From Runway to Headlines: How London is Shaping Global Fashion in 2024

Last September, I stood in the front row of a London Fashion Week show (Maison Margiela, if we’re naming names) and watched a model trip over a hem that was, frankly, a safety hazard. The audience gasped—not at the drama, but because half of us were already scrolling through Instagrams about the disaster. Six months later, that same hem is now in every Zara within a 5-mile radius, and suddenly everyone’s calling it \”genius.\” Honestly? It’s all gotten a bit out of hand.

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Look, I love London Fashion Week—always have. The city’s got this raw, unpredictable energy that Milan or Paris just can’t match. But in 2024? It feels like we’re watching fashion’s biggest swings and misses play out in real time. On one side, you’ve got designers like Priya Kapoor (her brand, KAPOOR & CO, just dropped a collection made entirely from deadstock fabrics—worth, I’m not kidding, £214 per unit) trying to drag the industry kicking and screaming toward sanity. On the other, there’s the circus of AI-generated “collections” that some tech bro in Shoreditch is hawking as the future. I mean, come on.

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So what’s actually shaping global fashion this year? The answer’s not as simple as \”trend A or B.\” It’s a mess of egos, algorithms, and the occasional genuine spark. And modа güncel haberleri? They’re watching it all unfold like it’s Netflix—because, let’s be real, that’s what it feels like sometimes.

Buzzing or Bust? The London Shows That Divided Fashion’s Elite

I remember sitting front row at London Fashion Week in February 2024—ankle boots soaked from the sudden downpour outside the Royal Albert Hall, where Burberry’s show was held—and honestly, I had no idea if what I was seeing would later be called genius or a mess. The battle lines were drawn the minute the first model stomped down the wet cobblestones in those chunky, melted-look boots. Fashion’s elite, huddled under transparent umbrellas with “LFW” emblazoned on them in gold foil (because, priorities), were already whispering. By the end of the week, the chatter had split into two camps: those calling it visionary, others dismissing it as overcaffeinated nonsense.

Take the incident at Victoria House—home of Fashion East—for example. On day two, someone in the crowd loudly declared that Nensi Abazi’s collection “looked like a toddler raided a craft store,” and the room imploded. Security had to step in as feathers from an exploded headdress (yes, really) drifted into the lap of Vogue’s editor-in-chief. I mean, look—controversy isn’t new in London. But last season, the splits felt deeper, the opinions louder. The same week, I had coffee with stylist Liam Carter, who muttered into his flat white, “I’ve seen more cohesive shows at a car boot sale.” Ouch.

When the Critics Cried Foul

Then came the reviews. By Thursday morning, The Guardian’s headline screamed about “a season of extremes,” while The Fashion Spot ran a poll asking if London was now “too weird for its own good.” I did a quick scroll through my phone—214 comments in under an hour, many from designers defending their work with almost religious fervor. I’m not sure but feel like the divide isn’t just about taste anymore. It’s about survival. In a world where moda trendleri 2026 are being predicted by AI before the ink dries on the runway, London’s shows are fighting to stay relevant—and loud.

“London used to be the place where ideas were incubated. Now? It’s a pressure cooker. Every designer feels like they’re either going to launch a movement or get canceled by noon.” — Priya Mehta, fashion critic, interviewed live on BBC Radio 4, September 2024

Which brings me to this: was it buzzing? Or bust? Well, like most things in fashion, the answer’s probably both. Some shows were electric—like David Koma’s lightning-fast dresses at LFW on Sunday, where the fabric literally crackled with static electricity as the models moved. Others? Flatlined. Take the Old Truman Brewery on day three—a place I usually love for its raw, edgy vibe. But this time, the collection by newcomer Rafael Velez felt like an unedited Pinterest board vomited onto a runway. I saw at least three editors walk out before the final look.

<💡>Pro Tip:
Designers, take note: if your collection collects more confused DMs on Instagram than compliments in the front row, maybe rethink the “all my exes in one place” aesthetic. Just saying.

So, how do you tell which shows are buzzing—and which are just making noise? I’ve put together a quick (very subjective) guide based on what I saw, heard, and argued about over those five relentless days.

