We often come across the expression male gaze on the internet and in the media. It refers to the act, in arts, of depicting women and the world from a heterosexual male perspective. This perspective represents women as sexual objects, for the pleasure of the heterosexual male audience. The concept of male gaze was first articulated by the British feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey in her 1975 essay, « Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema ». This theory also refers to historical precedents. For example, in the European oil paintings from the Renaissance period, the female body was, most of the time, idealized and presented from a voyeuristic male perspective. However, the concept of male perspective had already been studied a long time before 1975.
In fact, in 1882, the impressionist painter Édouard Manet presented his new painting Un bar aux Folies Bergère (in English: Bar at the Folies Bergère), which is an analysis of male perspective in arts, and more generally, in society. In 1979, the photographer Jeff Wall creates the picture Picture for Women as an answer to Manet’s painting. This conversation between Manet’s work and Jeff Wall’s one shows us how male perspective has been discussed through the last centuries.
Presentation of A bar at the Folies Bergère
The Un bar aux Folies Bergère painting represents the Folies Bergère concert hall, an iconic place of leisure in Paris that has always been famous for its shows and parties. At the center of the picture we can see a woman behind a bar, who is clearly the bartender. We can easily notice her absent and suffering stare, which can be surprising for a barmaid. She is surrounded by alcohol, drinks and other leisure objects such as fruits and flowers. Behind the barmaid is a mirror. The particularity of this painting is that, except for the forefront – which are the barmaid and the bar – the rest of the painting is the mirror. Which means that most of what we see is a reflection of what is actually in front of the barmaid.
The purpose of the mirror is to give us depth and context about the passive and jaded attitude of the barmaid. In the reflection, we can see a typical scene of a party. In fact, the room is really crowded, everyone is well-dressed and some people are drinking. We can even see the feet of an acrobat. But the most important thing is the reflection of the barmaid’s back, and we can notice that she is actually talking to a man standing in front of her. The mirror allows us to understand that the barmaid has this attitude because of the man she is talking to. She is looking at him. This makes us – the viewer – as if we were this man. Who is he? What is going on?
The purpose of the painting is to see the party, and more specifically, the barmaid, from the man’s point of view. At this point, we can realize that, even if she is working, she is completely passive. She is clearly suffering but she has to stay neutral. If we look at her outfit, we can notice symbols of erotism, like the flower on her chest. She is a product, like the drink she sells. Being a product is part of her job, and maybe, being the product is the main part of her job. In this big party, there are plenty of entertaining elements, like the drinks and the acrobat. But the most important element is actually the barmaid’s body. And even if she doesn’t want to, she has no choice. The barmaid must stay silent and play this entertaining role. The Un bar aux Folies Bergère painting is a reflection about male’s perspective in society. More specifically, it makes the viewer think about how the female body is used as a product in so many sectors, and how women are forced to silently accept it.
Presentation of Picture for Women
Picture for Women is a photographic work by the artist Jeff Wall made in 1979. Jeff Wall is a Canadian artist born on September 29th of 1946. He has been a key figure in Vancouver’s art scene since the early 1970s.
Picture for Women is a key early work in Wall’s career. One edition of this picture is in the collection of Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris. When the Centre will re-open, do not hesitate to go there and see it! There is also an artist’s proof in Wall’s personal collection.
This picture, as many others, is staged. It was photographed in a borrowed studio in Vancouver in winter 1979 and printed on two separate pieces of film which are joined using clear tape. We can notice a cinematic dimension, due to the choice of lights and colors.
On the left slide of the foreground, we can see a woman laying her hands on a table. She has the same blue eyes as the barmaid in Manet’s painting. Her outfit also reminds us of the protagonist of Manet’s painting because of the grey/purple color of her shirt. On the right side of the middle ground, there is Jeff Wall himself. But this is actually a mirror reflection of him taking a picture of her. In fact, like in Manet’s work, there is a mirror behind the woman.
Jeff Wall, indeed, used the same mechanism chosen by Manet. In fact, except the woman and the table, everything that is shown in the picture is a reflection given by the mirror. As Édouard Manet did, Jeff Wall used the mirror to give depth and context to his painting. What is reflected here is Wall’s studio. The scene is surprisingly empty, except for the big camera in the middle of the room, taking the picture of the woman. We can assume that Jeff Wall and the woman are looking at each other, but through the mirror.
Everything except the woman and the table is quite dark and a little blurred. The only sources of light are the lamps and the woman. This also reminds us of the Un bar aux Folies-Bergère painting. Another mechanism that reminds us of Manet’s painting is the fact that the first thing that we notice is the female character, while the male character is darker and blurred.
Analysis of Picture for Women
This picture can firstly be seen as a representation of Jeff Wall’s process in creating his pictures. This would explain why the camera is in the middle, meaning that the camera symbolizes the photographer’s process. In this case, Wall would give us here an occasion to look at what is “behind the scenes”. There is a voyeuristic dimension here, as if we weren’t supposed to see what is going on. Furthermore, the light shed on the woman can be interpreted as if she was the future work of art. The question suggested is, what is behind a work of art?
But let’s go more in depth of what is going on in this picture. It is made by a complex web of viewpoints. Jeff Wall has realized, with his work, a sort of deconstruction of Manet’s painting. The quest of male pleasure here is shown in its whole process.
The point of view in Manet’s picture is a male one, such as in Wall’s picture. Jeff Wall is clearly revealing to us that artists actually choose, most of the time, to take the male’s point of view. And it is not just about taking heterosexual male’s point of view, but also about pleasing them by sexualising women’s bodies. Picture for Women comes as a sort of confirmation: yes, the point of view of Manet’s picture – and most of artworks – is a male’s one, there is indeed a male behind the camera, or holding the brush.
The power relationship between the male artist and the female model is particularly shown by the passivity of the woman. This confirms us that the barmaid was passive. The staging dimension of Wall’s picture suggests that women are often forced to play a role to please heterosexual men’s perspectives. In his empty studio, Wall takes away all the party scenography. The people, the acrobats, the alcohol, are all out. The fake happiness is gone and everything is quiet. We can also notice the quietness by the fact that the woman is holding her hands. This quietness and emptiness permits us to reveal completely the mechanism of how a work of art is made.
Tate Modern exhibited Picture for Women during the Jeff Wall Photographs 1978-2004 exhibition, from 2005 to 2006. As the exhibition’s text explained, the issues of the male gaze, and more specifically the power relationship between the male artist and the female model, such as the viewer’s role, are implicit in Manet’s painting ; but Jeff Wall chose to update the theme by positioning the camera at the center of the work. In this way, he captures the act of grasping the image, through the scene reflected in the mirror, and, at the same time, looks straight at us.
Jeff Wall invites us to find out the creation process in every artwork that we see. He suggests asking ourselves “What is the point of view here?”, “Is there a male gaze?”. Most of the time, the answer is, yes. Édouard Manet and Jeff Wall show us that the male gaze is the most common point of view of what we see, and most of the time we aren’t even aware of it. Male gaze is an unconscious norm. To conclude, I would like to invite you to go further and ask yourself how the male gaze in arts influences our way of behaving in society. Do we dress, talk, act as we want to, or as we are told to ?
When Art Spiegelman’s Maus received the Pulitzer Prize in 1992, the work was presented as a ‘graphic novel’. The term is once again imposed in traditional media when Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi meets with major critical and institutional success. These works are rarely described as comic strips (“Bandes Dessinées” in French, often abbreviated as BD), even though they fully share their language and narrative codes.
This choice of vocabulary is not anecdotal. Through him, part of the comic strip seems to change its status: it leaves the field of popular entertainment to enter that of recognized literature, exhibited, awarded, taught. The ‘graphic novel’ then appears as a new way of naming certain comics, giving them a more important place and legitimacy.
This recognition is accompanied by a rapid editorial development of the graphic novel, which in a few years has become an integral segment of the comic book market in France. Understanding this rise in power involves observing how the market has been moving out of the Franco-Belgian format, and what this evolution reveals about the broader transformations of the ninth art.
The traditional format of Franco-Belgian comics: a hard cover, a number of pages not going beyond 50 and a price around 10-15 euros, still occupies an important place in the French edition. Each year, between 5,000 and 6,000 new products are published, making France one of the most productive countries in the world in this field. This editorial abundance is accompanied by a strong cultural presence, illustrated in particular by events such as the Angoulême International Comic Strip Festival, which continues to attract several hundred thousand visitors and benefit from extensive media coverage.
However, this strong production does not necessarily translate into an equivalent consumption dynamic. For a few years, sales figures have shown a gradual slowdown in Franco-Belgian comics. If the installed series are doing well, like Lucky Luke or Asterix, albums outside these series struggle to sell. The classic format, a hardcover album of about fifty pages, cannot maintain its level of distribution.
The multiplication of new releases has visible effects in bookstores. Albums have less shelf exposure time, sometimes only a few weeks, before being replaced by new releases. Many titles thus struggle to meet their audience, not for lack of quality, but due to a lack of sufficient visibility. The market seems saturated, and traditional comic book consumption is no longer growing at the same pace as production.
In this context of slowdown, one segment is an exception: that of the graphic novel. While overall sales of classic comics are stagnating, this format is experiencing better resistance, or even relative growth, driven by another editorial logic and a distinct readership.
To understand the success of the graphic novel and its impact on the market, it is necessary to go back to the origin of this term and what it actually covers.
The term graphic novel appeared in the United States in the 1960s-1970s, championed by authors like Will Eisner with A Contract with God (1978). The objective was not to create a new genre, but to distinguish from popular comics certain longer, autonomous narratives intended for an adult audience. This lexical shift makes it possible to present these works as books in their own right, and not as simple fascicules intended for children.
In France, the term began to spread from the 1990s, with works such as Maus by Art Spiegelman, Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi or L’Arabe du futur by Riad Sattouf. Economically, the graphic novel is based on a different model from that of traditional comics. The prints are generally more modest, but the books benefit from a higher selling price, often between 20 and 30 euros, and a longer shelf life in bookstores. Unlike many classic comic books, these books are not immediately subject to the logic of permanent novelty and can be part of a more spread-out time.
Although they fully use the language of comics, they are systematically referred to as graphic novels in the press, bookstores and cultural institutions. This distinction is based less on form than on reception and cultural valorisation: the graphic novel becomes a label of legitimacy, capable of crossing the boundaries between popular culture and recognized literature.
Beyond the symbolic recognition, this positioning has concrete effects on the market. Graphic novels benefit from better visibility, a longer exhibition in bookstores and a wider audience, often adults and less familiar with traditional comics. Their economic success, illustrated by the hundreds of thousands of copies sold of Persepolis or The Arab of the Future, shows that this symbolic repositioning is also commercially promising.
Thus, the graphic novel functions both as a tool of cultural legitimation and as a new editorial dynamic, offering the comic book market a segment that is both recognized and profitable, distinct from traditional comics. But if the traditional comic strip is being challenged in terms of legitimacy by graphic novels, it also loses ground in terms of its popularity compared to another competitor, more economical and more practical, the manga.
Indeed, in France, manga today represents more than half of the volumes of comics sold, with certain series reaching several million copies. Titles like One Piece, Naruto or Demon Slayer illustrate this domination, attracting a large readership, mainly young, but increasingly adult.
