Before the algorithm, there was taste

If you posted your outfits on Tumblr and thought Topshop was a religion, this one’s for you. Some thoughts on what came after.

(baby me in 2015)

I’m back in Paris for a couple of days, and as always, people asked, “What are you doing now?” It’s such a harmless question, but every time, I hear a little tension behind it , like they expect some grand strategy, a new launch, a big announcement, a rebranding, something to prove I’m still “in it.” But the truth is very simple: I’m doing exactly what I want. Nothing more, nothing less. No performance, no panic. Just life. And it feels so good.

Sometimes I think back to how all of this started , not just for me, but for all of us. The ones who became known, almost by accident, through the early internet. It wasn’t a business. Not even close. I had Tumblr, Lookbook.nu, MySpace, a blog that I probably forgot the password to. We were just sharing things we loved. An outfit. A vibe. A song on our profile page that auto-played. There was no monetization, no manager, no campaigns. Just a little digital corner where you could say, “Look at what I’m wearing today, do you like it?”

It was naive. In the best way.

(back in 2015, my style never changed!)

Back then, our biggest inspiration came from Vogue editorials, or blurry paparazzi shots of the Olsen twins walking out of a deli in six layers of scarves. Kate Moss with yesterday’s eyeliner and a leopard coat. That was our Pinterest board. It was messy, it was chic, and it felt real. We grew up admiring people with actual style. Not stylists. Not content. Just girls who had good taste.

We didn’t have the pressure to be perfect. We didn’t know how many people liked something unless they told us. There was no “algorithm.” Just you, your moodboard, your outfit, and a lot of heart. We didn’t even have Facetune. We were uploading selfies directly from the camera roll with no edits and a Valencia filter, and that was that.

I remember posting pictures of my outfits, mostly things I found at Topshop, or vintage, or things I’d saved up for. Sometimes I skipped meals to afford a bag. Not proud of it, but also , kind of poetic in a fashion-obsessed twenties way. I wasn’t trying to build anything. I just really loved getting dressed. That was it. I didn’t think anyone was watching.

Then one day, someone told me I was an influencer. I think it was 2015 or 2016. I was working in London as a buyer at the time. A guy told me, “You know this is your job now, right?” I blinked. What do you mean? he explained that promoting brands ,even for free, had value. She said I should get an agent. I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but I said okay. And that was it. The shift. What I was doing for fun became something that had a price.

And I was happy. I wasn’t trying to become famous , I already had a life. This was a bonus. A strange, exciting, glittery little bonus. It gave me more room to create. To be playful. To wear things I loved and be paid for it. And for a while, I just floated with it.

But then it became a job. A real one. With expectations. With politics. With pressure. Suddenly people wanted me to be seen. At events. At dinners. On lists. In front rows. It was exciting, yes, but it also made me uncomfortable. Because I’ve always been a little shy. I don’t love being the center of attention. And even during the “peak” of it, when people were calling all day and saying they needed me there, all I really wanted to do was stay home and take pictures in good outfits and share them with people who love fashion. That’s still the only part I truly enjoy.

I’ve always cared more about clothes than rooms. I never needed to be photographed with the right people. I just wanted to wear something beautiful and share a mood, a silhouette, an idea. And now, years later, I feel lucky that I get to do that in a way that feels more aligned. I co-create with brands I actually admire. I’ve launched my own label. I make pieces in Puglia from old fabrics. I shoot myself in beautiful clothes for a few hours, play dress-up, and then go back to my real life. It’s fun. It’s simple. It’s enough.

And yes, maybe I should post more. Maybe I should be more present. But for what? The pressure to “stay visible” is exhausting. It’s addictive. And also, it’s a bit fake. There’s something very strange about the way this industry now treats people like they’re disposable. You’re hot, and then you’re gone. And if you haven’t lived something else before this? That crash can feel like the end of the world.

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