muses v. influencers

and how to know the difference between the two

Before style became something that could be commodified through a swift click through on ShopMy, we took our shopping cues from a different class… muses, not influencers: a distinction that deliquesces the more we reap the spoils of access.

By the nature of their business model, influencers flood us with access – to parties, fashion shows, trips to Paros and direct links to everything on their person.

I too love a market-driven shopping substack. A good amount of my career was, and still is, at brands that do service fashion exceptionally well. There’s an art to culling references from the runway into something actionable. But recently, the most overused word in fashion - chic - has taken on a new, monochromatic meaning fueled by The Row, By Malene Birger and Toteme and other elegant, understated labels we love. It’s a look with a formula, easy to understand and pull off if you can afford it (or if you’re great at dupes).

In contrast, muses are slightly out of reach, possessors of a discernible air of mystery that renders them unknowable. An enigmatic half smile, without artifice; a confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are.

We could all become influencers. Very few of us, if any, will become muses… our innate way of being inspiring writers, artists, rock stars, designers. 

And perhaps that’s for our own self-preservation. The muse-designer relationship is well-documented, and it’s fascinating how parasitic it could be. Designers, especially those churning out eight collections a year, are in need of a constant flow of ideation, a hamster wheel that produces enough thoughts to throw most of them out. They rely on house archives, of course, and references from art and architecture, but also a steady stream of youth, distinctive club kids and swans to show them new ways of thinking and dressing.

Just as fashion designers lift ideas from other art forms – paintings, textiles, architecture – I think, when getting dressed, we too should be lifting ideas, not necessarily items. An unexpected color palette (Rothko’s “Rust and Blue”), a silhouette (short short skirts at Miu Miu), a contradiction (a midnight blue striped men’s shirt paired with a jersey sheer skirt on the always impeccable Maria McManus at a dinner over the summer).

For commoners in a muse’s shadow, the complex is just as delicate. We must see a glimmer of ourselves in them, but not enough to trick ourselves into thinking their charisma is attainable.

Muses flourish in transience. Think the highs and lows of Edie Sedgwick, or why Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s legacy is so everlasting. She possessed all the tenets of an unknowable muse: notoriously private, a Patrician girl next door beauty, that downtrodden stare while holding the arm of America’s most promising bachelor, who too seemed to hold his own lottery ticket of dashing intelligence. But it’s also because it ended too soon. Carolyn will always live as a myth for us, because as a public, we never saw her age, saw children soften her, or watched wisdom creep into her porcelain skin. As a society, we’ll never stop trying to emulate her effortlessness, but also her youth.

Now, there is a rare breed who fits both camps, who inspire personal expression in their sartorial choices but also provide enough direction to move product.

Leandra Medine Cohen

is a prime example, both muse and influencer, a seamless toggle between the two.

Jenny Walton

fits in that intersection. And there are other fairy godmothers here to shepherd our quest to help us discover our own taste.

Allison Bornstein

does an excellent job of coaxing her followers to embark on their own style evolution, providing a path to glean inspiration when she could easily – and perhaps more profitably – just tell us how to dress. 

I was talking with a friend recently at Chateau Marmont (spoiler! It’s back!), who runs a gorgeous, very well known home brand, about her somewhat harsh, aesthetically minded creative director and how he gravitates towards people who have unapologetically bad taste. There is cringe in bad taste, but it also deserves our admiration. You can feel the ease of anyone who is fully themselves, who embodies their own style with such aplomb that the rest of us feel their gravitational pull.

It’s a lightness from letting go of who you weren’t meant to be. Even if that person is a cooler version of yourself.