Diversity in the 2020s; Generation Z and Aspirational Realism

A strategist at Mixcloud first explained the term ‘aspirational realism’ to me about a year ago. Mixcloud is a music hosting website, particularly useful to underground DJs and radio stations who want to share mixes without copyright concerns. It is exactly the kind of idealistic start-up that has had to roll with the punches in an precarious age for its industry, in this case by branching out into strategic research, using their cultural understanding to help brands understand their customers. The term ‘aspirational realism’ sums up a mood Mixcloud discovered amongst Generation Z; they are tired of the beauty standards of yesteryear.

This is not to say they are uninterested in celebrities, even those who are classically beautiful. One of the varied cultural figures lined up on the UK edition of Adidas’ recent Change Is A Team Sport poster is Maya Jama, a Radio 1 DJ and TV presenter whose red carpet looks showcase typical beauty, in contrast to some of the other stars who gaze alongside her onto London Underground platforms, such as the campaign’s director Jonah Hill, blue-haired online gamer Tyler Bevins and one-armed cyclist Lauren Steadman. Jama’s Instagram, however, slots the glamour alongside images of her face in various states, be it swollen (‘still no confirmation if it’s mumps or a swollen gland but I can confirm I look fucking hilarious’), or humorously leering from underneath a Hannibal Lecter-mask. Beauty standards are about more than appearance, they are about the ways we construct our public self, the versions of our self we deem acceptable for the public. At their best, celebrities’ can help people understand this complex, increasingly significant task of presenting oneself to the outside world, or even redefine the game’s rules.

Generation Z have been sharing themselves on social media as long as they can remember, presenting the kind of curated ‘this is me’ image that used to be limited to showbusiness and reality tv. The psychology of social media is best explained by the 31 year old New Yorker writer Jia Tolentino, whose essay collection ‘Trick Mirror’ explores the internet’s inescapable nature; social media profiles are inevitably reactivated by those who hoped to have a break from constant visibility. There is pressure to publicly present oneself in various ways, be it the pressure to present attractive images of oneself on holiday, or - as has become more popular under quarantine, when the former became impossible - to virtue-signal by posting politically correct, thoughtful content online. Tolentino describes this feeling of having to constantly, publicly present oneself as a job interview that never has to end. Though Tolentino has been described as the voice of Millennials, her ideas map particularly well onto Generation Z; one of the lessons I learned from working in the Oxford Circus’ Topshop store is that everyone in Generation Z lives on social media. Everyone is expected to present themselves online, and then do it again, and again. It’s just a part of life.

This brings me to Fuze. The biggest student-organised fashion show in the UK, combining students from Bristol’s University of Bristol and University of West England in a showcase of music, fashion and dance, for charity. A friend of mine was scouted to model for the show back when I was a student in 2015, the show coincided with my younger brother’s visit so we went together. Set in a dramatic hall, we watched full live bands perform euphoric pop, dancers pull off expertly timed choreography, and Abercrombie-ready models strut their stuff on the catwalk above us. That last description might seem a little derogatory, referencing a famously elitist brand which didn’t provide XL and XXL sizes to women and would not allow employees to wear hijabs or arm-braces, a brand whose CEO famously stated ‘we want to market to cool, good-looking people. We don't market to anyone other than that.’ In my defence, my modelling friend literally worked at Abercrombie. She did not find the experience comfortable.

The definitive Abercrombie experience used to be queuing up for a photo with the ripped, topless models standing outside their stores, whose abdominal muscles were emblazoned upon Abercrombie’s bags. This practice stopped in 2015, but the beauty standards were still firmly imprinted in my generation’s minds; all but one of Fuze 2015’s male models had that distinct body type, and all its models’ bodies were showcased in the swimwear catwalk. Despite the volume of time I had spent lifting weights that year, I felt hopelessly inadequate, though our spirits were raised a little when one model came out carrying a pug in his left arm. It’s important to note that Fuze is not a brand marketing to young people or running focus groups which involve them, it is young people, young people who spend months preparing to showcase their character and taste to their peers. A lot has changed since then.

Five years later, my brother is in his final year at the University of Bristol, and has co-choreographed Fuze’s closing dance number. I returned to Bristol with our parents, and immediately things were different. This year’s venue was a moody nightclub, its performance space split by a brick wall, with elevated chairs at each corner, such that no audience member would be more than 4 rows from the action, and no one could see the entire stage.

The night’s theme was Metamorphosis, a timely concept that was present in both style and substance. Rather than moving in perfect unison, the opening numbers’ dancers swayed in rhythmic formations, as if knocking each other on, and moved consistently through the space, circling the brick wall along to Florence & The Machine’s What The Water Gave Me. This circular movement continued throughout the show from the singers and models, who often interacted with the dancers and audience. The absence of seat-bound musicians and clear clothing categories for the models, combined with all of the performers’ relaxed, comfortable stage presence gave Fuze 2020 a feeling of fluidity, as is the mic could be passed to anyone who wished to have a moment, on or off-stage.

The performers were just as professional as their 2015 counterparts, the models were still beautiful, but this time around the whole aesthetic was so much more grounded. Some of the dance moves reminded me the kind of wonky shapes cut by Bristol’s flamboyantly dressed ravers in sweaty superclubs like Motion and Lakota, whilst others - as choreographed and performed by my brother, soundtracked by Todrick Hall’s Nails, Hair, Hips, Heels - harked back to the Harlem Ballroom Scene, a dance movement developed by adopted families of queer/trans New Yorkers in the 1960-80s, a million miles away from privilege. As for the models, I don’t know what beauty standards their bodies fit, because they weren’t on show; there was no swimwear category. Instead, we saw a diverse group of charismatic young people, modelling a variety of aesthetic aspirations.

To understand Generation Z, it’s important not to oversimplify; they are not characterised by the rejection of consumerism or celebrity culture. They are totally aware of the power of personal branding; posting the right pose, outfit and tagline on Instagram, Tinder, Facebook or even LinkedIn can be crucial to making your romantic, professional or social aspirations a reality, or at least to reassure your friends that you’re still feeling yourself. Generation Z is uninterested in those who present beauty standards that can only be maintained through self-repression. For a brand to meaningfully embrace aspirational realism, to develop an understanding whose manifestations transcend tokenistic, box-ticking model casting, they must grasp what Generation Z instinctively understands; the aesthetic we have been fed is toxic. It’s time for change.

[Fuze photos taken by Will Soer]