The Devil Wears Prada franchise, across both its iterations and with escalating candour in the second, has never been, at its legal core, a story about fashion. It is a study in how certain industries construct what we might call zones of extra-legality: not lawless spaces, but spaces where the ordinary grammar of employment, intellectual property, and fiduciary obligation operates in a register so attenuated as to be effectively ornamental. What the fashion industry achieved, over the second half of the twentieth century with remarkable legislative and judicial complicity, was the consecration of the creative director as a figure who is simultaneously an employee, an author, a brand asset, and an institutional sovereign, categories whose legal incompatibility is resolved not through doctrinal synthesis but through deliberate ambiguity maintained across contract law, IP law, and labour regulation simultaneously.

This is the argument that fashion law scholarship has circled without landing: Miranda Priestly is not an aberration within a system. She is the system’s most legible expression.

The Author-Function and Its Proprietorial Distortions

Roland Barthes declared the death of the author in 1967. The fashion industry did not receive the memorandum, or rather, received it and filed a counter-submission. What the creative directorate model did, with a sophistication that most regulatory frameworks failed to anticipate, was to bifurcate the author-function: concentrating its reputational dimension in the named creative director while distributing its productive dimension across a largely uncredited, inadequately protected workforce. The result is an IP architecture of startling elegance and troubling consequence.

Under the work-for-hire doctrine as it operates across most major fashion jurisdictions, the creative output of design assistants, junior editors, stylists, and trend researchers vests immediately and entirely in the employing entity. This is unremarkable as a doctrinal matter. What is remarkable is the secondary effect: that the creative director, whose contribution is frequently curatorial and directional rather than generative, accumulates authorial prestige that the law then retroactively legitimises through trademark, trade dress, and moral rights frameworks that attach to the name rather than to demonstrable creative origination. The house of Runway, to pursue the franchise’s conceit, does not protect Miranda Priestly’s ideas. It protects the sign Miranda Priestly, which is a categorically different, and legally far more robust, form of protection.

The Devil Wears Prada 2 makes this structure visible in ways the original could only imply. The sequel’s interest in succession, in the question of who inhabits the authority that Miranda’s name has accumulated, is less a character study than an inadvertent treatise on the personality rights of institutional brands. When the question the film cannot quite bring itself to answer directly is whether Miranda’s authority is transferable, it is, without intending to, asking whether the sovereign exception is personal or structural. The answer, from Agamben and from the fashion industry’s actual contractual practice, is that it is always structural. The exception precedes the individual who inhabits it.

Fiduciary Silence and the Ethics of Creative Exploitation

There is a doctrine in corporate law, applied with considerable flexibility and occasional incoherence, called the duty of loyalty. It holds that those in positions of authority over others bear not merely contractual obligations but something approaching a fiduciary obligation: an affirmative duty whose breach cannot be contracted away. Fashion law has, with some notable exceptions in the context of designer non-competes and trade secret litigation, largely failed to interrogate whether the creative directorate relationship gives rise to anything resembling fiduciary character.

This failure is consequential. The relationship between Miranda Priestly and her assistants, as both films construct it, is not simply an employment relationship in the conventional sense. It is a relationship in which the employer exerts authority not merely over the labour performed but over the professional identity of the person performing it. Andrea Sachs is not merely being asked to complete tasks; she is being asked to reconstitute herself, her aesthetic sensibility, her social relations, her relationship to her own time, as instruments of Miranda’s institutional project. The law has a name for relationships of this character when they arise in other contexts. In the mentor-protégé structures of medicine, law, and finance, courts have occasionally been willing to find that the power differential and the scope of influence create obligations that exceed the contractual. Fashion has, with impressive consistency, avoided this analysis entirely.

The doctrinal reason is not difficult to locate: the persistent characterisation of fashion work as aspiration rather than labour. The cultural discourse surrounding the industry, which the franchise both critiques and reproduces, frames proximity to creative power as a privilege whose costs are naturally borne by the one who seeks it. This framing does not emerge from nowhere. It is constructed and maintained through specific rhetorical practices, through the language of opportunity and access and mentorship that has historically inoculated fashion employment relationships against the fiduciary analysis that their actual structure might otherwise invite.

The Exception as Legal Technology

What Schmitt understood, and what the fashion industry intuited without requiring the theoretical apparatus, is that the exception is not the failure of the norm. It is the norm’s most powerful tool. The creative director who operates outside ordinary accountability does not thereby undermine the legal system that governs the industry. She confirms it by demonstrating that the system is capacious enough to contain and to legitimate the concentration of authority that her position represents.

The legal technology through which this is achieved is neither simple nor unsophisticated. It operates across at least three registers simultaneously. In contract law, the personal service nature of creative employment is deployed to restrict worker mobility through non-competes while simultaneously denying workers the relational protections that the personal nature of the engagement might otherwise generate. In IP law, the work-for-hire framework captures creative output upward while moral rights frameworks, where they exist, vest in the employing entity rather than the individual author. In employment law, the at-will character of most fashion employment, combined with the industry’s structural dependence on informal networks of recommendation and reputation, creates a disciplinary apparatus that operates largely outside the formal adjudicative machinery that employment law nominally provides.

The cumulative effect is a workforce that is, in the technical legal sense, extensively protected and, in any practical sense, largely without recourse. Miranda Priestly operates within this system not because she transcends it but because the system was designed, through decades of contractual practice, legislative lobbying, and judicial deference, to produce exactly the kind of authority she exercises. The Devil Wears Prada 2’s particular contribution to this analysis is its suggestion that this authority survives even its nominal holder, that the exception has become so institutionalised as to be self-reproducing. That is not a fashion story. That is a constitutional one.

Towards a Jurisprudence of the Atelier

Fashion law, as an academic discipline with genuine ambitions, must eventually confront the question it has been too polite, or perhaps too implicated, to pose directly: whether the legal frameworks governing creative industries are describing a power structure or producing one. The franchise, for all its considerable pleasures, does the discipline the service of making this question impossible to avoid.

The creative directorate is not a natural phenomenon that law has struggled to categorise. It is a legal construction, assembled from specific doctrinal choices across multiple bodies of law, maintained through the active participation of transactional lawyers, IP practitioners, and employment counsel who have, collectively, built the juridical infrastructure that makes Miranda Priestly possible. The question of whether that infrastructure is defensible, whether the exceptional authority it generates is proportionate to any legitimate interest the law might recognise, is one that the discipline has the analytical tools to address and, thus far, a conspicuous reluctance to deploy.

The devil, it turns out, does not merely wear Prada. She wears, with considerably more structural consequence, the architecture of her own legal impunity. And it fits her perfectly.

That’s all.

The post The Exception Wears Prada appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

Why this matters now

Generative AI has made it easy to create convincing fake audio, images, and videos of public figures, which means a celebrity’s “identity” can now be cloned at scale. Taylor Swift’s move lands in that exact moment, and the sources frame it as a response to AI misuse, deepfakes, and synthetic impersonation.

