East Versus West
A critical deep dive into the pillars of East and West London style, focussing on the shackles of postcode fashion, gentrification and the monetisation of cool.
Photo sourced via Dazed Magazine, part of Chiara Gambuto’s London collection- street photography encapsulating East London’s club culture scene, with a focus on fashion. © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that East and West London herald a relationship similar to the Capulets and Montagues. The two postcodes act as binaries that almost anything can fit within. For instance, my family and I were sorting condiments into East or West- deciding tzatziki was the epitome of West while ketchup is East, but would be renamed as a sewage-chic relish of some kind whilst selling for a tenner a bottle. Aioli, West. Branston pickle, East. The sauce comparison analogises the crux of the style divide quite nicely- West is Ottolenghi coded, and East cosplays grimy and dirty while being increasingly gentrified.
When one thinks of quintessential West London style, an image of a Barbour coat (classic olive, naturally) clad Carolyn Bessete-Kennedy is conjured, spritzing herself in Le Labo (while telling people it’s Aesop) after Hot Pilates. Notably, the clothes are expensive yet don’t pretend to not be, which kind of happens to be the point. West London’s legacy is one entrenched by the spirit of old money. The Barbour, for instance, was worn for its durability by hunters and fisherman in the 1920s, exemplified by the implementation of the ‘game pocket’ (just big enough to pop a freshly shot pheasant in). The Barbour was then adopted by Princess Di in the 70s and 80s, firmly enshrining the jacket as a signifier of British heritage, tradition and middle class follies. Where West London is concerned, there are significantly fewer fox hunts compared to the home counties—simply put, there is objectively little to no use for Barbours in the city, and yet they prevail. Their use now is arguably a form of virtue signalling, declaring oneself countryside-adjacent, implying land and luxury (unless the first half of a West Londoner’s commute genuinely involves a pony).
Photo Sourced via British Vogue © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended. Alexa Chung wears her Autumn 2024 Barbour trenchcoat collaboration over a red sequin dress posing next to a chalkboard wine list. It’s wealth disguised as whimsy, an added practicality to a night out.
The pillars of West London style unite synonymously in expensiveness. The resident Goop is the local Mecca, where they’ve managed to ‘Oliver Bonas-ify’ pelvic floor dilators and coffee enemas. West London has always been inhabited by the wealthy, its positioning upwind of London’s thick, black smog drift birthed its legacy through the synonymity of cleanliness, health and wealth. Since East London is the geographic opposite, the smog, and thus poverty, housed itself over yonder. The smoggy air and predominantly industrial work culture (ode to the London Docklands), married with its large number of immigrants, united East London as the postcode of the othered. The taste of oppression certainly never left the mouth of the East, and it’s become the founding pillar of its style.
Photo sourced via @londonersinlondon © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended. The beauty of scrolling through this account (dedicated to capturing the everyday outfits of Londoners) is noting the wildly different modes of dressing- posts of latex and fishnets are far more likely to be taken in Hackney, whereas cashmere coats, camel trousers and Loro Piana bags (see image above) are almost always taken in Notting Hill. The account serves as an interactive style ethnography.
Naturally, where there’s diversity, art and culture blossoms—so East London evolved into the creative hub of the city where expressiveness thrives in a way the West markedly lacks. But the modern-day irony lies in the area’s rapid gentrification, especially since the multi-million-pound redevelopment tied to the 2012 Olympic Park. The grit isn’t necessarily authentic anymore; it’s been rebranded. People dress ‘poor’ for the vibes—think fingerless gloves from busking as a whimsical indulgence, or sons of investment bankers, wearing ‘I support the strikes’ badges on their Carhartt jackets whilst living in squats or art collectives when rent money isn’t a problem. East London style has become a simulacrum of what was once genuinely exciting and original, worn by those largely untouched by the conditions that inspired it. The rent rose, and many of the pre-gentrification East Enders were priced out—leaving behind a faux-politicised aesthetic built on irony.
Photo via Hunger Magazine , sourced from a TikTok posted by Max Lepage Keefe that has since gone viral. © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended. The ‘Pints, chit chat and good people’ meme perhaps epitomises the alleged East London performative agenda- commenters joked they were surely performing this ‘Dalston Boy’ identity while hiding away their stacked trust funds. The moustaches and vintage clothing all round, paired with the implicit ‘film a TikTok but pretend like it’s candid’ nature of the video jarred many.
Of course, this generalisation doesn’t encapsulate the entirety of the East End, if anything it’s more so an observation of the twenty somethings pilgrimaging there after uni. One must also consider the gorpcore warriors, emblazoned with the same queer country yearning charm as the Barbour wearers- less in a shooting-as-a-hobby way, more in a hiking-and-calisthenics way. Then there’s the rave purists and the Dimes Square expats, who listen to the Red Scare unironically and own a strictly archival uniform.
The Peachy FC Away Jersey (£65) and shorts (£45). Photo sourced via Peachy Den © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended. The Peachy Den FC set reframes working-class East End signifiers (football kits/ communal identity) as desirable artefacts within a curated, fashion-forward narrative. The pieces signal aestheticisation rather than participation within local culture, accessible primarily to those insulated from its original socioeconomic context.
In all, this might be an overly indulgent take on virtue signalling- easy to mock, easier still to aestheticize. It’s important to note that the frontlines between the style divide have begun to blur; trends are exhibited on social media without bias, reaching and being adopted by audiences spanning the breadth of London. Events and pop ups are becoming increasingly common, drawing in diverse crowds and perhaps dismantling the tribalism of postcode fashion. London style is also persistently moving forwards, East especially is a hub of small designers; Gina Corrieri, Isabella Vrana, Peachy Den, among others. One could argue that the more compelling throughline is no longer stylistic at all- it’s economic. While East London trades on a mythology of DIY ingenuity and charming edge, the reality is that access to ‘cool’ is paywalled. A 100% polyester Peachy Den bag and an upcycled vintage Gina Corrieri tee both can retail for over £100, suggesting that irony and affordability are no longer bedfellows. If West London historically sold aspiration through the look of heritage, the East now sells it through performative authenticity.
In that sense, East and West are no longer defined by opposing aesthetics but by a shared complicity in fashion’s creeping exclusivity. The postcode may have changed, but the price of entry remains steep. Perhaps in the end, East and West are finally united in one thing after all.
