Scrolling through TikTok, Instagram, YouTube… it feels like influencers are everywhere, a thoroughly modern invention, right? But what if I told you the original influencers weren’t crafting viral videos, but commanding royal courts, dazzling high society, and shaping empires centuries ago? And the recent Met Gala? It gave us a perfect glimpse into one fascinating branch of this long history – and it inspired me to make this text. I guess by now most of us have seen the looks from the Met Gala, whose theme this year was “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” and we were both impressed by some choices – personally, my favourite was Caleb McLaughlin. And… we were underwhelmed by other choices that seemed to disregard this incredible theme completely. I’m thinking of you, Shakira. Anyway. This was one of the most interesting themes the Met Gala has had for a while, not only because it celebrates black history and culture, but because black dandyism is so fascinating. In many ways, these dandies were the “influencers” of their time. They were also crafting a subversive identity that stood in sharp contrast to what a racist society expected of them. And this act of self-fashioning, this deliberate performance of identity to gain influence and challenge norms, isn’t isolated to their story. So, let’s back up a bit. Let’s connect a few dots. Let’s talk about royal courts, dandies, in Europe and the United States, the art of “performing the self”, and how that shapes culture.
Part 1: The Royal Court – The Original Exclusive Platform
Imagine a world where your worth is measured by who follows the trends you set, where your carefully curated image directly translates to power and wealth, where one wrong move could see you publicly ostracised – “cancelled”, as it were. No, I’m not describing your Instagram feed – I’m talking about the French court in Versailles. The court of Louis XIV at Versailles was perhaps history’s most elaborate stage for the performance of status. Much like today’s social media platforms, the court was a space where visibility equalled relevance, and relevance translated directly to power and wealth. Just think of aristocratic portraits, full of symbolism, commissioned at great expense and strategically displayed to cement one’s status. And now think of the meticulously posed selfie with the perfect lighting, next to a luxury bag casually in the back. And brand deals with luxury fashion houses? They’re simply the modern version of royal patronage. But, of course, things were different in the past.
Before Louis XIV, many European countries had ‘Sumptuary Laws’ – laws meant to restrict who could buy and wear what, in terms of textiles, colours, and jewellery. The main goal of these laws was arguably to keep people in their places in the social hierarchy and while they were often not enforced, they served as a stark reminder of what was expected of people. Now, today we may associate France with luxury and fashion, but it wasn’t always like this. Spain and Italy were renowned for their luxury products in the 16th and 17th centuries.
But Louis XIV, along with his finance minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, decided to significantly restrict the importation of these products and to encourage the development of luxury textiles made in France, such as silk. The King himself wore colourful and lavish clothes and, of course, soon did his courtiers. At Versailles, proximity to the king was everything. Louis XIV understood this perfectly and weaponised it. As the Duke of Saint-Simon observed in his memoirs: “He looked to the right and to the left, not only upon rising but upon going to bed, at his meals, in passing through his apartments, or his gardens of Versailles, where alone the courtiers were allowed to follow him; he saw and noticed everybody; not one escaped him, not even those who hoped to remain unnoticed.” If that doesn’t sound like an influencer checking who viewed their Stories, I don’t know what does.
The Sun King was brilliantly manipulative in how he maintained this system. Saint-Simon further noted: “He was conscious that the substantial favours he had to bestow were not nearly sufficient to produce a continual effect; he had therefore to invent imaginary ones, and no one was so clever in devising petty distinctions and preferences which aroused jealousy and emulation.” Essentially, Louis XIV created an entire economy of status symbols when he ran out of actual rewards to give – not unlike the dopamine hit of likes and comments that keeps today’s content creators posting even when the monetisation is minimal – something I am well aware of. In any case though, aristocrats acted as patrons to lace and wigmakers, and there was even a magazine listing the best places to shop in Paris.
By the time Louis XV became king, things were incredibly elaborate at court, from rituals to clothing and hairstyles. That’s one of the reasons why the king’s favourite mistress, Madame du Barry, caused such a scandal. She was constantly disregarding these rules and subverting the carefully constructed hierarchy of courtiers, which relied heavily on how they presented themselves to the world. And this went beyond France.
