In the 70s, fans of punk rock would travel to dingy pubs with poor ventilation just to listen to the local bands. Similarly, in the 90s, skaters would travel to skaterparks to practice their craft. Readers would facilitate book clubs, and Japan’s fashion-forward crowd would take their DIY creations to Takeshita Street in the Harajuku district. To be part of a subculture, there was sweat involved, travelling to places, experimenting with ideas, and riffing off discussions. Everything was IRL, and belonging within a particular subculture meant you were there.
But now in the present, the idea of being a part of a subculture, of pushing back against the mainstream, has been saved for the internet. Now it’s packaged into “aesthetic” or “cores”, where visual language, performative know-how and curated visual takes control.
In Dick Hebdige’s 1979 book, Subculture: The Meaning of Style, Hebdige defines subcultures as spaces for resistance, finding alternative meaning through art, style, and language. The space meant everything. What made a member of a subculture legitimate was actively being present. And while style and art were important, the root of the subculture was shared ideology. For someone enjoying a subculture for its aesthetics alone made them a “poser”.
The rise of the internet only furthered this narrative. Early internet brought people together, giving space for new subcultures to emerge, primarily gaming and tech-focused. For the first time, people didn’t have to physically move; they had access right from their homes. So it became even easier to spot who was in it for the ideas and who were the “posers”.
But as the internet population grew, subculture communities were harder to keep up with and maintain. Lockdown in 2020 effectively fired the first shot at killing subcultures. With the TikTok boom, the rise of ultra-fast fashion and online shopping, subcultures were reduced to their fashion, washed down to “cores”.
Now, as long as you looked the part, you’d fit in because the internet wasn’t centring ideas, it was centring visuals that played a part in a bigger algorithm. “Dark Academia” didn’t actually mean reading and being a student; it meant dressing up like a student, where books were the props. Similarly, “Cottagecore” didn’t mean working at a farm; it meant dressing up as if you did. With online shopping sites providing everything, the DIY effect of the subculture was gone. TikTok tutorials meant that you could look like a subcultural veteran with just a few clicks. What was Vivienne Westwood’s start as a designer has now been replaced by giants like SHEIN.
But by only focusing on a subculture’s style, we miss out on the story and message the style is trying to convey. Similar to Marie Antoinette’s “cottage phase” in the 1780s, the “cores” are rooted in idealisation over the subculture’s ideological reality. And because the internet has become a virtual third space for so many, it is much more difficult to voice new ideas, riff off discussions, and create a meaningful ideology that matches the clothes.
For many people, especially Gen Z, who grew up with the internet, this realisation has brought a full circle moment for subcultures. After lockdown, the desire to go outside and stay outside has become even stronger. For some communities, the physical spaces haven’t gone away—you can still go crazy with fashion at the Harajuku district and you can still indulge in local punk rock music at The Joiners Pub, dinginess and all. For other communities, the space is being created as we speak.
Alserkal Avenue in Al Quoz has facilitated a space for like-minded creatives to gather, experiment, and support each other in their niches, whether that be art, drama, or music. Whereas Lebanese artist Sophia Khalifeh has created her own subcultural space with her book club Campy Chronicles. Hosting in-person gatherings and fostering reading culture, participating doesn’t require dressing up in “academia” core—you just have to show up.