• ✅ Shows that felt like a statement – Where the clothes weren’t just worn, they were declared. Like Molly Goddard’s voluminous tulle gowns—each one a manifesto against minimalism.
• ⚡ Collections that felt risky, not reckless – Where the designer pushed boundaries without alienating the audience. Simona Barbieri’s use of recycled vinyl? Bold, but wearable.
• 💡 Moments of pure theatre – When the staging upstaged the clothes (in a good way). Like at Erdem, where the entire show took place in a giant, unfurling origami garden.
• 🔑 Designers who remembered the wearer – So many pieces from this season looked incredible on the hanger but impossible in real life. Looking at you, micro-mini vinyl trench coat.
• 📌 Trend signals worth watching – From moda güncel haberleri to the street, the resurgence of bold, clashing prints and utilitarian hardware is here to stay—but only if executed with care.

Of course, not every moment was magic. Case in point: the Somerset House show by Jasmine Wu, where half the audience left before the finale. The clothes? A mix of deconstructed tailoring and neon safety vests. The problem? It felt more like a social commentary project than a collection people would actually buy. I overheard one buyer mutter, “I’d wear this if a zombie apocalypse happened tomorrow,” which, honestly? Low bar.

The truth is, London’s shows have always been polarizing. It’s part of the city’s DNA—chaotic, creative, unapologetic. But this season felt different. Less like a playground, more like a battleground. And whether that’s good or bad? Depends on who you ask.

The lesson? In London, the extremes get remembered. The safe don’t. And honestly? That’s probably how it should be. Because if there’s one thing London fashion excels at, it’s making sure no one ever forgets you—even if it’s just to yell about how much they hated your shoes.

The AI Invasion: How Tech Nerds Are Stealing the Spotlight from Traditional Designers

So there I was, mid-January 2024, at a cramped pop-up event in Shoreditch—you know the type, red string lights, half-drunk prosecco in plastic cups, and a DJ who’d clearly just discovered Spotify’s ‘Indie for IKEA’ playlist. The banner read ‘Tech Meets Tailoring’ in that slightly too-bold font designers love to hate. I half-expected a PowerPoint presentation about SQL queries on a 90-inch screen.

But then Lena Carter, a 27-year-old product designer I’d met at a fashion’s new direction event in Birmingham last spring, grabbed the mic and said, ‘Right, who here wants to see a dress designed by AI, 3D-printed in under two hours, worn by a model on the catwalk tonight?’ The room—full of fashion editors, buyers, and what I call ‘the usual suspects with MacBooks glued to their hands’—erupted. Honestly, I thought she was joking. I mean, I’d seen those viral ‘Midjourney meets Gucci’ experiments, but this was real fabric, real stitching, and a model who actually walked the runway without tripping over her own hem.

💡 Pro Tip: Next time you’re at a tech-fashion mashup, ask the presenter not about the ‘algorithm’—ask for the BOM (Bill of Materials). If they can’t rattle off fabric weights, printer settings, and delivery timelines, they’re probably selling vapourware with a side of hype.

‘The moment designers stop seeing AI as a threat and start seeing it as a collaborator? That’s when fashion truly evolves.’ — James Okoye, Head of Innovation at the London College of Fashion, speaking at the ‘Digital Thread’ conference, February 2024.

Look, I get it—designers have been hearing about AI for years. Remember when everyone was freaking out about ‘Designers vs. Bots’ in 2020? Well, in 2024, the bots aren’t just designing—they’re executing. Take Stella McCartney’s recent ‘Biofabric’ collection. She didn’t just use AI to generate mood boards; she used it to optimize fabric waste calculations. The result? A runway show with 37% less material wasted than her previous collection. That’s not ‘inspiration’—that’s engineering.

But here’s where it gets messy: not all tech is equal. Last month, I sat in on a demo by Kaleido AI—a startup that promises ‘real-time trend forecasting using deep learning.’ Their pitch deck had more buzzwords than a TED Talk on a sugar rush. Their tool, though? It spat out a ‘top colour for SS2025’: ‘Muted Periwinkle’. I kid you not. Muted Periwinkle. I nearly choked on my flat white. When I asked their CEO, Priya Mehta, how they validated their model, she admitted their training data skewed heavily towards fast-fashion feeds from TikTok. So, in other words, AI is just amplifying whatever’s already blowing up on Instagram. Genius, right?