That is why this story matters beyond pop culture. For lawyers, brands, and creators, it is a sign that celebrity-rights protection is shifting from a narrow focus on recordings and merchandise into a broader fight over identity as an asset.

What Swift appears to have filed

According to the reporting, Taylor Swift’s company, TAS Rights Management, filed three trademark applications in the United States: two sound marks and one image-based mark. The sound marks cover audio clips of Taylor Swift saying phrases such as “Hey, it’s Taylor Swift” and “Hey, it’s Taylor,” while the image file relates to a photo of Swift performing.

That detail is important because this is not a routine word-mark filing for a tour name or album title. It is a more novel attempt to protect elements of her persona that fans and consumers instantly associate with her.

Why trademark, not just copyright

This is the legal pivot that makes the move interesting. Copyright usually protects a fixed creative expression, such as a recording, a song, a photograph, or a video. But AI often creates outputs that imitate a person’s style or voice without directly copying one particular protected work.

Trademark law, by contrast, is about source identification and consumer confusion. The theory behind Taylor Swift’s filings is that if a phrase, sound, or visual cue has become strongly associated with her brand. Then, unauthorised use of something confusingly similar may create a trademark problem even where copyright law is less helpful.

The AI problem she is trying to solve

The practical issue is that AI can now generate celebrity-style content that looks and sounds close enough to fool audiences. That creates a market for fake endorsements, cloned voice clips, and deepfake videos that trade on a star’s reputation without permission.

Taylor Swift has also been one of the most visible targets of AI-generated misuse, which makes her a particularly fitting test case for how the law might adapt. The filings suggest a proactive strategy: create more legal hooks before misuse spreads further.

Why this is a smart IP move

From an intellectual property perspective, the move is clever for four reasons.

First, it gives Swift another enforcement tool. Even if a challenger argues that copyright does not neatly cover an AI-generated imitation, trademark claims may still be available if the use confuses consumers or suggests endorsement.

Second, it expands protection beyond the exact recording. A sound mark can help protect the association between a voice, a phrase, and a specific commercial identity, which matters in an era of voice cloning.

Third, it sends a deterrent message. Even if the legal theory is untested, the filing itself can chill would-be imitators and platforms that might otherwise assume the rights holder will not act.

Fourth, it fits Taylor Swift’s long history of brand control. She has filed many trademarks over the years for names, titles, and phrases connected to her music and business empire, so this is consistent with her larger IP strategy rather than a one-off stunt.

The legal limits

That said, this is not a guaranteed win in court. Trademark law has not yet fully settled how far it can go in protecting a celebrity’s voice or likeness against AI-generated replicas, so these filings are best seen as an aggressive, forward-looking test of the boundaries.

The biggest challenge will likely be proving infringement in a way that fits trademark doctrine, especially if the AI output is not an exact copy but only a close imitation. The legal fight may turn on confusion, association, and whether consumers think the output is endorsed or authorised.

There is also a bigger doctrinal point here: trademark law is not traditionally designed to police personhood, which is why publicity rights and copyright have usually done more of that work. Swift’s filing reflects a growing view that, in the AI era, those older categories leave gaps.

What this means for fashion law and celebrity branding

For fashion and entertainment lawyers, Swift’s move is a strong reminder that celebrity identity is now a multi-layered brand architecture. The name, voice, silhouette, imagery, and even signature phrasing can all become commercially valuable identifiers that deserve protection.

That is especially relevant in fashion, where likeness, styling, image rights, and endorsement value are constantly monetised. If AI can manufacture a fake celebrity front row appearance, a synthetic campaign voice-over, or an unauthorised avatar in a branded setting, the old legal tools may not be enough on their own.

In that sense, Taylor Swift is not only protecting herself but also stress-testing the system for every celebrity, model, and creator whose image is part of the commercial ecosystem.

The bigger IP lesson

The broader lesson is that the most valuable intellectual property in the AI era may be identity itself. As synthetic media becomes cheaper and more convincing, rights holders are likely to rely on a mix of trademark, copyright, contract, and publicity law to build a layered defence.

Swift’s filings are smart because they recognise that no single doctrine can do all the work. Trademark law may not solve every deepfake problem, but it can help establish a legal perimeter around the brands, cues, and associations that AI imitators are increasingly tempted to exploit.

For a figure like Taylor Swift, whose commercial identity is as carefully managed as her music catalogue, that kind of perimeter is not just strategic. It is increasingly necessary.

The post Taylor Swift’s Trademark Strategy Against Generative AI and the Future of Likeness Protection appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

A single white glove.

A black fedora, tilted just enough.

A silhouette that does not need a name.

Few images in fashion and popular culture achieve this level of immediate recognition. With the recent release of the Michael Jackson biopic Michael (2026), his visual identity has once again come into sharp focus. Some looks do more than define an era; they settle into collective memory and become part of a shared visual language.

At that point, the question shifts. Not whether a look is iconic, but whether something so recognizable can ever truly belong to someone.

When Style Becomes Identity

Certain figures do not simply wear clothes. They construct a visual identity so deliberate that every element serves a purpose.

Michael Jackson’s style was never incidental. The rhinestone glove, for instance, was designed to make his hand movements visible in large stadiums. His trousers were intentionally cut above the ankle to reveal white socks, drawing attention to the precision of his footwork. His military jackets, often heavily embellished, gave structure and presence to his silhouette.

Taken individually, these elements are ordinary. Taken together, they form something far more distinctive.

Jackson himself often described his clothing as a form of “armor.” Not protection in a literal sense, but a way of shaping how he would be seen. Over time, this visual consistency transformed his wardrobe into something closer to a signature than a style.

The same can be said of Audrey Hepburn’s black dress in Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Karl Lagerfeld’s monochrome uniform. These looks are not protected logos, yet they behave like them. They signal identity, authorship, and influence without the need for explicit branding. In that sense, they occupy a unique space between fashion, image, and intellectual property.

The Legal Question: Can a Look Be Protected?

From a legal perspective, the answer is more complex than intuition might suggest.

Intellectual property law does not protect aesthetics in the abstract. It protects defined elements. A logo may be registered as a trademark. A specific garment design may be protected under copyright if it meets originality thresholds. A person’s name, likeness, and image may be protected under rights of publicity.

What the law does not protect is a general “look” or visual impression.

An iconic style is often a combination of elements rather than a single identifiable creation. It is precisely this composite nature that makes it powerful culturally, but difficult to capture legally.

The Limits of Protection

The difficulty becomes clearer when breaking down the elements themselves.

A glove is not protectable. A fedora is not exclusive. A military-style jacket, taken individually, belongs to a long history of design references. Even a silhouette, unless fixed in a very specific and original form, is unlikely to meet the threshold for protection.

Yet when these elements are combined, repeated, and associated with a single individual, they become unmistakable.

This exposes a structural limitation in intellectual property law. The law is designed to protect what is fixed, defined, and registrable. Cultural identity, by contrast, is fluid. It evolves, circulates, and is constantly reinterpreted.

What makes this limitation even more striking is that not all elements of an iconic identity are purely aesthetic. In some cases, they are engineered.

