Gatekeeping might be the key to personal style
Every week, PhilSTAR L!fe explores issues and topics from the perspectives of different age groups, encouraging healthy but meaningful conversations on why they matter. This is Generations by our Gen Z columnist Angel Martinez.
Anyone who says that the internet is not real life clearly has not been to a cafe along Salcedo on a Saturday morning.
More often than not, every patron is a girl in a floral sundress toting a secondhand designer purse adorned with an orchid clip, and sporting a pair of Sambas in a signature pop of color. Their necklaces are layered, their rings are stacked, and if they all came from the same weekend market, chances are they also have a handpicked bouquet in tow. And while I have nothing against anyone who looks like this (I observe the same sartorial patterns from time to time), I can’t help but wonder if she would exist if we gatekept a bit more.
Any video of a content creator or celebrity has a comment section littered with demands for discount codes, direct links, or exact destinations, whether it’s a tube of lipgloss, a tank top, or a tita-coded spot to parade these new purchases around. Failing to respond to these inquiries is tantamount to a death sentence, in a time when authenticity and transparency are social currency. God forbid this person is elitist, or not a girl’s girl! As if this is what our ancestors meant when they wanted to secure equal opportunities for all women.
Like anything that cements itself in our online lexicon, the term used to mean something completely different. Gatekeeping was once the work of powerful, prestigious institutions like the government or media, who controlled which voices were heard, which issues were spotlighted, and which pockets money flowed into. But now that even the most inconsequential piece of user-generated content has potential to go viral, all of us can gatekeep or be gatekept from, regardless of how much real-world value the information we hold actually has.
Of course, recommendation culture has always been around—just in offline, less overwhelming forms: “It starts from the training in the household and then extends to word-of-mouth recommendations,” certified image, personal style, and color consultant Ingrid Nieto-Pagulayan shares with PhilSTAR L!fe. “Sometimes, we’d borrow inspiration from the media we consumed, especially print magazines and the tastemakers of the time. But you have to admit that they were going at a definitively slower pace than they are right now.”
With the rise of e-commerce and the exponential growth of these manufacturing houses comes ease of access for consumers, who are increasingly internet savvy and now exposed to seemingly infinite options. These conditions are a breeding ground for analysis paralysis, hence the need for people—ideally those we could be given enough time and resources—steering us in the right direction. “The problem is, when people see someone they admire or they deem as an ‘icon’ wearing something, there’s this need to copy-paste every single thing they have on. It’s no wonder we’re all kind of becoming clones of one another,” Nieto-Pagulayan observes.
Aside from the fact that we humans possess a persistent belief in our own uniqueness but also relish in the comfort of herd mentality, we dress up according to archetypes because our style communicates more to the outside world than we think. “How we dress tells a story about our activities, values, lifestyle, and even our priorities. More importantly, it can tell people how we want to be perceived,” Nieto-Pagulayan says.
Now that fashion serves as an aspirational shortcut, there’s this tendency to believe that if we buy into the old money aesthetic, we inch closer to being the nepo baby who celebrates birthdays on the family yacht. If we look like the clean girls we see on TikTok, we look the part of someone who cruises through her daily routine with ease. Maybe if we copy our favorite influencer from head to toe, we could be as rich or pretty or popular as she seems in our eyes. Maybe we, too, can effortlessly climb the rungs of the social hierarchy. But chasing after each aesthetic that is introduced to us online only contributes to a cycle of both insecurity and overconsumption. The fashion industry is one of the most notorious polluters on the planet for a reason.
Rather than passively accepting what is presented to us and hoping we can make it work after we’ve purchased it, let’s start actively curating our options again and prioritizing depth and intentionality. Cut up and paste pages from magazines, watch a bunch of period dramas and take note of their historically accurate wardrobes (or lack thereof), look at pattern swatches and take some fabric to a local seamstress. Bring back the joy in experimentation, in trial-and-error, in mixing and matching—even when it requires a bit more brain and willpower to execute.
Few moments come close to serendipitously discovering a new favorite, unearthing a hidden gem or holy grail, or remembering and repurposing a forgotten piece of clothing lingering in the back of our wardrobes. As critic Kyle Chayka espouses in his seminal work Filterworld, “The slower, self-managed approach to culture [...] is more sustainable and more respectful, treating it as something important rather than ephemeral, merely fodder for brief attention spans.”
I found my current perfume after spending an hour sniffing every bottle on display at the mall, and bought my go-to pair of shoes from the nearest store I could hobble to after the sandals I was wearing fell apart. Anyone who frequents their local ukay-ukay also knows the feeling too well. No big brands, no influencer recommendations, no peer pressure—just you, stacks on stacks of neon green hangers, and the secrets they reveal to those patient enough to stick around.
Ultimately, it shouldn’t be a crime to ask someone where they got their primer or their new purse. There’s nothing wrong with getting inspiration from the internet, which is a ubiquitous, largely unavoidable source of influence. But we shouldn’t rely so much on trends to determine how we look or who to be. They’re not supposed to be signifiers of what is socially acceptable to wear, but markers that further refine our sensibilities.
Our style is meant to be a dialogue with the self—a reflection of the choices we make and the preferences we exhibit over time, and how these interact with our immediate surroundings. And since we’re ever-evolving, it’s only expected that these will fluctuate and sometimes fail to reflect what is being fed to us online. As Nieto-Pagulayan muses, “Fashion is meant to serve us where we are, and not the other way around.”
Generations by Angel Martinez appears weekly at PhilSTAR L!fe.