There is a fact about the shirt you are wearing that almost nobody knows, and once you know it you will not be able to stop testing it on people at parties.

A human being sewed it. Not just supervised a machine that sewed it. Sewed it, with hands, guiding cloth under a needle, making hundreds of small corrections per garment that nobody has ever successfully written down. This is true of the shirt, the jacket, the jeans, the four hundred dollar dress and the four dollar one. It is true of essentially every stitched garment in your wardrobe and in everyone else’s, which is a strange thing to say about the year 2026, when a car can be assembled almost untouched and a warehouse can run in the dark.

We automated the loom in 1785 and rioted about it. We have not automated the seam.

I have been thinking about this since someone told me, correctly, that machines already handle nearly every other stage of making clothes. Textiles are printed by machine. Fabric is spread and cut by machine. Garments are folded, tagged, packed and shipped by machine. The process is mechanised at both ends and human in the middle, like a very expensive sandwich.

The reason is almost embarrassingly physical. Robots are magnificent with rigid things. A car door has one shape and holds it. Fabric has no shape at all until something holds it, and then it takes on a different shape depending on what’s holding it, how fast, in which direction, and whether the material is a stable poplin or a knit jersey that stretches when you look at it. Textiles bunch and stretch as they are worked with, which is a mild way of describing a material that behaves less like a component and more like a small animal.

Human hands solve this without any conscious thought whatsoever. A machinist keeps the fabric organised as it feeds, adjusting tension continuously, and could not tell you how because there is nothing to tell. It is the same category of knowledge as walking downstairs.

The four minutes that never arrived

Which brings me to Little Rock, and to the most confident industrial promise of the last decade.

In 2012, a Georgia Tech spin-off called SoftWear Automation set out to solve exactly this, with help from the university’s technology development centre and a contract with DARPA, which is a sentence that tells you how hard the problem was considered. Their machines, trademarked Sewbots, took the autonomous-vehicle approach: cameras and sensors watched the fabric constantly, recognising distortion and correcting the material in real time as it travelled through the sew head, imitating what a seamstress does without noticing.

In 2017 the company partnered with Tianyuan Garments, one of China’s largest manufacturers, to build a fully automated T-shirt line in Arkansas. The numbers announced were spectacular. Twenty-one production lines. One T-shirt every twenty-two seconds. Twenty-three million shirts a year, destined for Adidas. Roughly four minutes from fabric to finished garment, and a personnel cost of about thirty-three cents per shirt.

Li & Fung, the supply chain giant, signed on. The trade press wrote the obituary of the garment worker. It looked, briefly, entirely settled.

Then nothing happened.

The company’s chief executive, Palaniswamy Rajan, later put it plainly: they ran into technology challenges working with knitted fabrics. His description of the problem is the best sentence in this entire story, because it inverts everything you would assume. A T-shirt, he said, is a simple garment, but a complex fabric.

That is the whole difficulty in eight words. We built machines to handle complex objects made of simple materials. Clothing is the reverse.

The starch problem, or, how to cheat

There is another approach, and it is so charmingly lateral that it deserves more attention than it gets.

A Seattle outfit called Sewbo, founded in 2014 by Jonathan Zornow, decided not to build a robot clever enough to handle limp cloth. Instead, it temporarily stiffens the cloth using a water-soluble thermoplastic, so ordinary off-the-shelf industrial robots can assemble a garment as though they were working with sheet metal. The panels can be moulded and welded and stitched while rigid, and then the stiffener is simply washed out at the end.

It is a beautiful piece of thinking, and it is also not new. Early attempts at automating sewing treated cloth with starch for exactly the same reason, decades ago, and never became commercially viable.

Which is the part of this story that finally made me put my coffee down.

Nobody solved it because nobody had to

The reason automated sewing has failed is only partly technical. The other reason, and I suspect the larger one, is that the industry never needed it badly enough to pay for it.

Apparel runs on margins thin enough to be translucent, with brutal delivery timelines and relentless price pressure, which pushes manufacturers toward the cheapest available labour rather than toward capital investment in unproven machines. Automation is an expensive answer to a question that a wage in Dhaka or Phnom Penh has already answered more cheaply. The clothing industry resisted automation for decades precisely because it could rely on inexpensive labour in developing countries, and a technology only gets solved when somebody is desperate enough to fund the solution.

So the seam survives not because it is sacred but because it is cheap.

This is worth sitting with, because it reframes the sentimental version of this story. The persistence of hand sewing is not proof that the craft is irreplaceable. It is proof that human beings remain, in this one industry, cheaper than the machine that would replace them. That is a different and much colder fact, and it is the one that actually explains your wardrobe.

There are roughly nine million sewers in the ASEAN region alone, and the people who study this worry openly about what happens if that changes quickly rather than slowly. Cambodia and Bangladesh have built substantial portions of their economies on a task that exists in its current form partly because a robot cannot yet do it, and partly because nobody has been sufficiently motivated to make one that can.

The likelier future

If I had to bet, and this is interpretation rather than fact, I do not think the answer arrives as a robot that finally learns to sew. I think it arrives sideways, as garments engineered to need less sewing in the first place. Knitted whole rather than assembled. Bonded rather than stitched. The problem is solved by removing the seam instead of by automating it, which is how most impossible engineering problems eventually get solved.

Until then, the situation stands, and it is genuinely lovely in its way.

Every garment you own passed through somebody’s hands. The most sophisticated supply chain humanity has ever built, moving cotton across four continents and delivering it to your door in two days, still contains, at its exact centre, a person at a machine doing something no computer has managed to learn.

The most advanced object in your wardrobe is the one that had to be touched.

The post Why Robots Still Can’t Sew Your Clothes appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

Fashion Nova’s Digital Playbook 

Fashion Nova’s marketing model is based on speed, repetition, and direct access to consumers. Its public-facing brand strategy is largely focused on Instagram, influencer relationships, ambassador-style collaborations, and SMS sign-ups, all of which are intended to turn attention into rapid purchases. Fashion Nova’s Instagram shows the scale of that presence, while its own collaboration and sign-up pages make clear that it actively recruits creators and collects contact information for promotional outreach.

Fashion Nova’s collaborator pages and ambassador materials demonstrate that social media is a primary sales channel, not just a branding tool. Its “Collab With Us” and ambassador materials encourage influencers and creators to apply, while public posts and program references demonstrate how the organization uses hashtags, reposting, and creator visibility to stay visible online. The Fashion Nova Collab page and the Fashion Nova Brand Ambassador Program support this point.

This is important since SMS is the most aggressive portion of the funnel and sits at the top of this ecosystem. Fashion Nova’s own promotional sign-up process requests a phone number in order to receive updates and discounts, indicating that texting is an integral aspect of the company’s customer-acquisition strategy rather than an optional service. The connection is clear from Fashion Nova’s SMS sign-up and the recent discussion of the Shavies lawsuit: once a brand uses text marketing, timing becomes a legal problem rather than merely a marketing one.

The bigger point is that Fashion Nova does not simply sell clothes; it sells urgency. Its model depends on constant drops, influencer visibility, and repeated prompts to act now, which is why a pre-8 a.m. message can become more than annoying-  it can become the basis for a TCPA claim.

The Lawsuit: Shavies v. Fashion Nova, Inc.

The lawsuit is Shavies v. Fashion Nova, Inc. filed on April 24, 2026, in the Northern District of California. According to the public complaint summaries, the plaintiff, Charleen Shavies, alleges that Fashion Nova sent her eight promotional text messages during early morning hours, with the first message arriving at 7:24 a.m. and the last at 7:32 a.m.

The timing is what makes the dispute a TCPA case. The federal quiet-hours rule normally allows telephone solicitations between 8:00 a.m. and 9:00 p.m. local time, which is why cases like this one target texts received before 8:00 a.m. You can anchor that point with the FCC’s telemarketing page and TCPA explainers on the quiet-hours rule. FCC telemarketing guidelines

Shavies also claims that she did not consent to receiving the texts and had not purchased from Fashion Nova in the previous 18 months. That aspect is important because Fashion Nova is likely to argue that there was some type of consent, opt-in, or prior customer connection, whereas the plaintiff contends that the corporation had no legal basis to continue contacting her.

The issue is about more than just one person’s irritation. Shavies is attempting to represent a broader class of consumers who allegedly got comparable marketing messages during the relevant time period; therefore, the lawsuit has the potential to become a much greater exposure issue for Fashion Nova.

Why This Case Matters 

This case sounds small at first, but it can scale very quickly. One consumer’s complaint about early-morning promotional texts becomes, in class-action form, a challenge to the way a fashion brand communicates with all of its customers.

It also matters because Fashion Nova’s business model is highly digital and promotion-heavy. Its public Instagram presence, ambassador-style collaborations, and SMS sign-up flow show a brand that depends on fast, direct contact with consumers.

So the real story is not just “too many texts.” It is whether a fashion company built on urgency, flash sales, and constant online engagement can keep using SMS the same way without running into consumer-protection law.

The Law Behind the Lawsuit 

The legal backbone of this case is the Telephone Consumer Protection Act, a federal law enacted to curb unwanted telemarketing calls, robotexts, and other intrusive contact methods. Courts and regulators have often treated certain marketing texts as covered communications under the TCPA, but recent decisions have created uncertainty over whether texts qualify as “telephone calls” for every TCPA claim.

At a basic level, the TCPA is designed to protect consumer privacy from aggressive outbound marketing. It targets communication methods that are automated, high-volume, or intrusive, and it is especially important in cases like this one because the alleged conduct involves repeated promotional texts rather than one isolated message.

The quiet-hours regulation is what makes the claims against Fashion Nova so relevant. Federal TCPA regulation normally prohibits telephone solicitations before 8:00 a.m. and after 9:00 p.m. in the recipient’s local time zone; therefore, a text sent at 7:24 a.m. is more than simply uncomfortable; it may also be illegal. The time rule provides the plaintiff with a clear factual story: the SMS were promotional and sent too early. In other words, the legal issue is not the message’s content, but when it was delivered, which is precisely the type of error that can transform routine retail marketing into a TCPA claim.

Consent is the other central pillar of the law. The FCC’s framework requires proper prior express consent, and in many marketing contexts prior express written consent, before automated promotional contact; consumers also have the right to revoke consent in a reasonable way. 

That is why Shavies’ allegation that she did not consent is so important. If Fashion Nova cannot prove a valid opt-in, a lawful business relationship, or some other defense grounded in the TCPA rules, the case becomes much harder to dismiss as just a nuisance complaint.

The statute also matters in class-action form because TCPA violations can scale quickly. One early-morning text may sound minor, but repeated messages to multiple consumers can create a much larger exposure problem for a retailer that relies on SMS as a core sales tool.

The case therefore turns on more than the existence of a promotional text. It raises several connected questions: whether the messages were sent through an automated system, whether Shavies consented to receive them, whether the alleged timing falls within the relevant TCPA restriction, and whether text messages qualify as “telephone calls” for the specific claim being brought. Those questions make the case legally significant even though the underlying conduct appears routine.

The Central Dispute: Consent

Consent is one of the most important issues in Shavies v. Fashion Nova, Inc. The plaintiff alleges that she did not agree to receive Fashion Nova’s promotional texts and had not purchased from the company during the previous 18 months. If that allegation is established, Fashion Nova may have difficulty showing that it had a lawful basis to send the messages.

The case will therefore likely turn on evidence rather than broad claims about marketing. The important questions may include whether Shavies entered her number on a Fashion Nova sign-up form, whether the form clearly disclosed that she would receive recurring promotional texts, whether she agreed to automated messages, and whether she later withdrew that permission. The exact wording of the sign-up disclosure could be more important than the fact that her phone number appeared in Fashion Nova’s database.

What counts as consent? For TCPA purposes, consent is more than just having a phone number. A corporation must generally demonstrate that the consumer obtained consent for the relevant sort of communication, especially if the messages are promotional and automated. The FCC’s robotext guidance states that businesses must obtain consent before delivering certain automated marketing emails.

Fashion Nova may argue that Shavies opted in via its website, a promotional campaign, a mobile sign-up form, or another customer engagement. It may even argue that the messages were sent during a previous engagement with the consumer. However, the existence of a previous purchase does not immediately answer all questions; the court may still look into what the consumer agreed to receive, when that agreement was made, and whether the messages were within its scope.

The importance of records: This makes recordkeeping essential. Fashion Nova may be required to provide sign-up logs, timestamps, consent wording, client records, text message histories, and details about the system that transmitted the messages. This information could assist in determining if Shavies voluntarily opted in or if the messages were delivered because her phone number remained in a marketing database after any consent had expired.

Meanwhile, the plaintiff may cite the lack of a clear opt-in, the phrasing of Fashion Nova’s sign-up process, or evidence that she never requested promotional SMS. At the pleading stage, allegations are not facts. The complaint initiates the action; nevertheless, it does not establish that Fashion Nova violated the TCPA.

Revoking consent: Consent can even be withdrawn after it has begun. According to the FCC, customers can revoke consent in any reasonable way, using replies like “STOP,” “QUIT,” “END,” “REVOKE,” “OPT OUT,” “CANCEL,” or “UNSUBSCRIBE.” The FCC’s 2024 regulation also mandates that senders honour genuine revocation requests as quickly as possible and no later than 10 business days. 

The publicly published facts in this complaint mostly concern the alleged lack of consent and the timing of the messages. Unless the complaint or subsequent filings establish that Shavies sent an opt-out request, the story should not imply that a revocation dispute is undoubtedly involved. It is preferable to highlight revocation as a potential legal issue in the broader study.

