators have coined the term court-ure, a fusion of court and couture, to describe this phenomenon. And all of this takes on a curious historical resonance when we consider that the scene takes place on the Suzanne Lenglen court, the great French tennis player who, at the beginning of the 20th century, understood before anyone else that transforming the players' clothing also meant transforming their place in society.

When we talk about beautiful bodies, we tend to imagine a kind of natural grace or exceptional physical attributes that only a minority of people are lucky enough to have received at birth. But what we consider beauty is not a universal or immutable reality, but a cultural construction that each society defines according to its values, imaginaries, and ways of looking. A beauty that, far from being sought for the personal enjoyment of inhabiting one's own body, needs the external gaze to exist and acquire meaning through the approval of others. It is no coincidence, then, that throughout the 20th century and as the means of reproducing and disseminating images multiplied, beauty ideals became increasingly conditioned by technologies of visibility.

A long queue of people have patiently camped out for days –and the corresponding nights– on Barcelona's Passeig de Gràcia. In the best-case scenario, equipped with chairs and camping furniture to make the wait more bearable. The gathering forced the Mossos d’Esquadra to intervene due to the risk of disturbances. A scene that has been repeated in multiple cities around the world, with even more extreme situations. In New York, they waited for almost a week, while attempts to speculate on the queue also proliferated. In Paris, where over 300 people gathered, the police intervened with tear gas to disperse the crowd. In Milan, the authorities had to cordon off the area after rushes, disturbances, and fights.But what is the reason for this phenomenon? Are we facing a new urban encampment like the one on May 15th to demand a higher quality democracy? Perhaps the genocide in Gaza has pushed hundreds of people to occupy public space? Or perhaps the teachers' strike and the fight for public education have become a global outcry. Well, no. The reason for this collective penance is none other than the tribute that turbocapitalism demands from its most faithful followers: the queues were to get the latest collaboration from Swatch with the emblematic Swiss high watchmaking house Audemars Piguet. All in all, as absurd as it is revealing.The easiest –and also the most tempting– would be to ridicule these people and label them as brainless, foolish, or superficial. It would even be comforting to make them the scapegoat for the ills of a world we increasingly recognize and understand less. But doing so would mean killing the messenger. Because, rather than condemning individuals, what we should demand is to identify the root of the problem.What drives some people to sleep on the street for days is not the desire to get a simple watch – however attractive it may be – but the symbolic reward that capitalism has been promising for decades: the illusion of a better life through consumption. Because today watches, much more than objects intended to measure the passage of time, have become one of the most desired social markers, especially among men. And even more so if we talk about Audemars Piguet, a firm located in the same Olympus of luxury as Rolex and reserved, practically, for that privileged minority that concentrates economic power.

It might seem that as societies modernize they tend to gradually shed inherited rituals laden with formality. Current times, increasingly oriented towards practicality and immediacy, have refined many social ceremonies that today seem excessively solemn: from the rigor of wearing mourning clothes to the protocols associated with baptisms or communions. However, from time to time, rituals emerge that, like stubborn salmon swimming against the current, not only survive but reappear hypertrophied, clad in a ceremonial that they did not even have in the past. This is the case with graduations. The turn is so unexpected that there are already specialized brands in this festive-academic niche and teenagers capable of patiently waiting five hours in line to get the outfit with which to publicly stage that they have finished the fourth year of ESO.