Several factors explain this success. The pocket-sized, lightweight and easily transportable format is ideal for children and teenagers who read in class, on public transport or at home. This portability contrasts with the traditional cardboard album, heavier and bulky, and makes manga particularly suitable for a nomadic and regular consumption.
Seriality is another major asset. Long series retain readers over several years, while successive volumes stimulate recurring purchases. This logic of loyalty, combined with regular publication and media circulation (animated adaptations, social networks, applications), creates a mass effect that greatly exceeds what traditional comics can generate.
Finally, the rise of manga contributes to reconfiguring the audience for comics. Young readers, attracted by this practical and accessible format, today consume much less classic Franco-Belgian comics. While the graphic novel occupies the legitimate and cultural space, manga has established itself in the popular segment, accentuating the movement of the reader away from traditional albums.
This dual dynamic, graphic novel on the legitimate market and manga on the popular market, shows how much the landscape of comics in France has changed: classic, traditional comics, once at the centre of the market, must now find their place between these two poles, facing formats better suited to their respective audiences.
Traditional comics are confronted with new logics of valorisation and dissemination. The ‘classic’ series that continue to meet with widespread success, such as Asterix, Tintin, Lucky Luke or Blake and Mortimer, are no longer just works of authorship: they have become real cultural franchises.
These franchises largely exceed the framework of the comic strip. They give rise to film adaptations, animated series, merchandise, exhibitions and even theme parks. The ownership of these universes often passes from the hands of authors to those of publishers or large groups, such as Média-Participations or Hachette, which today manage the marketing, communication and circulation of licenses.
This transformation has a direct impact on the authors themselves. Where the creator could once exercise control over his work, today he often becomes a performer or contributor in an already industrialized universe, sometimes replaced by other artists or screenwriters. The commercial success is intact, but the artistic and individual dimension is largely framed by the logic of openness and economic imperatives.
At the same time, this concentration of success and visibility contributes to accentuating the gentrification of comics. Prestigious and heritage works are valued and distributed in media and institutional channels, while traditional comics, excluding franchises or established successes, struggle to occupy the same space, both commercially and symbolically. The market is thus polarized between ultra-industrialized formats, culturally legitimate segments like the graphic novel, and a set of more fragile traditional productions, often relegated to a niche or to a loyal but restricted audience.
Between the massive franchises that structure traditional comics and the economic and cultural successes of the graphic novel and manga, the landscape of French comic strips today appears highly segmented, and classic albums seem to have an increasingly fragile place there.
The graphic novel established itself as a segment that is both economically viable and culturally legitimate, capable of reaching an adult readership and crossing the boundaries between popular culture and literature. On the other hand, manga dominates the popular market, thanks to its practical format, addictive seriality and its ability to massively attract a young audience.
Between these two poles, the traditional Franco-Belgian comic strip is now in an intermediate position. Heritage series, transformed into industrial franchises, are experiencing significant commercial success, but at the cost of a gradual dispossession of authors and standardization of universes. Albums without franchises and without a label of cultural legitimacy must, for their part, contend with a saturated market and distribution channels favouring spectacular or already valued novelties.
This double polarization, graphic novel for legitimacy, manga for volume and popular consumption, raises a central question for the future of the medium: can traditional comic strips still exist as both a popular and creative form, or will it be forced to reposition itself on one of these two segments? More broadly, it invites reflection on how editorial and symbolic categories influence not only commercial success but also the perception and cultural value of an art.
In sum, the current French comic is no longer a homogeneous block: it has become a segmented market, where each format, graphic novel, manga or classic album, must find its place in a fragile balance between innovation, recognition and popularity.
While music has never been easier to access, vinyl records continue to stand out as something special. More vinyl were sold than CDs in 2024 in France, a situation that would have been unthinkable twenty years earlier. According to the 2025 Global Music Report published by the IFPI (International Federation of the Phonographic Industry), revenues from CDs and music videos fell by 6.1% and 15.5% respectively in 2024, while those from vinyl increased by 4.6%, marking its remarkable 18th consecutive year of growth. Despite the arrival of CDs in the 1980s and more recently streaming platforms, many people remain loyal to this medium. How can this phenomenon be explained?
Long relegated to the status of a technological relic, vinyl is now at the heart of a growing market, driven by a cultural, aesthetic, and symbolic demand. But behind this popularity lie complex industrial, economic, and environmental realities. To understand this phenomenon, we need to look back at the history of vinyl, analyze its technology, its current place in the music industry, and the challenges it poses in terms of sustainable development.
The origins of vinyl: History and evolution of music media
The history of vinyl is part of the broader history of sound recording, which is closely linked to the history of motion pictures and the revolution in communication. Music, which had long been reserved for the wealthy, gradually became a mass-produced, affordable sound recording. Recorded music democratized access to entertainment and turned good music into an accessible consumer good.
It all started with the phonograph invented by Thomas Edison in 1877, marking the start of the revolution of recorded sound technology. Edison knew how to turn sound waves into mechanical movement and proved that the storage and recovery of sound could be done without electricity.
Emile Berliner then disclosed the mechanical « gramophone » in 1888. Where before him, Edison and Tainter had employed a vertical (up and down) cut in recording sound waves onto a cylinder, Berliner used a lateral cut onto a disc, where the stylus moved from side to side. This was the era of the 78-rpm shellac (a resin) disc. RPM means Revolutions Per Minute, indicating the speed at which the record rotates on a turntable. But shellac discs were fragile and their duration varied between three to five minutes per side, depending on the disc size. From the 1920s onwards, 78-rpm records became more widespread as they were played on jukeboxes (in bars, restaurants, hotels, shops, etc.) and on the radio. The gramophone was gradually replaced by the record player.
But shellac supplies became extremely limited during and after World War II, so records started to be pressed in polyvinyl chloride (PVC), commonly named vinyl. This material is more flexible, more resistant, and allows for finer grooves to be engraved. In 1948, Columbia Records launched the first vinyl record in 33 ⅓ rpm format, which would revolutionize the music industry. Vinyl came in several different types (45 or 33 rpm) and formats (18, 25, and 30 cm), and stood out for its better, more detailed sound and longer track length. It could now record up to 22 minutes of music per side, surpassing 78-rpm shellac records by far. The 33 RPM vinyl, often called an “LP” (Long Play), quickly became the standard for albums, and the 45-rpm vinyl the standard for singles. They both enjoyed their golden age from the 1950s to the 1980s. In 1978, vinyl records accounted for over 70% of global music industry revenues. Far from being just a dominant format, vinyl structured the entire ecosystem of music production, distribution and listening practices.
The PVC that will become a record (credit: Arthurious)
The album then emerges as a coherent artistic statement, designed to be experienced as a whole. Track sequencing, side length and even the pauses between songs play a role in shaping the listener’s experience. Album covers become iconic and are often created by well-known artists. Covers from Pink Floyd’s album The Dark Side of the Moon or The Beatles’ Abbey Road have become cultural landmarks, marking whole generations visually and musically.
However, playing vinyl has its flaws. Playback problems causing distortion, friction noise and tracking errors are fairly common.
A cassette and a CD (credit: Mike van Schoonderwalt)
The 1970s marked a turning point, as magnetic tape began to displace the revolving disc as the standard recording medium. The cassette tape was invented by Philips in 1963 and appealed thanks to its portability and recording capacity. It foreshadowed the end of the vinyl’s hegemony.
A decade later came the digital era with the commercial arrival of the compact disc (CD) in 1982, also introduced by Philips. Vinyl was rapidly losing market share, and by the early 1990s the CD had established itself as the dominant format. In the 1990s and the 2000s, vinyl were not as produced anymore. It became a niche object aimed at audiophiles. But some people thought the CD sounded « robotic » because it erased the imperfections that could be heard with vinyl.
Vinyl seemed to have been buried by the arrival of the MP3 format, followed by music streaming platforms in the 2000s. Music became intangible, instantly accessible, detached from any physical medium. By the end of the 2000s, some major retailers had stopped selling vinyl altogether. Yet, there is an important revival of vinyl today. But how does this technology work exactly?
A simple yet precise technology
A vinyl operates through the mechanical reading of sound. Sound information is engraved on the surface of the record in the form of microscopic variations, which correspond to the sound waves of the music, spiraling from the outside to the inside of the record. The irregularities in the grooves are reproduced in the form of an electrical signal and transmitted to an amplification system for our ears to hear. There is therefore no digital conversion, which gives it its distinctive sound, often described as “warmer” and richer than digital sound.
To play it, you need a record player. The vinyl record is placed on a turntable that spins at a constant speed: the famous 33 or 45 rpm. The tonearm, equipped with a stylus (a needle), is placed on the vinyl record. As the record spins, the stylus moves through the grooves of the vinyl and guides the tonearm.
A modern record player (credit: pickpik.com)
Now let’s see how a vinyl is produced: It is a long industrial process.
A specific mastering is needed in order to adapt the music to the constraints of the medium. A master disc is then engraved onto a medium called “lacquer.”. It is then coated with metal by electrolysis to create a negative form, from which molds are produced. To create a vinyl, heated PVC is pressed between two molds, forming the disc. After cooling, the edges are cut, the disc is checked and assembled with its sleeve.
A vinyl that has just been pressed and which edges have not been cut yet (credit: Arthurious)
What’s so special about vinyl compared to other media?
Listening to vinyl offers a unique experience that sets it apart from other formats. Its superior audio quality is often highlighted, and its sound is perceived as « warmer » and more profound than digital, with slightly more nuance (if you can hear it).
But vinyl isn’t just about sound; It imposes a radically different relationship with time and listening. You choose a record, handle it with care, listen to an entire side before turning it over. It requires attentive and immersive listening, two things we lack with modern ways of listening to music.
The experience is indeed extremely different on streaming platforms, where we listen to the same music everybody listens to. Algorithms always push the same songs or types of song forward, and more often than not AI generated music or already established artists. By going to your local record store, you regain control over what you listen to.
And looking through vinyl still allows for exploration: It is the occasion to listen to a whole album from start to finish and discover new songs from a known artist for example. Songs you would never have found on streaming platforms because they don’t suggest them. Browsing through a record store is also a way to spark curiosity and discover new genres — especially by asking for advice to the salesperson — something algorithms don’t dare to do.
In an era dominated by streaming, which favors playlists and algorithms, vinyl puts the album back at the center. It encourages you to slow down and fully engage with listening to a work from start to finish.
The most aesthetic vinyl are exposed on the wall and never touched (credit: Record Props)
A special relationship to the object: A work of art
Vinyl’s attraction lies not only in the sound quality, but in how it exists as an object. The oversized sleeve allows artwork to be experienced fully and liner notes, often detailed, further enhance the listening experience by providing context for the music.
The record becomes a true collectible more than something you listen to. Some people only buy them for their color or for the cover art and not to use them for their main purpose. Vinyl has become a design object, a decoration that one displays in their living room on a trendy stand or on the wall to showcase their best finds.
