the codes we wear
by gretel goodgame
Style, Assimilation, and Belonging at Durham
Only recently, I found myself in a conversation about the objectivity of art. Whether it can be measured empirically, assessed as “good” or “bad,” independent of the experiences and biases we bring to it. A friend had had it assured by a reputable source that art is, in fact objective, full stop. We vehemently disagreed.
The same logic has begun to encroach on fashion. When I use the term objective here, it's less about grammatical correctness and more about rigidity. Fashion today is increasingly categorised as obviously trendy or obviously uncool at a surface level, rather than thought-provoking or becoming. Creativity is flattened into recognisable codes, wearable proof that you are up to date, acceptable, and in the loop.
There is an economic logic behind this. We are pulled towards financial success to the point of superiority, even isolationism, but never so far that we risk being noticeably different. Those most resistant to interrogating this system are often the very people who enforce it.
For young people, this tension is particularly painful. There is an expectation to stand out while fearing difference, to cultivate individuality while remaining legible to everyone else. Several forces converge here. The rise of generative AI, the persistence of nepotism, and the broadly reactive, unexamined, and distracted mode of living that capitalism encourages. Together, these forces dilute identity. The consequences of this dilution are especially visible in creative sectors like fashion, and even more so within the university environment.
In recent years, British culture has reshaped its relationship with creativity. There has been a conscious move away from inconvenience and experimentation towards optimisation and clearly defined boundaries. Increasingly, one scrolls online to find inspiration for their new sense of style, instead of opening a wardrobe and finding identity in the textures, patterns, and colours that resonate personally.This shift further erodes the historical passing down of traditions in textiles and fashion that are often intrinsic to cultures and communities.
The algorithmic logic of social media ensures we all end up buying and wanting the same things. At Durham, this often manifests as being ‘Durham-coded’, a look that signals effortless belonging.
The need to fit in overrides nuance. Brands capitalise on what's fashionable as a secure way to generate sales. Designers chase viral relevance to survive. Consumers engage at the most shallow level, buying symbols rather than cultivating style. Fashion becomes less about identity and more about risk management.
There is something reminiscent of the lockdown years in this dynamic. Social distancing has been embodied and carried forward. Competition takes precedence over kinship. The fashion industry, and the creative sector more broadly, begins to mirror the emotional coldness of corporate life. By this standard, it's compatible with objectivity. When producers
prioritize economic performance, and consumers are concerned with both fitting in and maintaining superiority, fashion loses the potential to sacralise identity.
The conditions created by capitalism, isolationism, and the colonisation of creativity map directly onto the UK university system. Universities are capitalist structures. Students buy into them as a product, with the promise of future return. The freedom of knowledge granted in subject endeavour becomes secondary to the grade received.
There is a direct parallel between this reality and the concentration of excess wealth within elite academic institutions. Those with the greatest financial capital to invest in education consistently end up clustered within the same universities. When higher education becomes less concerned with intellectual freedom and more focused on the regurgitation of lecture material to secure grades, institutions like Durham begin to function as default routes. The silent codes of acceptability are already written into the cultural memory, with style and fashion acting as predictable enforcers.
The trajectory towards isolationism and an uninspired society is deeply entangled with classism. Those educated privately are more likely to possess both the financial capital and the cultural confidence required to navigate the transactional exchange of university with ease.
Alongside this exists a separate, but concurrent experience. For those students without inherited academic assurance, university life becomes an ongoing process of negotiation. Assimilation becomes strategy. Fashion is one of the most immediate and accessible ways to enact it. But entering the same race without the same resources often results in isolation rather than belonging.
There is something deeply uninspiring in both privileged comfort and the muted vibrancy of a student who once arrives hopeful, only to learn that assimilation is safer than expression.
The relevance of fashion and creativity here is that they do not need to be objective. When standardised university codes are layered onto an already rigid creative culture, particularly in places like Durham, the risk for students from underrepresented backgrounds is not merely exclusion, but crisis. We are on the cusp. Capitalism’s influence on creative agency is widely recognised, yet like any addiction, it tightens even as it is named.
Student fashion shows such as DUCFS offer a necessary interruption. By platforming independent designers, they open space for alternative perspectives on fashion and authorship. Representation exists outside the standardised forum, both in who is visible and in how creativity is approached and valued. The corporate race recedes, replaced by critical engagement rooted in collaboration rather than competition.
These fashion shows interrupt the silent codes of acceptability and reject the idea that creativity must conform to inherited rules, proving that objectivity in fashion is not truth, but habit.
Image Credit: Ollie Turan