Michael Jackson himself held a U.S. patent (No. 5,255,452), granted in 1993, for a system of specially designed shoes that allowed him and his dancers to lean forward beyond their center of gravity during performances of Smooth Criminal. The mechanism relied on a heel slot that could lock into a retractable stage peg, creating the illusion of defying gravity.

This distinction is telling. While the visual identity associated with the movement cannot be owned in a traditional sense, the mechanism that made it possible can. The law may struggle to protect a look, but it has long been equipped to protect invention.

The result is a gap between recognition and ownership.

Inspiration, Homage… or Exploitation?

Fashion has always relied on reference. Designers borrow from archives, artists reinterpret past figures, and cultural symbols are continuously revisited.

In many cases, this is perceived as homage. A performance referencing Michael Jackson is understood as a tribute. A stylist recreating a classic silhouette may be engaging in cultural dialogue.

However, the line becomes less clear in commercial settings.

When a recognizable aesthetic is used to sell a product, the question shifts from influence to appropriation. Not necessarily in a moral sense, but in terms of economic value. If a look carries cultural weight tied to a specific individual, who benefits from its reuse?

The law offers partial answers, but it falls short of capturing the full reality.

The Role of the Estate

After an artist’s passing, control over their image and intellectual property does not disappear. It is consolidated.

The Estate of Michael Jackson offers a striking example of how posthumous rights can be structured, monetized, and actively enforced. Since his death in 2009, the estate has generated over $3.5 billion in revenue, driven by a carefully managed portfolio that includes music rights, image rights, trademarks, and merchandising assets.

This is not passive stewardship. The estate has consistently taken steps to protect and expand these rights. It has engaged in litigation to challenge unauthorized uses, including disputes involving tribute productions and digital platforms. At the same time, it has strategically licensed Jackson’s likeness and brand across industries, from music distribution to commercial partnerships and, more recently, film production.

Legally, this control is largely grounded in the right of publicity, which allows estates to regulate the commercial use of a person’s name, image, and persona. In parallel, trademark protections have been secured for various categories, extending the Jackson brand into areas such as apparel and collectibles.

Yet even this level of control has its limits. A well-known dispute with the Internal Revenue Service over the valuation of Jackson’s image at the time of his death illustrates how difficult it can be to quantify cultural capital within a legal framework. More fundamentally, while an estate can control the commercial exploitation of a persona, it cannot fully contain its aesthetic influence.

The look continues to circulate, referenced, reinterpreted, and reproduced across fashion and performance. In that sense, influence operates on a different scale than ownership.

Ownership vs Influence

In the end, the question of ownership does not have a straightforward answer.

Legally, certain elements can be protected. Names, images, and specific designs can be controlled, licensed, and enforced. But the broader visual identity, the part that makes it look instantly recognizable, remains difficult to claim.

Culturally, however, attribution is rarely ambiguous.

We may not be able to define ownership in strict legal terms, but recognition operates differently. It attaches itself to memory, to repetition, and to influence.

Some looks are not owned. They are remembered.

References

• McCarthy, J. Thomas. The Rights of Publicity and Privacy. 2nd ed., Thomson Reuters.
• Estate of Michael Jackson. Licensing and Brand Management Overview. (General industry sources and public records).
• Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Costume design by Hubert de Givenchy.
• Karl Lagerfeld. Chanel archives and personal branding materials.
• Fact Check: Here’s the Patent Michael Jackson Used for His “Smooth Criminal” Lean. Yahoo Entertainment. https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/fact-check-heres-patent-michael-140000472.html
• Stout. The Value of Michael Jackson’s Intellectual Property After His Death. https://www.stout.com/en/insights/video/value-michael-jacksons-intellectual-property-after-his-death 

The post Who Owns an Iconic Look? appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

The recent dispute between Nike and Lululemon centered around sneaker technology, was expected to reinforce the strength of innovation-led protection in fashion. Instead, it delivered a far more consequential lesson.

What appeared to be a straightforward enforcement win quickly turned into a reversal. A jury verdict favouring Nike, already modest in its commercial impact, was ultimately set aside when the underlying patent was held invalid as obvious.

No damages. No exclusivity. No lasting legal advantage.

But importantly, no real loss of market power either.

The Structural Flaw in Fashion-Tech Patents

Fashion thrives on iteration, not invention. Even in performance-driven categories like athleisure, innovation is rarely radical. It evolves incrementally, rapidly, and often visibly.

This creates a structural tension within patent law.

Patents reward novelty and non-obviousness. Fashion, by contrast, builds on what already exists, refining materials, enhancing comfort, and adapting aesthetics to shifting consumer expectations.

That is precisely where enforcement begins to weaken.

You can patent performance, but you cannot patent evolution.

In the Nike–Lululemon dispute, this tension played out predictably. What may have been commercially valuable was not legally defensible enough to survive scrutiny.

Winning Isn’t Winning Anymore

There is a second, more practical takeaway: litigation outcomes in fashion-tech are inherently unstable.

A jury verdict is no longer the finish line; it is often the beginning of a longer challenge. Post-trial reviews, invalidity arguments, and appellate interventions can erase victories overnight.

In fashion IP disputes, the real trial often begins after the verdict.

For global brands, this shifts the role of litigation:

• from securing damages
• to signalling dominance
• to reinforce brand authority

Legal wins are temporary. Market positioning is not.

The Silent Winner: Trademark and Trade Dress

While the patent fell, something far more durable remained intact: brand power.

Nike does not dominate because of a single technology. Its strength lies in:

• unmistakable identity
• product consistency
• deep consumer association
• design language that transcends individual innovations

Even without patent protection, its market position remains largely unaffected.

This is where trademark strategy becomes decisive.

Logos, product configuration, trade dress, and overall brand recall continue to provide enforceability long after patents expire or collapse.

A weak patent can disappear overnight. A strong brand rarely does.

In fashion, consumers do not buy patents. They buy perception, trust, and identity.

Long IP Tea View: What More Can Be Done? A Trademark Lawyer’s Strategy Lens

From a trademark enforcement perspective, this case is not about what went wrong; it is about what leading brands must start doing differently.

My view is simple:
Fashion-tech disputes cannot be won through patents alone; they must be engineered through brand architecture.

Here’s what that looks like in practice:

1. Engineer Trade Dress Early, Not After Scale

Most brands treat trade dress as an afterthought. That is a mistake.

Product shape, stitching patterns, knit textures, and even retail presentation should be:

• consciously designed
• consistently used
• legally documented

If consumers can recognise your product without a logo, you already have enforceable IP.

2. Convert Design Language into Legal Assets

In categories like sneakers, the real differentiation lies in visual identity.

Brands should proactively:

• map recurring design elements
• file for non-traditional trademarks where possible
• build evidence of acquired distinctiveness early

This transforms aesthetics into enforceable rights.

3. Build an Enforcement Narrative, Not Just Cases

Litigation should not be approached as isolated disputes.