In Andalusia, everything can change in a matter of days. The black, the hoods, and the rosaries – visible expressions of penance, renunciation, and faith – suddenly dissolve into an explosion of patterns, colors, flowers, and bodies that demand prominence at the Feria de Abril. The chest-beating and stark cries of Holy Week processions give way to celebration, excess, and immoderation. If in one case aesthetics impose restraint and anonymity, in the other it demands the exact opposite: to stand out and occupy space under the gaze of others. It is not just a change of atmosphere, but also a deeper displacement: from one emotion to another, from a way of feeling and inhabiting the body marked, with almost ritualistic precision, by the calendar to another. As if faith (or its theatricalization) also had seasons. And this is where one of its most eloquent instruments comes into play. Because, at the Feria, this need to be seen is dressed up. And it does so with a garment that draws all eyes: the flamenco dress.Despite the current perception, this dress was not born as a showpiece, but as clothing for the popular classes of the 19th century. It was worn by peasant women and vendors who attended Andalusian livestock fairs, especially the April Fair, which in its origins was a commercial space and not festive. Its shape responded to the patterns of the time: a fitted bodice and a voluminous skirt, in this case resolved with ruffles. These ruffles, now distinctive of the dress, have been interpreted in various ways. On the one hand, they have been linked to gypsy and Andalusian contexts, where the movement of the body (both in dance and in daily gestures) found its correlate in clothing that not only accompanied it, but also made it visible. On the other hand, they must be placed within the framework of 19th-century women's fashion, dominated by voluminous skirts supported by internal structures such as farthingales or crinolines, which limited mobility. Without evidence that they were conceived as an alternative, the ruffles nevertheless allowed volume to be generated without immobilizing the body.

Just twenty years ago, Hollywood premiered, without intending to or expecting it, a film that would end up becoming an icon of the fashion world, The Devil Wears Prada. Beneath the appearance of a light comedy, the film hid a much more biting background than it might have seemed at first glance. The story brought to life the homonymous novel by Lauren Weisberger, which stemmed from her own experience as an assistant to Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue and one of the most powerful figures in the industry. But what could have remained a simple chronicle of the fashion world became, in reality, a deeper reflection: not so much about fashion itself as about the forms of power that sustain it and, in particular, about the degree of violence that our society is willing to accept when this power is presented as excellence.Talking about Anna Wintour is not just talking about the magazine Vogue, but about a figure who has redefined the rules of the game of contemporary fashion. Endowed with a particularly keen nose for detecting trends and new talents –like those of John Galliano or Alexander McQueen–, she has also been the architect of one of the traits that define the sector today: the hybridization between haute couture and more everyday aesthetics. And, in parallel, she has decisively contributed to turning the inauguration of a fashion exhibition into a global event, such as the Met Gala, which has just taken place on February 4th. However, following Weisberger's account and the epithet with which she herself christened her –devil–, Wintour also embodies a certain way of understanding power: as an exercise of perfectly normalized violence, both within the sector and in relation to all the people around her. Working for her implies accepting constant humiliation, extreme competition, and renunciation of any form of personal life as natural. After all, as is repeated in The Devil Wears Prada, “a million girls would kill for this job”, even if it means seeing a brilliant resume reduced to tasks as mundane as bringing her coffee, picking up her dry cleaning, or satisfying her daughters' whims.

A fascinating fact about the functioning of trends is that, no matter how many experts and agencies are dedicated to predicting them, they always retain a component of unpredictability. It would be like the flight of starlings, which we can observe how they move, but we will never know who decides their turn, direction, or the moment they stop. And it is that fashion, far from being the sum of individual decisions, responds to dynamics inscribed in a complex social fabric. This is why, while big brands invest time, money, and entire teams to produce the it-bag of the season, suddenly a completely unremarkable one appears that, incomprehensibly, concentrates all the desire: the tote bag from Trader Joe's supermarket.On the one hand, we could believe that ostentatious aspirations of social climbing have been set aside in favor of a certain democratic practicality. But this consolation lasts little: why hasn't the same happened with the Bon Preu (Esclat) or Condis supermarket bag? It is in this mismatch that it becomes evident that distinction has not disappeared, but rather has become sophisticated. It no longer operates solely through price or ostentation, but through subtle codes, where the value of an object depends as much on cultural context as on its material cost.