For courtiers everywhere, appearance was paramount. Not just physical appearance – though that certainly mattered – but the appearance of effortless grace, wit, and refinement. Let’s rewind a bit and hop over to Italy, as I can’t talk about this subject without mentioning one of the most interesting books to read if you’re interested in cultural history. In 1528, Baldassare Castiglione codified this effortless charm in “The Book of the Courtier,” advising the perfect courtier “to practice in all things a certain sprezzatura [nonchalance], so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.” If that makes you think of influencers going on about how to get the perfect “no make up” make up look, or the Parisian “I just got out of bed, didn’t brush my hair and just applied red lipstick”, that’s very much the vibe.
Behaviour mattered just as much as appeareance. Giovanni della Casa warned in his 1558 “Galateo of Manners and Behaviours” that “It is an ill noise to heare a man raise his voice highe, like to a common Crier.” The implication being, that truly important people don’t need to announce their importance – which remains the cornerstone of all “old money aesthetic” content to this day. I mean, I can’t help but think of the “Money talk, wealth whispers” that “old money” fashion influencers are constantly repeating. And, while we roll our eyes at influencers unboxing their latest sponsorship haul (I mean, I cenrtainly do), we’re witnessing something that would have been perfectly understandable to a Renaissance courtier – the performance of status for social and economic gain, just with different tools at their disposal.
And the enthusiasm for simply being near power? Consider Madame de Sévigné’s gushing letter to her daughter in 1683: “I’ve returned from Versailles. I’ve seen these beautiful apartments; I’m charmed. Everything is grand, everything is magnificent, and the music and dance reach perfection. But what pleases me more than anything is to spend four entire hours with the king; it’s enough to satisfy an entire kingdom that passionately loves to see their master.” That’s essentially a 17th-century equivalent of “OMG just spent the whole evening at the same party as Beyoncé! #blessed #livingmybestlife.”
And if you think this is all about courtiers being frivolous, that’s far from the truth. Court fashion shaped the economy, as with Louis XIV. Later, Marie Antoinette was to be the ultimate fashion icon. Let me introduce you to Marie-Jeanne ‘Rose’ Bertin, who, thanks to the queen, became one of the first “celebrity fashion designers”. Bertin was a milliner, and, along with Marie Antoinette, they essentially made hats fashionable for women. Hats had always been worn, of course, but luxury headpieces for women tended to be much different from the hats worn and popularised by the queen. Bertin became the queen’s unofficial ‘Minister of Fashion,’ making Paris the epitome of luxury in fashion in the late 18th century.
But, as we know, this wouldn’t last: the French Revolution was just around the corner. Marie Antoinette’s very visibility and association with extravagance eventually fueled public anger. The court, and especially the queen, symbolised luxury, and Marie Antoinette was blamed for the national debt and famine France was experiencing, although historians have pointed out that what she spent on clothes, even though it was a considerable amount, was still in line with what was expected of a French queen at the time. Arguably though, and ironically, one of the tipping points in this discourse was when Marie Antoinette decided to “embrace simplicity”. She had read Enlightenment philosophers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and was fascinated with this idealised version of a “rustic life”. She had a farm-like retreat made for her in Versailles, and she started the trend of “dressing like a peasant” at court. Of course, that was completely tasteless and tone-deaf, given how real peasants lived. But it was also disastrous for the economy. Not only were these gauzes and muslins imported, but it also meant that the silk production in Lyon was deeply hit – and that meant that thousands of people were out of work. The French Revolution is a giant topic and of course there’s much more to it, but this illustrates how fashion choices, even those intended to project simplicity, could have far-reaching economic consequences and profoundly shape public perception of power, for better or for worse.
Part 2: The Dandies – The Original Lifestyle Influencers
If courtiers were the original “platform-dependent influencers”, then the rise of the dandy marked a new kind of taste-maker. So, what exactly is a dandy? In essence, a dandy was a person, usually a man, who elevated fashion, refined manners, and a cultivated persona to an art form. It wasn’t just about wearing expensive clothes; it was about meticulous self-creation, often to assert individuality, influence social circles, or even offer a subtle critique of societal norms.
One of the most iconic of these figures, and a prime example of this independent “image creator,” was George “Beau” Brummell. In Regency England, Brummell, a man of relatively modest birth and limited wealth, achieved extraordinary social influence. His currency wasn’t noble titles or vast estates, but entirely his carefully cultivated persona and revolutionary style. Instead of the flashy opulence common at the time, he promoted an understated elegance in men’s fashion – clean lines, perfect tailoring, and muted colours – essentially creating an early version of a minimalist aesthetic trend. Brummell understood that true influence comes from mastering the art of seeming effortless while concealing the enormous effort behind it – that sprezzatura Castiglione wrote about centuries earlier. He would reportedly spend hours perfecting the knot of his cravat, only to emerge looking as though he’d tied it with casual indifference.