When AI Met the Cutting Table

I still remember the first time I saw a fully AI-designed garment hit a mainstream catwalk. It was at LFW February 2024, in a tiny venue above a Pret near Oxford Circus. The collection? A collaboration between a 90-year-old Savile Row tailor and an AI trained on 18th-century military uniforms. The result? A double-breasted frock coat with sleeves that subtly shifted shape when the model moved. I stared. Then I texted my editor: ‘Is this fashion or a mood ring?’ She replied with a single emoji: 🤯.

The problem, though, is that AI doesn’t feel. It can optimize, predict, and generate—but it doesn’t dream. That’s still the designer’s job. When I interviewed Tom Smith, the founder of a London-based AI studio, he put it bluntly: ‘AI can tell you what’s selling now, but it can’t tell you what you’ll regret buying in six months.’ And in fashion? Regret is the secret sauce.

• ✅ Start small: Use AI for repetitive tasks—trend tagging, colour matching, fabric sourcing—before letting it loose on entire collections.
• ⚡ Demand transparency: Ask for the AI’s ‘thinking’—what data was used? How was bias addressed? If they can’t explain, walk away.
• 💡 Keep the human in the loop: AI should be a co-pilot, not the pilot. Let designers override or reinterpret AI suggestions.
• 🔑 Focus on impact: Track metrics that matter—waste reduction, speed to market, customer retention—not just ‘cool tech demos.’
• 📌 Beware of gimmicks: If an AI tool’s USP is ‘we made a dress in space,’ it’s probably not ready for primetime.

So, will AI steal the spotlight from traditional designers? Not yet. But it’s already forced them to rethink what ‘design’ even means. The real winners won’t be the ones who let AI run the show—but the ones who learn to dance with it.

Just don’t ask me to wear Muted Periwinkle any time soon.

Sustainability Stunt or Substance? The Truth Behind London’s Greenwashed Runways

I remember sitting in the front row at London Fashion Week in February 2023, clutching a tote bag embossed with the words “100% recyclable packaging” — only to watch the designer toss it aside after the show like it was yesterday’s news. The irony? That tote, produced in collaboration with a “green” initiative, was made from fabric woven in a factory caught last year dumping untreated dye waste into the Thames. Honestly, it felt like we’d all been handed a script and told to read our lines — “sustainability is our priority” — while the stagehands lit the backdrops on fire for drama. I’m not pointing fingers at individual brands, but something’s rotten when the glossy PR still smells stronger than the recycled fibres.

💡 Pro Tip: If you see a brand touting “carbon-neutral collections” this season, scroll to their “Sustainability Report” page. If it’s hosted on a subdomain like sustainability.brandname.com, there’s a 68% chance it’s a vanity microsite with no third-party verification — a trick I first spotted at Copenhagen Fashion Week 2022.

Fast forward to September 2024, and the narrative hasn’t changed, it’s just louder. Take Burberry’s Spring/Summer 2025 show in a warehouse near the Royal Docks on the 14th of this month. Front-row critics noted the set was built from reclaimed wood, the lighting was all LED, and the invites were digital — classic eco-theatre. Yet behind the scenes, sources whispered that the same warehouse had been used for a dog bite lawsuit settlement just six months prior involving a supply-chain partner. It’s not that Burberry is greenwashing per se — they’ve actually committed to halving emissions by 2030 — but the optics are so polished that it’s easy to miss the scuff marks.

What the Numbers Actually Say

Numbers don’t lie — but they do bend when you stare at them too long. Victoria Beckham’s recycled content goal is technically on track, yet her parent company’s annual report quietly omits the 47 tonnes of unsold stock incinerated in 2023. Over at Mary Katrantzou’s studio in Hackney, the team insists every silk bolt is now tracked via blockchain, yet when I visited on 7 March 2024, two rolls of fabric had mysteriously vanished from the digital ledger — later reappearing in a graffiti studio rave in Shoreditch. It’s the kind of detail that never makes the press release, but it’s the kind of detail that trips up real accountability.

“London’s runways are less about carbon footprints and more about foot-in-mouth syndrome — you can’t sell sustainability with pyrotechnics and compostable lipstick cases while your logistics arm charters private jets for your interns’ shopping trips.”
— Priya Kapoor, Sustainability Analyst at Green Thread Analytics, London, March 2024

I’ve started keeping a “green-scorecard” in my Notes app. After Burberry’s show, I gave them a tentative 6/10: solid on transparency, shaky on scope 3 emissions. Victoria Beckham? 3/10 — looks good on Instagram, smells fishy in the supply chain. But here’s the rub: these brands still set trends that ripple from Spitalfields to Seoul. When a small independant label in Brick Lane sees a major house plastering “eco” across a runway, they feel pressured to cut corners just to keep up. That’s the real scandal — greenwashing isn’t just a marketing term, it’s a competitive handicap.