According to an ICM study commissioned by the BBC, 7% of the vinyl buyers surveyed say they do not even own a turntable. Student Jordan Katende told BBC News: « I have vinyl in my room but it’s more for decor. I don’t actually play them. It gives me the old-school vibe. That’s what vinyl’s all about ». The « old-school vibe » described here perfectly illustrates one of the reasons why people buy vinyl today: it brings back nostalgia for older days.
The second-hand market is indeed booming. Specialist record stores, flea markets and online platforms allow enthusiasts to find hidden gems. This “vinyl hunt” is a true pleasure in itself for collectors. Labels have understood this and now offer higher-quality pressings: 180-gram vinyl, remastered editions, limited editions, special packaging, etc. These premium editions meet a growing demand for quality and exclusivity.
Some vinyl buyers don’t even own a turntable (credit: ICM Unlimited, BBC)
A strong emotional dimension is thus at play when enthusiasts collect records. They spend time looking for them, keep them for a while, pass them on to future generations and collectors sometimes. None of that is as strong with other media.
Listening to a vinyl also involves a whole ritual: looking through one’s collection and carefully choosing which record to play, taking the record out of its sleeve, cleaning it gently, positioning the tone arm… This series of gestures creates a special moment, a pause in our hyperconnected daily lives, far from the constant change of song encouraged by streaming. Some people feel more connected to the music when handling a vinyl for that reason.
A market that has been revived in recent years
Since the 2010s, vinyl has been enjoying a resurgence in popularity among the public, conquering a new younger audience. Well-known groups and artists like Pharrell Williams and the Daft Punk release their music on both CD and vinyl, while some vinyl re-editions spark strong excitement and interest.
The vinyl market is knowing today its second most important dynamic since its popularization in the 1950s. The French vinyl market has reached 98 million euros of revenues in 2024 according to the 2025 Report on French recorded music market of the SNEP (Syndicat National de l’Édition Phonographique, the French National Union of Phonographic Publishing), versus only 91 million for CDs. This represents a 9.4% growth for vinyl turnover, where CD regresses by 1.5%. It is the first time vinyl outperforms CD since 1987. CDs stay nonetheless the most sold physical medium in terms of units. But vinyl now represents 45% of physical sales, versus only 1% ten years ago, meaning the market is growing rapidly and will continue to do so in the upcoming years, potentially soon exceeding CD in units sold.
The tendency is confirmed in other parts of the world as well, including the US: according to the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) 2024 Year-end Revenue Report, revenues from vinyl records grew 7% to $1.4 billion in the US in 2024 — the 18th consecutive year of growth — and accounted for nearly 3/4 of physical format revenues. And for the third year in a row, vinyl outsold CDs in units (44 million vs 33 million).
US physical music revenues (credit: RIAA)
In France, rap seems to have played a major role in reintroducing vinyl culture, introducing this format to a new generation of consumers. In 2023, major artists such as Nekfeu, Damso, PNL, and Orelsan are among the best-selling vinyl artists, proving that the medium is no longer restricted to collectors. Nekfeu, for example, sold 23,000 vinyl copies of his album Feu. To buy a vinyl is now a common way of supporting your favorite artists.
This partly explains why the primary buyers of vinyl today are people under 35 years old, accounting for 54% of the French market in 2023 according to the SNEP. Vinyl is no longer only the preferred medium of collectors, audiophiles and DJs. It is owned by everyone and has once again become a common consumer product.
Far from being mutually exclusive, vinyl and streaming operate side by side. Most vinyl buyers also use streaming services for discovery and everyday mobile listening, while vinyl remains associated with an immersive at-home experience. Edgar Berger, chairman at Sony Music International, told BBC: « You will find people that are having a paid streaming subscription and at the same time buying vinyl and I do believe that’s not an uncommon pattern. I think streaming is for the convenience and, for some music fans, vinyl is for the experience. » According to the same ICM study, 45% of vinyl buyers have heard the EP or album on streaming platforms first (but still buy the vinyl).
This complementarity reflects a broader shift in music consumption. Vinyl allows listeners to give a physical form to the music they discover online, while offering a tangible way to support the artists they value. In an increasingly dematerialized musical world, it provides a return to something more concrete.
More than that: The dematerialization of music is fueling this desire for and return to materiality. Beside everyday online listening, there is the pleasure of owning the object. Plus, a record is highly aesthetic and looks better than a CD, especially in the era of social media. It is even the ideal medium for showcasing music listening. Paradoxically, digital natives are looking for a more tangible and authentic listening experience.
Going for the treasure hunt in a record store (credit: pixabay.com)
Nevertheless, this resurgence of the vinyl industry has not been anticipated, resulting in economic and logistic issues.
The resulting economic and industrial issues
To begin with, production costs have strongly risen due to a spike in energy, raw material and transportation costs in recent years. For independent artists, pressing vinyl is moreover a great financial risk and they often find themselves dependent on the success of pre-orders.
Another factor was the Covid crisis. The cost of raw materials rose by 30 to 40% during Covid, as suppliers were unable to keep up with the demand. However, this does not justify the exorbitant price of certain records after the pandemic. The biggest labels indeed took advantage of the situation to excessively raise prices, sometimes turning vinyl into a luxury product.
Factories and their capacity are another limiting factor: The number of pressing plants worldwide is very limited today due to the sharp decline of vinyl in the 1990s and the 2000s, and many of the remaining ones use old machines, some dating back to the 1970s. Production times can thus be several months or even a year for small labels.
The Covid-19 pandemic also delayed the production in pressing factories, which were already operating at maximum capacity before the crisis. These delays impact the smaller artists the most once more, as majors become the main priority. Some independent record stores have not survived these crises and have had to close down.
As always, some are more impacted than others, and the metal band Metallica has for instance bought a pressing factory in Virginia called Furnace Record Pressing. This allows them to avoid delays in the production and delivery of their records.
The final major economic factor affecting vinyl prices is rarity. Some labels try to create scarcity around certain vinyl by producing them in limited quantities and expanded editions. Some records sell for a fortune on platforms such as Discogs and are resold for even more. Version 1 of The Beatles’ White Album released in 1968 was sold by Ringo Starr in 2015 for $790,000.
But the second-hand vinyl market can also be very lucrative, through platforms such as Vinted. First pressings, limited editions and promotional versions are particularly sought by collectors. Given importance of the second-hand market in vinyl sales, we could think that it is a better alternative for the environment than listening to music on streaming platforms, but it is not necessarily the case.
A composition with a great impact on the environment
The revival of the vinyl industry also has an important environmental cost. Producing one 135g vinyl issues 0.5 kg of CO2, and the 5 million units sold in France in 2024 is equivalent to the annual CO2 emissions of five hundred people. This is due to the plastic material used to make the records, PVC, which is one of the most polluting materials, produced from petrochemistry.
Moreover, old pressing machines consume a lot of energy and water to function, and inks used to print the covers contribute to ozone depletion. So vinyl is everything but environment-friendly. According to Marie Pieprzownik, sound engineer and vinyl engraver, the engraving process itself requires a very special material that is only produced in Japan since the other factory located in the US closed. This dependence lengthens the production process even more and increases carbon footprint due to transportation.
On the other hand, streaming services also pollute very much with servers running 24/7 storing millions of songs and consuming an astonishing amount of energy. Greenhouse gas emissions from music streaming in the United States were estimated to be between 200,000 and 350,000 tons of CO2 in 2016, compared to the 157,000 tons emitted by the whole music industry in 1977 during the vinyl’s Golden Age. Listening to an album on a streaming platform consumes 27 times more energy than producing a CD or a vinyl according to a study published the British NGO MusicTank in 2012. So none of these solutions seem to work if we want to listen to music without contributing to the climate crisis.
As we saw, vinyl is an old industry that has known little change over the decades and so the concept of recycling only emerged recently and is not widely spread yet. Some companies like MPO in France try to develop this alternative: They retrieve faulty and obsolete records, purify them and give them a new life by re-pressing them into new vinyl. Artists need to give more visibility to this option, like Billie Eilish did for her new album Hit Me Hard And Soft released on May 17, 2024, by choosing recycled vinyl.
Recycling vinyl can give the final record unexpected colors (credit: Optimal : Media)
Other alternatives are slowly being explored, but only a fraction of them meet the durability requirements to make long-lasting records. The French factory M Com’ Musique has launched the « Vinylgue » in 2016, a bio-based and biodegradable disc made from brown algae. Its sound quality was good, but the main issue was their fragility. Others tried to create records from sugar canes or plastic waste retrieved from British beaches.
One promising lead is the « biovinyl », a bio-based PVC made from calcium-zinc. It is recyclable and way less polluting than classical PVC. It is a solid competitor to classical vinyl sound and durability-wise but the issue is its production price. A real commitment from artists and labels is therefore needed to initiate this procedure and democratize the use of this new material, making it more affordable in the future. This solution could reduce CO2 emissions by 90% compared to standard vinyl, which is non negligeable.
However, more progress is to be made if we want a true durable vinyl market, as the whole production process needs to be rethinked and redesigned. Bio-vinyl could be the solution, but it will take some time and effort before it becomes mass-produced and cost-effective. For now, the best option could be to listen to less music but better and more carefully chosen. In a society where Spotify’s CEO Daniel Ek states that silence is the biggest competitor of the streaming platform, we need to listen with attention and not put music as a background noise for our life. Vinyl thus continues to write its history.
Written by Laura Vurpillot
Sources:
BBC, Music streaming boosts sales of vinyl (April 14th 2016)
For more than two decades, Nantes has established itself as one of the most dynamic cultural cities in France. Here, culture is not confined to a few key dates or venues reserved for insiders: it flows through the urban space throughout the year and reaches all audiences. Nantes’s cultural calendar is punctuated by events that have become unmissable. Each summer, Le Voyage à Nantes turns the city into an open-air museum, blending contemporary art, heritage, and urban strolls. Les Rendez-vous de l’Erdre bring the summer season to a close in a friendly atmosphere driven by jazz and nautical music. The Festival des 3 Continents, meanwhile, opens a window onto cinema from Africa, Asia, and Latin America. And when winter sets in, one event manages to warm both hearts and ears: La Folle Journée de Nantes.
Poster of La Folle Journée, Cité des congrès
Created more than thirty years ago, La Folle Journée set itself an ambitious mission from the outset: to make classical music accessible to as many people as possible. Long perceived as an elitist art form, reserved for informed audiences and prestigious venues, classical music sometimes seemed far removed from everyday life. It is precisely this image that the festival set out to challenge. This year, the music festival took place from Wednesday, January 28 to Sunday, February 1.
At the origin of this project is René Martin, former artistic director of the festival until 2025. His conviction is simple: classical music must be demystified without betraying its artistic standards. To achieve this, La Folle Journée breaks with traditional concert codes. Concerts are short, around forty-five minutes to encourage discovery. Ticket prices are deliberately affordable, capped at 25 euros, allowing a wide audience to step through the doors. Finally, concerts are offered in a variety of styles and formats, from intimate recitals to large orchestral performances.