Why do class actions matter? Consent is especially essential because Shavies wants to represent a larger group of consumers who allegedly received comparable Fashion Nova messages. If Fashion Nova employed the same sign-up method and automated messaging system for a large number of clients, the court may have to assess whether a shared consent issue affected the entire group. This does not guarantee certification for a class. The court may still have to consider whether the proposed class members received comparable messages, if their consent circumstances were sufficiently similar, and if common legal and factual issues predominated. These procedural difficulties are significant because a single complaint about eight texts may spark a much broader controversy regarding Fashion Nova’s SMS-marketing methods.

Why Does a Text Message Count? 

The TCPA was passed in 1991, long before SMS marketing existed in its current form. This raises a modern interpretation problem: the regulation refers to “telephone calls,” but fashion brands now mostly connect with customers via text messaging.

Courts are conflicted on whether text messages count as phone calls under specific TCPA sections. In Howard v. Republican National Committee, the Ninth Circuit viewed texts as calls under Section 227(b), although in Steidinger v. Blackstone Medical Services, the Seventh Circuit ruled differently under Section 227(c)(5).

The distinction is important because the specific TCPA provision being invoked may determine the response. It is not possible to predict the decision by merely asking whether “texts count” in the abstract because a court may consider a text as a call for one kind of claim but not another.

This matter may become crucial in Shavies v. Fashion Nova if Fashion Nova contends that the plaintiff is depending on a TCPA clause that does not establish a private remedy for unsolicited text messages. In response, the plaintiff might contend that the messages are covered by rules governing automated marketing communications and that a restrictive interpretation of “telephone call” would undermine the statute’s goal of protecting consumers.

The wider implications are evident: a rule designed for a previous communications technology is being applied by courts to a retail setting centred around smartphones. Therefore, the case encompasses not just Fashion Nova’s actions but also the boundaries of court interpretation when contemporary commercial activities collide with outdated statutory language.

Fashion Brands as Digital Platforms

These days, fashion companies are more than just garment producers and retailers. They increasingly function as digital platforms that include social media, influencer marketing, loyalty programs, e-commerce, customer databases, automated recommendations, and SMS campaigns. This digitally connected paradigm is demonstrated via Fashion Nova’s public Instagram account, SMS sign-up procedure, and collaboration materials.

The legal risks that fashion enterprises face are altered by this move. In addition to a copied logo or clothing design, a company may now be sued for using automated systems, collecting phone numbers, obtaining consent, and disseminating promotional offers.

This means that traditional knowledge of intellectual property is no longer sufficient for fashion lawyers. In addition to privacy, advertising, consumer protection, data governance, and telecommunications law, brand protection is becoming more and more important.

Possible Defences 

Fashion Nova may argue that Shavies agreed to receive promotional texts via a website form, SMS campaign, purchase procedure, or another consumer interaction. It may also question whether the purported texts come within the precise TCPA clause invoked or whether text messages count as “telephone calls” under that claim.

The corporation could potentially challenge the proposed class. Individual consumers may have used different sign-up methods, received different messages, or provided various kinds of consent. These variances may make it difficult for the plaintiff to demonstrate that common issues apply to the whole proposed class.

Fashion Nova may also oppose the accusation that the messages were delivered via an automated system, claiming that its marketing methods conformed with statutory consent and opt-out laws. These are simply potential defences; the published claims do not prove that Fashion Nova committed a breach.

Implications of the Fashion Industry 

The case is relevant to fashion firms because SMS marketing is now inextricably linked to internet sales. Within seconds, a promotional text can announce a flash sale, build urgency, re-engage a customer from an abandoned basket, or promote a new collection. That economic value also raises compliance concerns if consent records are lacking or messages are issued outside of permissible hours.

Retailers like Zara, H&M, Shein, ASOS, Nike, and Adidas use similar digital tools, although their marketing techniques and legal views may differ. The crucial takeaway is that not every brand using SMS is breaking the law; rather, every brand employing SMS needs a well-documented compliance process.

Brands should therefore:

1. Obtain unambiguous and adequately worded consent.
2. Record when, where, and how consent was acquired.
3. Identify if messages are promotional or transactional.
4. Respect revocation and opt-out requests.
5. Control delivery times based on the recipient’s location.
6. Audit external marketing suppliers and automated message systems.
7. Ensure the communication is covered by the relevant TCPA provision.

The potential repercussions can also be serious. If a court finds repeated violations and the case proceeds as a class action, a seemingly normal marketing campaign can result in significant litigation expenses, statutory damages exposure, and reputational loss.

From Runway to Ringtone 

Shavies v. Fashion Nova highlights how fashion law has expanded beyond apparel and branding. The issue began with a retail text message, but it has raised concerns about consumer autonomy, data collection, automation, permission, and the application of communications law.

This is the surprising link between fashion and telecommunications law: a fashion brand’s legal liability may stem not from the design of a garment, but from the time a sales message hits a consumer’s phone.

For fashion lawyers, the practical lesson is that digital compliance must be included in brand strategy from the beginning. A campaign should be evaluated not just for its creative concept and economic impact, but also for its consent wording, data practices, delivery timeline, and legal foundation.

The title “From Runway to Ringtone” is effective since it captures this change. Fashion law now follows the brand everywhere it works, from the runway and retail shop to Instagram, checkout pages, databases, and the consumer’s phone.

Conclusion 

Shavies v. Fashion Nova, Inc. involves more than eight early-morning advertising communications. It demonstrates how fashion law is increasingly influenced by consumer protection, internet marketing, and privacy issues, rather than just counterfeit items, copied designs, or trademark conflicts.

The case also serves as a reminder that a fashion brand’s most effective sales tools can become its legal liabilities. Fashion Nova’s business strategy is based on speed, urgency, and direct consumer involvement; nevertheless, those same characteristics can generate risk when marketing techniques outpace compliance procedures.

Whether or not the court finds a TCPA violation, the disagreement highlights a bigger industry question: how far should brands be allowed to go in turning cellphones into perpetual shopping channels? The answer is important not only for Fashion Nova, but for any fashion brand that uses text marketing to generate fast purchases.

In that sense, the case represents a broader movement in fashion law. The legal dangers that businesses face extend beyond the runway, the retail store, or the label embroidered into a garment; they now include the timing, method, and frequency of digital communication itself.

The post More Than a Marketing Text: The Legal Implications of Charleen Shavies v. Fashion Nova, Inc. appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

The short version:

• Panettiere died on August 16, 2026, at age 36. Her representative confirmed the death to reporters that evening.
• She is survived by her parents and her 11-year-old daughter, Kaya, whose father is former boxing champion Wladimir Klitschko.
• No official cause of death has been made public.
• She published a memoir, “This Is Me: A Reckoning,” in 2026, in which she wrote candidly about postpartum depression and addiction.
• Her passing has revived attention to remarks she made in past interviews claiming a major beauty brand, Neutrogena, ended her endorsement deal after she went public with her postpartum depression diagnosis, a claim that raises real questions about how morals and wellness clauses in beauty contracts actually work.

Who was Hayden Panettiere?

Panettiere started acting as an infant in commercials and built a three-decade career from there, including roles in “Remember the Titans,” “Ally McBeal,” “A Bug’s Life,” and “Racing Stripes” as a child, then “Heroes” and “Scream 4” as a young adult. She earned two consecutive Golden Globe nominations for Best Supporting Actress in a Series (2013 and 2014) for her role as Juliette Barnes on “Nashville,” a part that also had her recording and releasing original music. She returned to the “Scream” franchise for “Scream VI” and appeared in the 2024 video-game adaptation “Until Dawn.”

Off screen, Panettiere spent years speaking publicly about postpartum depression after the birth of her daughter Kaya in 2014, and about her later struggles with addiction, entering treatment on more than one occasion. Earlier this year she published “This Is Me: A Reckoning,” a memoir that expanded on those struggles along with the pressures of growing up inside the entertainment industry.

What did Hayden Panettiere say about Neutrogena?

Panettiere was one of the faces of Neutrogena during the peak of her early fame, appearing in campaigns built around the brand’s signature skincare imagery. In interviews given after her postpartum depression became public, she said the openness cost her that endorsement relationship, telling audiences that corporate partners, Neutrogena among them, moved on from her once she disclosed her diagnosis and entered treatment. Neither Panettiere nor Neutrogena has laid out the contractual terms behind that decision in public, and it isn’t clear from her remarks alone whether the deal lapsed on its own schedule, was terminated for cause, or ended by mutual agreement. But the claim itself, that a beauty brand quietly stepped away from a spokesperson over a mental health disclosure, is worth examining on its own terms, because it points to a contract mechanism that shapes a lot of the fashion and beauty endorsement world: the morals clause.

What is a morals clause, and how much power does it actually give a brand?

A morals clause (sometimes called a morality clause or, in gentler modern drafting, a “reputation” or “image” clause) is a provision in an endorsement or brand-ambassador agreement that lets a company end the relationship, withhold payment, or claw back fees if the talent’s conduct or public image falls short of a standard the contract defines, often broadly. These clauses became standard practice after a string of celebrity-endorsement scandals going back decades, and they’ve only gotten broader as brands try to move fast on reputational risk in the social media era.

The legal reality is that morals clauses are usually written to favor the brand. Many give the company sole discretion to decide what counts as damaging to its image, and some are worded widely enough to reach personal conduct that has nothing to do with the product being sold. That structure is exactly why talent-side entertainment lawyers spend real negotiating time narrowing these provisions before a contract is signed, tying termination rights to specific, objective triggers like a criminal conviction rather than to a vague standard the brand alone gets to define after the fact.

Where a mental health disclosure fits into that structure is murkier. A morals clause is built to police conduct the brand considers embarrassing or damaging, not medical history. If a company quietly declines to renew or extend a deal after a spokesperson discloses a health condition, that typically isn’t framed internally as a morals clause termination at all, it’s usually handled as a simple non-renewal, which requires no public justification and is far harder to challenge than an explicit for-cause termination would be.

Would this kind of move violate disability or medical-privacy law?

Not necessarily, and this is the part that surprises people outside the industry. Employment protections like the Americans with Disabilities Act, which bars employers from firing or demoting workers because of a disability or treating a medical disclosure as grounds for termination, generally apply to employees. A brand ambassador or spokesperson is almost always retained as an independent contractor under a services or licensing agreement, not hired as an employee, which is one reason how a person’s working relationship with a brand gets classified matters so much in fashion and beauty law. Independent contractor status strips away most of the statutory protections a W-2 employee would have, leaving talent largely dependent on whatever specific language their own contract happens to include.

That’s why the entertainment lawyers who negotiate these deals build in their own protections where they can: carve-outs that exclude medical conditions and mental health disclosures from morals-clause triggers, minimum notice periods before non-renewal, and severance or pro-rated payment if a partnership ends early. None of that is required by statute. It has to be negotiated into the agreement up front, and it’s most likely to happen when the talent has strong representation and enough leverage to insist on it.

What happens to a public figure’s endorsement history and estate after death?

Separately from the Neutrogena question, Panettiere’s death raises the more general issue of what happens to a well-known figure’s name, image and existing contracts after they pass away. Postmortem right of publicity, the legal right to control commercial use of a person’s name and likeness after death, exists in some form in a majority of U.S. states, though the length of protection and exactly what it covers varies widely by state law. Any active endorsement or licensing agreements a person held at the time of death are typically handled according to the contract’s own terms and by the executor of their estate, alongside royalties from creative work like Panettiere’s memoir, which continue to be owned and administered as part of the estate.

Frequently asked questions

Has a cause of death been released for Hayden Panettiere?

No. As of this writing, no official cause of death has been made public, and outlets covering the story continue to describe it as developing.

Did Neutrogena ever respond to Hayden Panettiere’s comments about the brand dropping her?

Not publicly, at least not in a way that has been widely reported. The claim rests on Panettiere’s own past remarks in interviews rather than a confirmed statement from Neutrogena about why the partnership ended.

Can a beauty brand legally end an endorsement deal over a health disclosure?

In most cases, yes, if the contract structure allows it, precisely because brand ambassadors are typically independent contractors rather than employees, and most of the legal protections that would block a health-based termination apply to employment relationships, not services agreements. Whether a specific termination was lawful always depends on the exact language of that contract.

What is the difference between a morals clause and a simple non-renewal?

A morals clause is an explicit contract provision that lets a brand terminate for defined (or broadly discretionary) reasons tied to conduct or reputation. A non-renewal is just a decision not to extend or repeat a deal once its term ends, and it generally doesn’t require the brand to state a reason at all, which makes it a much lower-friction way to quietly step back from a spokesperson.

What happens to Hayden Panettiere’s memoir now?

Royalties and rights connected to “This Is Me: A Reckoning” become part of her estate, administered by her executor like any other asset, alongside whatever active licensing or endorsement agreements she held at the time of her death.

This article discusses a recent death and references the subject’s public statements about mental health and addiction. It is for general informational purposes about entertainment and endorsement contract law and does not constitute legal advice. If you or someone you know is struggling, the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is available by call or text at 988 in the United States.

The post Hayden Panettiere Dies at 36 appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

The short version

• The identity is deliberate imperfection: clothes that look slightly wrong on purpose, styled with confidence.
• The target audience is a culturally fluent customer in her twenties and thirties, not a first-time logo buyer.
• Miu Miu retail sales rose 35 per cent in the year to December 2025; Prada brand retail fell 1 per cent.
• It topped the Lyst Index in the second quarter of 2025, displacing Loewe.
• The strategy depends on scarcity of meaning rather than scarcity of supply.

What is Miu Miu’s brand identity?

Studied wrongness. That is the whole thing, and everything else is an expression of it.

A Miu Miu collection routinely puts together items that a conventional luxury house would not: a cardigan cut like an afterthought, a skirt shorter than the occasion allows, a ballet flat with a schoolgirl sock, a bag that looks slightly too practical. The effect is not sloppiness. It is the visual language of someone who knows the rules well enough to break specific ones on purpose, which is a very different signal from not knowing them at all.