Zara has done it again. Without any shame or embarrassment, it has strolled through the supermarket of social struggles, underground cultures, and symbolic identities with its cart wide open: a bit of marginality to give it pedigree, some uncomfortable figure of those who were a nuisance in life, and, above all, a good dose of rebellion. That's right: all nicely domesticated. Everything, passed through the quick boil of fast fashion, shrink-wrapped and ready to be consumed in the form of a prefabricated identity. And this time, who got to enter the shredder of turbocapitalism? Camarón de la Isla.And this in the full Camarón year, coinciding with the 75th anniversary of the birth of the iconic cantaor, a figure who was not only an exceptional voice of flamenco, but also one of its great renovators. From La leyenda del tiempo, he opened the genre to new sounds and sensibilities, and moved it from an almost fossilized space to a living territory in tension with the present. But, furthermore, he contributed to overflowing the social image of gypsy culture beyond the cliché to which it had been subjected during Francoism, trapped between folklorism and marginality. Together with key figures like Paco de Lucía, he broadened the imaginaries around gypsy identity, both from within and in its public projection.

Humanity, with the Artemis mission, is once again looking towards the Moon and, with it, unearths from the memory chest the old space race that marked the Cold War. Back then, amidst the dangerous tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union, the world fractured into two irreconcilable blocs and the conquest of space became another stage for geopolitical competition. It was not just about reaching further, but about demonstrating who had the capacity to impose themselves on the other. In this context, the media flooded the collective imagination for years with images of rockets, astronauts, and distant planets. A persistent iconography that not only informed, but also shaped how society thought about tomorrow. Because, fundamentally, every society is also built upon this inevitable question: what awaits us in the future?Imagining life in space involved speculating about what this day-to-day would be like, and design was launched to rethink furniture, cars, and housing for this projected future. Between armchairs that evoked capsules and residences that seemed like orbital stations, the "space age" fashion was born, conceived to facilitate a hypothetical interplanetary life. Creators like André Courrèges or Pierre Cardin opted for rigid outfits, detached from the body, almost like shells. White, associated with the aerospace universe, became the dominant color, accompanied by helmets and metallic boots. In parallel, Paco Rabanne's proposals took fashion towards the realm of engineering, with pieces made of metallic plates that stretched the very limits of the discipline.What is revealing, seen with perspective, is the extent to which these speculations about the future have outstripped reality. If we had listened to Stanley Kubrick with 2001: A Space Odyssey, to Star Trek or even to The Jetsons, today we would already be living among flying cars, off planet Earth and in zero gravity conditions. But perhaps it is even more significant to note that, if technological imagination often goes too far, it tends, on the other hand, to fall short in other areas: such as women's rights. In these imaginary worlds, they continue to occupy subordinate positions, even in futures where humanity already inhabits other planets. And this forces us to ask whether we are really dealing with speculations or, rather, with projected male desires.However, beyond the television impact of the first moon landing –a moment highly choreographed from a propagandistic point of view by the United States–, the most transformative image was not that of the Moon, but that of the Earth. The Blue Marble photograph, which became humanity's first selfie, revealed a paradox: after years of division and confrontation, what we saw was, in reality, a single shared unit. And it was precisely this compact image that activated, in a part of the population, a new pacifist and ecological consciousness.Unlike the Cold War, today the United States does not compete in a strictly bipolar world, even though the space race continues to be a duel, this time with China, which has also set out to step on the Moon in the coming years. It is, however, inevitable to point out the paradox: at a time when the world seems to be fragmenting and humanity is going through a deep crisis of values, we look outwards again. Perhaps, as in Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris", this journey is not so much about the future as about the past. Or perhaps – and herein lies the question – it should serve us, precisely, to look better in the mirror and rethink where we stand as humanity. But perhaps, seeing the recent images of Artemis astronauts wishing a Happy Easter from space and looking for eggs around the ship, what is in doubt is not the future, but whether we still have any shred of self-awareness.