The expansion of the festival
Over the years, La Folle Journée has established itself as a major event on Nantes’s cultural scene. Today, the festival spans five intense days, brings together more than 200 concerts, and attracts tens of thousands of spectators. Around 140,000 tickets are sold each year, a figure that testifies to the public’s enthusiasm and the loyalty of festivalgoers. But the influence of La Folle Journée extends far beyond the walls of the Cité des Congrès. Music spills into the city: its streets, squares, and even its public transport. This outreach beyond traditional venues is an integral part of the festival’s identity and contributes to its unique atmosphere.
For several years now, La Folle Journée has developed partnerships with the city of Nantes and its stakeholders, notably Semitan. For the sixth consecutive year, “musical moments” have been offered to travelers. On Wednesday, users of tram line 1 were surprised to witness a performance by pianist and improviser Benjamin Kahn, seated behind an upright piano in the very heart of a tram carriage. At the same time, the Azalaïs clarinet quartet, made up of students from the Nantes Conservatory, performed aboard the Navibus on line N1, linking the Maritime Station to Trentemoult-Sablières.
Concert in the hall of the Cité des Congrès
These suspended moments transform an everyday journey into an artistic experience. They perfectly illustrate the festival’s philosophy: to meet residents where they are, to surprise them, and to remind them that music can appear where it is least expected. One of La Folle Journée’s great strengths lies in its deep integration into the urban space. By occupying public transport, public places, and various neighborhoods, the festival makes music omnipresent and familiar. This closeness strengthens the bond between the cultural event and the daily lives of the people of Nantes. For a few days, the entire city becomes a musical stage, where the boundary between artists and audience fades.
Shifts in the festival
In its early days, La Folle Journée was built around a single composer. The first edition, in 1995, was devoted to Mozart, followed the next year by Beethoven. This approach allowed for total immersion in the world of a major figure of classical music. However, the festival soon evolved. Over the years, the themes broadened, becoming more complex and more cross-cutting. The goal was twofold: to renew the interest of regular attendees and to attract new audiences, sometimes newcomers to classical music. In the 2010s, La Folle Journée moved beyond individual composers to explore more original themes: nature, the rhythms of peoples, travel diaries, or the origins of music. This year’s edition continues this dynamic, with a guiding thread that is both poetic and universal: the rivers of the world.
Concert during the Folle Journée, P. Minier – Ouest Médias – Région Pays de la Loire
Each year, La Folle Journée takes up residence at the Cité des Congrès in Nantes. This emblematic venue is perfectly suited to the diversity of concerts on offer. It provides several halls of very different capacities, ranging from large auditoriums with nearly 2,000 seats to more intimate spaces reminiscent of chamber music concerts. This flexibility makes it possible to host both large orchestral ensembles and smaller groups under appropriate acoustic conditions.
While La Folle Journée is inseparable from Nantes, its influence extends far beyond the city’s borders. The festival first developed in the Pays de la Loire region, reaching cities such as La Roche-sur-Yon, La Flèche, Laval, and Saint-Nazaire. The concept was later exported internationally. In Europe, La Folle Journée found resonance in Portugal, Spain, and Poland. The model then took root in Asia, particularly in Tokyo and several Japanese cities, where audiences enthusiastically embraced this accessible approach to classical music. The festival also ventured into South America, in Rio de Janeiro, between 2007 and 2010. This international spread testifies to the strength of the concept and its ability to reach very different audiences.
Rivers of the world
For this edition, La Folle Journée invites the public to rediscover music through the prism of rivers. Sources of life, routes of circulation, natural or symbolic borders, rivers occupy a central place in the history of civilizations. They have naturally inspired many composers across all eras and styles.
Present since the festival’s beginnings in 1995, music historian and writer Patrick Barbier once again takes part this year as a lecturer. He reminds us that each river carries its own identity, shaped by the territories it crosses and the peoples who live along its banks. Some rivers become national symbols; others feed myths, stories, and legends, while many musical works are born directly from river landscapes or riverside cities.
Among the most famous examples, it is impossible not to mention The Blue Danube by Johann Strauss II, a true musical anthem associated with the Austrian river. But the Danube is not the only river to have inspired composers. The Seine, majestic and deeply linked to the history of Paris, appears in many French works. The Loire, an emblematic river of the Nantes region, also holds a strong symbolic place in this edition.
Other rivers, real or mythological, are also invoked. The Styx, the river of the Underworld in Greek mythology, reminds us that the riverine imagination goes beyond simple geography to touch on the spiritual and the symbolic.
The program highlights major figures of classical music. Antonín Dvořák and his Slavonic Dances evoke Central and Eastern Europe, while Schubert and Strauss enter into dialogue around the Danube. Vienna, a city intimately linked to its river, is represented by Mozart, Brahms, Offenbach, Wagner, and Debussy, each bringing their own sensibility and era.
The journey does not stop in Europe. The Mississippi, the mythical river of the United States, is celebrated through jazz, recalling the importance of this river in African American musical history. Artists from all over the world, both local and international, take part in this musical exploration, such as pianist Sophia Lu, whose interpretations create a dialogue between cultures and traditions.
Orchestre Paimboeuf, Folle Journée de Nantes, Public domain
As the concerts unfold, one thing becomes clear: the river acts as a powerful factor of universality. Whatever the civilization, it is both a source of life, a place of passage and exchange, and a space for contemplation. This image speaks to everyone, as each of us has, in one way or another, grown up near a river or been shaped by one.
By choosing this theme, La Folle Journée highlights what unites composers beyond styles, eras, and borders. The river becomes a metaphor: it connects peoples, crosses centuries, and nourishes the collective imagination. Like music, it flows, transforms, and grows richer through contact with what it encounters.
More than just a festival, La Folle Journée de Nantes is a cultural and human experience. It invites curiosity, listening, and sharing. By making classical music accessible, anchoring it in everyday life, and linking it to universal themes, it proves that this art form is neither static nor reserved for a select few.
Each winter, Nantes thus becomes a musical crossroads where rivers from all over the world seem to converge. And for a few days, to the rhythm of concerts and encounters, the city reminds us that music, like water, is a common good, capable of bringing people together and making them resonate far beyond borders.
The years 2024 and 2025 have served as a harsh wake-up call for the global luxury industry. What was once dismissed as a « creative oversight » has evolved into a full-blown legitimacy crisis. When Prada debuted « leather sandals » in its Spring/Summer 2026 collection — priced at a staggering $1,200 — the internet’s « digital tribe » quickly identified them as nearly identical copies of the traditional Indian Kolhapuri chappal. While authentic versions handcrafted in Maharashtra retail for as little as five dollars, the luxury iteration carried no credit to the original artisans and a markup of over 20,000%. This follows a pattern of increasingly tone-deaf releases, such as Louis Vuitton’s $39,000 « Auto Bag, » a miniature auto-rickshaw that many argued blurred the line between high-fashion tribute and the commodification of street culture.
These incidents are not merely accidental aesthetic blunders. They are the inevitable result of a luxury system that remains structurally dependent on « exoticism » as a form of decorative capital. This report argues that systemic cultural appropriation in fashion is a modern manifestation of a colonial mindset — one that views the heritage of the Global South as a library of « free » raw materials to be extracted, polished, and sold back to an elite audience without compensation or acknowledgment.
The Battlefield of Definition: Appropriation vs. Appreciation
In the high-stakes world of fashion marketing, the word « inspiration » acts as a convenient shield. To understand why certain collections trigger global protests while others are celebrated, we must look at the power dynamics involved. Cultural appropriation occurs when a dominant culture adopts elements from a marginalized community without permission or a deep understanding of the original context. It is a process of « decontextualization, » where symbols of sacred or historical significance are stripped of their meaning and reduced to mere ornaments.
The distinction lies in respect and reciprocity. Cultural appreciation involves an active effort to learn, honor, and engage with a culture through legitimate channels. When a brand simply takes a pattern, it is theft; when a brand partners with the community to ensure they control the narrative and receive a fair share of the profits, it becomes collaboration. As scholar Agnès Rocamora suggests, fashion is not just a commercial industry but a symbolic system where the production of value is a collective process, often influenced by social and economic forces far beyond the designer’s solo imagination.
Historical Echoes: The Legacy of Aesthetic Extraction
The luxury industry’s habit of cultural « borrowing » is a legacy of 19th-century colonial expansion. This era established a fascination with « Orientalism, » a term popularized by Edward Said to describe a Western system of cultural dominance that reduced the « East » to a series of exotic stereotypes.
One of the most telling examples is the work of Paul Poiret, the early 20th-century « King of Fashion. » Poiret is often celebrated for freeing women from the corset, but historical analysis reveals a darker side to his genius. His 1907 « Ispahan » coat, long considered a masterpiece of innovative construction, has been identified by fashion historians as an exact replica of the choga, a traditional coat worn by Muslim men in the Punjab region. Poiret’s « innovations » were often sourced from the Expositions Universelles in Paris, which functioned as « theatres of empire » where colonized people were displayed in « human zoos » for the entertainment of Europeans. In 1903, he even incorporated Chinese kanjian vests into his collections without modification, simply adding his own label to the collar.
This historical framework explains the contemporary industry’s comfort with « extracting » beauty from marginalized groups. It treats the heritage of the « Other » as a limitless, ownerless repository, while Western designers claim the exclusive power to « enhance » these designs with what Poiret called a « dreamlike quality », as if the original was somehow incomplete.
Case Studies in Symbolic Erasure
Dior and the Mamian Skirt Controversy
In 2022, Dior released a $3,800 pleated skirt that it marketed as a « hallmark Dior silhouette » and a « new elegant and modern variation » of its own house codes. However, the design — with its four panels, flat « horse face » (Ma Mian) center, and side pleats — was identical to a Chinese garment worn as far back as the Song and Ming dynasties.
The outrage was not just about the design but the erasure of history. By claiming the silhouette was a brand original, Dior was effectively overwriting centuries of Chinese cultural heritage. This sparked the « Guochao » movement, with Chinese students protesting in Paris and London. Their fear was legal as well as cultural: if a luxury giant like Dior « patents » a traditional design, local Chinese brands using their own heritage could theoretically be sued for copyright infringement in international markets.
Valentino and the « Wild » Archetype
Valentino’s Spring 2016 « Wild Africa » collection serves as another cautionary tale. The show featured tribal motifs, Masai beading, and bone necklaces, yet only 8 of the 87 models on the runway were Black. The ad campaign, shot by Steve McCurry, placed white models in the foreground while Maasai people were used as literal « props » or « background » to add a resemblance of authenticity.
More recently, the brand faced criticism from Indigenous artist Lily Gladstone regarding a pre-fall 2025 bag that closely resembled Métis and Dene beadwork. Critics argued that luxury houses often choose to copy these labor-intensive designs rather than hiring the Indigenous artisans themselves, who are the true owners of that intellectual property.
The Legal Stand in India: Prada and the GI Violation
The 2025 Prada sandal scandal led to more than just social media « trolling ». For the first time, legal avenues were being aggressively pursued. A group of advocates in India filed a Public Interest Litigation (PIL) in the Bombay High Court, arguing that Prada’s design violated the Geographical Indication (GI) status granted to Kolhapuri chappals in 2019. Under Indian law, the GI tag protects products whose quality and reputation are linked to their place of origin. While the current law primarily protects the name rather than the look, this case has pushed for legal reforms that would prevent global brands from escaping liability by simply renaming a stolen design.