Every action must contribute to a larger narrative:

• Market leadership
• Zero tolerance for imitation
• Consistent brand policing

The goal is not just to win cases but to make copying commercially unattractive.

4. Integrate IP with Product and Marketing Teams

The most effective IP strategies are not legal; they are cross-functional.

Trademark teams must work alongside:

• product designers
• branding teams
• marketing strategists

to ensure that what is being created is also protectable and defensible.

5. Think Global from Day One

For emerging brands, especially in India, this is critical.

Delays in:

• international trademark filings
• trade dress protection
• enforcement readiness

can permanently weaken rights in key markets.

IP strategy should scale with ambition, not follow it.

What Smart Fashion Brands Will Do Differently

This case is not a setback for IP; it is a recalibration.

Forward-looking brands, particularly in high-growth markets, will adapt in three key ways:

1. Build Multi-Layered IP Portfolios

Patents alone are insufficient. The future lies in combining:

• trademarks
• trade dress
• selective patent filings
• and protected know-how

2. Prioritise Speed Over Exclusivity

Fashion cycles move faster than legal timelines.
The ability to innovate and scale quickly is a stronger defence than prolonged litigation.

Speed is the new exclusivity.

3. Use Enforcement Strategically

Litigation should not be reactive. It must:

• Reinforce brand positioning
• Deter imitation
• Signal leadership

 not simply pursue damages.

Why This Matters for Indian Fashion and Athleisure Brands

For India’s rapidly expanding fashion and athleisure sector, the implications are immediate.

Too many brands still:

• Focus narrowly on logo protection
• Overlook trade dress and product identity
• Delay global trademark strategies

This approach is no longer sufficient.

Indian brands cannot afford to replicate global patent playbooks.
They must leap ahead with brand-led IP strategies.

The opportunity is not just to compete but to build globally recognisable, legally resilient brands from the outset.

The Final Stitch

Nike may have lost a patent battle, but it did not lose its edge.

Because in fashion, the most powerful form of protection is not legal exclusivity, it is consumer perception.

You can litigate innovation.
You can challenge patents.
But you cannot easily replicate a brand that lives in the consumer’s mind.

And that is the real monopoly fashion companies should be building.

The post Nike vs Lululemon: What the Sneaker Patent Loss Teaches About Trademark Power in Fashion appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

On April 20, 2026, California Attorney General Rob Bonta released a largely unredacted version of a preliminary injunction filing in the state’s 2022 antitrust lawsuit against Amazon. What is in those documents is not subtle.

Internal emails show Amazon identifying products listed at lower prices on competitor websites like Walmart and Target, contacting its vendors, and instructing them to get those prices raised. The vendors complied. In some cases, they complied within hours. Fashion brands Levi Strauss and Hanes are named specifically in the filing.

California says this is price-fixing. Amazon says the state is misreading legal, pro-consumer conduct. A preliminary injunction hearing is set for July 23, 2026, and trial is scheduled for January 19, 2027 in San Francisco Superior Court.

Here is what the documents actually show, and why it matters for every fashion brand selling through Amazon right now.

What Amazon allegedly did

Amazon controls somewhere between 40 and 50 percent of US e-commerce. About 80 percent of its sales run through the Buy Box, which is the prominent “Buy Now” button that determines which seller wins a given product listing. Losing the Buy Box is not a minor inconvenience. For brands that depend on Amazon for meaningful revenue, it is effectively losing the sale.

According to the unredacted filing, Amazon deployed three distinct methods to keep prices elevated across the internet. In one method, Amazon used its shared vendor relationship as a go-between, arranging for a price increase on a competitor’s site so that Amazon would not have to match the lower price itself. In another, Amazon threatened to suppress or remove the Buy Box from a product until the pricing discrepancy was resolved. In a third, Amazon directly instructed vendors to contact competing retailers and demand they raise their prices.

The filing details more than 15 documented instances across multiple product categories, including clothing, pet food, eye drops, fertiliser, and household goods.

The Levi’s email chain

The most specific fashion example in the filing involves Levi Strauss and a pair of khaki trousers.

Levi’s Easy Khaki Classic fit trousers were listed on Walmart.com at between $25.47 and $26.99. Amazon’s preferred retail price was $29.99. Amazon sent Levi Strauss a link to the Walmart listing and expressed that it hoped the discrepancy could be resolved within a few days.

The following day, a Levi Strauss employee confirmed that Walmart had raised the price to $29.99. Amazon acknowledged the increase and matched the higher price on its own platform.

The filing describes this not as an isolated incident but as a representative example of a pattern that ran across years and product categories. As the unredacted court document states: “When faced with a competitor offering a lower price, Amazon does not compete fairly. Instead, Amazon insulates itself from competition by strong-arming its vendors into raising prices offered by its competitors.”

The Hanes example

Hanes was sent links showing lower prices on both Walmart and Target. The company confirmed it had reached out to both retailers to have the prices increased. The filing records Hanes confirming this in writing.

Neither Levi’s nor Hanes responded to requests for comment from media.

The legal theory

California is arguing that what Amazon did constitutes price-fixing under state antitrust law. The specific legal concept here is resale price maintenance, which is the practice of a manufacturer or platform setting minimum prices at which its products can be sold downstream. Resale price maintenance has a complicated history in US antitrust law. It was treated as illegal per se for most of the 20th century. In 2007, the US Supreme Court ruled in Legergin Creative Leather Products v. PSKS that it should instead be judged under the rule of reason, meaning courts weigh competitive harms against potential benefits case by case.

California is making the argument that what Amazon did goes beyond resale price maintenance into outright horizontal price-fixing, because it allegedly coordinated pricing between competing retailers (Walmart, Target, Best Buy, and others) through a common intermediary. Horizontal price-fixing between competitors is still treated as per se illegal. That is a much harder claim for Amazon to defend.

The filing says: “These are not general discussions about price. These are explicit agreements to increase retail prices, all so Amazon can maintain its profit margins at the expense of consumers.”

Amazon is not alone in the dock

This is not the only case. In September 2023, the Federal Trade Commission and 17 states filed a separate federal antitrust lawsuit against Amazon in the Western District of Washington, with similar allegations about monopoly power and its effects on merchants. That case goes to trial in March 2027 in Seattle. The District of Columbia Attorney General has a separate case scheduled for May 2027.

Three antitrust trials involving Amazon’s pricing practices are now lined up for 2027. Any of them could lead to a forced breakup of Amazon if the most extreme remedies are pursued.

What this means for fashion brands

Here is the part that most fashion coverage of this story is missing.

Levi’s and Hanes are named in the filing not as wrongdoers, but as the brands Amazon allegedly pressured. They are the ones who made the calls to Walmart and Target. They are the ones whose emails confirm the price increases. They complied because they were afraid of losing the Buy Box, which for a brand of that scale is a genuinely serious commercial threat.

But compliance with an illegal scheme, even under duress, creates its own legal exposure. If California’s price-fixing theory holds, questions about what the participating vendors knew, what they documented, and whether their own counsel advised them on the antitrust implications of those emails become very relevant.