Easter Week, beyond processions, masses, palms, and "monas" (cakes), displays a repertoire of vestments that we have learned to look at without seeing. Garments that, being so familiar, have ceased to seem strange to us, but which, if we pause for a moment, are profoundly unusual and far removed from any form of everyday dress. And among the mantillas with combs, the Nazarene tunics, the girdles, or the cloaks of the virgins, there is an element that stands out for its formal power and its symbolic connotations: the hood. The doors of Seville Cathedral open and the first Nazarenes begin to emerge, in a line, surrounded by an intense smell of wax and incense. Tunics, candles, and pointed hoods that rise above everything. The drums mark a dry and constant rhythm and the attendees remain expectant, in a contained silence. The faces of the Nazarenes are not seen, only their eyes, and the street, for a moment, ceases to be an everyday space to become a stage. The hood has fulfilled its function: to make individual identity disappear to give prominence to the saint being worshipped. In this way, it ensures that the wearer is seen without being recognized and allows them to enter the structure of the ritual, assuming an attitude of discipline and surrender. But what is the origin of this strange hat, which has survived centuries of history?Its origin is not, in any case, processional, but rather it was born as an instrument of public penance between the 15th and 17th centuries, in the context of the Holy Inquisition. The condemned were exhibited with sambenets — a type of tunic — and coroces — hats often conical or pointed —. Its function was clearly punitive and exemplary: to make sin visible and to humiliate the sinner. Far from pursuing anonymity, as happens today, it was about marking the body and exposing it publicly.It will be between the 17th and 18th centuries when Holy Week processions are institutionalized and penance ceases to be imposed to become voluntary. In this new context, the hood is re-signified: it comes to symbolize spiritual aspiration —with its projection towards heaven—, the assumption of religious discipline, and the centrality of the ritual over the person. But beyond its morphology, there is a question that is even more unsettling and often bewilders many visitors: what relationship does this piece have with the Ku Klux Klan (KKK)?The KKK was founded in 1865, after the Civil War, as a violent reaction against the abolition of slavery and with the aim of restoring white supremacy. It deployed a regime of terror and intimidation against the African American population, and to do so it equipped itself with a deliberate aesthetic of authority and threat. Its iconography —white robe and pointed hood— draws from a mixture of imaginaries, among which are European phantasmagorical, ritual, and religious references. The formal coincidence with the hood is evident, but its meaning is radically opposite. If in the context of Holy Week anonymity expresses humility, penance, and dissolution of the self, in the case of the KKK it serves to guarantee impunity and exercise collective violence. The same operation, that of concealing identity, which can serve both to submit and to dominate.Easter Sunday brings the Holy Week to an end and, with it, the time of penance. The solemnity fades away as easily as a Nazarene takes off his hood. A few days later, in Andalusia, the calendar turns and the revelry of the April Fair makes way: colors, ruffles, moons, exposed bodies, flowers in hair, Manila shawls... The contrast is so immediate that it is difficult not to wonder to what extent what we have seen was a deep experience or a shared theatricalization. Garments that are activated and deactivated as ways of organizing bodies, time, and desire.

In recent days, the image of Chinese actress Zhang Jingyi on the red carpet at the Beijing International Film Festival has spread like wildfire across social media and various trending outlets. The actress puts on the photocall Dressed in an elegant black dress. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. The reason for the viral video is something else: in her hand she's carrying a simple yellow plastic bag, the kind used for grocery shopping or taking out the trash at home.

One of the latest bombshells in fashion This has been the announcement of Zara's new collaborationThe global fast-fashion giant has brought on board designer John Galliano, one of the most singular figures in contemporary design, for a two-year period. It's a partnership that was difficult to foresee, but one that is profoundly revealing of the current moment we are living in as a society.

The red carpet at this year's Oscars passed without incident or surprises. Hollywood, once again, did its traditional job of turning a blind eye to the world's problems and allowing us to forget for a few hours that the planet is falling apart. A missed opportunity to use such a powerful platform to stir consciences or, at least, slightly unsettle the established order.