Rachel: Okay, Justine, quick role-play. You're a 1980s high-fashion designer. I'm a focus group. I tell you I want comfortable pants. What's your response? Justine: "Comfort? Darling, you misunderstand. My clothes are not for comfort. They are for suffering. It is called art." Rachel: Exactly! And that perfectly absurd, yet once very real, attitude is at the heart of the book we're diving into today: The End of Fashion: How Marketing Changed the Clothing Business Forever by Teri Agins. Justine: Oh, I love this. And the title alone, The End of Fashion, is so dramatic, so final. It sounds like something a scorned designer would declare. Rachel: It does, but what makes this book so powerful is that Teri Agins wasn't a typical fashion editor, fawning over runway shows. She was a pioneering business reporter for The Wall Street Journal. She looked at a fashion house and saw a balance sheet, a supply chain, and a marketing budget. Justine: That perspective must have been absolutely heretical to the fashion establishment at the time. They’re talking about silhouettes and inspiration, and she’s asking about profit margins and inventory management. Rachel: Completely. And that’s why the book caused such a stir. It pulled back the curtain on this glamorous, artistic world and revealed the cold, hard business machinery that was taking over. It argued that the old world, the one where designers were gods, was already over. Justine: Okay, so if the designers weren't in charge anymore, who was? Where did the power go? That feels like the central mystery we need to solve. Rachel: That is the exact question. And the answer starts with the fall of one of fashion's most celebrated darlings.

Rachel: In the mid-90s, Isaac Mizrahi was the toast of the town. Picture this: it's 1997, backstage at his show. The air is electric. Supermodels like Naomi Campbell are breezing in, dripping with glamour. André Leon Talley from Vogue is there, making grand pronouncements. Mizrahi himself is this whirlwind of creative energy, calling a fake fur jacket "divine in beast." He was a critical darling, a genius. Justine: That sounds like the absolute peak of what we imagine "high fashion" to be. Exclusive, a little chaotic, and completely inaccessible to normal people. It’s a private club, and we're not on the list. Rachel: Precisely. But here’s the twist that Agins exposes. While the critics and insiders adored him, the business was a disaster. He was hemorrhaging money. Chanel had invested millions in his brand, and they were seeing almost no return. Justine: Wait, how is that possible? If you're the most famous, most celebrated designer, shouldn't you be selling clothes like crazy? Rachel: That’s the old logic. The new reality was that Mizrahi was designing for an imaginary woman. He was creating art, not products. Agins tells this incredible story where retail buyers were begging him to re-release one of his few best-sellers—a simple pair of paper-bag-waist pants. It was a guaranteed hit. Justine: Okay, so he makes more of them, and everyone's happy, right? Rachel: His response? "I just got bored with them." He refused. He was an artist, and he didn't want to repeat himself, even if it meant saving his company. He famously said, "Look, it is all I can do to make fabulous collections and fabulous clothes... I can’t imagine how it will translate at retail." Justine: Wow. That is a level of creative purity that is also just catastrophic business sense. It's like a baker refusing to make more of his best-selling croissant because he's moved on to deconstructed sourdough. You can’t run a business that way! Rachel: And that’s the crux of the first major shift. The consumer was changing, but designers like Mizrahi weren't. This wasn't just happening to him, either. Agins points to these other canaries in the coal mine. There was a legendary, ultra-exclusive boutique on Park Avenue called Martha. For decades, socialites would spend entire afternoons and small fortunes there. But by the early 90s, it was closing down. Justine: Why? Did the rich stop being rich? Rachel: No, but they stopped wanting to "dress up" in that same way. The socialites who were once the bedrock of couture were now busy women. They were working, they had families. As one of them, Chessy Rayner, said, "Today my style is totally pared-down and non-glitz." They wanted practicality. Justine: This is starting to sound familiar. The world was speeding up, and the slow, ritualistic performance of high fashion couldn't keep pace. Rachel: Exactly. And it wasn't just the wealthy. The entire culture was shifting. Agins tells the story of Alcoa, the giant aluminum company in Pittsburgh. In 1991, they let employees dress casually for two weeks for a United Way fundraiser. It was so popular they made it permanent. An Alcoa executive told The Wall Street Journal, "There used to be a time when a white shirt went with your intelligence. But now there’s no reason to do this anymore." Justine: The birth of business casual! It’s wild to think that was a revolutionary act. Today, a company announcing a "casual dress code" is like announcing they have Wi-Fi. It's the absolute baseline. Rachel: And this cultural shift created a massive power vacuum. If people weren't listening to designers or wearing formal clothes, what were they wearing? And who were they listening to? This is where the average person starts to take control. Justine: And they start realizing some fascinating things, right? Like the story of the Kmart sandals. Rachel: Yes! This is one of my favorite anecdotes in the book. In 1994, a psychotherapist named Deirdre Shaffer needed an outfit for a party. She bought a nice dress from Ann Taylor, but for shoes, she was short on time and just grabbed a pair of $12.99 black suede sandals from Kmart. Justine: A bold move for a country club party in the 90s. I feel like that was peak brand-snobbery era. Rachel: It was! But at the party, she recalled, "I got more compliments on the shoes than my dress." And when she told people the shoes were from Kmart, they were impressed. It was a revelation. You didn't need the designer label to have style. Justine: And this wasn't just a feeling. There was data to back it up! The Consumer Reports tests were brutal. Rachel: Absolutely savage. They tested a $340 chenille sweater from the ultra-chic Barneys New York against a $25 one from Kmart. The conclusion? The Barneys sweater was "only a bit higher in quality." They did the same for men's polo shirts and found that a $7 Target brand shirt scored higher in quality than versions from Polo Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, and Nautica that cost five or six times as much. Justine: That’s the nail in the coffin for the old guard. The mystique is gone. Consumers are getting smarter, they're getting more casual, and they're realizing that price and brand name don't automatically equal quality or style. The designer dictatorship is officially over. Rachel: It's a total revolution. And as the old power structure crumbled, a new one was being built, not on the sewing machine, but in the marketing department.