This is why the brand is difficult to copy at the identity level. You can reproduce a Miu Miu silhouette in six weeks. You cannot reproduce the confidence that makes the styling read as intentional rather than confused. Most attempts at the aesthetic land as the second thing.

Who is Miu Miu’s target audience?

A customer who already understands fashion and is buying to signal taste to people who share her references, not wealth to people who do not.

That is a narrower audience than “Gen Z”, and the shorthand does the strategy a disservice. Plenty of young luxury customers buy logos. Miu Miu’s core buyer is specifically the one who finds logos boring. She is likely to be in her twenties or thirties, likely to work in or adjacent to a creative field, and likely to have opinions about which houses are interesting this season. She is also, importantly, not always rich. Part of the brand’s reach comes from customers who buy one piece a year and build around it.

The distinction matters commercially because it dictates what the brand can and cannot do. It can put a bizarre garment on a runway and be rewarded for it. It cannot run a discount without damage, and it cannot lean on a monogram, because its customer reads both as capitulation. We looked at how this cohort forms attachments in our piece on Gen Z and community-driven brand loyalty, and the pattern holds here: belonging beats aspiration.

How does Miu Miu actually market itself?

Through cultural production rather than advertising. Four mechanisms carry most of the weight.

Long-running creative programmes. Miu Miu has funded short films by women directors for years, and has run literary and cultural commissions alongside them. These are not campaigns with a product at the end. They are the brand paying to be in the same room as the culture its customer cares about, repeatedly, over a decade. That is a slow strategy, and slow strategies compound.

Casting as a statement. The people the brand puts in its clothes tend to be interesting before they are famous, and the age range is wider than luxury convention allows. This does more work than any slogan, because casting is a claim about who the brand thinks is worth looking at.

Runway moments engineered for circulation. A collection produces two or three images that will travel on their own. Not because they were designed for social media, which usually produces something hollow, but because they are genuinely strange enough to be worth sending to a friend.

Restraint everywhere else. No heavy discounting, no diffusion line, no logo saturation, no scramble for every collaboration on offer. The brand’s power comes substantially from what it refuses. Our guide to building a collaboration strategy makes the same point from the other direction: the partnerships you decline define the brand as much as the ones you sign.

Why is Miu Miu growing while Prada is flat?

Because it is answering a question the market is currently asking and Prada is not.

The luxury slowdown of the last few years has hit hardest at the point where a brand’s proposition is essentially “this is expensive and everyone knows it”. Customers who bought for that reason have become price-sensitive, which is what happens when the value was always in the signal. Customers who buy for a point of view are more durable, because the thing they are buying has not become less interesting.

Notice the deceleration, though. Twenty per cent in the fourth quarter against ninety-three per cent the year before is still strong growth, and it is the beginning of normalisation. Any brand growing at ninety per cent is borrowing from its own future, and the interesting question for Miu Miu is not whether the rate falls but whether the customer stays when it does.

What is the risk in this strategy?

Ubiquity. The exact thing that makes the brand work is the thing success destroys.

A brand whose value is “you have to know” stops working when everyone knows. The ballet flat that signalled taste in one season signals nothing two seasons later when it is on every high street. Miu Miu’s aesthetic has been interpreted downmarket at extraordinary speed, which is flattering in the short term and corrosive over time.

There is a second risk that gets discussed less. High visibility drives counterfeiting, and counterfeiting of a brand built on subtlety is unusually damaging, because a bad fake of a logo bag is obvious while a bad fake of a quiet one may not be. We covered how that market operates in our piece on avoiding fake designer bags. Enforcement is expensive and never complete, and for a brand at this level of cultural heat it is a permanent line item rather than a project.

What can other brands actually take from this?

Three things, none of which are cheap.

First, a point of view outperforms a positioning statement. “Accessible luxury for the modern woman” is not a point of view. “Clothes that look slightly wrong on purpose” is, and you can brief a designer from it.

Second, cultural investment has to be long enough to be believed. A single film commission is a campaign. Ten years of them is an identity. Most brands quit at year two, when there is nothing to show, which is precisely when the strategy starts working.

Third, refusal is a strategy. The brands that survive a downturn are usually the ones that said no to the discount, the licence and the airport concession when times were good. That is easy to write and extremely hard to do with a quarterly number to hit. Our broader treatment of the discipline is in luxury fashion marketing, and the structural background to this particular brand is in who owns Miu Miu and our full Miu Miu case study.

Frequently asked questions

What is Miu Miu’s brand identity in one sentence?

Deliberate imperfection worn with confidence: clothes that look slightly off by design, aimed at a customer who wants to appear interesting rather than wealthy.

Who is Miu Miu’s target market?

Culturally fluent women, largely in their twenties and thirties, who buy for taste signals rather than status signals. It is narrower than “Gen Z” and includes plenty of customers who buy one piece a year.

Why is Miu Miu so popular right now?

Its proposition survived the luxury slowdown better than logo-led brands did. Retail sales grew 35 per cent in the year to December 2025 while the Prada brand fell 1 per cent, and it topped the Lyst Index in the second quarter of 2025.

Does Miu Miu advertise?

It advertises, but the heavier investment goes into long-running cultural programmes such as its film commissions. The strategy is to be present in the culture its customer follows rather than to interrupt her.

Is Miu Miu’s growth sustainable?

The rate is already normalising, from 93 per cent growth in FY24 to 20 per cent in the final quarter of FY25. That is expected. The real test is whether an identity built on not being obvious survives becoming extremely well known.

Who owns Miu Miu?

Prada S.p.A. owns it outright. It is a separate brand within the Prada Group rather than a diffusion line, and it has been led creatively by Miuccia Prada since she founded it in 1993.

The post Miu Miu’s Marketing Strategy: How It Became Gen Z’s Luxury Brand appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

This is the adversarial lane of fashion law. It suits people who like pressure and argument and dislike the administrative rhythm of portfolio work.

What the disputes are actually about

The distribution matters. Students imagine a practice built on copying cases; most practitioners spend more of their time on contract failures and enforcement volume. Understanding where the line between a legal copy and an infringement sits is still the intellectual core of the job, and our explainer on dupes versus counterfeits sets it out.

Four decisions worth knowing

Louboutin v Yves Saint Laurent, US Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit, 2012

The court rejected a blanket rule against single colour marks in fashion, holding that aesthetic functionality requires a fact-specific inquiry, and that protection is denied only where exclusive use would put competitors at a significant non-reputation-related disadvantage. It then limited Louboutin’s mark to a red lacquered outsole contrasting with the adjoining upper, which meant YSL’s monochrome red shoe did not infringe (opinion).

The lesson for a litigator is that winning the principle and losing the case are entirely compatible outcomes, and that how a mark is defined often decides the dispute before the evidence does. Our short piece on trade dress covers the adjacent doctrine.

Hermes International v Rothschild, US District Court, Southern District of New York, 2023

A jury found for Hermes on trademark infringement, dilution and cybersquatting over the MetaBirkins non-fungible tokens, awarding USD 133,000 in damages. The court applied the Rogers v Grimaldi framework and found the artistic-expression defence unavailable on the evidence, which included survey material on consumer confusion (case note).

Note the damages figure. A landmark case in the field produced an award smaller than the cost of running it. Fashion litigation is very often about precedent, deterrence and market signal rather than recovery.

Louboutin v Amazon, Court of Justice of the European Union, December 2022

In joined cases C-148/21 and C-184/21, the Court held that the operator of an online marketplace may itself be treated as using a third party’s trademark, where a reasonably well informed user could establish a link between the mark and the operator’s own services, for example because the platform’s advertising presents the goods as its own (EU IP Helpdesk). That reopened a route to direct claims against platforms rather than only against individual sellers.

Christian Louboutin SAS v Nakul Bajaj, Delhi High Court

The Indian courts reached a comparable destination by a different route, holding that an e-commerce platform which actively participates in the sale, rather than acting as a passive conduit, cannot rely on the intermediary safe harbour in the Information Technology Act. Our case note is here: Christian Louboutin SAS v Nakul Bajaj. For a current US example of how these arguments are running now, see our note on Williams-Sonoma v Quince.

Where these cases are heard

United States. Federal district courts, with appeals to the regional circuits, except design patent appeals which go to the Federal Circuit. That court changed design patent practice materially in LKQ Corporation v GM Global Technology Operations, decided en banc on 21 May 2024, which overruled the long-standing Rosen-Durling test and applied the ordinary Graham obviousness factors to design patents (opinion). Anyone litigating US design rights in fashion needs to know this.

England and Wales. Two forums matter. The High Court for large disputes, and the Intellectual Property Enterprise Court for smaller ones. The IPEC multi-track limits damages to £500,000 and caps recoverable costs at no more than £50,000, with a small claims track for claims up to £10,000 (Courts and Tribunals Judiciary). For emerging designers, that cost certainty is the difference between having a remedy and not having one.

European Union. Registration and invalidity proceedings run through EUIPO, but infringement is litigated in national courts designated as EU trademark and design courts. A pan-EU injunction is possible, which makes forum selection an important early decision.

India. The Delhi High Court’s Intellectual Property Division, created in 2021, concentrated much of the country’s IP litigation in one forum. Indian practice is distinctive for the readiness of courts to grant interim injunctions and orders against unidentified defendants, which suits enforcement against online counterfeiting.

What the work demands

• Speed under pressure. Interim applications are prepared in days. If that prospect is energising rather than alarming, this is your lane.
• Evidence discipline. Survey evidence, market witness statements, purchase records and expert reports. Cases are won on preparation, not on argument.
• Visual explanation. You have to make a judge see what a consumer sees. That is a specific skill and it is not taught anywhere.
• Realism about cost. Advising a small designer that a claim is good but not economic is part of the job.
• Tolerance for losing. Litigators lose regularly. People who take it personally do not last.

How to build this practice

1. Qualify and get into general disputes work. Procedure, evidence and interim applications transfer completely between subject areas. Routes by jurisdiction are in how to become a fashion lawyer.
2. Learn IP procedure specifically. Injunctions, disclosure of infringing supply chains, seizure orders and customs procedure.
3. Take the counterfeiting work. It is high volume and often delegated to juniors, which means you get responsibility early.
4. Read judgments in your jurisdiction and write about them. In a field this small, being publicly literate about the case law is a genuine differentiator.
5. Build a relationship with the enforcement side. Litigation and brand protection feed each other; the disputes come out of the enforcement programme.

Internships in disputes teams are worth more here than a general commercial placement, because you see the procedural machinery early.

The honest downsides

The hours are unpredictable and controlled by other people’s deadlines. Interim applications land without warning and consume weekends. Most matters settle, which means much of the work you do never gets tested and rarely gets a public result.

The economics are also uneven. Large luxury groups can fund litigation at full commercial rates; emerging designers usually cannot, which means the cases you most want to run are often the ones nobody can pay for. That gap is one of the more uncomfortable features of the field, and it is why cost-capped forums like the IPEC matter more than their caseload suggests.

There is also the volume problem at entry level. A junior on a counterfeiting programme may spend a year on default judgments and takedowns. That is genuine experience, but it is not what the job description implied. Pay follows disputes practice generally rather than anything fashion-specific, covered in fashion lawyer salary, and the wider assessment of the field is in Is Fashion Law a Good Career? An Honest Look. Unfamiliar terminology is covered in the fashion law glossary.

Against all of that: litigation is where the law in this area is actually made. Every principle a licensing lawyer relies on when drafting was settled by someone who argued it first.

Frequently asked questions

What kinds of cases do fashion litigators actually run?

Trademark and design infringement, passing off and unfair competition, counterfeit and grey market claims, contract disputes with suppliers and licensees, advertising and consumer protection claims, and employment disputes over designers moving between houses. Pure copying cases are a smaller share of the docket than students expect. Contract and enforcement work makes up most of it.

Do fashion disputes usually go to trial?

Most do not. They settle, or they end at the interim injunction stage, which in practice decides the commercial outcome because a season is short and an injunction that lasts through it is effectively final. Litigators in this field spend far more time on urgent applications and settlement negotiation than on trials.

Which jurisdiction is best for a fashion dispute?

It depends on what you want. England’s Intellectual Property Enterprise Court offers cost certainty, with a damages limit of up to £500,000 on the multi-track and recoverable costs capped at no more than £50,000. US federal court offers larger damages and broader discovery but at much higher cost. Indian courts are notable for how readily interim relief is granted. Forum choice is a substantive strategic decision, not an administrative one.

Do you need a design or technical background to litigate fashion cases?

No. What you need is the ability to explain visual similarity to a judge who has no interest in fashion, and to work with expert and survey evidence. Being able to read a technical pack or understand how a garment is constructed helps in copying cases, but it is learned on the job rather than required at entry.

Solicitor or barrister for fashion disputes in the UK?

Both work. Solicitors run the case, manage evidence and clients, and handle the commercial strategy. Barristers argue the hearings and give the specialist opinions. The specialist IP Bar is small and competitive, and very few of its members would describe fashion as a core practice, so the solicitor route offers more entry points into this kind of work.

How do you get fashion litigation experience early in a career?

Take general IP and commercial disputes first, because the procedural skills transfer completely. Then volunteer for anything involving brands, retail, counterfeiting or advertising. Interim injunction work is the highest value experience you can get in the first few years, because it is where these cases are usually decided.

This article is general career information written for an international readership. It is not legal advice, and it is not career advice specific to any individual. Case law and procedural rules change, and the summaries above are simplified; read the judgments themselves before relying on them.

Litigation is the “litigator” lane in our fashion law career quiz. If the description of urgent applications and evidence discipline sounded appealing rather than exhausting, that lane is probably yours. If it sounded like the wrong kind of pressure, the quiz will point you towards licensing, brand protection, compliance and sustainability work, entertainment and fashion law, study routes or independent practice.

