Let’s talk about the everything designer era. There was a time when fashion designers made clothes. Now they make olive oil (A.P.C.). Evian bottles (Coperni). Reformer pilates equipment (Cèline). Loewe wants to hydrate you in style, Fendi wants to dress your sofa, and suddenly every runway collection is just one stop on the journey toward full lifestyle domination. In the age of the ‘Everything Designer,’ a killer outfit is no longer enough—you need a total universe. A brand Bible. A perfume, a café, a limited-edition deckchair. But beneath the surface of all this aesthetic empire-building, something curious is happening: fashion, in trying to be everything, is slowly becoming nothing at all.
Of course, it’s not new for fashion to dabble beyond the wardrobe. There’s a long lineage of maisons creating perfumes, tableware, even hotels—think Ralph Lauren Home or Dior’s restaurant in St Tropez. But today’s expansion feels different. It’s not about building heritage or extending a house’s codes. It’s about launching a product with the shortest route to a headline. Everything is branding. Everything is content, everything designer.
You no longer buy into a brand because you admire the clothes. You buy in because you want to inhabit the world. Which sounds romantic—until you realise every world looks more or less the same. Smooth stones. Travertine. Perfect lighting. A coffee table book. Brands are selling moodboards. The dream is total aesthetic control: from the fit on your body to the objects on your shelf, everything can—and should—be on-brand.
But somewhere in the rush to own every category, we’ve traded creative depth for creative direction. We’ve entered the Pinterestification of fashion. Everything looks good. Everything matches. But almost nothing moves you. It’s all just more mood. Moodboards, product drops, perfect renders. A never-ending carousel of beige, pastel, chrome, sans serif, and soft-touch packaging.
The designer becomes a curator of lifestyle moments, not a maker of garments. A vibe architect. And yes, that’s seductive. But it’s also profoundly hollow. What happened to tension? To taste that divides, instead of appeasing everyone’s feed?
There’s a flattening effect when every discipline is folded into the same glossy funnel. Interior design starts to look like fashion; fashion starts to behave like tech. And across the board, we’re seeing the same references recycled: Brutalist architecture, mid-century furniture, organic forms, a touch of 90s minimalism for edge. Innovation is rare. The object doesn’t need to be better—it just needs to look right.
When everything becomes merch, it’s hard to feel inspired. It’s hard to feel anything, really.
At its best, fashion doesn’t just reflect culture—it pushes it. It disturbs. It questions. But if everyone is too busy launching wine bars, branded ceramics, or motivational slides for Instagram, there’s no time for that. No space for risk. Everything has to be legible. Marketable. Packaged for resale.
Even the term “designer” feels diluted. It used to mean someone who laboured over form, function, silhouette. Now it might just mean someone with a great eye and a Squarespace portfolio. There’s no shame in being multidisciplinary—but can we be honest about the fact that most of these brand extensions aren’t design projects, they’re licensing deals?
None of this is to say that a fashion brand can’t enter new categories meaningfully. But perhaps we’re overdue a shift in pace. A return to depth, to rigour. To doing fewer things with more intent.
The fashion world doesn’t need another ironic water bottle. It needs work that lasts beyond the scroll. Objects that weren’t just made to go viral but to be lived with. Touched. Understood.
Because if we keep chasing the aesthetic high of being “everything,” we’ll end up with a culture that says nothing at all.
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