The Great Gatekeeping of Luxury

In last week’s (fairly routine) roundup of celeb-style, something piqued my attention; enough, evidently, to inspire this thought piece – while on one of his humdrum bouts of horizontal bed-scrolling.

No, it wasn’t former Harry Styles-darling Olivia Wilde’s ludicrously capacious Saint Laurent Y Tote or Dua Lipa’s fresh-off-the-rack $6,200 Chanel Hobo (funnily enough, the real star of that look was the striking snakeskin trench). 

It was, instead, Katie Holmes’ dazzlingly dopamine-hued Hello Kitty number, thoroughly recyclable, thoroughly reusable, and, for that matter, thoroughly run-of-the-mill – as far as the average tote-obsessed New Yorker is concerned – that stole the show, bundled atop her rather tame (but by no means, timid) camel coat, cashmere and flared jeans combo, with a “grown-up” Mansur Gavriel bag in tow.

Yet, in a sea of instantly identifiable, totemic brand pieces perpetually peddled, plugged, and pushed our way by TikTok trade wives, pimply teenagers, or otherwise exotic creatures on Ozempic that have somehow laid their claim on virality, there’s something strangely refreshing – even luxurious – about (what commenter jiljenner ID-ed soon after as) a $14 recycled polyester piece by Baggu.

In fact, it would have been more so had it not been identified. Its anonymity makes it the ultimate conversation starter: a monologue on your personal style spun into a story, waiting to be dialed into a dialogue with another who can speak its language. 

And that, dear reader, is gatekeeping in all its flagrantly gated glory.

The Great Walmart Wirkin-Gate (and Other Gates)

2024 seems to have been quite a year for the Birkin. 

So much, in fact, that the fifth most Googled question of the year in the “Why is it so expensive?” category was “Why are Birkins so expensive?” 

Yet, the Birkin is fairly well known within the cultural consciousness, even if laying your grimy paws on one requires you “to walk into a Hermès store, and uh — you have to be patient,” Artistic Director Pierre-Alexis Dumas confesses.

How could something so culturally pervasive then also be gatekept? 

Literal wording aside, gatekeeping evokes imagery akin to hoarding treasure; you aspire to be the gatekeeper—the treasurer—but never the plebeian seeking to be on the other side. Throughout much of last year, we saw citizens of cyberspace split into camps over alleged gatekeeping practices regarding the sale of Birkins. 

“Hell hath no fury like a wealthy person being told no,” muses Hermès superfan and TikTok content-creator Alex Pardoe to The Guardian. 

Which is to say, if you’ve splurged $2,700 for a Hermès dog-tent on a “Birkin Date” when you don’t actually own a dog – only to not end up with said Birkin – five-star meltdowns and class-action lawsuits may only seem par for the course. 

Similarly, you may commiserate with that London influencer who had her brand-new, red-hot JPG Birkin stolen from a dressing room on Oxford Street – or your sympathies may not extend as favorably to someone so brazenly brandishing a handbag that retails for as much as a gently used 2013 Honda Accord.

But no Birkin gate so far has managed to be as polarizing as Walmart’s “Wirkin”-gate, which, for all intents and purposes, isn’t even a Birkin! With the rather romantic moniker of BESTSPR Platinum Lychee Tote and retailing for a cool $80 (now sold out) via Walmart, the faux leather number only resembles the Birkin outwardly.

And it has TikTok in splits yet again over that salient question: are dupes cool?

The Copyright Versus the Right to Copy

For all the commotion it has stirred within my (albeit exceedingly niche) corner of the internet, however, how different is the “Wirkin Effect” compared to other replica busts we’ve seen over the years (which often feature Hermès prominently) or really, the entire ongoing meta-narrative of dupe-culture in general?

Not that different. And fashion law remains notoriously vague regarding trademark regulations, stipulating that it be “non-functional in nature”. Therefore, Walmart can very well produce its version of the “Walmès” with little litigious implications from Hermès (though that also doesn’t mean they aren’t free to fight it out in court).

Plus, there’s “bad” copying (think Fashion Nova Tabis or pretty much everything by Shein), and there’s “good” copying – which designers would have you believe isn’t copying at all. The late Virgil Abloh, always vigilant for knockoffs, was known for his extensive “referencing” habit. Marc Jacobs, an obsessive fashion student and shopper himself, scattered homages to his favorite archival moments across his extensive body of work. Even Nicolas Ghesquière freely admitted to copying San Francisco-based designer Kaisik Wong back in 2002, while NY-native Vaquera’s entire brand was born out of Brooklyn in the mid-2010s as “fashion fan-fic.”

But things get slightly more erratic once you’re dealing with the intangible.

In January 2024, 24-year-old lifestyle influencer Sidney Gifford accused fellow content creator Alyssa Sheil of “copying her vibe”—even paying for copyrights on social media posts Ms. Sheil had allegedly recreated. 

Singer Fiona Apple’s primordial “sad girl” vibe (and accompanying soundtrack) has been re-appropriated by the TikTok public, who discuss eating disorders, post thinspo content, or peddle eclectic toaster-shaped bath mats. This has prompted the artist to remove her entire catalog from the platform.

Indeed, while pretty much everything on the internet is now up for grabs (more so with Google Lens), TikTok specializes in the replicability of content—the easier it is to recreate, the more viral the algorithm is likely to make it.

So maybe that impending TikTok ban isn’t such a bad idea after all?

Don’t Show, Don’t Tell

“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I have ever known,” writes Chuck Palahniuk in his novel Invisible Monsters. And in a turn of events stranger than fiction, even all this talk on gatekeeping isn’t any more novel than your average Stanley Cup starlet, having been crowned Vogue’s Word of the Year in 2022 and remaining a point of contention among – who else? – the TikTok crowd.

But while being labeled a gatekeeper is pretty much akin to being canceled on the platform, fashion’s history with gatekeeping goes much farther back in the past. 

Runway shows were originally closed-door affairs for industry insiders, for instance, and The Row’s return to form with a phoneless fashion show has only served to heighten our intrigue. Chanel 2020/21 Metiers d’Art, presented at the height of the pandemic to a lone audience of brand ambassador Kristen Stewart, remains one of its most-watched, raking in over 12 million views on its official Instagram alone.

Even Bottega Veneta’s decision to forego socials has reaped unprecedented benefits for the brand while the rest of luxury fashion seemingly slogs through a slump. Yet, the ability to dictate how and where a viewer gets to view one’s collection is undoubtedly a flex reserved for a select (shall we say, gatekept?) few. 

For others—old and new alike—TikTok has been a total game-changer, providing unprecedented access to a notoriously exclusive industry. And unlike Instagram’s veneer of vanity, TikTok is known for its candidness and transparency; to advocate for an outright ban is an incredibly elitist stance that’ll only breed further biases, not to mention withdraw employment from countless content creators.

Still, it’ll serve us well to remember that not everything has to be online. Like the musician Daniel, aka Groupthink, says in a recent profile, “Everyone’s a creator now, so no one knows how to be a fan anymore. Instead of appreciating something, people copy it. But they’re not even stealing the right way – they’re just repeating.”

Just because we can share doesn’t mean we must.