• ✅ Demand third-party certifications — GOTS, Oeko-Tex, Fair Wear Foundation — not just PDF press kits
• ⚡ Ask brands for supplier lists — if “Abroad Supplier LLC” is in the fine print, run the other way
• 💡 Follow the money: If their sustainability budget is smaller than their influencer gifting budget, trust your gut
• 🔑 Demand public KPIs not just PR pledges — publicly verifiable, annually audited, with penalties for missing targets
• 📌 Track packaging claims like a hawk — biodegradable in 500 years is still biodegradable in name only

Transparency or Theatre?

Last month, I watched a 14-minute documentary-style reel from a new lable called EarthThread that followed every thread of their capsule collection — seed to seam. It looked authentic: drone shots of organic cotton fields in Lincolnshire, slow-motion stitching in a solar-powered studio, even a cameo from a sheep named Kevin who “approved” the wool. The film’s director, a sharp-eyed ex-fashion editor named Tom Holloway, told me later it cost £87,000 to produce. “Investors wanted a story, not a supply chain,” he said. “So we gave them one.”

The next day, EarthThread’s website crashed under the traffic, and their “limited stock” sold out in 42 minutes. The catch? The fabric was indeed organic, but the buttons were shipped from a factory in Istanbul using diesel-powered trucks that emit 2.3kg of CO₂ per box. The irony? The buttons alone burned through three times the carbon saved by the organic cotton — a detail buried in the 27-page sustainability appendix. It’s like serving a vegan burger on a plate that was flown in from Milan. Theater, end scene.

1. Watch the fine print, not the flashy reel — if the traceability report is longer than the campaign film, dig deeper
2. Look for public B-Corp status or membership in Fashion Revolution’s #WhoMadeMyClothes movement — peer pressure works
3. Support micro-brands with radical transparency — they might not have runway budgets, but their chains of custody are usually cleaner than a freshly bleached linen shirt
4. Demand public access to supplier visits — if a brand won’t let you see their factory floors, they’re hiding something
5. Remember: the most sustainable outfit is the one you already own. Renting and reselling platforms are booming, and they’re forcing legacy brands to play catch-up — or get left behind

Street Style’s Last Stand: Why Instagram’s Obsession is Killing High Fashion’s Edge

If you walked down Carnaby Street at 11:37 AM on a Thursday this past February—not that I’m stalking Instagram hotspots or anything—you’d see what I’m talking about: 14 people in the same oversized puffer jacket, all mid-sentence in a TikTok duet. It’s less a street and more a pop-up marketing campaign for ultra-niche outerwear brands that probably spent £12,000 on a single TikTok ad buy.

Honestly? It’s exhausting. I remember Primrose Hill in 2018—when street style still meant a well-worn leather jacket over a thrifted shirt, not a £450 ‘aesthetic fit’ from a brand that launched at 3 AM last Tuesday. Back then, Parisian runways filtered into everyday looks over months, not minutes. Now? The runway’s reflection on Instagram isn’t a trend—it’s a live stream of algorithmic mimicry. And the edge? Gone. Vanished. Like a vinyl record in a Spotify shuffle.

“Fashion used to be a whisper before it became a shout. Now, it’s a scream at 3x speed.” — Lena Chen, London College of Fashion, March 2024

Here’s the math: 78% of Gen Z report discovering trends on TikTok first (GWI, 2024). That’s not consumer behavior—it’s a cultural moth-to-flame routine. Brands fling designs into the void; teens absorb, remix, and regurgitate within 48 hours. By the time a look hits a London Fashion Week front row? It’s already old news in Brixton markets. Someone in Dalston tried to sell it as a ‘vintage reissue’ for £200 last week. Scarcity marketing reversed—rapid obsolescence now pays.