The post Fashion Litigation Lawyer: What the Disputes Really Look Like appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

From Copycat Products to Comparative Marketing: The Williams-Sonoma v. Quince Dispute

Luxury goods corporations have used intellectual property rules to protect themselves against imitations during the previous few decades. The primary strategies employed to combat counterfeit goods have been trademark infringement, design patents, copyright regulations, and trade dress. However, most of the time, using these tools causes issues, particularly when a product is modeled after another but does not duplicate its protected elements. In fact, most designs lack the usefulness and distinctiveness needed to be protected by intellectual property regulations.

Against this backdrop, Williams-Sonoma, Inc. v. Last Brand, Inc. (doing business as Quince) marks a significant evolution in the legal response to the dupe economy. Rather than alleging that Quince unlawfully copied the design of its products, Williams-Sonoma advances an entirely different legal theory: that Quince systematically misled consumers through deceptive comparative advertising. The dispute therefore shifts the focus from what was being sold to how it was being marketed.

In this regard, Williams-Sonoma, Inc. v. Last Brand, Inc. (dba Quince) signifies a significant change in how courts handle matters pertaining to the duping economy. In contrast to instances when Quince is accused of breaking the law by stealing their product designs, Williams-Sonoma accuses Quince of deceiving consumers with its comparison advertising.

The lawsuit, which was filed on November 21, 2025, in the United States District Court for the Northern District of California, alleges that Quince ran a massive advertising campaign in which it frequently contrasted its goods with those of Williams-Sonoma brands, including Pottery Barn, West Elm, Williams-Sonoma, and Rejuvenation. According to the lawsuit’s assertions, Quince’s marketing materials implied that its goods offered comparable quality at significantly lower costs.

Quince’s well-known “Beyond Compare” advertising campaign is a major component of the allegations against Williams-Sonoma. These comparisons, which showed significant percentage savings between Quince’s items and those of well-known premium brands, were prominently shown on numerous product pages. Williams-Sonoma has argued that because these comparisons did not compare comparable products, they were intrinsically misleading. Instead, it has been said that Quince made the decision to increase the pricing of competitors by comparing different items.

A comparison chart showing that a comparable Pottery Barn sectional sofa cost roughly $5,148 suggests that purchasers would save 52% when purchasing the Quince sectional sofa is one of the more persuasive examples of complaints. The closest Pottery Barn sectional sofa to compare is actually priced at about $3,598, according to Williams-Sonoma. The complaint also claims that the Quince and Pottery Barn sectional sofas differ significantly in terms of manufacture and style.

Additionally, Quince’s use of social media advertisements and marketing email campaigns with phrases like “Like Pottery Barn, but 50% less” is mentioned in the complaint. According to Williams-Sonoma, there were at least a few instances where the products that were marketed did not correspond with those that Pottery Barn or other Williams-Sonoma companies actually sold. To give the false appearance of equivalency, the advertisements compared their products to the reputation of a well-known brand rather than comparing similar products.

Section 43(a) of the Lanham Act (15 U.S.C. § 1125(a)(1)(B)), which forbids making any false or misleading representation about the nature, characteristics, quality, or origin of goods or services, is the basis for Williams-Sonoma’s lawsuit. The company argues that Quince’s comparison advertising deceived customers while simultaneously profiting from the goodwill of well-known brands, using California’s False Advertising Law and Unfair Competition Law in addition to the Federal cause of action.

Importantly, Williams-Sonoma acknowledges that truthful comparative ads are legal and promote competition. In other words, it is more concerned with an advertising strategy that misrepresents the cost, quality, or equality of the items than it is with competition in and of itself. The judicial proceedings revolve around the aforementioned point, which distinguishes this case from conventional “dupe cases.” Williams-Sonoma wants its rivals to defend their comparisons rather than asserting a proprietary stake in product appearance.

Beyond Product Copying: Why False Advertising May Become Fashion’s Strongest Legal Weapon

The Williams-Sonoma v. Quince case is significant for reasons that go well beyond the particular dispute between two rival retail establishments. The case demonstrates a shift in the way well-known brands deal with the rapidly expanding counterfeit sector. In order to defend themselves against other businesses producing comparable goods, the brands used to rely solely on intellectual property rules, which proved to be quite ineffectual. However, these days, the brands also use consumer protection laws and misleading advertising.

Intellectual property ownership has long been a key component of anti-dupe arguments. Traditionally, luxury firms have claimed that their rivals had violated their trademark registrations, copied trade dress that was sufficiently distinctive to identify the origin of the goods, or mimicked protectable elements of their items. Even while they are still important, these anti-dupe assertions have inherent limits. Many fashion designs don’t fall within copyright, design patent, or trade dress protection because they are practical, trend-driven, or based on conventional industry aesthetics.

These weaknesses are evident in recent litigation. In the June 2025 case Lululemon Athletica v. Costco, the Kirkland brand of Costco was accused of violating Lululemon’s designs, trademarks, and trade dresses by selling items that were strikingly similar to Lululemon, such as the ABC Pants, Define Jacket, and Scuba Hoodie. It was founded on intellectual property law since the offered goods were replicas of legitimate goods and were likely to lead consumers to believe they were purchasing authentic Lululemon merchandise.

Similar to this, Coach (Tapestry) v. Quince was founded on trade dress law since Quince was charged with copying unique non-functional features of the Coach Rogue and Soho purses. A UGG boot design patent was also threatened with infringement in Deckers Outdoor Corp. v. Quince. Both of these instances addressed products that people frequently referred to as “dupes,” even though they focused on the infringement of intellectual property rights over the products’ designs. In fact, Deckers suffered a loss as a result of the jury’s decision to invalidate its design patent, whereas Coach’s action was settled with a joint dismissal and no verdict at all.

Conversely, the Williams-Sonoma v. Quince case deviates from the conventional method. Williams-Sonoma does not contend that they have a monopoly on the appearance and style of goods like couches, kitchenware, lights, carpets, and home décor. They contend that Quince made allegedly deceptive factual statements about their rival’s goods. The reason for this is that the products were misrepresented to customers as being comparable in nature, not because they were copies of high-end designs.

There are important legal ramifications to such a distinction. Comparative advertising has long been recognized as a legitimate and potentially beneficial method of business communication. Businesses are free to compare their goods with comparable goods sold by other businesses as long as the comparisons are factual and do not mislead customers. In actuality, since customers may compare products impartially, comparative advertising can improve market transparency.

When comparative advertising employs inaccurate or misleading information, it loses its legal immunity. When an advertisement contains a misleading representation of a fact that is likely to mislead a significant portion of the target public and has a meaningful impact on their purchasing decision, liability may be imposed under Section 43(a) of the Lanham Act. Regardless of whether there has been any uncertainty, California’s Unfair Competition Law and False Advertising Law prohibit a businessman from engaging in deceptive behavior if it is likely to mislead reasonable people.

Quince’s response highlights the case’s legal complexity. In its motion to dismiss the complaint, Quince claims that, based on the overall presentation, the advertisements are not deceptive or incorrect. It clarifies that every product advertised is identified as a Quince product, packaged in Quince packaging, and has a disclaimer stating that rival pricing is subject to change at any time. Quince contends that rather than providing proof that customers have been duped, Williams-Sonoma depends too heavily on customer ratings, quality evaluation, and chosen illustrations.

Therefore, whether or not Quince is selling products that are comparable to those of luxury brands won’t determine the outcome; instead, it will depend on whether or not its advertising significantly misleads reasonable consumers. A precedent-setting case may be established if the court discovers any deceptive price comparison in Quince’s comparative advertising campaign, or even an unverified claim of equivalency or omission. However, the case may succeed if the court finds that reasonable consumers interpret this comparative advertisement as literal marketing.

The lawsuit has a significant message for the fashion industry regardless of whether the corporation wins. The legal dangers associated with the fake economy will now extend beyond simply replicating the designs to include how the firms communicate the similarities to their customers. The courts may have to determine the boundaries between advertising and deception as dupe marketing develops, becoming more sophisticated and utilizing analogies to luxury goods. As a result, the Williams-Sonoma v. Quince case might rank among the most significant instances of deceptive advertising in history.

Implications for the Fashion Industry: The Future of Comparative Advertising and Dupe Marketing

The conflict between Williams-Sonoma and Quince is much more than just a lawsuit against two rival merchants; it captures the rapid development of the “dupe economy,” as well as the increasing ubiquity of goods made to resemble premium goods. In the era of social media, comparison-based advertising has become a powerful marketing tool; companies frequently claim that their goods are “the same quality for half the price.” The case questions the veracity of such statements rather than the idea of “dupe” items per se. Williams-Sonoma states in its lawsuit that while the competition itself is not illegal, false advertising laws may be broken by making deceptive claims about the product’s quality, composition, or cost.

The lawsuit also serves as a reminder that assertions made during competitive advertising should be substantiated. Businesses that utilize comparison advertising in their marketing campaigns need to ensure that the items are similar in terms of features, pricing, and quality. We can anticipate that possibly deceptive comparative advertisements will receive greater attention as internet commerce and influencer marketing become increasingly significant factors in consumers’ decision-making processes. Ultimately, the goal of the action is to establish the limits of the dupes’ permissible advertising methods rather than to eliminate their market.

Conclusion

The emergence of the “duped economy” has brought attention to the intellectual property regime’s shortcomings when it comes to luxury goods, shifting the focus of fashion conflicts from product design to advertising. The question in Williams-Sonoma v. Quince is whether Quince produced deceptive comparative marketing regarding the pricing comparison, the product comparison, and the equivalency claim, rather than whether Quince was accused of violating Williams-Sonoma’s designs. The case serves as an example of how businesses are free to compete with one another, but they are not allowed to mislead or deceive their clients. As marketing moves into the internet sphere, the case highlights the growing intersection between consumer protection and fashion rules.

In a broader sense, the lawsuit illustrates a new strategy used by corporations to enforce their brands, as they are starting to employ a variety of legal tools to safeguard their commercial interests, including intellectual property, false advertising, unfair competition, and consumer protection law. Even though the case’s fate is still unknown, it can serve as a helpful reminder to all parties that any comparative advertising must be based on factual product comparisons and objective evidence. Legal compliance is no longer an afterthought but rather a crucial component of marketing strategies in the fashion and luxury industries. The Williams-Sonoma v. Quince case will probably influence future rulings about comparative advertising in the modern economy, regardless of the court’s ruling.

The post The Next Frontier of Dupe Litigation: How Williams-Sonoma v. Quince Is Redefining Comparative Advertising in the Fashion Industry appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

Introduction

On 16 May 2026, Audemars Piguet (“AP”), one of Swiss horology’s most fiercely independent luxury houses, launched the “Royal Pop,” an eight-piece bio ceramic pocket watch collection produced in collaboration with the Swatch Group. The launch is simultaneously a marketing masterstroke and a jurisprudential event. It arrives at the precise moment that AP’s decade-long campaign to register the three-dimensional configuration of its iconic Royal Oak as a protectable trademark has collapsed across three jurisdictions, the United States Trademark Trial and Appeal Board (TTAB), the Japan Patent Office and its IP High Court, and the Court of Milan. This article argues that the Royal Pop is not merely a commercial collaboration; it is a deliberate strategic response to the failure of formal IP protection, deploying cross-segment licensing as a substitute for registration and a new trademark architecture as a defensive instrument.

The Royal Oak as IP Asset: Design History

In 1972, AP’s managing director Georges Golay commissioned Gérald Genta, the pre-eminent freelance watch designer of the era, to sketch a luxury steel sports watch overnight, for presentation at the Basel Watch Fair the following morning. [1]The result was the Royal Oak, an octagonal bezel secured by eight exposed hexagonal gold screws, inspired by the brass helmets of Swiss deep-sea divers, integrated into a seamless tapered steel bracelet. Launched at 3,300 Swiss francs, more expensive than a contemporary gold Patek Philippe, the Royal Oak initially baffled the market. Over the following decade, it established an entirely new product category of the luxury sports watch.[2]

A structural tension shapes the design’s IP significance. The Royal Oak is the creation of an identifiable author, sketched in one evening; it has an undeniable artistic personality. Yet Genta’s inspirational sources were explicitly functional. Exposed screws replicate the structural necessity of sealing a diver’s helmet; the octagonal form echoes naval porthole geometry. This tension between artistic originality and functional referentiality would prove legally fatal to AP’s registration campaign.

Genta compounded the problem by designing cognate vocabulary for competitors. The Patek Philippe Nautilus (1976), the IWC Ingenieur SL (1976), and the Cartier Pasha (1985) all deploy integrated bracelets, geometric bezels, and exposed architectural hardware.[3] The result is a crowded field in which no single manufacturer can credibly argue that the design grammar of the luxury sports watch uniquely identifies its source.

The Multi-Jurisdictional IP Collapse

When examining the jurisdictional record, it is necessary to establish the doctrinal standard that governed each proceeding, a standard that Indian trademark law articulates with particular clarity and that is directly relevant to the comparative analysis this article undertakes. Under Sections 9 and 32 of the Trade Marks Act, 1999, a product’s shape cannot be treated as inherently distinctive. It requires proof of acquired distinctiveness through long and exclusive use before it is eligible for registration. The Delhi High Court stated this principle with precision in Knitpro International v. Examiner of Trade Marks (2022)[4], holding that a shape mark must be immediately identifiable with the source of the product by itself, without any accompanying name or logo, and that only shapes which consumers have come genuinely to read as identifying a particular legal entity, rather than as a functional or ornamental feature of the product category, can qualify as trademarks. The court was explicit that generic or functional shapes, however familiar to consumers, cannot serve as source identifiers. The earlier decision in M.R.F. Limited v. Metro Tyres Limited (1990) [5]shows the same court acknowledging the doctrine’s obverse: a distinctive tyre tread pattern had, through sustained and exclusive use, moved sufficiently beyond mere functionality to signal a specific commercial origin in the consumer’s mind, and on that basis warranted protection. Together, these decisions draw the line that every jurisdiction has consistently applied to the Royal Oak’s design, a shape that is generic, functional, or associated in consumer perception with a word mark rather than with the configuration itself will not cross the threshold; a shape that consumers have genuinely learned to read as a brand signal, independent of any textual accompaniment, can. It is against this standard, consistent across the U.S., Japan, Italy, and India, that AP’s multi-jurisdictional record must be assessed.