Every fashion brand that sells on Amazon and has received any communication from the platform about pricing on competitor sites should be asking itself right now whether those conversations were properly documented and reviewed. The conduct described in the filing as potentially constituting per se illegal price-fixing includes precisely the kind of routine account management conversation that happens between brands and their Amazon vendor managers every week.

Most fashionable brands are acutely focused on intellectual property, counterfeiting, and advertising regulation. Antitrust compliance in the context of platform pricing demands sits in a different part of the legal conversation. After this filing, it probably should not.

Amazon denies the allegations and says it will respond in court at the appropriate time. Its spokesperson described the motion as “a transparent attempt to distract from the weakness of its case.” The emails say something different, and a jury will have to decide which version it believes in January 2027.

The post Amazon Pressed Levi’s and Hanes to Fix Prices at Walmart and Target, New Court Filings Show appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

Economists adore tidy stories. Demand rises, supply politely follows, prices wobble for a moment before settling into equilibrium. Consumers behave like calm little calculators, maximizing utility with serene efficiency while the invisible hand—courtesy of Adam Smith—conducts the whole performance with quiet authority.

It is a lovely theory. It also collapses rather quickly the moment someone tries to buy a Birkin bag.

A client walks into a boutique. The object of desire has already lived several glamorous lives before this encounter: photographed in glossy editorials, draped casually over the arms of celebrities, elevated into something approaching fashion folklore. The client arrives prepared to spend a small fortune.

And yet, the bag is not available.

Perhaps there is a waiting list. Perhaps the sales associate suggests, with immaculate politeness, that the client might first “build a relationship with the house.” Perhaps the bag materializes six months later, as if the boutique had spent the intervening period quietly evaluating the buyer’s moral character.

For an industry whose central purpose is selling extremely expensive things, luxury fashion has developed a remarkably sophisticated art of not selling them.

To an orthodox economist this would appear faintly absurd. Businesses are meant to pursue demand with enthusiasm. When customers want something, you make more of it. The entire architecture of market theory rests on this uncomplicated reflex.

Luxury fashion, however, has other plans.

Consider the Birkin bag produced by Hermès, an object that has somehow evolved from a leather accessory into a minor global economic allegory. Its mystique is often attributed to craftsmanship, heritage, or the occasional celebrity sighting. These explanations are polite, but they are not the whole story.

The real secret is scarcity.

Not accidental scarcity. Not logistical scarcity. Carefully choreographed scarcity. Production remains limited. Distribution is selective. Some clients acquire the bag with suspicious ease, while others—perfectly solvent and entirely willing—are left waiting.

In most markets, scarcity is a problem. In luxury, it is the product.

More than a century ago, the economist Thorstein Veblen noticed something rather awkward about human consumption habits. Writing in The Theory of the Leisure Class, he argued that certain goods derive their value not from usefulness but from their ability to signal status. People purchase them precisely because others can see them.

He called this behavior conspicuous consumption, which remains one of the most refreshingly blunt phrases ever introduced into economic theory.

From this observation emerged the idea of Veblen goods—objects for which the usual rules of demand behave somewhat badly. Raise the price, and people may want the product more, not less. The price itself becomes part of the spectacle.

Luxury brands did not invent this quirk of human psychology. But they have certainly styled it beautifully. Traditional microeconomic theory, refined by economists such as Alfred Marshall, assumes that rational firms expand supply when demand increases. It is the most obvious response imaginable. If the market wants more handbags, you produce more handbags.

Luxury houses instead perform a curious act of restraint. They produce fewer items than they comfortably could. Retail spaces remain selective. Distribution is managed with the discretion of a private members’ club.

Economists find this baffling. Sociologists, on the other hand, nod knowingly. In Distinction, the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu suggested that consumption functions as a language of cultural signals. Taste is not simply personal preference. It is a form of cultural capital. People use objects to communicate belonging, education, and refinement.

Luxury goods operate elegantly within this symbolic economy. A handbag does not merely carry things. It carries meaning. Ownership suggests familiarity with a particular aesthetic world. Scarcity intensifies that message. If everyone could acquire the same object without effort, the entire symbolic structure would collapse like a badly constructed runway set.

Exclusivity, by definition, requires exclusion. This is why luxury retail sometimes feels less like shopping and more like theatre. The lighting is flattering, the shelves curiously sparse, the staff impossibly composed. You are not simply purchasing a product. You are auditioning for it.

The economist John Kenneth Galbraith once observed that modern capitalism increasingly revolves around the manufacture of desire. Luxury fashion has elevated this observation into something approaching high art. Brands construct elaborate narratives about heritage, craftsmanship, artistry and tradition. Editorial spreads appear months before the product quietly reaches a boutique.

By the time the item arrives, the desire has already been planted. Consumers, rather charmingly, cooperate with this arrangement. Waiting lists rarely discourage them. If anything, they heighten the experience. Difficulty begins to feel like confirmation that the object is worth wanting.

Behavioral economics provides a tidy explanation for this curious enthusiasm. The work of Herbert Simon reminds us that humans rarely behave like the perfectly rational agents imagined in classical models. People respond to stories, identity, and symbolism.

Scarcity happens to be an exceptionally persuasive story. Psychologists have long documented the scarcity effect: objects that appear rare immediately feel more valuable. Luxury houses deploy this insight with quiet brilliance. Limited editions. Discreet allocations. Invitation-only launches. The purchase becomes a miniature narrative of triumph.

All of this would be intellectually entertaining even if it ended there. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the law eventually notices. Competition law was designed to prevent firms from restricting supply, fixing prices, or otherwise manipulating markets. Regulators generally assume that scarcity is artificial and therefore suspicious. Their task is to restore competition and protect consumers.

Luxury markets make this job awkward. Production is intentionally limited. Distribution is carefully controlled. Access sometimes depends on prior purchases or cultivated relationships with boutique staff. From the perspective of orthodox antitrust theory, this begins to look suspiciously like market restriction.

One might describe the situation, with a hint of mischief, as cartel behaviour without the cartel.

Luxury houses are not secretly conspiring in dim conference rooms. There are no signed agreements to limit output. Yet the industry arrives at the same strategy with uncanny consistency.

Make less.

Charge more.

Protect the mystique.

Scarcity spreads across luxury markets not through collusion but through shared intuition. If one brand suddenly flooded the market with a product, the prestige would evaporate with astonishing speed.

Luxury cannot survive abundance. For regulators, this creates a philosophical puzzle that feels almost unfair. Competition law attempts to eliminate artificial scarcity. Luxury fashion depends on preserving it. Intervene too aggressively, and the magic disappears. Leave the market alone, and it begins to resemble a remarkably elegant system of exclusion.

And so luxury occupies a peculiar corner of economic life. It is both product and performance. Both commerce and theatre. In an age defined by mass production, instant delivery and algorithmic recommendations, luxury has discovered a quietly radical business model.

The most valuable thing you can sell is not the object. It is the feeling that you were never meant to obtain it quite so easily.

