In today’s fashion industry, a creative appointment isn’t to crown a career, but to clown-suit it. Desperate to recapture cultural relevance not quite lost, brands now dress up celebrities in titles they don’t necessarily deserve, hoping consumers don’t mind being pissed on

SZA, Van’s new creative director.

Even Vans has fallen for the allure of celebrity The shoe brand announced its first-ever “artistic director”—the American singer-songwriter SZA (aka Solána Imani Rowe). It seems every singer is now expected to pivot from songs to slacks to sneakers. In a statement announcing the multi-year partnership, the company revealed that SZA will “reimagine upcoming campaigns and co-create exclusive product collections”—a move they hope will “fuse her unique vision with the brand’s creative and youthful spirit”. Her appointment is very much in line with other brands tapping music artistes for collaborations or to take on more important roles to ensure that their labels are not just another face in the crowd.

Vans did not reveal the duration of the partnership, but it is, as with other pairings in the industry, likely a short-term arrangement. Music artists are sought after for fashion collaborations not primarily for their technical skills, but for their “cultural influence”, “authenticity”, and their ability to “connect with a specific audience”, as the easy, popular rationales go. The sheer volume of celebrity collaborations in the market today, however, suggests a trend-driven, flash-in-the-pan strategy. Many of these partnerships are designed as fleeting moments of consumerist excitement rather than long-term, meaningful contributions to either the brand or, least of all, the fashion industry. This makes the entire endeavor feel cynical—a trade of genuine creative effort for a burst of celebrity-fueled publicity, valuing buzz more than commitment to truly innovative or lasting products.”

The history of celebrity collaborations is a minefield of failures that demonstrates the risk of conflating personal style with creative direction. We can’t help but think of Lindsay Lohan, again. In 2009, the Mean Girls actress was hired by the house of Ungaro as “artistic advisor” and debuted a collection that was widely panned. Even the retired designer, Emmanuel Ungaro, called it “a disaster”. Sure, Vans is not a French fashion brand, and some say less is at stake since SZA would not be churning out high fashion. Vans’s press release, while effusive in its praise of SZA’s creative spirit, is notably hush on the subject of design heft. The company uses broad, abstract language about “shaping the emotional tone”, bringing “authenticity to the forefront”, or “creating space for both softness and powerful expression”. This is a victory of puffery.

What ails many brands is the curious conviction that an outside voice is needed to save them from themselves. These pop star appointments are not bold innovations; they are a symptom of a creative paralysis within an industry that are less able to set trends then follow them. Increasingly, fashion is struggling to navigate a fragmented market. No single label hold enough market share to dominate. This has led brands to believe that the answer to their relevance problem lies not within their own design studios, but in the cultural capital of others, no in their own authenticity, but those of celebrities in other fields. This strategy, however, makes a brand dangerously vulnerable. Its image and credibility become tied to a person who is not under its control, risking a ‘meaning backfire’ should the celebrity’s public persona change or be tarnished by scandal. The Kanye West fallouts with Adidas, Balenciaga, and Gap are more than proof enough.

The pervasive gamble on celebrity is all the more risky in a market where consumers’ aversion to celebrity-linked merchandise is on a rapid rise. While “authenticity” is frequently cited as the real reason for these relationships, the term has been so overused in corporate justification that it is now received with understandable cynicism. Fashion consumers are more aware than ever that these partnerships are driven solely by money, not by a genuine connection to the product or to make it better. A celebrity’s stamp of approval is little more than a paid transaction. This forges a fresh chain of suspicion. When a brand proclaims a collaboration is “authentic,” the astute consumer hears quite the opposite: the brand has so little faith in its own merit that it needs to secure a connection to culture.

This reliance on celebrities is not going to wane any time soon. It’s a symptom of a much graver affliction—profound creative insecurity. In a market where traditional avenues of influence are in decline, fashion is banking on the cultural capital that their identified star can bring. This is a strategy that exploits a nation’s soft power while its global standing is, at the same time, contested. America is grappling with a complicated and often sullied image on the world stage. Its cultural exports, such as pop music or hip-hop, may remain dominant, but some emblematic names are trying to polish a tarnished trophy. The dramatic fall of figures such as Sean Combs, or R Kelly before him, comes to mind. Branding with hip-hop stars has indeed lost much of its lustre. This only highlights the immense risk in a strategy built on borrowed authenticity. The hiring of a famous face to tap into the cultural well may just draw up a bucket of dry air.

Photos: Vans