United States: TTAB (2025)

AP filed two USPTO applications seeking registration of the Royal Oak’s three-dimensional configuration, encompassing the watch face, octagonal bezel, eight hexagonal screws, case, and integrated bracelet. The examiner refused both on grounds of functionality and absence of acquired distinctiveness. Rather than narrowing its claims to the bezel and screwheads, the elements the USPTO found potentially distinctive, AP appealed to the TTAB, seeking protection for the full design system as a unitary mark. In a decision of 2 January 2025, subsequently incorporated into the USPTO’s Trademark Manual of Examining Procedure (TMEP) update of June 2025, the TTAB affirmed the refusal on both grounds.[6] The functionality analysis found that round watch faces are utility-driven and ubiquitous. The distinctiveness analysis delivered the more damaging blow. AP’s own advertising systematically foregrounded the “Audemars Piguet” and “AP” word marks alongside product images, meaning consumers associated the design with a word mark and not the design configuration itself. The TTAB further noted that AP’s catalogues feature Royal Oak variants that lack one or more claimed design elements, thereby precluding proof of a consistent unitary mark.

B. Japan: JPO and IP High Court (2020–2024)

AP filed a Japanese trademark application for the Royal Oak shape in February 2020. The JPO examiner rejected it under Article 3(1)(iii) of the Japan Trademark Law as lacking inherent distinctiveness because the design fell within customary wristwatch shapes. The JPO Appeal Board affirmed in June 2023 and additionally found AP’s secondary-meaning evidence insufficient. Only eleven official stores in Japan, no market share data, and publications that invariably paired the Royal Oak with its word mark. AP’s suit before the Japan IP High Court was dismissed on 28 March 2024.[7] In a separate proceeding decided in October 2024, the JPO dismissed AP’s opposition to registration of the word mark “ROYAL OAK” by a Japanese whisky maker, finding insufficient general consumer recognition, illustrating the limits of an IP strategy that had never penetrated mass-market consciousness.[8]

C. Italy: Court of Milan (2015)

The erosion of AP’s IP position predates these proceedings. In March 2015, the Milan Business Court rejected AP’s preliminary injunction against a domestic start-up selling a Royal Oak-influenced steel sports watch at approximately €150.[9] The Court found that the individual design elements, octagonal bezel, exposed screws, and integrated case form were common across the industry and thus lacked the particularised distinctiveness required for interim relief. The Court notably held that AP’s extreme price-point separation (€20,000 versus €150) did not automatically establish the distinctiveness necessary to ground a trade dress claim.

The Royal Pop: Strategic Mechanics

The Royal Pop’s IP architecture was assembled over two years in deliberate sequence. On 15 January 2024, Swatch AG filed “ROYAL POP” as a Swiss trademark in Class 14.[10] On 28 March 2024, the Japan IP High Court dismissed AP’s design appeal. On 18 June 2024, Swatch filed the mark internationally under the Madrid Protocol. On 17 December 2024, the U.S. registration was confirmed. On 2 January 2025, the TTAB published its refusal of AP’s configuration marks. The Royal Pop launched on 16 May 2026. The sequence is consistent with a collaboration conceived precisely as AP’s IP position collapsed, using it to generate new registered trademark rights (“ROYAL POP”) that AP could not obtain for the design elements themselves.

The commercial structure reinforces this reading. AP confirmed that 100% of its proceeds from the collaboration will flow directly to a non-profit initiative to preserve watchmaking savoir-faire, funding training for the next generation of Swiss horological craftspeople. This commitment neutralises the narrative of brand dilution. AP cannot be characterised as selling its design language for profit, and converts the collaboration from a revenue play into a philanthropic instrument. Industry analysts estimate the royalty pool at CHF 25–50 million based on MoonSwatch volume comparisons; AP has declined to retain a single franc of it.

The pocket watch format is equally deliberate. The Royal Oak’s identity is inseparable from the wristwatch format; a pocket watch wearing Royal Oak design elements occupies a categorically different product space, preventing any product-line confusion between the Royal Pop and the luxury original. It borrows the design vocabulary of the Royal Oak without replicating its category, a form of controlled artistic quotation that declares its own secondary status while requiring recognition of the original for legibility. This is an IP strategy through product architecture rather than registration.

The Royal Pop’s most underappreciated legal risk, however, lies not in what it says but in how it is structured. Secondary meaning in trademark law is not a free-floating asset; it attaches to a specific applicant. For AP to successfully re-file for protection over the Royal Oak’s design configuration, it must demonstrate that the relevant consuming public associates the octagonal bezel, the eight hexagonal screws, and the tapisserie pattern with Audemars Piguet as a single, identifiable source, not with watches generally, and critically, not with Swatch. The Royal Pop’s distribution architecture makes this genuinely difficult. The collaboration is retailed exclusively through Swatch boutiques; every consumer touchpoint, the retail environment, the packaging, the sales staff, and the store’s brand identity is Swatch. Over hundreds of thousands of transactions, this architecture builds an association between the Royal Oak’s design vocabulary and the Swatch retail experience that may, over time, compete with AP’s single-source design claim rather than reinforce it. A design that consumers learn to associate simultaneously with AP and Swatch is, for registration purposes, arguably associated with neither as a sole source indicator, since secondary meaning demands that consumers understand the shape to mean “this came from one specific maker.” Co-branding, by definition, signals two makers. This risk can be managed; marketing communications that consistently frame the Royal Pop as “Swatch’s interpretation of the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak design,” preserving AP as originator and Swatch as manufacturing partner, maintain a cleaner attribution structure. Still, it cannot be eliminated, and it represents the collaboration’s most consequential unresolved legal tension.

Economic Analysis: Democratisation and Dilution

The MoonSwatch (March 2022) provides the closest commercial precedent. Omega and Swatch,, both Swatch Group members,, launched a bio-ceramic wristwatch referencing the Speedmaster Moonwatch at $260 retail. [11]Over two million units were sold across 36 models. Secondary market prices averaged $900 within the first week, a 250% premium. Omega’s brand metrics improved. The MoonSwatch became the most-traded watch release in StockX history at launch. Former AP CEO François-Henry Bennahmias praised it publicly as “innovative,” a statement whose prescience became apparent when AP announced its own analogous collaboration.[12]

The brand dilution counterargument is structurally serious. The Royal Oak’s value rests not merely on material quality but on its symbolic economy of decades of controlled scarcity, limited annual production of approximately 50,000–53,000 pieces, multi-year waiting lists, and secondary market premiums that derive from the perception that the Royal Oak is inaccessible. That perceived inaccessibility depends on social distance, the distance between Le Brassus and the Swatch boutique on the high street, which the Royal Pop explicitly closes. Luxury economists in the tradition of Dubois and Laurent would argue that aspirational desire is most powerful when the aspirant possesses a physical talisman that sustains rather than discharges the desire; [13] the $400 Royal Pop may function as precisely such a talisman for a generation priced out of the Royal Oak. The decisive empirical question of whether Royal Pop buyers become Royal Oak buyers, or whether the $400 encounter discharges aspiration rather than intensifying it, will take years to answer. What is already clear is that the Royal Pop creates an audience-development infrastructure that AP’s own distribution model of under 100 mono-brand boutiques, at an average transaction price of CHF 51,000, cannot structurally build.

Jurisprudential Synthesis

The Royal Pop exemplifies what this article designates the “Collaborative IP Laundering” (CIL) model, where a luxury house facing the failure of formal IP registration, enters a controlled licensing arrangement with a mass-market manufacturer to accomplish what registration denied namely enforceable trademark rights in the collaborative context, controlled deployment of the design in a defined product category, and cultural narrative ownership that formal registration cannot provide. Through the Royal Pop, AP generates a registered mark (“ROYAL POP”) around the collaboration; channels proceeds to a philanthropic purpose that neutralises dilution critiques; and creates a legal record of voluntary, controlled use that complicates future copycat claims of abandonment or field saturation.

The deeper jurisprudential lesson is that formal IP law is structurally inadequate to protect the kind of value that defines luxury goods. The Royal Oak’s market power derives from accumulated social capital. The story of Genta’s overnight sketch, the waitlists, the wrists it has graced, none of which is registrable. AP has understood this. The Royal Pop operates not at the level of trademark registration but at the level of cultural narrative, using the collaboration to extend the Royal Oak’s story, recruit new participants into its mythology, and reinforce, through the very act of controlled democratisation, the aspiration that sustains the original’s pricing power. It is an IP strategy conducted through narrative rather than registration, through cultural events rather than litigation.

For practitioners, the TTAB’s January 2025 ruling signals that luxury brands whose advertising foregrounds word marks over design elements will face structural difficulty establishing that consumers recognise the design itself as a source indicator. Brands relying on product configuration as a primary competitive asset should urgently document “look for” advertising directed specifically at design elements, and should not assume that global fame substitutes for jurisdiction-specific secondary-meaning evidence independent of word-mark association.

Conclusion

The Royal Pop is the most significant jurisprudential event in fashion law since the MoonSwatch demonstrated that accessible luxury collaborations need not destroy the luxury original. But unlike the MoonSwatch, an intra-group affair managed within a single corporate governance structure, the Royal Pop is a cross-group licensing transaction between an independent luxury house and a mass-market conglomerate, executed at the precise moment that the luxury house’s formal IP campaign has collapsed across three continents. It is simultaneously an acknowledgement of legal limits and a demonstration that those limits need not be fatal. AP could not trademark the Royal Oak’s design. It has instead trademarked something arguably more powerful, the story of what the Royal Oak means, extended to an audience that couldn’t have afforded it, funded in a manner that makes the extension impossible to criticise. The oak has left Le Brassus. The legal and economic consequences will unfold for years.

Author: Aleena Mary Joseph

Refrences:

[1] Audemars Piguet Heritage Department. (n.d.). The Origins of the Royal Oak. Audemars Piguet Archives.

[2] Foulkes, N. (2022). Royal Oak: From Iconoclast to Icon. Assouline Publishing.

[3] See generally Genta, G. (Design Patents/Historical Archives for Patek Philippe Nautilus and IWC Ingenieur SL).

[4] 2022/DHC/002720

[5] 1990 (10) PTC 101 (Mad)

[6] In re Audemars Piguet Holding S.A., 2025 USPQ2d 18 (T.T.A.B. Jan. 2, 2025); see also U.S. Patent & Trademark Office, Trademark Manual of Examining Procedure (TMEP) § 1202.02 (June 2025 ed.).

[7] Audemars Piguet Holding SA v. Japan Patent Office, Case No. Reiwa 5 (Gyo-Ke) 10119 (Japan IP High Ct., Mar. 28, 2024).

[8] Japan Patent Office (JPO) Opposition Decision, Opposition No. 2024-900016, Oct. 16, 2024.

[9] Court of Milan, Business and IP Specialized Section, Order of March 12, 2015, Audemars Piguet Holding S.A. v. The One Watches S.r.l.

[10] Swiss Federal Institute of Intellectual Property (IGE/IPI), Trademark Application for “ROYAL POP” in Class 14, filed Jan. 15, 2024 (International filing date June 18, 2024).

[11] Swatch Group. (2022, March). Bioceramic MoonSwatch Collection Press Release. Swatch Group Archives.

[12] Bennahmias, F.-H. (2022). Interview with François-Henry Bennahmias. Luxury Tribune (as cited in WatchPro).

[13] Dubois, B., & Laurent, G. (1994). Attitudes toward the concept of luxury: An exploratory analysis. Asia-Pacific Advances in Consumer Research, 1(1), 273-278.

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The Design at the Centre of the Dispute

According to the complaint, 7-Eleven has used its “7-ELEVEN” name and logo in commerce since at least 1946, and has specifically used the combination of orange, green and red stripes, which it calls the “Tri-Color Mark,” for nearly forty years, with the complaint citing a first use date of January 1987 for one of the underlying registrations. The filing lists five federal trademark registrations said to cover the Tri-Color Mark and the wider 7-ELEVEN branding,  with registration dates running from 1998 to 2016, and notes that several additional registrations also protect the brand’s colour scheme across categories including clothing, footwear, headwear and golf balls. The complaint states that these registrations are incontestable, meaning they carry a heightened legal presumption of validity that would be difficult for Nike to challenge on its merits. 7-Eleven also points to its own history of licensed apparel and footwear collaborations, including with Crocs, Sunday Golf, Breezy Golf and skate brand DGK, as evidence that consumers already associate the tri-colour palette with officially sanctioned 7-Eleven products.

The shoe at issue is the Air Max 95 “Big Bubble” in the “Sport Green and Safety Orange” colourway, priced at $200 and, according to a screenshot of Nike’s SNKRS app included as an exhibit to the complaint, scheduled for release on 11 July 2026 at 10 a.m., a date that falls on what 7-Eleven calls “7-Eleven Day,” the retailer’s annual free Slurpee promotion built around the 7/11 date. 7-Eleven says it first became aware of the shoe in mid-June 2026, and the complaint attaches several pieces of unsolicited sneaker press coverage from outlets including Sole Retriever, Sneaker News, Women’s Wear Daily, Complex, Style Rave and Highsnobiety, which had already described the design using terms such as “instantly recognizable,” “unmistakable,” “signature” and “iconic.”

