The Philosophy of Fashion: Machiavelli
Machiavelli would never have dismissed fashion as frivolous. He would have seen it for what it is: a mechanism of strategy. In his world of The Prince, appearances are directives. He writes that, “everyone sees what you appear to be,” but “few experience what you really are” (Machiavelli, XVIII). Power, after all, depends on what seems true rather than what is actually true. Perception precedes truth; seeming good often matters more than being good. This same logic holds today, perhaps at least for some, when it comes to the performance of fashion.
Chapters 15 and 18 lay bare a world where moral virtue gives way to political theater. Machiavelli claims, “a man who wishes to make a profession of goodness in everything must inevitably come to grief among so many who are not good” (Machiavelli, XV). The prudent ruler – or, in our case, the prudent dresser – learns to seem merciful, seem generous, seem noble. Appearance, then, is a form of strategic armor. Clothing ceases to be mere indulgence in fabrics and silhouettes. It can be the first signal of one’s hierarchical place. It can be a disguise, camouflaging the wearer in society’s endless sea of conformity. It can be a spectacle, skillfully drawing attention to what is desired. Would Machiavelli consider neutral tones prudent? A sudden splash of color a signal of audacity, confidence, or risk? A finely tailored suit as a projection of legitimacy? To Machiavelli, such choices are never innocent, and every aesthetic decision is intentional.
It is quite radical to apply this perspective, as it would imply that fashion ceases to be about authenticity. The modern mantra “express yourself” would strike Machiavelli as dangerous naïveté. The true question to him is not “Who am I?” but “What must I seem to be at this moment?” When understood this way, fashion becomes a dialect of power: a semiotic system where something as simple as a hemline can tip the balance between dominance and dismissal. From the miniskirt slicing through propriety to Westwood making anarchy couture, fashion has never been innocent. To choose deliberately is to master fortune in miniature, turning fabric into leverage in a way that “wins princes their states” (Machiavelli, VI).
And, yet, beneath the cynicism lies something almost honest. Machiavelli would urge us to think like statesmen when we open our wardrobes: Who is the audience? What is the impression? Where is the balance between fear and love, audacity and restraint? His wardrobe would not express personality so much as construct it. When we dress, we too are acting upon an audience, calibrating our image to inspire trust, admiration, or envy.
What is truly radical is that Machiavelli forces us to admit that we are already performing. It may be frightening to know that “men in general judge more by their eyes than by their hands” (Machiavelli, XVIII). Machiavelli’s perspective, then, is politics in the smallest sense.
Do I agree with Machiavelli’s nihilism? Not necessarily. But, there is prudence in recognizing that fashion always speaks. Our clothes, like our words, are already silently making arguments about us. Machiavelli strips away the illusion of innocence to see the calculation that lies behind our clothing choices. He leaves us with the most unsettling truth of all: even beauty is a strategy. Fashion is political. We have the power to wield it to our will.
Xoxo,
Annie
Machiavelli, Niccolò. The Prince. Translated and introduced by Tim Parks, Penguin Classics, 2014.
