Most mornings, getting dressed feels less like self-expression and more like falling back on the same clothes. Black top, white top, beige top. Jeans in three washes. A coat in “quiet 

luxury camel.” “Classic” white sneakers that promise they will go with everything. Even the colors we pretend are cool, like sage green, navy blue, and beige, look like they were designed to blend into a wall. 

On campus, people’s outfits look eerily similar. Everything feels softened, neutralized, and pre-approved. Even in maximalist trends, such as coquette, indie sleaze, and Y2K, clothing items sold in stores are stripped of the color and eccentricity that originally defined them.

In college, we might justify our preference for neutrals by saying we’ve grown out of our bold color phase and are now more practical with our outfits. But we only embrace minimalist clothing because maximalist fashion — defined by bold color, pattern, ornamentation, and layering — is disappearing. 

Maximalism gives us more ways to express ourselves. It reminds us that clothes can be whimsical, emotional, and deeply personal rather than algorithmically safe. Even if you don’t dress eccentrically every day, maximalism allows for more ways to express oneself.

We saw maximalism in popular culture most recently in late 2021, post-pandemic, after being stuck at home wearing the same type of clothes every day. Maximalist pieces were everywhere: vintage tees with loud graphics, chaotic earrings, and bold blazers matched and styled with no matching purpose. 

Now, whether you shop high-end or fast fashion, you’re getting the same aesthetic delivered in different fonts. Zara, H&M, Abercrombie, and even theoretically “fun” brands like Urban Outfitters all use the same narrow palette. Fashion has been boiled down to black, white, beige, navy, and a single bright seasonal color that dies down after two months.

The narrowing clothing palette stems from the swift output of fast fashion. Brands copy new fashion statements, which come in rapid cycles. This means they invest in only a few materials. Most companies reuse the same fabrics, the same dyes, and the same color bases because it’s cheaper and faster. So even when a maximalist trend goes viral, what shows up in stores is the muted, factory-friendly version. The trend survives, but the color dies.

Then there is the capsule wardrobe movement, which initially was a sustainability strategy built around owning a limited collection of pieces that mix and match, ideally reducing waste and decision fatigue. But capsules have become a restricted palette of neutral, timeless pieces, which just means clothes with no identity. 

The “quiet luxury” wave sealed the deal. Quiet luxury began as a fashion aesthetic built around subtle sophistication and class. Instead of logos or loud colors, the style favors muted palettes, expensive fabrics, and simple clothing articles that are recognizable only to people part of “elite” spaces. This aesthetic fits easily into elite academic spaces like WashU, where neutral outfits are seen as more polished, formal, and classy. Maximalism, on the other hand, is always a risk. It is perceived as unserious, messy, and gauche just because it doesn’t fit into the class norms of these institutions. “Elegant taste” is a softer way of saying “you have class.”

Once quiet luxury trickled down into mainstream retail, stores began releasing “elevated basics” and “soft essentials” at every price point. Now, everyone has access to wardrobes that look elite. You didn’t need wealth to dress classy anymore, and as the look spread, its muted palette spread with it. These movements together — minimalist fashion, capsule wardrobe, and quite luxury — flatten the entire color system around them. 

Most maximalist “trends” begin in specific communities — queer fashion, cultural and ethnic textiles, DIY circles, thrift subcultures — where personal expression historically mattered more than trend adherence. These styles often emerge outside of wealth and institutional power, shaped by creativity and change. They start loud and are deeply tied to the people who made them. 

But once brands and retailers take over, the trends are rebranded to safer, more profitable versions. Coquette becomes pale pink rather than the chaotic lace-and-ribbon style it initially referenced, and Y2K becomes low-rise jeans and a neutral baby tee, not the glittery, hyper-saturated vision that defined it. What’s left is something easier to sell to people who want to look tasteful.

Maximalism hasn’t disappeared because people stopped liking color or want to appear more “elegant.” If anything, the opposite is true. You see it every time you wear a bright crimson vintage-print jacket on campus and get 10 compliments. It’s not that people don’t want color; it’s that the industry, social media, and institutions make muted, “safe” choices feel like the norm. 

Of course, maximalism isn’t perfect. It can feed into overconsumption. More layers and accessories can push people toward buying more than they need. But maximalism doesn’t require overconsumption. It requires imagination. It is, in itself, experimentation.

I am not pushing you to wear a “statement piece” that makes you feel uncomfortable. It’s hard to blame anyone for feeling uninspired when the clothes on the racks rarely offer anything different. If maximalism is dead, it’s because the industry won’t give us color, texture, or anything remotely wild.

If the industry won’t offer that variety, it’s time for us to look elsewhere. Thrift stores are one option because they still carry pieces that the mainstream cycle filters out. Small designers, local boutiques, and resale apps can surprise you. Pick up one thing that isn’t part of your usual routine and see what happens. This new year, make space for all the possibilities your closet can hold. Fashion doesn’t have to be loud to be alive, but it needs more than beige to breathe.