Justine: Okay, so if the designers lost their power to dictate, who picked it up? Nature abhors a vacuum, right? Someone had to start telling people what to wear, or at least, what to want. Rachel: Exactly. And the new kings were the marketers. The new bible wasn't Vogue, it was a brand narrative. And the two high priests of this new religion were Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger. Justine: The titans of American prep. It’s hard to even think of them as just "designers." They feel more like cultural architects. Rachel: That’s the perfect term. Agins argues they weren't necessarily design innovators in the way an old-world couturier was. They were marketing innovators. They didn't invent new clothes; they perfected the art of selling a dream. As a department store executive said in the book, "It’s not the jeans or the shirt but the image. Customers want to be like Ralph and Tommy." Justine: And their images were so distinct. Ralph Lauren was selling this old-money, East Coast, WASP-y fantasy. The life you wished your grandparents had, with polo ponies and sprawling estates. Rachel: He was a master of it. He was born Ralph Lifshitz in the Bronx, the son of a house painter. But he absorbed the aesthetic of the upper class and sold it back to the masses as an aspirational dream. He created a whole world, and the clothes were just the souvenirs you could buy to feel like you were a part of it. Justine: And then comes Tommy Hilfiger, who sees Lauren’s playbook and says, "I can do that, but for a different crowd." Rachel: He did. He took the same preppy classics but gave them a twist. He infused them with the energy of inner-city street style and hip-hop culture. While Ralph Lauren was about old money, Tommy was about new, vibrant, multicultural energy. And he was aggressive. His very first ad campaign was a billboard in Times Square that put his name next to Ralph Lauren, Perry Ellis, and Calvin Klein, declaring him one of the "four great American designers for men." Justine: The nerve! He wasn't even known yet! That's like a rookie athlete putting his face on Mount Rushmore. Rachel: The fashion world was appalled. They called him a crass pretender. But shoppers were intrigued. The clothes were cool, they were affordable, and the marketing was loud and confident. It worked. And this set up an epic rivalry between Lauren and Hilfiger, which culminated in one of the most brilliant marketing moves I have ever read about. Justine: Oh, this is going to be good. This is the main event. Rachel: So, both designers were using the American flag heavily in their branding. It was their symbol of American style. But Hilfiger was really owning it, and it was driving Lauren crazy. Then, in 1998, President Clinton gives a speech asking for donations to save America's historical treasures. One of those treasures was the actual, original Star-Spangled Banner—the gigantic, 185-year-old flag that inspired the national anthem. It was hanging in the Smithsonian, tattered and decaying. Justine: Okay, I think I see where this is going, and it is diabolical. Rachel: Ralph Lauren swoops in and donates $13 million to restore the flag. Not just any flag—the flag. The story wasn't just about a donation; it was a public ceremony at the National Museum. Ralph Lauren stood on stage next to President Clinton and Hillary Clinton, pledging allegiance to the flag he had just saved. Justine: He didn't just use the flag in an ad, he bought the original flag? That's next-level. It's like Elon Musk buying the moon to promote Tesla. He completely co-opted the ultimate American symbol. Rachel: It was a checkmate move. The media went wild. The Washington Times ran a cartoon of an American flag with a tiny Polo logo in the corner. He completely one-upped Hilfiger. And to make it even sweeter, President Clinton, at the ceremony, casually mentioned, "You know, most of us... have these great Polo sweaters with the American flag on it." Justine: Oh, that is just brutal. A presidential endorsement, right in the middle of this philanthropic masterstroke. You can't buy that kind of advertising. Or, well, I guess you can for $13 million. Rachel: And that story perfectly encapsulates the "end of fashion" that Agins describes. The most important fashion event of that year wasn't a runway show in Paris. It was a marketing transaction in Washington D.C. The winner wasn't the best designer; it was the best storyteller.

Justine: So when you put these two stories together—the fall of the creative purist like Mizrahi and the rise of the marketing machine of Lauren and Hilfiger—you get a crystal-clear picture of this massive earthquake in the industry. Rachel: It’s a perfect storm. The old gods of design are falling because the culture is changing and consumers are getting smarter. And at the exact same time, these marketing geniuses are building a new religion based on lifestyle and branding. They filled the power vacuum. Justine: And we are all living in the world they built. Every brand today is trying to sell us an identity, not just a product. You don't just buy a jacket from Patagonia; you buy into the identity of a rugged, eco-conscious adventurer. You don't just use an Apple computer; you become part of a tribe of sleek, creative minimalists. Rachel: That's the legacy. The book was written at the turn of the millennium, but Agins’ diagnosis is more relevant than ever. She saw the blueprint for the 21st-century consumer economy, where the story is often more valuable than the object itself. Justine: It makes you look at your own closet differently. Why did I buy this? Was it the fabric and the fit, or was it the Instagram ad that showed someone living my dream life while wearing it? Rachel: It's a really powerful question. The book ends on this idea that "at the end of fashion it takes a whole lot of clever marketing to weave ordinary clothes into silken dreams." The business isn't about making clothes anymore; it's about weaving dreams. Justine: And that feels like the perfect place to leave it. It makes you wonder, the next time you buy something you love, are you buying the thing itself, or are you buying the story the brand told you about it? Rachel: We'd love to hear what you think. What's a brand story that totally hooked you, that made you feel like you were buying into something bigger? Let us know. Justine: This is Aibrary, signing off.