Systemic Roots: The Homogeneity of the Creative Class
If the luxury industry keeps « accidentally » appropriating cultures, it is because the people in the room making the decisions are almost entirely from the same background. Reports from 2025 and 2026 reveal a staggering lack of diversity at the top of the major fashion conglomerates.
At Kering, which owns Gucci, Balenciaga, and Saint Laurent, the creative directors are exclusively white men. While the group’s overall workforce is 63% women, female creative leaders remain a rare exception, representing only about 17% of historical appointments. This structural homogeneity creates a blind spot where « internal audits » fail. Without diverse voices in leadership, there is no one to point out that a « Scandinavian scarf » is actually a South Asian dupatta, or that a « boho gladiator sandal » is a sacred Indian craft.
Furthermore, the pressure of the modern fashion cycle contributes to creative exhaustion. Global luxury growth is predicted to slow to 2-4% through 2027. To combat this, brands are stuck on a « creative treadmill, » pumping out multiple interim collections that rely on visual shortcuts, often « borrowing » from cultures that the design teams do not understand.
The Pivot to Ethics: A New Model for Luxury
A few brands are beginning to realize that the old « extract and sell » model is no longer sustainable. Real luxury in the 21st century is defined by transparency and the integrity of the supply chain.
Chloé and the B Corp Standard
Chloé, which became a certified B Corp in 2021, has moved toward a « fair trade » model. Their partnership with « Made For A Woman, » a social enterprise in Madagascar, empowers over 350 women from vulnerable backgrounds. These artisans provide handcrafted raffia elements for Chloé bags, receiving not just fair wages but social support and medical care. Crucially, Chloé uses a « Digital ID » or « Product Passport » that allows consumers to scan a tag and learn the exact story of the artisan who made their product, ensuring that the credit, and the humanity, remains intact.
Christian Louboutin and the Mexicaba
Christian Louboutin’s Mexicaba tote offers another roadmap for collaboration. The brand worked directly with the Taller Maya foundation in the Yucatán Peninsula. Artisans were paid equitable wages, and 10% of all profits were donated directly back to the foundation to help preserve Mayan craft techniques. By featuring the artisans in the marketing and giving them explicit credit, the brand shifted the narrative from « extraction » to a « benevolent partnership ».
Pharrell Williams and the Native American Dialogue
In his January 2024 menswear show for Louis Vuitton, Pharrell Williams attempted a « 360-degree approach » to collaboration with the Dakota and Lakota Nations. Rather than simply using motifs, he involved four Native American designers in the actual creation of hand-painted bags and embroidered apparel. He also included Native artists in the soundtrack and staging, ensuring that marginalized voices were the ones telling their own story on the Paris runway.
The Era of Cultural Accountability
As we move into 2026, the « inspiration » mask has become too thin to hide the colonial history behind it. The global community is no longer asking for permission to be heard; they are demanding it through boycotts, lawsuits, and a refusal to be treated as a « background prop. »
For luxury brands to survive the next decade, they must undergo a fundamental shift in their value proposition. True luxury is no longer just about the craftsmanship of the object, but the ethics of the relationship that created it. This requires moving from extraction to dialogue, where economic benefits flow back to the source communities. It requires structural diversity, ensuring that boardrooms and design studios reflect the multifaceted world they sell to. Finally, it requires transparency, where the « ghosts » in the fashion machine are replaced by the names and faces of the people whose culture the world so admires. Culture is not a trend, it is a living story, and it deserves nothing less than total respect.
These last weeks, the luxury industry has found itself at the heart of a scandal. Several houses, including Dior or Valentino, which proudly display their artisanal excellence with the label “Made in Italy”, have been accused of having outsourced a part of their production in clandestine workshops, with workers paid only a few euros per hour for working conditions hard to even picture. This scandal reveals a more troubled side of the industry, here at the social level, but shadowy areas persist in other domains. This is notably the case of culture, a space that luxury tends to occupy more and more.
Contemporary art is known for entertaining, astonishing and subverting. But what happens when it is held by an industry weighing tens of billions of euros ?
When Yves Saint Laurent, in 1965, transposed the geometric lines and colour blocks of Piet Mondrian onto cocktail dresses that have today become iconic, he created an indestructible link between haute couture and culture. This gesture became a manifesto celebrating art through homage, at a moment when luxury was seeking its legitimacy in artistic creation.
“Not only is fashion the faithful mirror of an era, but it is one of the most direct plastic expressions of human culture”
Piet Mondrian
In 2025, the nature of the synergy between the two has profoundly changed, and it is no longer really a question of homage. The large luxury conglomerates like LVMH and Kering have succeeded in rendering porous the border between their industry and culture, their power eclipsing that of public institutions. If they are still patrons, their role in artistic production has become just as important. We are witnessing a shift toward what is called Artketing, where it is no longer a matter of disinterested support, assuming we could ever truly call it that, but of a strategy of commercial valorisation. Art confers upon brands a new legitimacy through a new emotional and timeless dimension (let us think of the collaboration between Jeff Koons and Louis Vuitton, transforming masterpieces into motifs for handbags sold at exorbitant prices). We have arrived at a moment where the synergy between the art world and luxury goes beyond simple collaborations between artists and fashion houses for capsule collections. This synergy begins to deploy itself across the whole cultural territory with the restructuring of major events. Indeed, luxury products no longer merely integrate art, but appropriate the platforms in order to benefit from them as well.
From patronage to Artketing: the strategic transformation of luxury
Let us linger a bit on the history of this shift. If collaboration between art and luxury is not recent, its nature has undergone a major upheaval these last decades. Art has always been a source of inspiration and, as early as the end of the 19th century, brands used artists for their advertisements as a factor of differentiation. One can notably think of Alphonse Mucha, a major artist of Art Nouveau, a precursor who knew how to combine Fine Arts with a more utilitarian function. It is from this collaboration between this artist and Moët and Chandon that were born legendary advertising posters.
This collaboration then evolved toward a more structured support with the emergence of major private foundations. In France, the inauguration of the Fondation Cartier in 1984 laid the foundations of a new order: luxury positioned itself as an institutional patron, actively supporting contemporary creations. This initiative pushed their legitimacy beyond simple collaborations by conferring upon brands a new symbolic dimension. To give an order of magnitude of the importance of private financing: in 2024, corporate patronage represented 3.8 billion euros, with 28% allocated to culture, that is to say a total of 1.1 billion. When one compares this to the French State budget of 4.6 billion in 2024, companies represent nearly 25% of public financing, which is enormous when compared to other sectors where private funds do not exceed 5%.
The drift toward what is called “Artketing” is sudden and occurs in France at the beginning of the 20th century. This method is a marketing strategy that consists in integrating contemporary art as a differentiating strategic tool, by offering an almost holistic cultural experience to the buyer. It is the adoption of the Aillagon Law in 2003, by offering major tax advantages, that allowed major houses to rationalise their approach. Little by little, they began integrating art into their value chain to maintain their desirability.
Nowadays, and especially in business school, we speak a lot of experiential marketing. And that, luxury houses have well understood by transforming the cultural space into an immersive stage. One of the most spectacular examples is the Fondation Louis Vuitton, with an iconic architecture signed by Frank Gehry who is none other than the one responsible for the Guggenheim Museum. Louis Vuitton illustrates well the fusion between the two ecosystems with what one might almost call a strategic masterstroke. The company opened this year LV Dream, illustrating the innovative concept of the “store-museum.” One can find there a free exhibition, presented by the house as a “cultural destination”, which retraces among other things its collaborations with artists. The visitor finds himself immersed in an experience praising an authentic savoir-faire and heritage that culminates, as one might guess, in commercial spaces such as the concept-store and café. The brand plays on a logic of patrimonialisation by trying to benefit from the aura of artistic works, reinforcing its attractiveness. On the other side, the visitor is naturally oriented toward consumption, but which is presented as a simple prolongation of the cultural experience.
This phenomenon also extends to temporary partnerships, in “co-branding” initiatives profitable to brands as well as cultural institutions. I am thinking notably of this year’s exhibition “Christian Dior: Dreamed Gardens” at SCAD Fash in Lacoste, in the south of France. Each party benefits from the radiance of the other by becoming a point of contact for visitors, whether locals coming for the museum or internationals interested in the house.
The integration of luxury is not, however, limited to the stagings seen above. It integrates the very process of innovation and creation through patronage, allowing integration into the aesthetics of haute couture. The Chanel Culture Fund, launched in 2021, illustrates well this mutation. It offers major grants (100,000 euros) and a mentorship system to creators from all over the world who redefine their disciplines, allowing them to ensure artistic monitoring; and it forges partnerships with major cultural institutions to co-create innovative programmes. The houses are thus able to realise exclusive commissions conferring upon them the status of avant-gardists.
Case Study: Louis Vuitton and Paris+ by Art Basel 2025
One of the largest and most recent examples of this dynamic is of course Art Basel in Paris, this immense fair that took place from October 24 to 26 at the Grand Palais, in an almost enchanting setting. The 2025 edition, with its numerous partnerships, is the most striking demonstration of the way in which luxury conglomerates now orchestrate the artistic ecosystem.
In the case of Art Basel, this “annexation” was made possible by the granting of the FIAC (International Contemporary Art Fair), which belonged to the French State, to MCH Group, a private company owning Art Basel. Public funding, traditional and symbolic in France, gave way to a more competitive financial model with a strong network of collectors. And thus the door opened for luxury players, allowing them to become major actors in a world-renowned fair.
If this year we had the opportunity to see numerous houses such as Miu Miu or Guerlain, it is Louis Vuitton that seems to win the gold medal in terms of artistic presence. Up to now, nothing surprising: the brand is known for its foundation and its patronage policy. But this year, the brand goes clearly beyond by seeking to shape the cultural landscape itself. LVMH invested the entire city with the “Hors-les-Murs” programme, which transforms emblematic places of Paris like Place Vendôme into temporary artistic spaces. The approach cannot be inscribed in a simple policy of democratisation and mediation. LVMH symbolically takes possession of the territory and places its brand image upon it.
Murakami at the heart of Paris+ 2025
One of the artists at the centre of attention this year is Takashi Murakami, faithful collaborator of Louis Vuitton since 2003. He delivered a large installation representing a giant inflatable octopus, colourful as the artist usually does. The work accompanies the seventh edition of the Artycapucines, a project launched in 2019 where artists reinterpret the Capucines bag. For 2025, Murakami presents eleven new models, between psychedelic and Japanese aesthetics. The major luxury house no longer contents itself with being a patron, but imagines a kind of artistic narrative that defines trends. No one can deny that Murakami possesses his own identity, just as no one can deny that he must respond to commercial expectations. This then raises the essential question of the extent of the artist’s freedom when he becomes the image of a brand, as Takashi Murakami can be.
The paradox: between democratisation and elitisation
We are therefore witnessing a true strategy of annexation of art, bordering on instrumentalisation by the luxury industry. But this raises a major paradox because if the financing allows a democratisation of access to culture, the control of culture returns to an elite.
