From ritual to algorithm: counterculture’s replacement with online aesthetics
Every second we are flooded with new aesthetics, whilst the possibility of a sustainable counterculture feels further away than ever. ‘Belonging’ to a specific subculture and finding your niche, seems easier today - there are so many options, and you can even adhere to several in a single day.
Imagine this: You wake up as the ‘clean-girl’ or Pilates princess - donning a matching-set (polyester and elastane). :In the afternoon you stop by your favourite bar and pick up an esoteric, ‘manic-pixie-dream-girl’ drink, but not forgetting to channel your inner Carrie Bradshaw, just in time for the night to begin. Boys are split between the consumption of hyper masculine content for fear of being labelled a ‘performative male’. Seemingly innocent at first glance, The ‘performative male’ curates sensitivity to gain women’s or social validation rather than stemming from genuine interest in literature, art or hot green matchas. Part of their attire often resembles and indeed includes feminist literature, with a conspicuously inconspicuous title peaking from a coat or jeans pocket, the bold ‘Sylvia Plath’ title almost audible in its plea to be noticed.
Neatly, the lifecycle of these identity templates begin and end online. Performing ‘cool’ has become a competition, this phenomena is not new in itself, but this particular iteration - one in which feminist literature is recycled merely as a prop to sustain the look, one needs to look no further than the performative male contests staged in cities from Paris to Islamabad. Despite bringing in a large audience, there is nothing communal about it. Identities are condensed into marketable products, increasingly specific and narrow shapes into which we must squeeze our bodies. Author Alain de Botton thinks that ‘we have become tiny […] cogs in giant, efficient machines.’ Our ‘selves’ have been restricted, both feeding and feeding-off the algorithm.
Polished imperfection: when resistance is pre-manufactured
The psychological strain of hypercuration in media has inadvertently produced a craving for imperfection, and yet even ‘raw’ looks are compressed into polished reels; clothing must do the talking quickly and the riot grrrl is focused on video editing.
In a counterculture such as 90s grunge, the status afforded by a worn-in band tee was only obtained by mandatory attendance and sweating in gig basements. Now, the aesthetic often precedes the formation of a scene, and a new shirt arrives pre-torn from factories. Visually, it’s all there but the substance is lacking. There is a certain ersatz to it all. No one has the time to follow a band beyond its viral peak. The shirt is discarded for a more convincingly stained one that ‘blew up’ last night, which in turn is thrown out before the fabric has lived its useful life. Fast fashion produces garments too quickly for any attachments to form to them, whilst ironically their synthetic composition means they will remain with us for generations.
No attachment means no sustainability: why counterculture needs slower rhythms
Countercultures once provided a shared ritual, clothes were swapped and re-worn, and you had to physically be there to do so. Clothing was safety-pinned or hand-stitched with stubborn repetition, and sustainability was a necessity that brought uniqueness and attachment. A sustainable counterculture, that possessed staying power valued effort and community over instant gratification. Now, we are working against time. Connection has become partial, with no complete engagement because nothing personal depends upon it. The intensity with which we perform ‘belonging’ reveals two societal desires: firstly to be part of a community and secondly to be seen belonging to one. The question then becomes how to restore counterculture to something physically rooted in place and repetition, instead of reducing it to visual performance.
At London fashion week 2026, we see a focus on deliberately ‘undone’ aesthetics, such as AGRO Studio’s The Wanderer collection, with its sheepskin layers and pastoral references. In this age of curated identity, the dispersed collective seems to have no specific home in which to grow and age; instead, we travel restlessly in search of becoming. Is this a symptom of a shared longing to connect our talents to natural rhythms, rather than restricting them to specialised functions? Perhaps the rebellion we need is quieter: a repeated return to local scenes, along with the time required to relearn and repair their rhythms.