The post The Business of Being Unattainable: Luxury Scarcity, Economic Theory, and the Law’s Uneasy Encounter with Prestige appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

Three separate stories. Three separate headlines. But if you read them together, they are describing the same thing: the American fashion retail infrastructure is under serious and sustained pressure, and the brands that depend on it are caught in the middle.

QVC: the end of a 38-year experiment

QVC launched in 1986. For almost four decades it sold fashion, beauty, and home goods to Americans through their television screens. At its peak it was genuinely powerful. Brands paid for airtime, celebrity partnerships moved product, and the model worked because it reached consumers who were not shopping in malls or boutiques.

That model did not survive the internet, and it especially did not survive TikTok. The company had more than $5 billion in debt at the end of 2025, nearly $1.5 billion in cash, and a viewer base that had been steadily disappearing for years. It tried to adapt. It launched 24/7 livestream programming on TikTok Shop in 2025 and picked up around one million new US customers through the platform. It was not enough. The debt load was simply too heavy for a business whose core audience had moved on.

For fashion brands that sold through QVC, this is a direct problem. The company’s bankruptcy documents list fashion labels among its creditors. The restructuring plan says it will pay vendors in full, but that is the plan. Bankruptcy proceedings have a way of producing different outcomes than plans suggest.

US fashion prices are expected to rise 17% in 2026 because of tariffs. A mid-market shopping network going bankrupt in the same year that consumers are already facing higher prices for imported clothing is not good timing for anyone.

LVMH: the luxury barometer is not reading well

LVMH is the largest luxury conglomerate in the world. When it reports, the entire industry pays attention, because its results tend to predict what is coming for everyone else. This week’s Q1 numbers were not encouraging.

Revenue came in at €19.1 billion, down 6% on a reported basis. On an organic basis, the group managed 1% growth, which tells you the underlying business is holding but currency headwinds are significant. The fashion and leather goods division, which includes Louis Vuitton and Dior and represents 48% of LVMH’s total revenue, fell 9% on a reported basis and 2% organically. Shares dropped more than 4% after the announcement.

The Middle East war knocked approximately one percentage point off organic growth. Luxury brands reported sales drops of between 30 and 50% at the Mall of the Emirates in March. The region accounts for around 6% of LVMH’s total revenue, but that is a meaningful number when you’re already dealing with a sluggish recovery in China and tariff uncertainty in the US.

There are brighter spots inside the results. Asia, excluding Japan, grew 7% organically, the best quarterly performance since late 2023. American clients shifted from slightly negative in Q4 2025 to low-to-mid single-digit positive in Q1 2026. Sephora continues to perform. But fashion, the division that LVMH is supposed to be built around, is where the pressure is most visible.

LVMH’s share price is down about 25% year to date. That is not a minor fluctuation. That is a significant erosion in market confidence in the world’s most valuable luxury company.

Saks: the ongoing mess that the industry has not finished processing

Saks Global filed for Chapter 11 in January 2026, and the proceedings are still very much in progress. This week, a court approved the sale of the company’s Gulfstream jet for $6 million. Bankruptcy lenders are expected to take full ownership, wipe away billions in debt, and exit Chapter 11 by summer. Bergdorf Goodman is staying. The Saks Fifth Avenue flagship in New York is staying. The Off 5th discount stores are largely going.

What is not resolved yet is what the Saks collapse means for the brands it left unpaid.

Chanel is owed $136 million. Kering is owed $60 million. LVMH is owed approximately $26 million. Capri Holdings, home to Michael Kors and Jimmy Choo, is owed $33 million. These are the 30 largest creditors. Behind them are smaller independent brands owed amounts that may represent a much larger share of their total revenue, with far less capacity to absorb the loss.

The restructuring plan says all vendors will be paid in full. The court-approved financing gives the company $1.75 billion to work with. But smaller vendors are being told they may need to set their own terms going forward — minimum payments before shipment, shorter payment windows — because Saks may not agree to pay them upfront. That is a fundamental change in the commercial relationship between a major department store and the brands that supply it. It shifts financial risk onto the brands, not the retailer.

What these three things have in common

QVC, Saks, and LVMH’s struggling quarter are all symptoms of the same underlying pressure. American consumers are spending differently. The middle of the market is being squeezed from both directions. Value players and true luxury houses are relatively fine. Everything in between is having a very difficult time.

QVC was the middle. Saks was the high end of the middle, pushed upmarket by the Neiman Marcus acquisition and then unable to sustain the debt that acquisition created. LVMH’s fashion division is not in the middle, but it is affected by the same geopolitical and economic conditions that are making consumers cautious.

There is also a legal dimension to all of this that the industry has not fully worked through. Vendor contracts written before the Saks bankruptcy did not account for the possibility of a $136 million unpaid bill. Wholesale agreements with major department stores rarely include the kind of credit protection clauses that would have helped brands here. This is going to change. Lawyers who work with fashion brands on wholesale contracts are already having different conversations about payment terms, credit insurance, and what happens when the retailer collapses.

The US luxury retail infrastructure looked very different five years ago. It is going to look different again five years from now. The question is how much pain happens in between.

The post QVC Filed for Bankruptcy, Saks Is Still in Chapter 11, and LVMH Had Its Worst Quarter in Years: What Is Actually Going On With US Fashion Retail? appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

Corporate negligence in the supply chain—specifically regarding industrial accidents and logistics failures—carries significant legal exposure. When a brand pushes a vendor to meet impossible deadlines, and that pressure leads to a catastrophic warehouse collapse or a fatal trucking accident, the veil of “independent contracting” is becoming easier for plaintiffs to pierce.

The High Cost of Speed: Industrial Accidents

The garment industry has a documented history of industrial tragedy. While the 2013 Rana Plaza collapse remains the most cited example of supply chain failure, smaller-scale industrial accidents occur daily. These incidents are often the direct result of negligence rooted in the demand for rapid retail turnaround.

When brands demand high volumes at low costs, manufacturers often cut corners on facility maintenance, fire safety, and structural integrity. From a legal perspective, the argument for “vicarious liability” or “negligent entrustment” is gaining traction. If a brand knows—or should have known—that a supplier operates in a dangerous environment but continues to place orders to maintain inventory flow, the brand can be held accountable for resulting injuries.

According to a Human Rights Watch report on apparel supply chains, the lack of transparency and pressure to meet “short-lead times” are primary drivers of workplace safety violations. This data suggests that the business model itself may constitute negligence if it predictably leads to unsafe working conditions.

Logistics and the Danger on the Road

The risk does not end at the factory gates. The “last mile” and the heavy hauling required to transport products from ports to distribution centers introduce significant vehicular liability. To keep shelves stocked, logistics providers often push drivers to exceed hours-of-service regulations.

Commercial trucking accidents involving fashion freight are a growing area of concern. When a tractor-trailer hauling thousands of units of apparel is involved in a collision due to driver fatigue or improper vehicle maintenance, the legal discovery process often looks upward. Lawyers look for evidence that the shipping contract or the brand’s delivery requirements made it impossible for the driver to operate safely.

