Similarly, LA-based brand OGBFF makes clothes that feel like they’ve been pulled from the contents of an Instagram grid, targeted at the sort of unbothered, cool girl who has Britney’s iconic 2002 ‘DUMP HIM’ tee saved on archive. “I consider memes the most prevalent form of art in modern society, and naturally this form of art would break into other mediums such as clothing” – James Wallace With an e-commerce site reminiscent of early-internet Geocities, th e label’s editorials, set in dingy motels and suburban homes, emulate the DIY approach fostered by at-home creators, while meme-like promotional content – a BeReal image featuring the brand’s ‘Dudes = Hot’ vest, a model smoking six joints out a recorder – is primed for virality. Think: New York-based brand Praying’s barely-there Holy Trikinis, bags screen-printed with ‘Brangelina’ or shirts that reads ‘Rotisserie Chicken $5.99’. “Finding ‘based’ clothing is a way to express yourself and separate yourself from others.”Įven the clothes themselves follow the image-text format of a meme. “ People want to express themselves and aren’t bothered about what people think of them,” says UK designer Maxine Beiny, whose y2K-inspired velour garments feature rhinestoned phrases such as ‘Silly Bitch’ or ‘My Boyfriend Won’t Mind’. But where these pieces drew on consumer goods such as DHL jackets or Thrasher t-shirts, this batch of meme-able, hype-friendly garments pull inspiration from a new social cachet: the internet.

But you only need to think of Demna-era Vetements or Balenciaga’s 2018 tourist bags to understand that this unorthodox approach isn’t new: designers have been creating viral garments, items that have the irony and popularity of memes, for years. Many of the trend’s key designers are self-taught. It was only a matter of time until this post-ironic strain of fashion would make its way across the web and into the shopping baskets of e-girls and edgelords.īut make no mistake: for those not trudging it out in the internet trenches, these clothes could easily be mistaken for low-end tatt – the sort of stuff you would, and indeed do, find in dollar stores everywhere.

Like Dimes Square’s meme-able micro-neighbourhood, the garments are designed for as much life online as off. Spread across various Substacks, podcasts and anonymous Twitter accounts, here’s a side of the internet where people with art jobs, Elf Bars and stimulant prescriptions mark their allegiance to online culture by listening to reactionary podcasts like Red Scare, wearing cross pendants and making self-aware jokes about being God’s favourite. It’s unsurprising that these clothes initially captivated the attention of New York downtowners. But on closer inspection, they reflect a wider shift away from pop culture towards the atomised, frenzied world of the internet. Balancing irony and sincerity, these garments appear, on the surface, deceptively simple: tees, hoodies and bags plastered with slogans in a basic Times New Roman or crude edits of pop-culture characters. It’s no Telfar bag in Dimes Square but the garments embody the same self-referential and ironic aesthetic prevalent in memes, with brands such as Praying, Maxine Beiny and OGBFF gaining cult-like followings, combining internet speak with distinct online personas catered to grab the attention of even the smoothest brains. Nowadays, memes are leaking out of our phone screens and onto the streets, as online vernacular taken from social media feeds is being made into mimetic slogans and provocative silk-screened graphics. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but the story and its nihilistic, shitty irony would serve as a useful metaphor for a trendy fashion taking over the city – and online. A few months ago, I sat at a Dunkin’ Donuts in New York while a friend told me about a prank they wanted to pull: to buy a fake Telfar bag, place it in the middle of Dimes Square and watch the inevitable rush of twenty-something downtowners encircle said bag, only to discover that it’s been soiled by a steaming pile of dog shit.

Call me meta meme