Brummell had studied at Eton and Oxford, and later became a friend of the Prince of Wales, so he had access to very exclusive circles. Although he didn’t come from an aristocratic background himself, he had a lot of privilege. And soon, like modern influencers who build their brand on exclusivity and taste-making, plus a few helpful connections, Brummell’s power came from his ability to decide what – and who – was fashionable. His approval was currency in itself. He famously snubbed even the Prince Regent on occasion, demonstrating the remarkable power his social capital afforded him. I mean, when they first met, and the Prince ignored Brummel while saying hello to his friend standing next to him, Lord Alvanley, Brummel reportedly asked, as the Prince turned his back but was still within earshot, “Alvanley, who’s your fat friend?”. Oh, there’s nothing like 19th-century fatphobia, is there?!
Eventually though, his debts and excessively critical remarks got too much, and he fled the country to escape his creditors. Brummell was a socialite, but he wasn’t beloved by all – there’s another story of him at a party at a gentleman’s house, where he was definitely underwhelmed by the quality of the champagne served. Allegedly, he waited for a pause in the conversation, raised his glass, and asked loudly for “some more of that cider”… Ouch.
But anyway, dandies were people who were, frankly, obsessed with being seen with the right people in the right clothes, saying the right things. And humans have always found ways to commodify their public personas, long before anyone had heard of a ring light or an Instagram algorithm. According to the Victorian writer Thomas Carlyle: “A dandy is a clothes-wearing man–a man whose trade, office, and existence consist in the wearing of clothes. Every faculty of his soul, spirit, person and purse is heroically consecrated to this one object–the wearing of clothes, wisely and well; so that, as others dress to live, he lives to dress.”
I’m not sure that’s fair. The French poet Charles Baudelaire wrote that: “The dandy should aspire to be uninterruptedly sublime. He should live and sleep in front of a mirror.” This idea od mirror is interesting, because dandies required an audience, people who watched and copied them. But their personas went beyond appearance. Both Oscar Wilde and Lord Byron were dandies in the sense of someone who creates an image to be consumed and as people who write for the pleasure and entertainment of others. Not to mention that both writers were involved in scandals and gossip, which only added fuel to the fire.
But let’s get back to the Met Gala and Black dandies, especially in the United States. As Susan Sontag wrote: “Detachment is the prerogative of an elite; and […] the dandy is the nineteenth century’s surrogate for the aristocrat in matters of culture…”. Dandyism was deeply connected to privilege, yes. But for Black dandies, there was an extra layer of subversion of the expected social hierarchy, a questioning of stereotypes, a reclaiming of identity, of fashion and luxury, from people who had long been enslaved, oppressed, and, of course, excluded from fashionable society. Monica Miller writes of a 18th-century Black man who had been enslaved, Julius Soubise, but who later mixed with the London elite, wearing red-heeled shoes with diamond buckles. Meanwhile, another Black man, Olaudah Equiano, who had bought his freedom, was spending a fortune on “superfine” clothes to dance and celebrate his freedom. (And from what I understand, that’s what the Met Gala was referencing with their theme “superfine”.) So, Black dandyism is inherently subversive, and therefore much cooler, at least to my eyes. After centuries of slavery, Black dandies’ embrace of perfectly tailored clothes was a statement against racist hierarchies and a reimagining of what masculinity could look like.
If the key distinction between Brummell and courtiers of the past was that courtiers derived power from proximity to royal authority, Brummell created his own authority through the performance of superior taste and style… but he was friends with the Prince and had access to exclusive spaces. Black dandies, on the other hand, were crafting and reimagining their personas in a world that did not welcome them. They were rewriting the rules of the fashion game. But, if we’re thinking of influence and connecting lots of different things, let me tell you about another group of people, who I am anachronistically calling the original “content creators”: the Salonnières.
Part 3: The Salonnières – The Original “Content Curators”
If you’ve ever followed someone who excels at bringing together interesting guests on podcasts, curating distinctive collections, or building engaged communities around shared interests – you’re witnessing the modern incarnation of the salonnière tradition. Today’s successful content curators – those who don’t necessarily create original material but excel at discovering, contextualising, and connecting others’ work – are following in the footsteps of 18th and 19th century French women like Madame Geoffrin and Madame de Staël. Denied formal power in male-dominated institutions, these women created alternative centres of influence through their salons.
