On avoiding indulgence in interpretation, what the London fashion scene is really like, the role of empathy in trend work, the peculiarities of a sample sale, and why curiosity wins over certainty.
June 6, 2026
By Jee Young Park
Above: At a tea ceremony workshop in Seoul.
In search of a well-immersed perspective, we checked in with freelance London-based writer, trend analyst, brand consultant, and cultural researcher J’Nae Phillips to discuss nostalgia’s evolving role within the Gen Z creative class, the London fashion scene, anime, and grounds by Mikio Sakabe. In addition to her newsletter Fashion Tingz, you can find her words in SCREENSHOT, Polyester Zine, Dazed Beauty, Dirt, and more. Keep your eyes peeled for the second edition of Fashion Tingz digital zine.
Le Fool: A take that has stayed with me are your thoughts on how the Gen Z creative class chooses to dress. You identified the visible traits of the trend in your forecasting piece, but also the possible motivation, which is an important caveat to consider in design. A lot of creatives are struggling to be directional, not reactive or indulgent, yet resonate. How do you balance these forces in your work?
J’Nae Phillips: For me, the balance comes from separating observation from interpretation. A lot of creative work gets stuck at the level of “what is happening,” especially in trend-driven environments, but directionality only emerges when you start asking “why now, and what does this reveal about longer emotional or cultural shifts?”
I try to anchor myself in underlying motivations rather than surface signals. The Gen Z creative class, for example, isn’t just dressing in certain ways because those aesthetics are “in,” but because clothing is functioning as a kind of positioning system — a way to signal ambiguity, irony, protection, or refusal. If you design from that level of intention, you’re less likely to be reactive.
Avoiding indulgence, for me, is about restraint in interpretation. Not over-reading every micro-trend, and being comfortable with leaving space unresolved rather than forcing coherence too early.
By Jee Young Park
Above: At a tea ceremony workshop in Seoul.
In search of a well-immersed perspective, we checked in with freelance London-based writer, trend analyst, brand consultant, and cultural researcher J’Nae Phillips to discuss nostalgia’s evolving role within the Gen Z creative class, the London fashion scene, anime, and grounds by Mikio Sakabe. In addition to her newsletter Fashion Tingz, you can find her words in SCREENSHOT, Polyester Zine, Dazed Beauty, Dirt, and more. Keep your eyes peeled for the second edition of Fashion Tingz digital zine.
Le Fool: A take that has stayed with me are your thoughts on how the Gen Z creative class chooses to dress. You identified the visible traits of the trend in your forecasting piece, but also the possible motivation, which is an important caveat to consider in design. A lot of creatives are struggling to be directional, not reactive or indulgent, yet resonate. How do you balance these forces in your work?
J’Nae Phillips: For me, the balance comes from separating observation from interpretation. A lot of creative work gets stuck at the level of “what is happening,” especially in trend-driven environments, but directionality only emerges when you start asking “why now, and what does this reveal about longer emotional or cultural shifts?”
I try to anchor myself in underlying motivations rather than surface signals. The Gen Z creative class, for example, isn’t just dressing in certain ways because those aesthetics are “in,” but because clothing is functioning as a kind of positioning system — a way to signal ambiguity, irony, protection, or refusal. If you design from that level of intention, you’re less likely to be reactive.
Avoiding indulgence, for me, is about restraint in interpretation. Not over-reading every micro-trend, and being comfortable with leaving space unresolved rather than forcing coherence too early.
“I try to anchor myself in underlying motivations rather than surface signals.”
Le Fool: In that same piece you talked about "functional nostalgia." How closely
does that relate to our survival instincts? Are art and design strained
in reflecting back the problems of today while inspiring people to
continue to dream?
J’Nae Phillips: I think functional nostalgia is very closely tied to survival, but not in a literal sense — more in terms of emotional stability. In periods of uncertainty, people don’t just look forward; they reach for frameworks that feel already tested. Nostalgia becomes “functional” when it stops being aesthetic and starts acting as infrastructure, something that helps people orient themselves.
That creates a tension for design and art. If you mirror the present too precisely, you risk collapsing imagination into realism. But if you ignore it entirely, you lose relevance. The strain comes from holding both: reflecting friction while still offering projection.
The most interesting work, to me, doesn’t resolve that tension. It lets people feel the discomfort of the present, but still gives them enough symbolic space to imagine a different emotional future.
A luxury resale and designer bag outlet in Fukuoka, Japan.
J’Nae Phillips: I think functional nostalgia is very closely tied to survival, but not in a literal sense — more in terms of emotional stability. In periods of uncertainty, people don’t just look forward; they reach for frameworks that feel already tested. Nostalgia becomes “functional” when it stops being aesthetic and starts acting as infrastructure, something that helps people orient themselves.