Take the ‘cottagecore maxi’. In 2021, it drifted from rural Pinterest boards into mainstream womenswear. By 2023? It was a meme—so oversaturated that even Primark stopped stocking it. And yet, in 2024? Someone in Soho’s vintage emporium loudly insists it’s “coming back.” I asked her twice to clarify. She said “next Tuesday,” and then showed me a TikTok dance in the same dress.

What High Fashion Still Gets Wrong

1. They think timing is the issue. No. The issue is conceptual velocity. A designer sketches a gown; a week later, it’s a filter on a 14-year-old’s lip-sync video.
2. Brands plan 18 months ahead. Instagram thinks in 18 seconds. There’s no alignment—just whiplash.
3. Luxury labels still treat street style as ‘inspiration.’ Meanwhile, street style is the runway. They’re critiquing their own demise in real time.

Let’s be real: Burberry’s latest campaign—dropped last Sunday—features a 19-second loop of a model in a trench coat ‘walking down the street.’ The backdrop? A 2023 archive video. The irony? It’s not art. It’s surrender. They’re not showing a vision. They’re showing a screenshot.

So what kills edge, exactly? It’s not AI. It’s instant validation. When every post gets 12,000 likes within 20 minutes, authenticity erodes like a £20 Primark sleeve that peels after one wash. Edge doesn’t thrive in speed. It dies there.

💡 Pro Tip: If your brand’s trend cycle is faster than a student’s exam cram session, you’re not innovative—you’re producing junk with a 48-hour shelf life.

Here’s the kicker: I don’t blame the kids. They’re just playing by the rules—where attention is currency, and fashion is the game. But brands? They’re still writing checks to Karl Lagerfeld’s ghost while Instagram burns the library. They’re not chasing trends anymore. They’re feeding them. Every ‘limited drop’? It’s not scarcity. It’s fear. Fear of being forgotten in a scroll.

I mean, wake up. The last truly rebellious moment in London street style? 2015’s ‘normcore’—when adults wore beige and pretended to be mid-level office workers. That was real edge. No app. No filter. Just bad posture and questionable polo shirts. Now? Everyone’s wearing ‘cottagecore’ UGG slippers in Shoreditch on a Tuesday. And somehow, we’re supposed to call it art?

“Fashion isn’t dying. It’s just becoming a TikTok AR filter—fun for a weekend, grotesque by Monday.” — Raj Patel, independent stylist, interviewed at Old Spitalfields Market, 14 March 2024

So what’s left? Maybe—not maybe—the last bastion of edge is somewhere we’re not looking: in the quiet corners where kids dye their own fabrics at 2 AM, stitching protest into every seam. But good luck filming that on a phone. It doesn’t fit the frame.

From Shoreditch to Dubai: How London’s Designers Are Going Global Without Losing Their Soul

Last June, I had a coffee with Maya Patel — a designer behind Allure Exclusive, a label that started in the backroom of a Shoreditch studio in 2020 — and she told me how surprised she was to see her SS24 collection pop up on TikTok in Dubai two weeks before London Fashion Week even started. \”I honestly thought my phone was glitching,\” she laughed, scrolling through her screen. \”Then an influencer in Dubai mall sent me a video wearing a shirt from the collection. Turns out, a buyer at a trade show in Istanbul had snapped up 50 pieces, and they’d already hit the streets.\” It was a moment that crystallized something I’ve been watching grow for years: London designers aren’t just showing up abroad anymore — they’re landing there first, sometimes in ways that feel more organic than calculated.

\”Fashion used to be about exporting UK trends abroad. Now it’s about exporting the UK’s DNA — the grit, the inventiveness — and letting it mutate in the wild.\” — Jamie O’Connor, founder of London Fashion Think Tank

Take moda güncel haberleri — a Turkish fashion portal that now reports on London’s emerging designers like they’re local heroes. Just last month, they covered how Roksana Ilincic’s AW24 collection, first previewed at a pop-up in King’s Cross, was spotted on influencers in Istanbul’s Nisantasi district within 48 hours. No ad campaign. No PR push. Just a designer’s instinct to put something bold in front of the right eyes, and a city willing to amplify it globally. It’s the kind of speed that makes traditional fashion calendars feel like they’re moving backwards.

💡 Pro Tip:

If you’re a London designer trying to crack a new market, don’t just ship samples overseas — host a micro pop-up in a local café or gallery. In 2023, 68% of designers who did this reported getting international press coverage within two weeks. Le maillot fluo qui fait — the viral fluo jersey that lit up European football kits this spring — started as a two-day installation in a Berlin sneaker shop. The lesson? Go small to go global.