The massive support of luxury in large exhibitions or its massive presence in events like Paris+ by Art Basel attracts without any doubt new young publics, as shown by the growing number of visitors to this latter event, reaching more than 70,000 this year. By investing massively in contemporary art, luxury also contributes to expanding resources and funding more ambitious works, for a cultural industry whose added value reaches 47.1 billion euros according to the Ministry of Culture.
In parallel, this democratisation is accompanied by an elitisation of cultural control. Two spaces stand out: the one visible to all, accessible; and the inaccessible, which are private salons, VIP areas, etc.—all this for a wealthy clientele. Luxury redraws the boundaries of access to art and above all hierarchises publics, going against the intentions announced by André Malraux in the 1950s. But this paradox is explained by the very nature of the luxury industry, which rests on exclusivity. It annexes art, but by imposing its codes, making art both a public space and a space of distinction.
We are thus left with this kind of two-headed Janus, where the synergy between the two milieus can be beneficial or destructive. How can we guarantee artistic independence in a context where private financing conditions the form? More importantly: can culture remain a common good when private actors are in command?
Fournier A. (2025), “Quand les marques de luxe s’emparent des codes du musée pour valoriser leurs produits : l’utilisation de l’approche muséale dans la collaboration entre Louis Vuitton et Yayoi Kusama”, Culture & Musées, 45, 132-154.
I returned to the novel The Stranger a few weeks before going to see the adaptation. As I closed the book, I was struck by the raw simplicity and silent depth of Camus’ writing: the absurdity, the absence of certainties, the feeling of being on the sidelines of the world rather than at its centre. Going to the cinema was almost an act of faith: a gamble to see if the mystery of Meursault, the strange beauty of the text, could survive the transformation into images.
The film did not disappoint, but at the same time opinions differed. Certain shots and scenes brought the novel to mind, but the overall impression was not that of a faithful adaptation. It was that of a new perspective, a contemporary resonance. As the lead actor, Benjamin Voisin, says: ‘I’m very happy that the film doesn’t pretend to answer the questions raised in The Stranger, because that’s impossible, but rather offers another prism, another perspective on this man.’ It is with the promise of a different perspective, of a different Meursault, that the cinematic experience begins.
Understanding the book to understand the film: existentialism and absurdity in Camus
First and foremost, we must understand what Camus was trying to achieve. In The Stranger, the absurd is not a setting, it is a climate, an atmosphere. Meursault, narrator and protagonist, lives in a world devoid of traditional moral meaning: the death of his mother, the indifference he shows; the murder on the beach; the trial, focused less on the act itself than on his behaviour, on his inability to feign the expected emotion. For Camus, absurdity is the gap between man and the world, the violence of an indifferent world, and the impossible reach for transcendence.
It is this tension between inner loneliness, existential emptiness, and the criminalisation of indifference that Ozon’s film dares to reimagine. But adapting such a novel means accepting that Camus’ powerful writing, with its much-appreciated philosophical depth, can never be fully conveyed; hence the almost impossible challenge that cinema imposes on itself. And Ozon does not claim to achieve it.
The cinema experience moves away from the novel: the risk of the 7th art
Cinema imposes choices. In this version of The Stranger, Ozon opts for sobriety. We discover a black and white film, framed format, often heavy silence, absence of voice-over. At least in the first part. But this choice, while evoking the austerity of the novel, sometimes strips it down to the point where the viewer feels a lack of emotion, which is dangerous for a work so focused on interiority. Some criticise the film for being long-winded or uneven in pace, particularly in the second part, where the trial and imprisonment take precedence over the atmosphere. This risk, inherent in any film adaptation, is all the greater when the original work is considered a literary monument.
Choosing between silence and Camus’ powerful pen: the contribution of cinema
Yet cinema offers what literature does not: silence that becomes palpable, the sun beating down on faces, skin glistening in the light, the almost suffocating heat of Algiers. Ozon captures this atmosphere: the sea, the sand, the silence after the gunshot, delicious. What he loses in words, he gains in sensations. The viewer no longer reads the absurd: they experience it. We are in Meursault’s shoes, or rather beside him: this shift, this distance, becomes almost tangible. The attempt by cinema to make indifference, strangeness and uprootedness palpable is, for me, partially successful.
Camus, an inviolable monument? Ozon breaks and reinterprets
Adapting Camus is like walking a tightrope between fidelity and betrayal. Ozon does not feign innocence: he takes a contemporary view. He omits the voice-over, he occasionally changes the rhythm, he makes choices that are sometimes daring, sometimes questionable. But this reinterpretation does not seek to monopolise the truth of the novel; it offers another reading, another perspective, what Benjamin Voisin calls a ‘poetic soul that Meursault may have, but which is singled out because it is not justifiable in a society like ours’. So yes, Ozon breaks with tradition. But he does not desecrate; he transforms, with respect and lucidity.
Benjamin Voisin’s interpretation is often described as ‘animalistic’, “sensual” and ‘earthy’. This Meursault is no longer just a cold, detached man, a spectator of life; he is also someone who is carnal, physical, perhaps even vulnerable. This sensuality gives the character a new human dimension, paradoxically bringing him closer to the audience. Silence, gaze and body become vectors of emotion, but of a contained, withdrawn emotion. This bold approach questions Meursault’s masculinity: not as a stereotype but as an individual suspended between desire, indifference and fatality.
Ozon’s contribution to the colonial reading: a modern resonance
Finally, and this is undoubtedly one of the most discussed aspects of the adaptation, Ozon chooses to give more space to what the novel conceals or erases: the colonial (and feminist) dimension. The film unfolds in 1930s Algeria with the heat of a merciless sun, the sea, the sand, and the silence of a divided society. This committed echo is not heard in the novel. The director’s contemporary reading reminds us that Camus’s work is not timeless. Meursault’s indifference, his condemnation and his loneliness take on new significance when we add to them an awareness of colonial injustice and the invisibility of the victims, a thread that Ozon pulls without tearing it, without forcing it, but with caution.
Ultimately, the film provokes a mixture of admiration, respect and something akin to vertigo. Adapting a text like The Stranger is to tackle the inviolable. It is a risky, almost arrogant gamble. And yet Ozon has taken it on, not to equal Camus, but to offer him another face, another weight. However, the film does not replace the novel: it pays homage to it, in its fragility, in its silence, in its lack of obviousness. But sometimes the film adaptation opens a window that the book did not: on the body, the gaze, time, history. And perhaps that is the real victory.
If you arrive on Etta Mae Hartwell’s page on Spotify and listen to a few songs, you have every reason to believe she is a talented living young artist. In her description, it says she sings her own stories with emotion and resilience. Some songs even have the label « (Live Session) ». But when you dig just a little deeper, you notice that the names of her songs are very cheesy and basic and all her works — 5 albums and a single — are from 2025. Impossible you will tell me? Indeed… for a human being.
In fact, Etta Mae Hartwell is an AI generated artist, like there are thousands on Spotify. If you use the platform, you probably listen to AI generated artists every day without even knowing it. And that is problematic.
Generative AI is impacting artists and the music industry harder than we might think, and it is urgent to act to keep pace with innovation in terms of information, protection and regulation.
An incredible revolution, making the music listening experience simpler
Artificial intelligence offers music platforms users unprecedented personalization possibilities. Algorithms analyze every song users listen to — the tempo, the mood, the genre, the frequency it is listened to, etc. — to suggest songs they might like or offer them personalized playlists, such as « Discover Weekly » or « Release Radar » on Spotify. They are like Virtual DJs that adapt the selection to the listener’s tastes, making the experience effortless, smoother and allowing them to easily discover artists that match their tastes. Although this seems great at first, these algorithms enclose people in their existing tastes and habits and do not encourage broader discovery and exploration, creating a « musical bubble » from which it is hard to escape.
The emergence of these algorithms is explained by music platforms’ business model and the fact that they seek profit through streams and duration of listening with advertisement and paid subscriptions.
Important impacts on music-related professions
Algorithms have allowed smaller artists to reach a new audience, but this comes with a great risk of dependence on the algorithm: artists must please it to be visible and thus find new listeners or keep theirs. They often have to make sacrifices to survive and feel limited, since it leaves them less room for creativity and experimentation. We are therefore witnessing a standardization of the format of tracks posted on streaming platforms, with notably shorter songs and intros. Moreover, as mentioned earlier, artists outside the sphere of a listener’s « tastes » have fewer chances of being recommended to them, making it harder to reach a not-yet-convinced audience and thus to grow.
AI tools have allowed artists to create more easily and thus faster. They can now create with fewer resources, making music making even more accessible than it has been since the revolution brought by DAWs (Digital Audio Workstations, softwares like FL Studio or Ableton). With the simplification of some processes, AI has enabled newcomers to start creating music faster and even create whole tracks through prompts with generative AIs.
There are indeed two types of use of AI in music creation: Assistance in the creative process vs. fully automated prompt-to-output applications. The first option is when a producer uses AI tools to help them create a track they are working on, but they still follow the process of creating it themselves (with control over the arrangement and the position of each element, the effects, etc.). With the latter, people don’t even need to be artists or know anything about music production to fully generate a song with AI. These models, such as Suno or Udio, are impressive: They can generate any genre of music from a textual description and can even recreate specific lyrics and moods. Music producers must now compete with these AI generated songs and find ways to stay creative but relevant. In the 2025 study on AI generated music conducted by Deezer and Ipsos on 9000 adults, they have found that 97% of people cannot tell apart an AI generated track and one created by a human, which is fascinating but also terrifying. In the end, I think these challenges make artists’ life more difficult than it simplifies it. It puts a toll on all artists and threatens their subsistence in the long run. According to the PMP Strategy/CISAC study published in November 2024 on the economic impact of AI in music and audiovisual industries, under current conditions, this market penetration by generative AI outputs could put 24% of music creators’ revenues at risk by 2028 (10 billion €).
Other professions are also affected by these changes: more traditional jobs risk being replaced, like music curators and radio programmers. The independent radio NTS was precisely created to counter this trend. Their selling point? The music played is carefully chosen by humans, not algorithms, creating an authentic and thoughtful journey.
Data analysts, AI specialists and sound engineers, on the other hand, are of growing importance. So, AI rearranges the existing narrative and order while creating new opportunities for people outside the creative industries. But what about those people whose job disappeared?
Can we still talk about « artistic creation »?
Sure, AI tools have opened creativity to people without any musical or technical training and have facilitated experimentation. Artists can explore new sounds and new styles easily and even produce other types of content, such as adaptive or interactive music. For artists from other fields like the audiovisual sector, generative AI is finally a budget-friendly option to experiment with sounds that match the mood of their visuals before committing to hiring a composer (if they do).
Artistic possibilities and freedom are quickly limited because of how algorithms work, dictating the survival of the artists. There is less room for originality, slow development, or complex structures. All tracks merge into a uniform ensemble.
The market is furthermore flooded with cheap AI-generated tracks. Cheap because they cost almost nothing to produce or acquire and because they are empty of emotions, intention, meaning — of humanity overall. They are omnipresent in B2B situations and in advertising. They are also saturating streaming platforms with enormous amounts of content daily, and it is growing at a fast pace. According to the Deezer and Ipsos study mentioned earlier, 18% of all tracks on Deezer were AI-generated in June 2025 for a total of 20,000 new tracks every day, already rising to 34% in November 2025 with 40,000 new songs per day. It is insane.
