Hooked on the fisherman aesthetic
With the growing buzz around this trend, I thought it was the perfect time to rejoin the conversation.
At the end of December, I wrote a piece reflecting on what comes after the barn jacket. In the same letter, I touched on one of Pinterest’s predicted trends for 2025 that felt the most actionable and realistic to me: the fisherman aesthetic. Since then, several publications have explored the subject in depth, and I’ve even been featured in a few (thank you, Marie Claire ! 😊). Brands have also gotten in on the action—Barbour and Free People, for example, have dedicated assortments that, in a sense, outfit the movement.
I’ll admit, my personal bias probably played a role in my initial attraction to the trend. My vacation spot of choice is Cape Cod, and the aesthetic naturally aligns with the look of New England’s coastal towns. But what made it feel particularly real—rather than just another internet-fueled aesthetic—was its undeniable connection to preppy style.
Think about it: duffle coats, boat shoes, fisherman sweaters, baskets—none of these pieces are novel; they’re holdovers from the preppy uniform. And if we trace back through the style lineage, we see that preppy has been the foundation for countless trends: coastal grandmother, eclectic granddad, and “old money.” That last one, in particular, seemed to split in two directions—one toward stark minimalism (aka quiet luxury) and the other toward a fascination with a certain kind of British aristocratic countryside living—tweed, waxed outerwear, and, yes, the barn jacket.
None of these trends reinvented the wheel; they just repainted it and in the case of the fisherman look, added seashells. Yet at the same time, I do feel like the fisherman aesthetic, is significant beyond just how to get the look.
In my original piece, I spoke with Colin McElroy of Foris, a fly-fishing apparel brand, and Carmen Hoffert of the jewelry brand Carm.N. While I asked them a range of questions, what intrigued me most were their insights into why this sudden fascination with the fisherman aesthetic had taken hold. Why, at this particular moment, was there a renewed interest in fishing and the outdoors? Why were people gravitating toward a wardrobe that evoked a simpler, salt-kissed existence?
At the time, I only skimmed the surface. But now, as we move into March—where breaking news arrives almost hourly, each headline more unsettling than the last—I realize that this trend is yet another symptom of our larger reality. The traditional markers of a “successful” life—the house, the stable job, the nuclear family—are slipping further out of reach. Instead, we exist in a time where the cost of living is skyrocketing, $20 eggs are a reality, and homeownership feels like a distant dream.
The fisherman aesthetic, with its rugged practicality and nostalgia for a slower, simpler way of life, isn’t just a fleeting style moment. It’s another form of escapism.
Sydney Stanback, global trends and insights lead at Pinterest, articulated this perfectly in Architectural Digest:
“Escapism is not necessarily new, but it’s evolved over the past few years as we’ve dealt with the effects of being isolated for quite some time—that’s not normal behavior. While we’re five years out from the pandemic, I think we’re still dealing with the effects of it [now].”
Escapism through style—or as a trend—isn’t a new concept (I should also clarify that in this discussion on trends I am solely talking trends in relation to fashion). We’ve always dressed for the life we want rather than the one we have. But in today’s context, it feels less like fantasy and more like a survival mechanism. The idea of buying into an aesthetic to become someone else isn’t new (The Prince and the Pauper, anyone?), but the difference now is that people aren’t just performing status—they’re performing stability.
Which brings me to a personal admission: when I first set out to write my initial piece, I hesitated. I’ve long believed that traditional trends no longer exist as they once did, and I found myself questioning what it said about me to dedicate an entire letter (and now two newsletters) to the topic.
Still, I published it. And in the time since, I’ve sat with my own preconceived notions—and, in some cases, my outright disdain—for the very idea of trends. But after some reflection, I arrived at a realization that made discussing them, and even thinking about them, feel more relevant than ever.
When I think back to putting together trend reports for work—or even when Nick’s parents ask me what’s trending—the underlying question is always the same: What’s new? What’s in? What’s out? But in a world where quiet luxury has proven that trends can exist without an expiration date, and where “new” is often just a reworking of the past—sometimes even using nostalgia as a coping mechanism—those questions feel increasingly outdated.
Because if trends today aren’t about innovation but about longing, then it makes sense that so many of them are rooted in the past. In recent years, trend cycles have repeatedly drawn from nostalgia, repackaging familiar aesthetics in ways that feel fresh.
Take the boom boom aesthetic, a revival of the unapologetic excess of the Greed is Good era—think late ‘80s and early ‘90s power dressing, where status was stitched into every Armani pinstripe. Or consider the Western trend, which I covered for Elle. And then, of course, there’s the ‘70s revival, which seems to be everywhere. But like all decade-based resurgences, it’s not a true recreation of the past—it’s a hodgepodge of what we think the ‘70s looked like, filtered through modern sensibilities.
Each of these aesthetics pulls from a particular era not because we necessarily want to return to it, but because we crave the idea of what that era represents.
Trends, as we once knew them, are dead. What we have now is something entirely different—less about innovation and more about dressing our anxieties and aspirations. We are not dressing for reality—we are dressing for the illusion of a better reality.
Which made me think of Paris Is Burning.
Jennie Livingston’s 1990 documentary on New York’s ballroom scene in the late ‘80s captures a world where contestants competed in various categories, each requiring them to become the part—whether that meant embodying a high-fashion European model or a schoolchild. Even if they weren’t those things in reality, their ability to convincingly dress the part was what mattered, both to the judges and to themselves. One of the film’s matriarchs put it best:
“In a ballroom, you can be anything you want. You’re not really an executive, but you’re looking like an executive. And therefore you’re showing the straight world, ‘I can be an executive. If I had the opportunity, I could be one.’”
That quote lingers because it feels eerily relevant now.
No, I am not a fisherman. But if given the opportunity, I could be one—or at least, I could dress the part.
Talk soon!
XX
JJ
Jalil, your writing is always just so thoughtful. I was especially struck by your analysis of the shift from genuine trends to dressing as a form of coping and aspiration. The idea that we're dressing for an illusion, not reality, is powerful. And your connection to Paris is Burning and ballroom culture? Absolutely spot-on and so relevant. Great post.
Hard agree with all of this, thanks for citing my AD article :)