A Highsnobiety headline reproduced in the complaint runs “Nike’s 7-Eleven Air Max Is a 24/7 Textural Treat,” and a Sneaker News headline reads “7-Eleven Inspires This Upcoming Nike Air Max 95.” Separately, the complaint alleges that third-party product listings referred to the sneaker outright as “the ‘7-Eleven’ shoe,” and that at least one consumer had already purchased a pair through a third-party website before the official launch.

7-Eleven’s Legal Claims, in Plain English

The complaint pleads seven counts in total, but they really come down to two ideas repeated across federal and Texas law. The first idea is confusion: would an ordinary shopper browsing the Air Max 95 assume that 7-Eleven made it, licensed it, or signed off on it in some way? That question sits behind the complaint’s federal claims for unfair competition and false designation of origin under Lanham Act Section 43(a) (15 U.S.C. § 1125(a)) and for trademark infringement under Section 32(1) (15 U.S.C. § 1114(1)), and behind its Texas-law equivalents, common law trademark infringement and unfair competition, and statutory infringement under Texas Business and Commerce Code Section 16.102(b).

The second idea is dilution, which works differently and does not require anyone to be confused about who actually made the shoe. Instead, it asks whether Nike has cheapened the specialness of 7-Eleven’s colours simply by putting them on an unrelated product, loosening the tight, decades-built link in shoppers’ minds between orange, green and red stripes and 7-Eleven specifically. That theory underpins the complaint’s federal dilution claim under Section 43(c) (15 U.S.C. § 1125(c)) and its Texas-law counterpart under Section 16.103, along with a related Texas claim for unfair competition by misappropriation, which argues Nike is unfairly benefiting from the time and money 7-Eleven spent building that association in the first place.

Throughout the complaint, 7-Eleven’s lawyers describe Nike’s conduct in unusually strong terms, calling it “a callous and malicious disregard for 7-Eleven’s rights” and alleging that Nike acted “knowingly, willfully, intentionally, and maliciously.” That is not just colourful language for the reader’s benefit; it is doing legal work. If a court agrees that Nike knew what it was doing, 7-Eleven can ask for its damages to be trebled and Nike’s profits enhanced under the Lanham Act, rather than being limited to whatever losses it can actually prove.

Prior Negotiations and Nike’s Position

The complaint states that 7-Eleven “repeatedly contacted Nike to attempt to resolve this dispute” before filing suit, and that despite multiple communications between the parties, Nike indicated it intended to continue advertising the shoe and to proceed with the 7/11 launch. Nike had not filed a public response as of this writing. Some sneaker and trade outlets have separately reported that Nike pulled the Air Max 95 listing from its SNKRS app following the lawsuit, though Fashion Law Journal has not independently verified that action against Nike’s own statements and treats it as a developing detail worth confirming as the case progresses.

What 7-Eleven Wants the Court to Do

What 7-Eleven is asking for breaks down into two clusters. The first is about stopping the shoe altogether: a permanent injunction barring Nike from advertising, marketing or selling the Air Max 95 or anything else carrying a confusingly similar imitation of the Tri-Color Mark, plus an order forcing Nike to recall whatever has already reached stores and destroy any remaining shoes, signage or promotional material. The second is about paying for the harm already done: an accounting of whatever profit Nike made on the shoe, 7-Eleven’s actual damages, and, because the complaint argues Nike knew exactly what it was doing, damages trebled and profits enhanced under the Lanham Act, on top of exemplary damages under Texas law, attorneys’ fees, costs and interest. 7-Eleven has also demanded a jury trial, so if the case runs its full course, these questions would ultimately be decided by a jury rather than a judge alone.

Can a Colour Combination Really Function as a Trademark?

The case turns on a principle that often surprises people outside fashion and IP law, which is that trademark protection is not limited to names and logos and can, in the right circumstances, extend to colour itself. The foundational authority is the US Supreme Court’s 1995 decision in Qualitex Co. v. Jacobson Products Co., 514 U.S. 159, which held that a single colour can serve as a valid trademark once it has acquired what lawyers call secondary meaning, meaning that consumers have come to associate that colour specifically with one company’s goods, and provided the colour is not functional, that is, it does not serve some practical purpose that competitors need to be free to use. Fashion has its own well-known example in Christian Louboutin S.A. v. Yves Saint Laurent America Holdings, Inc., in which the Second Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in September 2012 that Louboutin’s red-lacquered outsole was a valid and enforceable trademark, though the court limited that protection to soles that contrast with a shoe’s upper, denying Louboutin the ability to stop a monochrome red YSL shoe.

7-Eleven’s case follows the same logic but applies it to a combination of three colours arranged in a specific stripe pattern rather than a single hue. The complaint leans heavily on the fact that several of the underlying registrations are incontestable, a status available under the Lanham Act once a mark has been in continuous use for five years after registration and the required affidavits have been filed, and one that limits the grounds on which a defendant can challenge the mark’s validity. Whether 7-Eleven can show the kind of consumer recognition and non-functionality that colour-based marks require will likely be a central battleground if the case proceeds past the pleading stage, alongside the more conventional question of whether an ordinary sneaker buyer would actually mistake an Air Max 95 for a 7-Eleven-branded product.

What Comes Next

With the shoe’s planned release date falling just days after the complaint was filed, the practical stakes for both companies are immediate, and 7-Eleven’s request for a preliminary injunction, if it presses for one, would likely be the first substantive hearing in the case. Fashion Law Journal will continue to follow the docket in 7-Eleven, Inc. v. Nike, Inc., for developments including Nike’s answer or any motion to dismiss.

The post 7-Eleven Sues Nike Over Air Max 95 Sneaker, Alleging Its “Tri-Color Mark” Was Copied for a 7/11 Release appeared first on Fashion Law Journal.

GI protection extends far beyond food. It shields traditional apparel, textiles, and handicrafts, making it particularly significant for the fashion industry and for communities like Nagaland whose cultural heritage lives in woven textiles.

A GI tag is important because it informs buyers that a product is truly linked to a certain location and that its value stems from the people, talents, and traditions of that region. In the food industry, take Darjeeling tea, Naga cucumber, and Chak-Hao black rice for example: these names are protected from being used to describe items that do not originate in those regions. More generally, rather than allowing it to be replicated and sold without attribution, GI tags help maintain authenticity, encourage local producers, and keep regional knowledge alive in the market.

The same protection applies to textiles: it safeguards the relationship between a woven product and the community that produced it. Fashion frequently borrows from local craft traditions, but the market does not always safeguard the creators of those designs, which makes that connection crucial.

That is why the Northeast is a crucial case to examine. Food and agricultural items like Naga Tree Tomato, Naga Sweet Cucumber, Khasi Mandarin, Chak-Hao black rice, Mizo chilli, and Assam Orthodox Tea are already GI-tagged in the area, demonstrating that GI is already a part of the Northeast’s legal identity protection.In addition to protecting identities, these GI tags help uphold customs and culture. Every product has a connection to particular farming methods, indigenous wisdom, and customs that have been passed down through the ages. The ancient methods of growing, harvesting, and using Chak-Hao black rice in ceremonies are also safeguarded when the rice is protected by a GI tag. The production and processing techniques that have shaped Assamese tea culture for generations are protected when Assam Orthodox Tea is granted GI protection. 

By linking a product to a specific place, GI gives the state legal ownership over the name, stops misuse by outsiders, and ensures the region is recognized as the source. This also helps preserve culture and traditions, because it protects the knowledge, skills, and community practices that make these products unique while keeping local producers in control of their identity.

However, the same reasoning holds true for textiles. Northeastern textiles are more than just clothing; they are symbols of place, community, tribe, and memory. Muga silk from Assam, Idu Mishmi textiles from Arunachal Pradesh, Chakhesang shawls from Nagaland, and the textile customs currently being sought for registration in Meghalaya and Nagaland are a few examples.

Here’s where fashion comes into play. A cloth enters the world of fashion as soon as it leaves the loom and is sold. A shawl, silk, or tribal weave is now a commodity, fashion, and trend rather than just a piece of heritage. Both opportunity and risk are created by this change. The opportunity is that GI can bring recognition, value, and market visibility to Northeast textiles, helping artisans earn better prices and gain wider respect. The risk is that once these textiles enter the fashion realm, the market often copies the designs without credit, splits the cultural meaning from the pattern, and sells them as ethnic prints or tribal-inspired fashion without benefiting the communities who created them.

GI can help Northeast textiles gain awareness, value, and recognition, but it also raises a bigger question: can the law protect not just a textile’s name, but the cultural meaning woven into it?

From heritage to commodity:  why Northeast textiles are disappearing from the market.

For generations, textiles across the Northeast were never just fabric sold in markets. They were cultural archives: woven with identity, rank, ritual, and ecological knowledge that passed through families and communities over time. 

In many Naga communities, a shawl carries more meaning than mere decoration. It signals a person’s lineage, achievements, and status within the community. It can indicate whether someone has participated in certain rituals, earned recognition, or belongs to a particular family line. When an elder weaves a cloth, they do not simply create a product; they embed memory, tradition, and identity into the pattern itself.

For many women in the Northeast, weaving functions as a form of language. It allows them to communicate without words and to pass down knowledge that might otherwise disappear. The motifs they select, the colours they use, and the techniques they repeat connect them to stories from the past, teachings from ancestors, and responsibilities to the community. A textile can serve as a wedding gift, a funeral marker, a festival symbol, or a treasure preserved in the home for generations.

To these communities, textiles are not merely art; they are part of their identity. Wearing a tribal shawl is like carrying their history on their shoulders, like holding their family’s legacy close. That is why when these textiles are copied and sold without context, it feels like more than just a design being taken. It feels like a story being stolen, a tradition being flattened, and a community being erased.

In Nagaland, shawls and handwoven cloth carry tribal meaning and social markers that signal belonging, status, and community memory rather than mere decoration, as shown in the Tribal Textiles of Nagaland and studies on Naga Shawls: Weaving Cultural Narratives and Tribal Identity. 

Across the region, textile motifs, colours, and weaving techniques reflect local ecology, gender roles, and ceremonial life, which makes them living traditions rather than static heritage artifacts.

However, these fabrics are increasingly regarded as commodities as they expand into larger markets, exhibitions, and fashion circuits. Outsiders find artistic inspiration in what was once a collective identity. Without acknowledgement, permission, or benefit-sharing, traditional patterns are replicated, simplified, and marketed as “ethnic prints” or “tribal-inspired” designs, a phenomenon documented in studies on cultural appropriation in textile and fashion design.  This is the same pattern observed with well-known GI items such as Champagne, Parmigiano Reggiano, and Roquefort. Champagne is protected by a GI that firmly links it to the Champagne region of France, guaranteeing that the name can only be applied to sparkling wine made there using particular techniques. No matter how similar the product is, no other producer of sparkling wine can refer to it as “Champagne.” However, businesses still profit from the Champagne aesthetic: its branding, its luxury association, its mystique. The cultural capital is borrowed without compensation to the region.

Similarly, Parmigiano Reggiano cheese is protected by GI, but knowledge of how to manufacture aged cheese, recipes, and procedures have been borrowed by other producers around the world. They mimic the cultural identity and offer comparable goods under different labels, even though they might not utilise the precise name. The same is true for Roquefort, which is associated with a particular area of France yet whose blue cheese-making heritage has been imitated and sold elsewhere.

The same is true for textiles in the Northeast. Without giving recognition to the tribe, a designer may reduce a Chakhesang shawl pattern and market it as “tribal-inspired.” Although the name “Chakhesang Shawl” is protected by the GI tag, the design can still be replicated and sold as something else. The cultural identity is extracted, repackaged, and sold, while the original community receives no benefit or recognition.

As a result, there is a legal void. The name of a cloth may be protected, but it is still possible to copy, sell, and wear the design that embodies the community’s identity without giving acknowledgement or payment.

When “Chakhesang Shawl from Nagaland” is protected by a GI tag, spurious claims are prevented and the term is linked to the location. However, this doesn’t stop designers from replicating the design and applying it to scarves, T-shirts, or handbags without restriction. The GI does not cover the design itself.

Logos and brand names have legal protection, but traditional weaving designs and the cultural knowledge embedded in them do not. A fashion brand can copy, modify, and market these designs without authorisation or benefit to the original community. A textile’s name can be recognised by the law, but its cultural significance, symbolic patterns, and collective knowledge are not protected. Even if a community is granted legal recognition for the name of their cloth, they still have no control over the design that embodies their identity. Today, GI and trademarks can safeguard the goods, but also expose the culture that underlies it.

The end effect is a subtle kind of cultural flattening: the textile’s cultural logic is eliminated, yet it is still physically identifiable.

This is the core legal problem. Indian trademark law protects logos and brand names, but it does not protect weaves, themes, or textile identity. As textiles become commodities, the law struggles to preserve cultural value while allowing markets to operate freely. The GI push for Nagaland textiles matters because it asks a critical question: can existing law protect cultural heritage in a market eager to consume it without understanding what it means? This tension is exactly what GI laws and their implementation in India reveal, as explained in GI laws and their implementations.

What Does the GI Protection Actually Cover Once the Tribe is Gone? 

A geographical indication safeguards a product’s connection to its location of origin rather than the product itself. According to Indian law, a GI is a label applied to products whose attributes, reputation, or traits are primarily related to their place of origin. To put it another way, GI protects the assertion that “this product comes from this place, and that place makes it special.” 