Think of them as the original community managers. They didn’t need to be the most knowledgeable person in the room about philosophy or politics – though they often were. They didn’t need to be incredible writers – though they often were, too. I mean, Madame de Stael wrote that: “Men do not change. They unmask themselves”. She also wrote “Intellect does not attain its full force unless it attacks power.” I mean… She was brilliant. But anyway. The salonnieres’ unique skill was knowing exactly who to invite to their gatherings, how to facilitate productive conversations and inspiring, and when to redirect the discussion – precisely what successful modern podcast hosts and community builders do. Plus, the rise of literary salons in the late 18th century was deeply connected to the rise of tea, chocolate, and coffee houses. These beverages were increasingly popular among the elite, who enjoyed talking about politics, philosophy, and literature over a hot drink.
Growing up, Madame de Stael had received an incredible education: she read many of the philosophers of her time, such as Rousseau, Montesquieu, and Diderot, and her mother, Madame Necker, hosted her own literary salon, which young Germaine attended. She even met Benjamin Franklin there. Later, she created her own. Madame de Stael hoped that the French Revolution would bring about a constitutional monarchy to France, following the model of England. Her salon was a meeting place for the “Constitutionals”, which included Lafayette. But, as we know, the revolution went in a different direction very quickly. Madame de Stael left France for Switzerland. Later, she even moved to Sweden, and she hosted a fabulous literary salon there, too. She reportedly hated Napoleon, and so did many others at the time. Her salon became an “anti-Napoleon” gathering place for exiled liberals, and people discussed everything from politics, to culture, and the latest in philosophy. Madame de Stael was arguably the greatest of the salonnieres, but she wasn’t the only one. Madame Geoffrin was just as celebrated.
As Jean-François Marmontel observed about Madame Geoffrin in his memoirs: “Her special skill was knowing how to attract talents of every kind, less perhaps for her own enjoyment than for the reputation that their assembly brought her.”Just look at this 1812 painting, called “In the Salon of Madame Geoffrin in 1755”, by the French artist Anicet Charles Gabriel Lemonnier. We’re decades before the French Revolution here in this scene, but the painting was made during the Napoleonic era. You can see many of the Enlightenment writers gathered to read Voltaire and to discuss new ideas. You can tell that this is an idealised version of the past, of what life was like before the French Revolution. And you can’t help but notice that, while there are a few women present, notably the hostess, this is still a male-dominated world. Women hosted and frequented salons, and historians have argued that these salons provided a learning space for them, as they were barred from access to many institutions of learning.
Madame Geoffrin’s salon embodied the exchange of ideas in the Enlightenment. She even had specific days for artists and others for writers to come, meet each other, and hold interesting discussions to the benefit of those present. I recently came across this incredible quote about Madame Geoffrin in the 2020 fantasy novel “The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue”, by V. E. Schwab: “They will not remember you, of course. But ideas are so much wilder than memories, so much faster to take root.” So we still have this idea that her main contribution was to bring people together and allow ideas to be shared.
It’s similar to when someone hosts a popular roundtable discussion or creates a successful collaborative series that enhances their own brand through strategic association with other creators. The modern parallel even extends to monetisation strategies as well. While courtiers sought direct patronage and dandies capitalised on their taste-making abilities, salonnières – like today’s community-focused creators – often profited in less direct ways. Many of them came from elite backgrounds, but their main currency was information, connection, and access. The financial benefits came through the networks they built and the reputational capital they accrued rather than direct payments. This approach to influence – building authority not necessarily through direct demonstrations of personal expertise but through highlighting, contextualising, and connecting the expertise of others – remains a fascinating model for learning. And it’s interesting to note how most salons were run by women, and so many women thrive in the world of content creation today.
Conclusion
So, what can these historical status performers teach us about our world today? First, that there’s nothing particularly new about crafting a persona for public consumption and economic advantage. Niccolò Machiavelli understood this perfectly when he wrote in “The Prince” around 1513: “Men in general judge more by the eyes than by the hands, for everyone can see, but very few have to feel. Everybody sees what you appear to be, few feel what you are, and those few will not dare to oppose themselves to the many, who have the majesty of the state to defend them.” Machiavelli also advised rulers: “Therefore a prince must take great care that nothing goes out of his mouth which is not full of the above-named five qualities, and, to see and hear him, he should seem to be all mercy, faith, integrity, humanity, and religion.” This could easily be rephrased as advice for maintaining a consistent brand image on social media.