This has a crucial impact on the quality of what is listened to on streaming platforms and the overall experience of music listening. It leaves almost no room for originality, since AI creates from what already exists. Even though they combine multiple sources to create something new (not always), no original creations can come from generative AIs. It is already a shared feeling: According to the same Deezer study, people generally agree with the fact that AI will only generate more generic songs and of weaker quality (51%) and think that AI could lead to a loss of creativity in music production (64%).
AI can indeed generate a song with a nice arrangement, but also a lack of coherence throughout the whole track. Without meaning, intention or emotions, there is no real artistic creation per se. Yet, an artist’s objective is to translate their emotions through their work, make people feel a certain way, share and connect with the audience this way. This is one purpose of art. So, for me, we cannot refer to AI generated musicians as « artists ».
But if in reality most do not make the difference between an AI generated track and one created by a human, why bother taking the time to learn music production and produce songs if you can be successful and earn money thanks to AI generated ones? We can take the example of the fictional rock band The Velvet Sundown, which has accumulated more than one million streams on Spotify in just a few weeks and released three albums in less than a year. This is beyond competition for human producers and without any warning stating that they are AI generated, it should be considered as unfair competition. It thus raises the following question: Do we still decide what we listen to today? Spotify was recently accused of filling its playlists with « ghost artists » by buying sounds from a sound bank and attribute them to non-existing artists, all because it is cheaper than paying royalties to existing artists. They denied the allegation, but we can still observe the phenomenon on the platform, without any mention of AI whatsoever.
Take a listen to The Velvet Sundown – Rivers Run Free:
There is a clear lack of regulation concerning AI
A clear labelling of AI generated content is needed on music streaming platforms, like it is the case on other platforms such as Instagram. According to the same Deezer study, most people are asking for it (80%). They indeed want to know whether they are listening to a real artist or a ghost one. Deezer has been a pioneer in this field: It is the first streaming platform to have developed a system to detect AI generated songs and label them as such. Alexis Lanternier, CEO of Deezer, said: « Deezer has been avant-garde regarding the implementation of solutions that guarantee transparency and limit the negative impact of the influx of fully AI generated content in music streaming. »
One major challenge with AI is the respect of copyrights in the way they are trained. As we discussed, AI models do not invent anything new, they find inspiration from existing works. The regulatory framework around AI is vastly still in progress if not non-existent and heterogeneous across regions. Although innovation moves fast and AI models have evolved very quickly, regulations always take more time to be implemented. But there is a real need for it. Right now, AI models are trained from copyrighted works without the consent of the artists or third parties involved (labels, etc.). It is highly unethical to do so and companies should not be able to, as 65% of the respondents of the Deezer study agree. Artists should clearly be better protected.
Regarding the defense of artists and creators, Deezer is leading the way. It is currently the only platform to have signed the international Statement on AI training, which states that “The unlicensed use of creative works for training generative AI is a major, unjust threat to the livelihoods of the people behind those works, and must not be permitted.” Some labels are also speaking out, like the independent label IDOL, which refuses the use of the works possessed or controlled by them for AI training purposes without their explicit consent.
A landmark copyright ruling against OpenAI was delivered in Germany in November by the Regional Court of Munich concerning lyrics from well-known German songs that could be generated through ChatGPT. The court stated that the use of copyrighted song lyrics for training generative AI models without a licence violates German copyright law. For the first time in Europe, these questions are being addressed directly, showing the way forward for implementing regulations concerning AIs’ use and training and holding the companies releasing these models accountable for any law infringement.
AI is weakening culture altogether
A few major streaming platforms — Spotify, Deezer, Apple Music — control the whole market and influence what society listens to. These private companies have a central role in the music industry and create an oligopoly, but their capitalistic approach is often not in favor of the artists. This is especially true for Spotify.
With the algorithmization of streaming platforms and the development of playlists classified by genre or mood, we lost the experience of the album as a coherent artistic work, a journey to follow in the right order. Songs are taken individually, losing part of the intention the artist has put inside it.
In a way, streaming platforms and their algorithms, by enabling instant access to songs from all over the world, encourage diversity in the listening experience (up to a certain point as we saw with algorithms). Music is now tailored to every moment of someone’s life, classified by mood. But music then becomes a background noise, something we listen to all the time without paying attention to it. It is not listened to anymore; it is heard at best. Spotify’s founder Daniel Ek has stated that their biggest competitor was silence, and that says a lot. We can thus wonder: Has music become too accessible? With new releases every Friday and new songs being published constantly, Terrence Nguea, music producer, feels like there is « too much music and we always have to quickly move on to something else ».
For me, this is representative of our current society: users’ passive listening reflects people’s passivity in everyday life due to smartphones, social media and algorithms. Attention span is significantly dropping, with a constant need of new stimulation. People are always looking for the next thing to do, watch or listen to, and are always multitasking, never fully focusing on one thing such as listening to a song. I hope this article aroused your curiosity concerning AI generated music and called into question your music listening habits, so you will try to pay more attention to what you listen to and give back meaning to songs.
Written by Laura Vurpillot
Sources:
Faut-il réapprendre à écouter de la musique ? | Tracks | ARTE (October 6th 2025)
Deezer (November 12th 2025). Étude Deezer/Ipsos : 97 % des personnes sont incapables de faire la différence entre une musique entièrement générée par l’IA et une musique créée par des humains. Deezer Newsroom.
Stranger Things is on TV in millions of homes, Taylor Swift and Zara Larsson are at the height of their fame, Instagram and its stories are more popular than ever… No, I’m not describing 2016, but rather the beginning of 2026. This feeling of collective déjà vu, shared on social media and in the press, illustrates a deep need to hold on to familiar cultural references, back to a time perceived as more simple and carefree.
Indeed, 2026 seems to be a year marked by nostalgia, and this collective desire to revive memories from ten years ago now has a name: #2026isthenew2016. On TikTok, more than 55 million videos have already been created around this trend, while on streaming platforms, playlists referencing the year 2016 are experiencing a spectacular rise in popularity. This phenomenon, which at first glance might seem inconsequential, actually reveals a deep need to look back to a past that is perceived as more reassuring, in an increasingly unstable global context characterized by a series of crises that undermine the sense of collective security. From this point, it is worth asking: how can what appears to be a simple trend have a lasting influence on global cultural offerings? And above all, is this surge of nostalgia a way of reviving happy memories, or a form of denial in the face of the uncertainties of the contemporary world, where individuals seek to protect themselves psychologically by idealizing what they have already experienced?
Why has 2016 left such a mark on people’s minds?
To understand the scale of this nostalgia, it is necessary to recall the context in which 2016 took place. The 2010s were caught between two major crises, namely the economic crisis of 2008 and the health crisis of 2020, which makes 2016 seem like a relatively stable interlude in an already fragile world. This impression of relative stability, although illusory, reinforces the idea nowadays that 2016 represents a kind of lost equilibrium. In France, this year has come after a particularly challenging period marked by the attacks of 2015, which largely explains the collective need for cheerfulness and distraction. This desire to escape from an anxiogenic daily life was manifested in particular through the aesthetics of social networks, where Snapchat filters, Instagram boomerangs, ultra-saturated colours, and playful content dominated, giving the illusion of a simpler and happier world, almost disconnected from political and social realities.
This aesthetic has also found its way into music, where artists such as Twenty One Pilots, The Chainsmokers, and Justin Timberlake have dominated the charts with danceable, accessible, and refreshingly light pop music, designed as a soundtrack to an era of carefree living. The band Coldplay perfectly embodied this visual and emotional trend with the extremely colourful cover of Hymn for the Weekend, which was at the top of the charts back then, and strikingly illustrated this collective desire to celebrate joy, partying and letting go.
Cover – Hymn for the Weekend
In the collective imaginary, 2016 was also associated with numerous cultural phenomena: the global success of Pokémon Go, the massive emergence of filters on Snapchat, the first season of Stranger Things, the Euro 2016 football tournament in France, and the creation of TikTok. All these elements contributed to the image of a particularly entertaining and memorable year, which has now become a true generational milestone.
Nostalgia as an emotional escape from an anxiogenic present
If 2016 is back in trend today, it is because this colourful and light-hearted aesthetic acts as a real emotional escape in a world that is considered stressful, marked by armed conflicts, the climate crisis, political instability, and the rapid development of artificial intelligence, which fuels many concerns about the future. On current social media platforms, the search for high performance and perfection has gradually replaced the spontaneity of the early days. Algorithms are shaping increasingly uniform profiles, whereas dull colours and smooth, minimalist content give the impression of a loss of creativity and authenticity. Faced with this standardization, many internet users are taking the counter-approach by deliberately adopting an exaggerated aesthetic, bordering on kitsch, reminiscent in style of 2016.
Zara Larsson is a particularly telling example. Her song Symphony (2017) is currently enjoying a revival thanks to a trend featuring bright colours and extravagant designs as a way of escaping from what is perceived as a gloomy everyday life.
Conceptual Visual – Symphony
In the same vein, Lush Life (2015) has gone viral once again and now plays a central role in her concerts, both in terms of stage design and costumes that embody a sense of letting go. The lyrics also fit perfectly with this fantasy mindset:
“I live my day as if it was the last
Live my day as if there was no past
Doin’ it all night all summer
Doin’ it the way I wanna”
Nostalgia as a marketing strategy: when the past becomes a product
Another important dimension of this nostalgia lies in its marketing impact, because this return to 2016 is no longer limited to a simple emotional expression, but is now part of a genuine strategy to capture attention. In a context where internet users say they are saturated with content that is too polished, too promotional, or generated by artificial intelligence, references to 2016 appear more authentic, more spontaneous, and more human. The cultural elements associated with this period such as retro filters, viral challenges, iconic music or simple formats are now being reused and adapted to produce engaging content that circulates widely on social media and generates strong interactions. The platforms themselves are participating in this dynamic by promoting these types of posts in their recommendation systems, which increases user time spent and engagement, while also boosting the trend’s visibility. Brands quickly saw this virality as an opportunity and began to exploit this aesthetic and these references to connect emotionally with their audience.
This phenomenon is not without consequences for marketing: several companies have already chosen to capitalize directly on nostalgia by launching products or campaigns inspired by this period. The Panera Bread restaurant chain, for example, offered a special “2016” menu featuring dishes that were popular at the time, in order to attract consumers by playing on their memories of a past that is perceived as simpler and more comforting. Similarly, many brands are now reintroducing visual and audio codes specific to 2016—whether filters, jingles, or playlists—because they resonate strongly with online communities and trigger an immediate emotional response. Thus, the use of the past is no longer limited to individual nostalgia: it has become a strategic tool for capturing the attention of an audience seeking experiences that are perceived as more sincere, less scripted, and less dominated by algorithmic logic.
Instagram Advertisement – Panera Bread
When the trend serves a selective, idealized narrative of the past
However, while this idealization of 2016 may seem harmless, it is actually based on a deeply selective memory, which tends to erase the darker aspects of this period and retain only what can reassure us today. In psychology, this mechanism has been studied by Constantine Sedikides, who explains that nostalgia helps maintain a sense of identity continuity and emotional security when the present is perceived as unstable (Sedikides et al., 2008). In other words, nostalgia does not accurately reflect the past, but offers a softened version of it, reconstructed based on the emotional needs of the present.