GI can increase market recognition for authentic goods that adhere to certified criteria and prevent fraudulent claims of origin for handloom and textile items. Producers in the designated area who adhere to the usage rules or code of practice are granted collective rights. This means that a textile tradition’s name, such as “Chakhesang Shawl from Nagaland,” can be protected by GI, preventing others from falsely claiming origin or copying the name. However, not every motif, weaving strategy, or symbolic significance incorporated into the cloth is automatically protected by GI. GI rights do not apply to the cultural reasoning behind the design; rather, they are territorial and restricted to the registered name and its fundamental connection to location. The proprietor of a protected geographical indicator cannot stop someone from using the same weaving methods or replicating visual elements that are not included in the registered name. GI holders cannot prevent others from using the same techniques or copying design components that fall outside the protected name. This is the core limitation: GI protects origin, not meaning. Because of this, GI can aid in authenticity, but it does not completely address the issue of cultural significance being separated from design when the textile is sold in larger markets.

In a nutshell, GI safeguards origin and reputation, but it struggles to safeguard identity, ritual, and community protocols that cannot be reduced to a place-linked name. Even if a GI is recognised, cultural appropriation and aesthetic borrowing can still occur in this gap.

Nagaland’s GI push: why this state matters for the North East?

Nagaland’s GI push is exceptionally concrete and well-documented, making it the most obvious entrance point into this issue. Officials announced in March 2026 that 24 Nagaland products, including handloom and textile items, including Pochury Textile, Pochury Shawl, Zeliang Textile, Sumi Textile, Ao textile and Tikhir Textile, had been selected for GI registration. This is important because each of these textiles is a social language rather than just a design, Naga shawls and associated clothing convey messages of achievement, identity, prestige and tribe specific memories. 

The paradox begins here. Once they leave the community, fabrics that symbolise collective identity become commercially viable “tribal-inspired” styles. To outsiders, these shawls are beautiful; to the tribe, they communicate rank, achievement, and belonging. The Konyak tribe weaves colourful garments with beads and shells as symbols of prosperity and victory, the Angami tribe makes shawls in vivid colours to symbolise valour, and the Ao tribe uses geometric motifs to reflect mythology. GI registration helps maintain the connection between product, location, and community, but it does not fully prevent meaning from being divorced from the design as the cloth enters larger markets.

Nagaland isn’t uniquely protected. It’s the clearest example of what the whole Northeast is attempting to do with GI protection.According to official reports, four items from Nagaland: Naga mircha, Naga cucumber, Chakhesang shawls, and Naga tree tomato, have received GI tags as of right now. In the meantime, a Memorandum of Understanding was signed by the Textiles Committee and NEHHDC to formally register 33 unique items from the Northeast, including 15 from Meghalaya and 18 from Nagaland. This makes Nagaland the focal point of the narrative, but it also highlights the Northeast’s larger endeavour to preserve cultural legacy before it is turned into a commodity.

In many places, GI preservation has effectively supported communities and protected cultural assets. The most famous example is Champagne from France, whose GI label guarantees that only sparkling wine produced in the Champagne region following particular techniques may use the name, safeguarding the region’s reputation and ensuring financial gains for regional producers.

Darjeeling Tea, which was GI-tagged in 2004, has effectively safeguarded its distinct identity in India, stopped other teas from being marketed as “Darjeeling,” and assisted regional growers in maintaining their market share and obtaining higher prices while maintaining traditional farming practices.

These cases demonstrate the effectiveness of GI protection when it is appropriately implemented; it guarantees local populations profit from their legacy, prevents name misuse, and maintains traditional practices. This tried-and-true strategy to preserve cultural heritage before it turns into a commodity is expanded upon by the Northeast’s efforts with Naga mircha, Chakhesang shawls, and other goods.

But why is GI protection alone not enough?

Even if more Northeast textiles receive GI recognition, important issues remain that GI cannot address on its own. Although a GI tag can verify a product’s connection to a location, it does not automatically safeguard every motif, weaving logic, symbolic significance, or community protocol that is affixed to a textile. A GI protects the name and origin, but it does not protect the cultural meaning, the design’s reasoning, or the traditions that accompany the textile.

Beyond these legal gaps, there are practical barriers to making GI work in the first place. Documentation, quality control, and post-registration assistance are all necessary for GI registration, yet many Naga communities continue to struggle in these areas. Documenting procedures, materials, and design standards is challenging because a large portion of Nagaland’s cultural knowledge is still oral.

The largest challenge is that the majority of producers, particularly those in rural and tribal areas, have no idea what GI is or how it may benefit them. Lack of knowledge prevents them from applying for or utilising GI protection, and local communities are left behind as big businesses or government organisations fill the void. Farmers and craftspeople seldom see true economic gain, even when GIs are registered. They lack access to larger markets, better prices, and protection from counterfeit goods. Instead, the value is captured by middlemen and large corporations.

The Indian GI system is also afflicted by weak monitoring and enforcement. Fines for GI tag infractions are insufficient to dissuade counterfeiters, and violations remain widespread despite registration. Local producers receive no real benefit from the system.

The primary focus of India’s GI framework is registration alone; marketing, quality assurance, branding, and rights assertion are not followed up on. Consequently, there is no framework in place to sell or defend GIs after they are registered on paper. GI holders find it challenging to handle enforcement in rural and distant places due to limited access to legal expertise.

To make the GI valuable, consistency of quality must be guaranteed; registration alone is insufficient. In specialised international markets, GI-tagged goods frequently fetch price premiums of 20% to 30%, increasing artisan incomes. However, they will remain paper promises in the absence of post-registration support, promotion, and enforcement.

Nagaland’s experience shows that GI protection can still lay a crucial foundation when communities take ownership of the process.

The Chakhesang Women Wellness Society (CWWS) offers a model for community-led GI protection. More than 25 years ago, the CWWS founded the Chakhesang Traditional Attires Committee to preserve, promote, and safeguard their cultural heritage. This long-standing community initiative demonstrates how local organizations can bridge the gap between GI registration and real-world protection.

When the GI tag was awarded to Chakhesang Shawls in 2017, the CWWS used it to file civil lawsuits against designers who misused their protected designs. This shows that once communities have the resources and organization to enforce their rights, legal action becomes possible. The GI tag transformed from a paper certificate into a tool for defending their heritage.

Growing institutional support is now emerging in Nagaland. At the stakeholder meeting on GI initiatives in Dimapur in March 2026, officials announced that 24 products had been nominated for GI registration, including six textile items. The Memorandum of Understanding signed by the Textiles Committee and NEHHDC to register 33 distinct Northeast goods, including 18 from Nagaland, signals that government agencies are beginning to provide the post-registration support needed for GI tags to translate into actual community benefits.

However, not all GI efforts succeed. Some textile applications from the Northeast have faced delays or rejection because the burden of proof was not met; documentation of traditional methods, continuity of use, and community linkage was insufficient, or the design was deemed decorative rather than distinctive, which is why community-led documentation and institutional support are essential. These cases show that even when communities attempt GI registration, the legal system often requires evidence that oral traditions cannot easily provide.

The key lesson is that communities must be empowered to lead their own GI applications and enforcement efforts, rather than waiting for external organizations to fill the void.

The shape of the thing: protecting a pattern instead of a name.

The way that indigenous patterns and corporate shapes are protected by the law is very different. Unlike a word mark, the Hermès Birkin and Kelly bags are protected by their unique design, which includes their construction, handle curves, and flap angles. The brand in a shape trademark or trade dress claim is recognised by the shape itself rather than by a name. If a shape tag is distinctive, visually appealing, and unmistakably associated with the brand in the minds of customers, it may be trademarked. It only needs to look beautiful; functionality is not necessary.

The situation is different with regard to Northeast textiles. A Nagaland textile pattern encodes ethnic identity through weaving, making it more than just a “shape.” The Konyak tribe weaves colourful garments with beads and shells as symbols of prosperity and victory, the Angami tribe makes shawls in vivid colours to symbolise bravery, and the Ao tribe utilises geometric motifs to reflect folklore. When a fashion brand imitates these patterns, it is imitating a cultural language rather than a shape. However, Nagaland tribes struggle to secure their textile identity because the law protects the name (e.g., “Chakhesang Shawl”) more than the meaning behind the weave, while Hermès is able to protect its bag shape as a trademark.

Culture (symbols, rituals, collective memory) lacks legal protection equivalent to objects (shapes, logos). Copyright protects new, individual creations: not generational, collective knowledge passed down through tribes. Indigenous knowledge was developed over many generations by a community, not by a single inventor. That’s the core problem: the law protects brands, not cultures. GI can aid with authenticity, but it still cannot prevent cultural meaning from being separated from the design.

What protection should look like. 

GI protection is necessary, but it is only the beginning. The designs, weaving techniques, and cultural connotations of Northeast textiles should be documented and conserved now, before they are lost or replicated, if they are to be adequately saved.

The community should also be included in the process. Protection is only effective when locals are aware of it and actively participate in it; it is not effective when it is managed solely from above. If the workers who manufacture the textiles do not know how to utilise the GI tag, it is insufficient.

Post-registration support is crucial: marketing, branding, quality assurance, and enforcement must follow GI recognition if it is to help craftspeople in practice. Textiles are collective cultural assets, not the property of a single individual, so protection must also center community consent, equitable benefit-sharing, and community rights. In short, the law must document, involve, enforce, and respect the communities whose heritage it seeks to protect.

Conclusion

Nagaland demonstrates both the limits of the law and how GI can help preserve textile history. A GI tag can protect a textile’s origin and reputation, but it cannot safeguard all aspects of its significance to a community. Effective protection requires more than registration: it demands community involvement, post-registration enforcement, and equitable benefit-sharing. Protecting the culture that underpins a product is just as important as protecting the product itself.

Other Northeastern states can follow Nagaland’s approach by first identifying culturally significant items, then organising community documentation around their history, skills, and place-based identities. Nagaland’s GI progress demonstrates that when state institutions, community organisations, and development agencies collaborate to advance from recognition to registration and subsequently to post-GI support including branding, quality control, and market access, legal protection strengthens.

They should also consider GI as a cultural protection strategy rather than just a commercial tool. The broader Northeast project to register 33 unique goods, including 15 from Meghalaya and 18 from Nagaland, demonstrates that the region is already developing a shared model for maintaining traditional knowledge and keeping legacy connected to the communities that produced it.

Refrences

 On Geographical Indications (GI) and Traditional Textiles in Northeast India

1. Chakhesang Shawl GI Registration & Cultural Appropriation Cases

   – Chakhesang Naga Shawl gets Geographical Indication tag | The Indian Aaaz (2017)

   – Cultural appropriation stinging Naga society | Eastern Mirror Nagaland (2021)

  – Naga communities urged to lead GI applications to protect traditional products | Eastern Mirror Nagaland (2026)

2. Nagaland GI Policy & 24 Products Identified

   – Stakeholder Meeting on GI Initiatives Held in Dimapur | Nagaland IP Office (2026)

   – A total of 24 products from Nagaland have been identified for GI | The Assam Tribune (2026)

3. Northeast GI MoU & 33 Products

   – Textile Committee, NEHHDC sign MoU to formalize GI registration for 33 products | Textile Trade Buddy (2026)

   – Textiles Committee and NEHHDC signs MoU on Intellectual Property | PIB (2025)

   – Textiles Committee and NEHHDC Sign MoU to Secure GI Protection for Northeast | Devdiscourse (2026)

4. Chakhesang Cultural Meaning & Symbolism

   – How the Chakhesang Naga community weaves a world of meaning into a shawl | Scroll.in (2023)

   – Naga Chakhesang Shawl – Digital GI (2024)

   – Loom to legacy: The Living Textiles of North East, India | ChaloHoppo (2025)

5. GI Law & Indigenous Knowledge in India

   – Protecting indigenous knowledge through GI law in India | IJLR (2025)

   – Threads of Identity: GI Tags’ Relevance in Protecting Northeast Textiles | Fashion Law Journal (2025)

   – Weaver Awareness and Perception of Geographical Indication Tags | IJCESEN (2025)

   – Challenges in Protecting Traditional Craftsmanship and Indigenous Designs Through Intellectual Property | Sonis Vision (2025)

6. GI Protection Framework (International)

   – Geographical Indications for Beginners | WIPO

   – Protecting local food and drinks | European Commission Agriculture (2026)

   – Geographical indications and traditional specialities in the European Union | Wikipedia

 On Champagne, Parmigiano Reggiano & Roquefort as GI Examples

1. Champagne GI Protection

   – How Champagne is protected under the TRIPS Agreement | iPleaders (2021)

   – Kolhapuri chappal row: Could Prada have done so with France’s Champagne? | India Today (2025)

2. Parmigiano Reggiano & Roquefort

   – Parmesan: The King of Cheeses | WIPO Magazine (2011)

   – Roquefort | Wikipedia

   – The Evolution of Geographical Indications: A Global Perspective | The Law Institute (2025)

 On Hermès Birkin & Kelly Bag Design Trademark Protection

1. French Court Decisions

   – Diritto d’autore e marchio contro copie fisiche e virtuali | SIB (2025)

   – Hermès Nabs Win in French Fight Over Copycat Birkin Bags, NFTs | The Fashion Law (2025)

   – Decision of the Paris Judicial Court on the Protection of the Iconic Kelly and Birkin Bags | Dreyfus (2025)

   – Design or art? French court rules that Birkin Bag is a copyright work | IPKat (2025)

2. International Court Decisions

   – Hermès Wins Birkin & Kelly Bag’s 3D Trademark Infringement Lawsuit | Mark’s IPLaw Japan (2023)

   – Hermès Prevails in Birkin, Kelly-Based Trademark Fight in Japan | The Fashion Law (2023)

   – Hermès Prevails in Unfair Competition Case Over “Make Your Own Birkin” Class | The Fashion Law (2020)

   – The Italian Supreme Court rules in favour of Hermès | Clifford Chance (2023)

3. India & China Decisions

   – Hermès Birkin Secures Well Known Status and Shape Mark Protection in India | RNAIP (2026)

   – Del HC declares ‘Birkin’ and ‘Hermes’ as well-known trade marks | SCC Online (2025)

   – Design of Hermès’ iconic Birkin and Kelly bags held to constitute trade dress | Wanhuida (2025)

4. Fashion & IP Theory

   – THE PRADA PARADOX | Chambers and Partners (2024)

   – Looking Ahead (Part IV) – Fashion and Intellectual Property | Cambridge Core (2025)

   – 10 Threads That Last | Cambridge Core

 On Cultural Appropriation & Intellectual Property

1. Cultural Appropriation in Fashion & Textiles

   – PRADA-KOLHAPURI PARADOX: A Critical Analysis of GI Protections Against Global Cultural Appropriation | Record of Law (2026)

   – From Chakhesang to Rongmei: Lessons in Protecting Textile Traditions | Thinking Space Online (2025)

   – CULTURAL APPROPRIATION WITH REFERENCE TO TRADITIONAL TEXTILES | EPRA Journals

2. Darjeeling Tea GI Example

   – Separately cited in main text via WIPO Geographical Indications resource above

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Pay Me What You Owe Me: Power and Control within Modelling Agencies.