That creates a tension for design and art. If you mirror the present too precisely, you risk collapsing imagination into realism. But if you ignore it entirely, you lose relevance. The strain comes from holding both: reflecting friction while still offering projection.
The most interesting work, to me, doesn’t resolve that tension. It lets people feel the discomfort of the present, but still gives them enough symbolic space to imagine a different emotional future.
Le Fool: What role does empathy play in your research and output?
J’Nae Phillips: Empathy is less about agreement and more about precision in understanding context. It’s what allows you to distinguish between what people say they like and what they are actually responding to emotionally or socially.
In my research, it shows up as listening without rushing to categorise. In my output, it shows up as resisting flattening people into archetypes. The goal isn’t to sentimentalise audiences, but to treat their contradictions as meaningful data rather than noise.
Without empathy, trend work becomes extraction. With it, it becomes translation.
J’Nae Phillips: Empathy is less about agreement and more about precision in understanding context. It’s what allows you to distinguish between what people say they like and what they are actually responding to emotionally or socially.
In my research, it shows up as listening without rushing to categorise. In my output, it shows up as resisting flattening people into archetypes. The goal isn’t to sentimentalise audiences, but to treat their contradictions as meaningful data rather than noise.
Without empathy, trend work becomes extraction. With it, it becomes translation.
“Without empathy, trend work becomes extraction. With it, it becomes translation.”
Le Fool: "They existed slightly off-grid, a quiet redistribution of fashion’s excess." I loved this framing of the Miista sample sale and the conversations you had while waiting on line. What other peculiarities does the sample sale have that make it a unique breeding ground to observe and, dare I say, commune?
J’Nae Phillips: Sample sales are interesting because they compress multiple value systems into one space: scarcity, aspiration, practicality, and performance. People are there partly to consume, but also to participate: to be seen making “smart” or “insider” choices.
There’s also a kind of temporal distortion. You have past-season objects, future-facing styling ambitions, and present-tense urgency all happening at once. That creates a strange social texture where fashion becomes less about novelty and more about negotiation. Think: what something “should” cost versus what it feels worth in that moment.
And then there’s the community aspect. People talk, compare, justify, and celebrate their purchases. It’s transactional and money-oriented for brands, but also strangely social for audiences and eager shoppers in a way that more polished retail environments find hard to replicate.
“It’s transactional and money-oriented for brands, but also strangely social for audiences and eager shoppers in a way that more polished retail environments find hard to replicate.”
Le Fool: How do you think London is rethinking the idea of itself as a fashion city, if at all?
J’Nae Phillips: London feels like it’s constantly renegotiating its identity between institutional prestige and fragmented subcultural energy. It still has a strong educational and archival infrastructure, but the creative output is increasingly decentralised. It’s happening through smaller studios, independent communities, hybrid digital-physical spaces, and offline connections. It’s happening in DM and niche newsletters and unexpected digital echo chambers that are thriving.
Rather than a single “London aesthetic,” there are overlapping micro-scenes that don’t necessarily cohere. That’s what I love about London, its underdog nature, even though it’s a fashion capital, and its communal DIY spirit.
But this also speaks to a sense of fragmentation, which is both a strength and a challenge. London produces originality, but it also makes continuity harder to define.
Le Fool: What are the forces shaping the fashion scene in London?
J’Nae Phillips: A few key forces: economic pressure on emerging designers, the dominance of digital visibility over physical presence, and a stronger alignment between fashion and adjacent cultural fields like music, photography, and online publishing.
There’s also a generational shift in what “success” looks like. Many designers are no longer aiming for traditional house-building models, but for cultural impact at a smaller scale: collaborations, niche audiences, or global digital reach without physical expansion.
J’Nae Phillips: London feels like it’s constantly renegotiating its identity between institutional prestige and fragmented subcultural energy. It still has a strong educational and archival infrastructure, but the creative output is increasingly decentralised. It’s happening through smaller studios, independent communities, hybrid digital-physical spaces, and offline connections. It’s happening in DM and niche newsletters and unexpected digital echo chambers that are thriving.
Rather than a single “London aesthetic,” there are overlapping micro-scenes that don’t necessarily cohere. That’s what I love about London, its underdog nature, even though it’s a fashion capital, and its communal DIY spirit.
But this also speaks to a sense of fragmentation, which is both a strength and a challenge. London produces originality, but it also makes continuity harder to define.
Le Fool: What are the forces shaping the fashion scene in London?
J’Nae Phillips: A few key forces: economic pressure on emerging designers, the dominance of digital visibility over physical presence, and a stronger alignment between fashion and adjacent cultural fields like music, photography, and online publishing.
There’s also a generational shift in what “success” looks like. Many designers are no longer aiming for traditional house-building models, but for cultural impact at a smaller scale: collaborations, niche audiences, or global digital reach without physical expansion.