Litigating these cases requires a deep understanding of how corporate pressure translates into physical danger. For instance, San Antonio SuperLawyers Paula Wyatt has spent years handling complex cases involving catastrophic injuries and trucking accidents. Her work highlights how failures in corporate oversight and the need for efficiency can lead to life-altering consequences. In the context of fashion, this means a brand’s logistics strategy must be vetted by legal teams to ensure that “efficiency” does not become a synonym for “negligence” in court.

The Doctrine of Duty of Care

A central pillar of negligence claims is the “duty of care.” Historically, fashion brands insulated themselves from liability by using layers of middlemen and third-party vendors. However, modern courts and new legislative frameworks are changing the landscape.

The EU Corporate Sustainability Due Diligence Directive is a prime example of this shift. It requires large companies to identify and prevent human rights and environmental issues in their operations and across their value chains. Failure to comply does not just result in fines; it provides a statutory basis for negligence claims.

If a company does not perform due diligence on a warehouse’s racking safety or a trucking fleet’s safety record, they are breaching a growing standard of care. Legal counsel must move beyond simple “code of conduct” forms and move toward active verification.

Hidden Liabilities in Tier 2 and Tier 3 Suppliers

Most fashion brands have a handle on their Tier 1 suppliers—the factories they contract with directly. The true legal danger lies in Tier 2 (fabric mills) and Tier 3 (raw material providers) levels. Subcontracting is rampant in fast fashion. When a Tier 1 factory is overwhelmed by a large order, it may farm out work to “shadow factories” that operate entirely outside of safety regulations.

If an industrial fire occurs at an unauthorized subcontracting site, the brand’s name is still on the labels found in the rubble. From a legal standpoint, the defense of “we didn’t know they were working there” is failing. Plaintiffs argue that the brand’s own ordering patterns made subcontracting inevitable, thereby creating a foreseeable risk.

Objective studies show that transparency into safety drops significantly beyond the first tier of production. For a legal team, this lack of visibility is a ticking time bomb.

Protecting the Organization Through Compliance

To mitigate these risks, fashion companies must transform their compliance departments from “check-the-box” administrative roles into active risk-management units. This involves:

1. Strict Vendor Audits: Moving beyond announced audits to unannounced, third-party structural and safety inspections.
2. Logistics Vetting: Ensuring that transportation contracts include explicit language regarding adherence to safety laws and realistic delivery windows that do not encourage speeding or fatigue.
3. Whistleblower Channels: Providing workers at all levels of the supply chain a way to report safety violations without fear of losing the brand’s business.
4. Contractual Indemnification: While not a total shield, robust indemnification clauses can help distribute the financial burden of litigation, provided the vendor has the insurance coverage to back it up.

The goal is to produce a paper trail of proactive safety enforcement. In a negligence lawsuit, the best defense is to prove that the company took affirmative steps to prevent the accident.

Beyond the Bottom Line: A New Standard for Fashion Oversight

The period of turning a blind eye to the mechanics of the supply chain is over. As litigation surrounding corporate negligence expands, the fashion industry must recognize that the speed of the runway cannot outpace the safety of workers or drivers.

When a company prioritizes rapid turnaround over the physical safety of those who move its products, it is not just making a business decision; it is accepting a legal gamble. By enforcing strict compliance and acknowledging the risks present in every mile of the journey, fashion executives can protect both their people and their organizations from the devastating fallout of supply chain failure. The true cost of a garment is measured not just in its price tag, but in the safety of the network that brought it to market.

The post Corporate Negligence and the Legal Risks Within the Global Fashion Supply Chain appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

She wore it like it didn’t matter.

A narrow strip of tortoiseshell, perched on top of a crown of blonde hair.

A simple Charles Wahba headband, purchased quietly from C.O. Bigelow in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village, which opened as a true apothecary in 1838.

Now, decades later, there are lines outside C.O. Bigelow again.

Thanks to Ryan Murphy’s ‘Love Story: John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette’, flocks of women are queuing up outside C.O. Bigelow to buy the headband in an effort to “get the CBK look.”

But the truth is, they can’t.

Because what made the headband iconic was not the object itself, but what it carried with it – an association with a specific woman, in a specific time in 90s New York.

Nineties minimalism was not so much a trend, so much as a way of moving through the world. In every photograph the paparazzi managed to steal of Carolyn – whether she was walking her dog, doing cartwheels at the Kennedy compound, or stepping into a gala in one of her Yohji Yamamoto dresses – there was a kind of authenticity that could not be manufactured.

She looked real. Lived in. And her clothes felt like an extension of a life already in motion, rather than something assembled for the masses.

The irony of modern style culture is that, for all its talk about individuality, it is built on replication.

“Steal her look.” “Build her wardrobe.” “How to dress like Carolyn.”

There is now an entire ecosystem dedicated to Carolyn Bessette – curated Pinterest boards and Instagram accounts cataloguing every coat, every skirt, every pair of sunglasses she wore, as though proximity to the object might offer proximity to the woman herself.

What these tributes often pay little regard to is the girl behind the clothes.

Who was the girl behind the tortoiseshell headband?

Carolyn Bessette grew up in sleepy suburban Connecticut, the daughter of a public school teacher. She studied education at Boston University.

Her entry into fashion was nothing out of the ordinary. She started on the shop floor at Calvin Klein in Boston. It was on the shop floor that she began to develop the sense of style that she would later be known for.

She moved into public relations, eventually climbing the ranks to become a senior publicist at Calvin Klein in the 1990s, at a time when the United States had entered into an economic recession and the bold, shoulder-padded excess of the 80s suddenly felt too loud.

Calvin Klein was quietly setting the visual language of modern minimalism. As Lisa Marsh, author of The House of Klein: Fashion, Controversy, and a Business Obsession, says, “Calvin Klein’s era of minimalism was a sign of the times. History remembers this era as one that is an antidote to ’80s maximalism. No one will ever don a simple slip dress without, consciously or unconsciously, saying a little thank you to Calvin Klein.”

In that context, the headband made sense. Simple, yet practical.

Now, search for “tortoiseshell headband” online, and thousands of results appear. But what is being traded is not the headband itself. It is the association with Carolyn’s style.

Which begs the question: how far does the law go in protecting personal style, and more importantly, taste?

Where the law draws the line: why personal style resists ownership

In the eyes of the law, a tortoiseshell headband is unremarkable.

A tortoiseshell headband sits almost entirely outside the boundaries of intellectual property law protection in Australia.

It is unlikely to attract meaningful copyright protection. Copyright law in Australia protects original works of expression, not ideas, not style, and not functional objects as such.

For protection to arise, there must be an original artistic work that reflects independent intellectual effort. A tortoiseshell headband, as a mass-produced, functional accessory, does not readily meet that description. There is no identifiable artistic expression in the object itself that copyright is designed to protect.

It is neither new nor distinctive, and therefore unlikely to satisfy the threshold for registrability under the Designs Act 2003 (Cth) (Designs Act).