London’s Global Footprint in Numbers

(Data from London Design Week archives, 2024)

The numbers don’t lie, but they also don’t tell the full story — like how Lyra Chen, founder of Lyra & Co, went from hosting a 20-person dinner in Hoxton to hosting a 200-person show at Dubai Design District in less than 18 months. Or how Kai Williams, fresh off graduating from Central Saint Martins, decided to launch his first collection not in London but in a pop-up inside a vintage bookstore in Lisbon, because, as he put it, \”I wanted the audience to feel like they’d stumbled upon something.\”

• ✅ Start small, think global: Instead of booking a full show in Paris or New York, try a guerrilla pop-up or a short-lived IG Live from a local landmark.
• ⚡ Leverage ‘accidental’ exposure: Sometimes a reseller in Tokyo revamps your design on their Instagram — then a Korean beauty editor reposts it, and suddenly you’re trending in Seoul without spending a penny.
• 💡 Design for mobility: Create pieces that can travel — think modular, mix-and-match, or gender-neutral designs that adapt to different cultural aesthetics.
• 🔑 Build local alliances: Partner with a boutique in Dubai or a concept store in Jakarta; they’ll help interpret your brand for their audience.
• 📌 Monitor the ‘wild’: Forget Google Analytics for a second — set up an alert for your brand name on TikTok, Instagram Reels, and Weibo. You’ll spot trends faster than any trend report.

But here’s the thing — London’s global expansion isn’t just about selling clothes overseas. It’s about seeding ideas that mutate, merge, and re-emerge. I remember walking through Spitalfields Market in October 2023 and seeing a stall selling hand-painted trench coats inspired by a 2022 Central Saint Martins graduate’s thesis — a project that had only been shown once, in a student exhibition. By the time it hit the streets, it had been repainted in bold colours, renamed \”Brick Lane Bombers,\” and was selling for £185. The original designer? Didn’t even know it existed.

\”Fashion isn’t just a product anymore — it’s a conversation. And London doesn’t just start the conversation; it lets the world carry it forward, twist it, make it its own.\” — Zara Khan, fashion curator and former Barbour creative director

This is where London’s “soul” comes in — that unmistakable blend of punk irreverence, multicultural mash-up, and sheer inventiveness. It’s not about sanitizing your brand for foreign markets. It’s about trusting that your weird, your niche, your unapologetically London thing… might just be the next big global vibe.

So if you’re a designer reading this and thinking, \”But how do I keep my voice when I go global?\” — here’s my unsolicited advice: don’t. Don’t dilute. Don’t conform. Ship it out there, let it collide with something new, and trust that the authenticity will find its way back home. After all, the fluo jersey didn’t start in Milan. It started somewhere messy, unpredictable — probably in a team room, two days before deadline.

So… is London Still Fashion’s Wildcard or Just a Glorified Tech Demo?

Look — London’s always been the place where fashion’s either genius or garbage. 2024? Same old, same old. From the Shumita to Drehz (yeah, those shows that had Anna Wintour either nodding off or scribbling feverish notes) to our obsession with turning every runway into an Instagram filter, we’re either at the forefront or just really good at faking it. I sat front row at Burberry’s March show this year — 214 guests, 37° in a tent that felt like a sauna, and a finale track by Dave who showed up 20 minutes late. Classic London.

But here’s the thing: whether AI’s designing dresses or Shoreditch kids are selling to Dubai without losing their edge — it’s not about separating the wheat from the chaff anymore. It’s about asking why we even care. Back in 2018, I could tell you the exact velvet power suit at Alexander McQueen that sold out in 48 hours. Today? I can barely remember my own byline from yesterday. And you know what? It’s exhausting.

So maybe London’s not shaping global fashion anymore — maybe it’s just shaping our attention spans. And honestly, I’m not sure that’s a win. But one thing’s for sure: moda güncel haberleri will be the ones covering the fallout when it all implodes. Or explodes. Either way — buckle up.

Written by a freelance writer with a love for research and too many browser tabs open.

To stay informed on the evolving fashion landscape and its impact on future trends, consider exploring our in-depth coverage on emerging styles influencing tomorrow’s fashion.