The core dynamics remain remarkably consistent across centuries: the performance of a carefully constructed public persona, the accumulation of social capital through strategic visibility and association, and the conversion of that capital into tangible benefits – whether that’s a royal pension or a sponsored post. What has changed is scale and access. Louis XIV’s court encompassed perhaps thousands of people; today’s influencers reach millions. The barriers to entry at Versailles were nearly insurmountable for most; today, in theory at least, anyone with a smartphone can attempt to build influence. But perhaps the most striking similarity is how both historical and modern status performers navigate the tension between authenticity and calculation. The most successful courtiers, dandies, salonnières, and influencers all master the art of appearing genuine while being strategic – that eternal sprezzatura that makes the enormously difficult look effortless. So next time you roll your eyes at an influencer’s apparently frivolous content, remember: they’re playing one of humanity’s oldest games – just with better lighting and more pixels.
But, going back to the Met Gala, I think there is much we can learn from this element of subversion, joy, and resistance to an inherently unfair society as exemplified by Black dandies. We can create fun personas and have fun with fashion, yes, but it’s particularly cool when fashion and image are used to question stereotypes and fight against racism in the process. So, while I have nothing against Shakira and the other celebrities who chose inexplicable outfits to the Met Gala, I’m frustrated that they missed the chance to learn, to research, and to be inspired by history. But, much to the salonnieres’ joy, the incredible choice of theme and the wonderful outfits we saw got people talking. And not just about the outfits themselves, but what they represent, what they can tell us about race, gender, and class – especially with everything that has been happening in the US. Anyway, there’s a lot more that could be said about these topics, and I only skimmed the surface here. Do check out the resource recommendations below. If you enjoyed this text, please consider becoming a Patron. I’ll be posting a lot more exclusive content on Patreon, and I would love for you to join my community there. Thank you, and see you next time!
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References
Janet Aldis, Madame Geoffrin: Her Salon and Her Times, 1750-1777 (1905).
Sarah Barringer, “Louis XIV’s Use of Fashion to Control the Nobility and Express Power”, in Primary Source, Volume IV: Issue II (2014).
Thomas Carlyle, Sartor Resartus (1831).
Giovanni della Casa. Galateo of Manners and Behaviours (1558).
Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier (1528).
Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell, The King of Couture: How Louis XIV Invented Fashion as We Know It (2015).
Mabel Coy Trail, “Madame de Stael’s Salon in Stockholm”, Scandinavian Studies, Vol. 24, No. 2 (1952).
Joan Haslip, Madame du Barry: The Wages of Beauty (1991).
Ian Kelly, Beau Brummell: The Ultimate Man of Style (2006).
Shantrelle P. Lewis, Dandy Lion: The Black Dandy and Street Style (2017).
Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince (c. 1513).
Jean-François Marmontel, Mémoires (c. 1790s).
Monica L. Miller, Slaves to Fashion: Black Dandyism and the Styling of Black Diasporic Identity (2009).
Dwight Page, “Madame de Stael and her Magnificent Salon at the Swiss Castle of Coppet,” Swiss American Historical Society Review: Vol. 54: No. 1 (2018).
Samuel Pepys, Diary (10 July 1660).
Helen Philleo Jenkins, “Madame de Stael”, in Mary Kavanaugh Oldham Eagle (ed.), The Congress of Women (1894).
Marie de Rabutin‑Chantal, Marquise de Sévigné. Letter to her daughter, 12 February 1683.
Louis de Rouvroy, Duke of Saint-Simon, Memoirs (c. 1739-1750).
Susann Schmid, “Byron and Wilde: The Dandy in the Public Sphere” in Julie Hibbard et al. (eds), The Importance of Reinventing Oscar: Versions of Wilde During the Last 100 Years (2002).
Sofi Thanhauser, Worn: A Peoples’ History of Clothing (2022).
Maria Weilandt, “The Black Dandy and Neo-Victorianism: Re-fashioning a Stereotype”, in Felipe Espinoza Garrido et al. (eds.), Black Neo-Victoriana (2021).