Under the Designs Act, a design must be “new and distinctive” to be registrable. A design is distinctive if it is not substantially similar in overall impression to any prior design (the “prior art base”), as judged through the eyes of the informed user. An “informed user” sits between a casual consumer and a design expert.

Viewed through that lens, a tortoiseshell headband is unlikely to meet the threshold. The form is already well established: a slim, curved band, worn pushed back from the face, typically in acetate or plastic. These features dominate the overall impression and have existed in the prior art base for decades. Any variations in tone, finish or thickness are minor and do not meaningfully alter that impression.

And so, dupes circulate freely. Near-identical versions are produced across price points, from fast fashion to boutique labels.

The question, then, shifts to the consumer. What protects them from ordering what they think is a piece of fashion history and instead receiving a plastic torture device?

Under the Australian Consumer Law (ACL), a seller must not engage in conduct that is misleading or deceptive, or likely to be misleading or deceptive. Nor can they make false or misleading representations as to origin, endorsement or authenticity.

The prohibition applies even if there was no intention to mislead or deceive. A seller cannot suggest that a product is the same item worn by Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy, nor imply any form of affiliation that does not exist.

A seller may trade on aesthetic resemblance, but not on false provenance. It may say “in the style of”, but not “as worn by”. But it cannot assert a history it cannot prove. It can invite comparison, so long as it stops short of making a claim it cannot substantiate.

So why then do we still want to buy it?

While Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s headband was never distinctive in design, it was distinctive in context.

And so, you can purchase the headband, wear the black turtleneck sweater and don the mid-calf Prada boots.

But, despite the insistence of fashion magazines and TikTok creators, you cannot “steal her look”.

What you cannot acquire is the thing that made it so coveted in the first place: her taste.

Taste, in this sense, remains entirely unprotected. And entirely out of reach.

Screenshot That is a series by Chloe Mo that explores iconic fashion pieces from film, television and cultural history that live rent-freee in your mind long after the scene ends, and unpacks each item’s cultural significance and the legal issues that sit behind it.

The post On Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy & Identity: The Girl Behind the Tortoiseshell Headband appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

The Depop Deal: Why eBay Went All-In on Secondhand Cool

eBay, the auction house grandpa of e-commerce, just dropped $1.2 billion cash for Depop- a mobile-first app that’s basically an Instagram-laced thrift store. Depop’s stats show 7 million active buyers and 3 million sellers, with 90% under 34 (primarily Gen Z and young Millennials). Its U.S. GMV neared $1 billion in 2025, up 60% year-over-year. So why pay a premium? Because consumer wallets are voting with their feet (or thumbs in this instance) toward resale.

Fast fashion is losing its grip, and we can clearly see that with new green regulations, sustainability-focused fashion laws, etc. Post-pandemic, Gen Z paused impulse-buying Shein hauls. Instead, they’re hunting Depop for vintage Levi’s or indie streetwear that screams “me.” eBay’s fashion GMV already tops $10 billion annually (growing 10% YoY), but Depop injects fresh blood, sort of proving that the shift to circular spending is mainstream. Maybe eBay is admitting that people spend where value meets vibe?

Decoding Gen Z Wallets: The Real Why Behind the Resale Obsession

Let’s talk consumer behaviour 101: Depop users aren’t casual browsers. They log in daily, flipping pre-loved gems for profit, clout, and conscience. 39% of young shoppers hit social commerce for secondhand last year, per reports, drawn by affordability (items under $50 dominate), uniqueness (no duplicates in your feed), and eco-brags (“I saved a tee from landfill”). I can personally attest to the same, noting that my Screen Time on Vinted averaged 19 hours per week. 

And marketing’s cracked the code: TikTok lives and Insta Reels turn hauls into social proof. Gen Z spends 2x more time (and cash) on resale than legacy sites, prioritising self-expression over status logos. This comes after a shift in consumer behaviour following the slow death of micro-trends. People want to be more authentic instead of chasing every small trend that will cause a dent in their wallet. Compared to eBay’s older crowd chasing deals on toasters, this demo is fashion-forward, sustainability-savvy, and fickle. And the acquisition is hard evidence that spending habits are pivoting. Resale’s hitting $53.7 billion globally by 2026, growing 11% CAGR. People aren’t necessarily cutting back, but priorities have shifted in a world where inflation rises more than our jeans, so people are redirecting dollars smarter.

Culture Clash Incoming: Can eBay Keep the Gen Z Magic Alive?

Depop’s sauce was the social-first feeds, seller follows, and community chats. eBay’s a powerhouse, but it feels like a digital flea market. Post-deal, eBay vows to run Depop as a standalone brand, adding shipping perks and Authenticity Guarantees, which is smart since Gen Z loyalty hinges on feeling seen, not sold. But if you botch the culture? I guarantee users will bolt to Vinted or Poshmark.

From a consumer lens, this tests behavioural glue: People spend where they belong. Marketing that force-feeds corporate polish kills it (incoming rant on IRL marketing and influencer fatigue). 72% say secondhand stigma’s gone, but vibe dilution revives it. And eBay’s challenge is to prove they get the social job-to-be-done: not just transact, but participate in trend ecosystems.

Recommerce Battlefield: Depop’s Secret Weapons in the Mix

Resale’s on fire, projected to hit a massive $367 billion by 2029, growing twice as fast as the whole apparel world. You’ve got ThredUp, Poshmark, and The RealReal scrapping for every sale, but Depop? It’s got this killer Gen Z edge with its streetwear obsession and creator collabs, and now paired with eBay’s global muscle, they’re building a total powerhouse. The roadmap’s stacked: AI-powered recs that nail your style, cross-listings to flood more eyes, and influencer drops that’ll have everyone buzzing.

And the real proof is in how we’re shopping. Nearly 60% of folks are already planning secondhand splurges this year, chasing those affordable gems, the thrill of the treasure hunt, and that feel-good planet-saving vibe. Heck, even Boomers are jumping in. This deal just shines a spotlight on the big spending shift: with 38% of us tightening belts amid economic pinches, resale’s the ultimate hack: stylish, budget-smart, and zero guilt. Platforms that mix that social discovery magic with rock-solid trust in authenticity? They’re the winners. eBay’s move says it: consumers are all-in on brands riding this circular wave.

eBay’s Full Gen Z Playbook: Depop’s Just the Opener

This grabs the headlines, sure, but eBay’s not stopping at Depop. They’re stacking the deck with a whole playbook to win over Gen Z. Think anti-counterfeit AI that sniffs out fakes before they hit your feed, super-personalised recommendations that feel like they read your mind, and cosying up to influencers who actually get the vibe.

And honestly, it makes total sense. Consumers are done with knockoffs; surveys show 69% of us will ghost a site the second we spot something shady. Throw in those slick TikTok glow-ups to amp up the fun factor and sustainability badges that let you flex your eco-cred without even trying.

Depop just proves the whole thesis: spending’s evolved into this perfect mix of social buzz, planet-friendly choices, and straight-up savvy moves. And fast fashion? That’s so yesterday’s news; it’s out, and this circular wave is where the real party’s at.

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