Imagine being 23, believing you have finally realised your dream of becoming a model. You think you will earn money and help your family move out of one of the world’s largest refugee camps. You practise your runway walk in heels, preparing for the fashion weeks that await you. Now, picture this: your dream has turned from sweet to sour. You are now on a plane back home after being a model for only six months. Here’s the kicker: not only have your dreams been shattered, but you also owe your agency €3,000. This was the reality of Achol Malual Jau. Jau was the subject of a Sunday Times investigation revealing how some agencies recruit new talent directly from the Kakuma refugee camp. It was revealed that a Nigerian businesswoman named Joan Okorodudu, also known as “Mama” or “Auntie Joan”, scouted potential models at the refugee camp, then signed them to her agency. Okorodudu would later advertise these models to larger agencies such as Select Model Management.

Achol is not an isolated case. Other models have also been recruited from Kakuma refugee camp in northwestern Kenya. The pathway for them to start a modelling career in Europe is relatively straightforward. The potential models undergo initial recruitment, then travel to Nairobi to obtain passports and visas. This is followed by them receiving their accommodations and a weekly allowance of €70 to €100 to cover their expenses. However, models who fail to secure enough work or are deemed unsuitable due to industry pressures or malnourishment return to their homes at the camp. In Jau’s case, Select Model Management claimed that her client feedback was “less than favourable”. CEO Matteo Puglisi stated, “We lost thousands of euros on her. We have never asked for reimbursement. I am truly sorry she did not succeed. It was not for the want of trying on our behalf.” He also described her debt statement as a “fiscal obligation” and confirmed no legal action would be taken. Jau herself stated, “I worked hard but came back with no money. A lot of people think I have money because I went to Europe. I say I have nothing.” This reflects the financial and emotional precarity of international recruitment models.

Besides human trafficking legislation, there are currently no specific laws protecting models recruited from refugee camps or similar vulnerable environments. This creates a significant regulatory gap around informed consent, financial transparency, and safeguarding. Stronger protections could include mandatory pre-contract education, clearer disclosure of debt structures, and limits on relocation until consistent earning potential is established. Jau’s case highlights how structural vulnerability can be embedded from the very start of a modelling career, particularly where bargaining power is minimal. However, agency control is not limited to new faces. It also appears in disputes involving established models.

In 2018, Adwoa Aboah sued her former agency, The Lions Model Management (LMM), for approximately $190,000 in unpaid wages and damages. She claimed that between 2015 and 2017 she earned around $670,000 dollars but received only half. She alleged that unpaid earnings were withheld as “ransom” after she left the agency. She later signed with DNA Model Management, stating, “fashion models are not indentured servants.” The case followed earlier litigation in 2017 when The Lions Model Management sued DNA Model Management co-founder David Bonnouvrier, CLM founder Camilla Lowther, and Aboah’s mother, alleging they conspired to remove her from her contract early. LMM claimed that Aboah’s mother and Lowther pressured the agency, including threats to damage its business. They also highlighted Aboah’s success during her contract, which included a Vogue cover and campaigns for Fendi and Calvin Klein. DNA denied wrongdoing, arguing that Aboah left after her contract ended due to dissatisfaction and that agencies are permitted to compete fairly. They also argued there was no personal liability for Bonnouvrier as his actions were within his corporate role. They further noted that under New York law, certain contracts operate on an “at will” basis unless otherwise specified. Lions ultimately dropped its lawsuit. Aboah later pursued her unpaid wages claim. There has been no major public update on the outcome.

This case was significant because it marked a rare instance of a model challenging an agency legally. However, such action remains uncommon due to fears of blacklisting and the financial burden of litigation. It also highlights how outcomes are shaped not only by legal rights but by economic and social capital. More recently, the Fashion Workers Act came into effect in New York on June 19, 2025. Championed by the Model Alliance, it closes legal loopholes that previously limited agency accountability. It introduces payment deadlines, transparent contracts, fee disclosure, protections against harassment, safeguards against unauthorised use of likeness or AI-generated imagery, and requires agency registration to improve oversight.

Home Is Where the Heartless Is: Precarious Living, and Body Surveillance Within Modelling Agencies.

Physiological needs are listed as the first tier of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. This includes basic necessities such as food, water, and shelter. These are fundamental to human survival and must be met before higher-level needs such as safety, love, and self-esteem can be meaningfully pursued. Modelling agencies should treat these as non-negotiable basics for anyone entering the industry, right?  Wrong, this is not always reflected in their practices. Many models face expensive and crowded living conditions, alongside environments that can encourage disordered eating and extreme body standards.

A model apartment is accommodation owned or rented by a modelling agency. The agency will often initially cover rent, but once a model starts booking work, these costs are deducted from their earnings. New faces or models placed abroad at short notice often rely on these apartments as they are the only immediate housing option. They are also easier to access due to visa processes, making agency-backed accommodation the most practical option at the start of an international placement. However, this system quickly becomes complicated. Many models arrive already in debt to their agencies, meaning housing costs immediately deepen financial pressure. Even established models can struggle to cover rent due to the freelance nature of the industry, where work is unpredictable, and income is inconsistent. As Rue (@Ruebarbx) explains on TikTok:

“Some of these girls will stay in a country for six months, eight months, or even a year. And it can be really hard in the first few months to just go and get accommodation, especially if you haven’t actually started seeing any of the money you’re earning.

One of the biggest negatives about model apartments is that work is never guaranteed in the modelling industry because you’re freelance. So you could essentially get into months of debt staying in these places and then never earn enough money to pay your agents back.”

Therefore, housing shifts from being a form of stability to a mechanism of financial pressure. Rather than functioning as a safe space, model apartments can become sites of control, particularly where agencies benefit from inflated occupancy costs. In a Vogue video titled “10 Models Explain the Dangerous Power Dynamics in the Modelling Industry”, 19-year-old Selena Forrest stated: “Agencies don’t have their models’ best interests at heart, because if they did, they probably wouldn’t make as much money.” She described living in a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment shared with seven other models, each paying $1,200 per month. She noted: “$1,200 times seven, that’s a pretty good chunk of change. I mean, we could afford another bedroom in there.” This totals approximately $8,400 per month, enough for significantly larger accommodations in cities such as New York, London, or Milan. Another account given by Rue further highlighted the overcrowded living conditions in these kinds of apartments, sometimes involving up to twenty models in one apartment with limited privacy. In her video, Rue also explained an instance where she decided to leave model housing, entirely opting for an Airbnb. She said, “You may not think this looks that bad… It’s like 900 to share a bed with someone, and the place was just. It wasn’t great.” This raises a broader structural concern about whether housing arrangements in modelling operate as part of a wider system of financial dependency. It also raises legal questions around transparency of deductions, contractual fairness, and the extent of agency responsibility for basic living standards. 

Alongside housing, body surveillance represents another major pressure within the industry. “We’re looking for a girl who’s lanky and skinny because that’s really what the designers want.” This statement was made by the owner of Premier Modelling Agency, Carol White, in a 60 Minutes Australia video, which investigated the pressures placed on young models. Despite legislation in some countries, industry expectations continue to prioritise extreme thinness. Former model Victoire Maçon Dauxerre has stated: “The hard truth is you need to almost disappear to appear at Fashion Week.” Israel was the first country to regulate underweight models. In 2013, the Model Law prohibited models with a BMI under 18.5 from runway shows and advertising. France followed in 2017, requiring medical certification confirming models are healthy enough to work. Doctors assess health using weight, age, and body shape rather than BMI alone. Agencies can face fines of up to €75,000 and six months of imprisonment for non-compliance. Digitally altered images that change body shape must also be labelled as “retouched photographs”. French law also criminalises the promotion of extreme thinness, including content that encourages anorexia. During the same period, an estimated 30,000 to 40,000 people in France were affected by anorexia, with around 90% being women, many of them adolescents. These laws represent an important step in linking industry standards with public health concerns, particularly around eating disorders.

However, the pressure to be extremely thin remains deeply embedded within some modelling agencies. Edan Mackney, who was 15 years old during her modelling career, was told she needed to lose inches from her legs due to muscle definition. She later stated: “I would go to bed all the time hungry, but I was so scared of eating because I thought that that’s what was making me not get that inch off my hips.” This reflects a wider pattern where weight loss becomes associated with professional success, creating harmful effects on mental health and self-esteem. This constant reminder of being told to lose weight, combined with efforts to maintain an increasingly unhealthy level of thinness, operates as a form of psychological pressure that can severely affect self-esteem and mental health. This is echoed in Caroline Trentini’s statement in Vogue’s “The Models” docuseries, where she recalls, “I went to meet with the agency and they measured me, and they told me that I needed to lose, I think it was like two inches off my hips and maybe two off my waist. I was a perfectionist. So I associated doing a good job with modelling with losing weight.” Similar pressures are reflected in Victoire Maçon Dauxerre’s experience, where she explains that agents never directly told her to lose weight. Instead, her hip measurements were altered on her comp card and recorded as 87cm instead of her actual 92cm. She was told she needed to be under 90cm, effectively requiring her to lose two clothing sizes within two months. In order to do this, Dauxerre further stated: “That’s why I actually stopped eating and ate three apples a day.” This form of measurement manipulation and implicit pressure contributes to a culture where weight loss becomes equated with professional success. Her heartbreaking experience, along with the experiences of the other models mentioned, further showcases how informal pressures operate alongside formal regulation.    

Behind the glamour of the runway and the eye-catching appeal of fashion editorials lies a complex system of labour, power, and control that is often overlooked. While modelling is frequently presented as a pathway to success and opportunity, I hope my article has highlighted the structural vulnerabilities that exist beneath that narrative. From financial precarity and exploitative housing arrangements to the regulation of bodies and health, the cases discussed demonstrate how easily power can become concentrated within modelling agencies, often at the expense of those they represent. Although recent legal developments, such as the Fashion Workers Act in New York, signal progress towards greater accountability, significant gaps in protection remain. Ultimately, these examples raise deeper issues of responsibility within the fashion industry and who is held accountable when the pursuit of beauty and profit comes at a human cost. The question that still lingers for me is this: Would you ever sign away your own agency to an agency, and at what cost?

References:

1) Vitkute, Demi.  “Modelling Agencies Recruit Refugees From One of the World’s Largest Camps.” The Urban Watch, October 16, 2013. https://theurbanwatch.com/fashion/modeling-agencies-recruit-refugees/

2) Matera, Avery. “Adwoa Aboah Sues Modeling Agency Claiming She Wasn’t Paid Nearly $190,000.” Teen Vogue, March 23, 2018. https://www.teenvogue.com/story/adwoa-aboah-sues-modeling-agency/

3) Tate, Crystal. “Adwoa Aboah Is Suing Former Management Company for Unpaid Wages.” Essence October 24, 2020. https://www.essence.com/fashion/adwoa-aboah-suing-former-management-company/

4)    Hays, Kali. “Adwoa Aboah Opens Up About Her ‘Heart in Legal Fight’ With Former Management.” September 15, 2017. https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/adwoa-aboah-heart-legal-fight-202203293.html

5)    Hays, Kali. “DNA Says Models Aren’t ‘Indentured Servants’ in Row Over Adwoa Aboah.” Yahoo Life, October 6, 2017. https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/dna-says-models-aren-t-215723779.html

6) Rue. @Ruebarbx on Tiktok. “Model Apartment Experience.” TikTok, January 7, 2024. https://www.tiktok.com/@ruebarbx/video/7386625515865656608

7)    BBC News. “France Bans Extremely Thin Models.” BBC News, May 6, 2017. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-3982103 

8)    France 24. “France Cracks Down on Anorexia.” France 24, April 16, 2008. https://www.france24.com/en/20080416-france-cracks-down-anorexia-france-health

9)    60 Minutes Australia. “Young Models Say Unapologetic Industry Nearly Killed Them.” YouTube, October 18, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jt2Jaa82Yog

10) Vogue. “10 Models Explain the Dangerous Power Dynamics in the Modeling Industry.” YouTube, October 3, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7e9C-VX6GfE

11) Vogue. “9 Models on the Pressure to Lose Weight and Body Image | The Models.” YouTube, April 23, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKd38G338Qw

Author: Déjà Danielle

Hailing from Nassau, Bahamas, Déjà Danielle is a fashion enthusiast interested in the intersection of fashion, culture, and law. She holds a BA (Hons) from York University’s Glendon College, an MA from Parsons School of Design Paris, and will begin legal studies at St George’s, University of London. Her areas of interest include intellectual property, brand protection and model rights within the fashion industry. In her free time, she enjoys photography, reading, travel, languages, and the arts.

Instagram: @deja.danielle

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