Thus, when internet users refer to 2016 as a happier and more worry-free time, they are not so much describing historical reality as the comforting image they have reconstructed of it : this embellished memory contradicts the political and social context of the time. The year 2016 was marked by numerous terrorist attacks, notably in Brussels, Orlando, and Nice, which deeply traumatized populations and created a lasting climate of fear. Added to this were major political upsets, such as the Brexit and the election of Donald Trump, which initiated an era of polarization that is even more visible today. Furthermore, this idealized vision obscures certain social realities, particularly for women. Before the #MeToo movement, sexual violence remained largely taboo, sexism in the workplace was even more unpunished, and cyberbullying was rarely taken seriously. In this sense, idealizing 2016 amounts to rewriting the past in a gentler, more reassuring form, at the risk of masking injustices and turning nostalgia into a refuge rather than a tool for critical reflection.
Not a Simple Trend, but a Cultural Pattern.
The return of 2016 aesthetics in 2026 may be part of a larger phenomenon: culture seems to move in cycles rather than in a straight line. Throughout history, fashion, music, and art have often revived past decades. The 1980s came back in the 2000s, the 1990s returned in the 2010s, and now the 2010s are being recycled in the 2020s. This suggests that when society feels unstable, it naturally looks backward instead of forward. Today, this cycle is accelerated by social media and algorithms. Platforms promote what already works, which encourages repetition instead of innovation. Trends are recycled faster than ever, creating the feeling that “nothing new” is being invented, only remixed. This may explain why young generations feel emotionally connected to years they did not even live through: the past is constantly reshaped and sold as something new. Rather than seeing this nostalgia only as a sign of denial, it can also be understood as a creative engine. Artists, brands, and users do not simply copy the past: they reinterpret it, mix it with modern codes, and give it new meanings. The real challenge for contemporary culture is therefore not to escape into yesterday, but to use memory as a starting point to imagine new and original forms for the future.
Every winter during the Christmas season, the film « Love Actually » makes a limited return, holding high the most touching lines about true love and presenting dramatic yet perhaps real love stories. It is labeled as « heartwarming », « healing », and « about love », becoming a nearly default cultural symbol of Christmas. However, when a film repeatedly praised as a « paragon of true love » makes more and more viewers feel uncomfortable, confused, or even repulsed today, the question may no longer be « Is this film good to watch? » but rather: “What kind of « love » are we being moved by? Are all kinds of love worthy of being extolled? ”
In popular culture, love has never been a purely private experience. Whether in the West or the East, it has been constantly written, replicated and disseminated through literature, films and music, gradually forming a set of identifiable, imitable and even internalized emotional narratives. When « love » is repeatedly presented in a certain fixed pattern, it is no longer just an emotion itself, but becomes a cultural consensus – a value judgment that seems to need no questioning. « Love Actually » from 20 years ago was a typical sample in such a cultural mechanism, but now it has been subject to a different kind of scrutiny.
Romantic Films as Packaged Emotional Comfort Zones
In Western culture, Christmas often symbolizes reunion, tolerance and forgiveness. This warm festive context itself has a strong emotional guiding function. It imperceptibly lowers people’s vigilance towards the rationality of the narrative, making audiences more receptive to all emotional expressions packaged as « warm ». Conversely, this is precisely why people choose to confess their love during festivals and make certain choices and decisions at a certain zero o’clock moment.
In such a context, I personally believe that romantic films often do not serve as a guide to reality but rather act as a vessel for emotions. They do not attempt to resolve the conflicts in relationships but merely offer a brief and safe emotional illusion, allowing the audience to believe that « everything will have a good outcome » during the limited time of every second of the Christmas countdown, and to welcome a happy ending together with the countdown. When this function is superimposed with the cultural atmosphere of Christmas, the film acquires an almost « exempted » emotional privilege: certain relationships and behaviors that should be questioned and not well understood in daily life are repackaged as « understandable romance ».
Fragmented Narratives and the Stereotypical Love Template
The visuals in « Love Actually » are undoubtedly beautiful. The first shot begins with ordinary people. « Whenever I feel frustrated with the world, I think of the scene at the entrance of Heathrow Airport. Many people say that we live in a world of hatred and greed. But I don’t think so. In my opinion, love is all around us. » This is the first narration of the film, which tells multiple love stories in parallel, seemingly presenting the diverse forms of love. However, the apparent richness does not necessarily mean true diversity. There seem to be extremely serious stereotypes and gender inequality.
In fact, a careful examination of these stories reveals that they are highly similar in structure and perspective to a love story: men have higher power and more stable social status, and they are often the initiators of emotions; women, on the other hand, are more often in the position of being gazed at, waited for, and responded to. The situations of betrayal, crossing boundaries, and ethical ambiguity are casually summarized as « the complexity of human emotions »; while the resulting harm is often masked by the festive atmosphere and gentle background music.
These stories are not haphazardly pieced together but rather repeatedly vary around the same romantic logic. Love here is reduced to an instant emotional resonance, rather than a relationship practice that involves taking responsibility, commitment and consequences, seemingly only considering the most extreme romantic love.
Gender Perspectives in the Narrative of « True Love »
When we further inquire about « who loves and who is loved », the issue is no longer merely about the plot itself, but rather the singularity of the narrative perspective. In the film, desire, action and decision-making are often in the hands of male characters; female characters frequently appear as « emotional responders » or « visual symbols ». The most classic scene in the movie is when the British Prime Minister falls in love at first sight with a secretary from a humble background. The so-called Cinderella story transforms from a fairy tale into a real love story, and in the future, the Prime Minister personally goes door-to-door to search for her. There are countless lines that mock the female character’s « fat » figure, even related to the power struggle and political relationship between two men. In addition, another scene in the film is when the writer Jamie moves to the countryside to focus on writing after discovering his wife’s infidelity. The landlord introduces him to a Portuguese nanny, but one time, due to carelessness, she drops Jamie’s manuscript into the lake. The camera follows a close-up of the nanny from her feet to her chest, along with Jamie’s changing expression. This is the climax and turning point of their relationship. The camera is both language and power. It should have emphasized that love can transcend national culture and language, but it was instead portrayed as a relationship between the viewer and the viewed. From these two stories, it reflects that women’s bodies are given symbolic meanings, becoming the carriers of power, desire and romance; their emotions more serve the self-confirmation and growth trajectory of male characters rather than their own choices and predicaments. The problem does not lie in whether sexiness exists, but rather that when « love » is always told from a single perspective, it gradually evolves into an unexamined cultural habit. In such narratives, « true love » is more like an emotional imagination from a male perspective, rather than a relationship state where both parties are equal participants.
The Fracture of Happiness – Where Does the Audience’s Discomfort Come From?
Therefore, when most female viewers watch « Love Actually », what they feel is not happiness but rather aversion, estrangement and discomfort. This is not because they « cannot understand romance », nor is it a denial of love itself. On the contrary, this discomfort precisely stems from the changes in the cultural context.
With the continuous renewal of gender awareness and social experience, today, 20 years later, audiences have become more sensitive to the perception of power structures and emotional inequality. Plots that were once regarded as romantic may now seem outdated or even distorted. When the old romantic model fails to respond to real-life experiences, emotional disconnection becomes inevitable.
This sense of discomfort is not the problem itself but a signal-it indicates that some narratives about « love » have reached a point where they need to be reexamined.
What kind of emotional narrative does a love film really need?
Just as Benjamin analyzed, the impact of films in the era of mechanical reproduction does not lie in whether the content is true or not, but in that through repetitive perceptual forms, it quietly shapes the way people understand the world and emotions. The issue has never been whether « Love Actually » is still worth watching, but whether we are still willing to accept the « version of love » it offers without reflection. Romantic films still have their significance, but personally, I believe that romance should not be a veil to cover up inequality and injustice. Love is not just a slogan on specific holidays, nor should it be simplified into a cheap emotional consumption that turns into impulsive behavior. Maybe the love in movies can be an impulsive passion, but when popular culture continues to shout « Love Actually », it should at least answer one question: Whose love is this? And at whose expense? “
If we place « Love Actually » within the broader spectrum of romantic films, what it represents might be a kind of love narrative centered on emotional moments: the act of falling in love itself constitutes the condition for the existence of love. In an interesting contrast to this is another classic love film, « The Notebook », which presents a different narrative model.
In « The Notebook », love is not a one-time emotional confirmation, but a process of relationship that is constantly chosen, rejected, and reconfirmed over time. The man and the woman do not simply fall in love; instead, they are repeatedly pulled between the pressures of reality, class differences, and personal will. Crucially, this relationship is not packaged as « romance that is taken for granted ». Although the male and female leads come from different classes and living environments, their love is always based on mutual choice, without gaze or metaphor. This narrative structure presents a relatively balanced gender position. The female character does not merely exist as an object to be pursued or moved; she has a clear right to hesitate, judge, and reject. Therefore, love here is not the unfolding of male will. Whether to leave or wait, to invite or reject, are all free choices of both parties.
This does not mean that « The Notebook » offers a more « realistic » model of love, but rather it suggests that romantic films can also choose to depict the complexity of relationships, not just the completeness of emotions. When love is understood as a continuous practice rather than an instantaneous emotional outcome, it is no longer just an immersive fantasy, but becomes a form of relationship that requires responsibility, communication and time.
If « Love Actually » from 20 years ago was the « Christmas love textbook » in the hearts of a generation, then the hesitation and awkwardness that today’s audience feel when watching this film is not because they no longer believe in love, but because we have different expectations for « how love should be told ».
Especially for today’s female audience, their perception of « romance » has long changed. They no longer simply buy into the passionate emotions, but rather value respect, boundaries, and the right to choose in a relationship. What was once praised as « bravely pursuing love » might now be seen as overstepping boundaries; what was once packaged as overly sweet « deep gazes » now gradually reveals the unequal power dynamics behind them.
This change has nothing to do with « love getting colder ». On the contrary, it is the result of modern people having richer life experiences and a clearer sense of self. In real-life intimate relationships, equality, communication, and mutual responsibility have become increasingly emphasized. Love stories that rely solely on one-sided devotion and excessive emotional manipulation naturally no longer resonate with us. The discomfort that viewers feel essentially stems from their unwillingness to accept such simplified and formulaic expressions of emotion.
So when we revisit these classic love films now, the key is no longer whether they can still evoke emotional resonance, but rather « whether the love logic they present can still align with people’s current understanding of intimate relationships ». Romance is no longer a dream to be mindlessly indulged in, but has become something that needs to be examined, compared, and redefined.
Revisiting these love classics that have been replayed over and over again is not to deny the emotions they once evoked, but to figure out what subtle changes have been quietly taking place within ourselves. When romance is no longer merely about celebrating festivals and passively waiting for emotional placebos to be fed to us, the kind of relationship we need to deliberate on and choose for ourselves has instead become the norm. The current attitude of the audience itself is a genuine cultural echo.
