The Age of Blank Space

W. David Marx on the Disappearance of Culture -And What Comes Next

W. David Marx has one career mission: to identify the strong invisible forces that shape taste, aesthetics, and cultural capital. From his landmark book Ametora, which traced how American Ivy League fashion conquered Japan, to Status and Culture, a sociological dive into how trends and values emerge, Marx has long been attuned to the undercurrents behind what people wear, watch, and care about.

Now, with his forthcoming book Blank Space: A Cultural History of the 21st Century, he turns his attention to the last 25 years of cultural production, arguing that while culture has never been more omnipresent and dominant, its core function has fundamentally changed. In this conversation for The StyleTitle, Marx discusses the decline of subcultures, the rise of aesthetic repetition, the popular myth of creative democracy, and why true invention might only return after we finally admit that today things are, in fact, kind of boring.

Tell me about your much-awaited new book.

My new book comes out in November, called Blank Space: A Cultural History of the 21st Century. It's a bit of a combination of my first two books in that it follows a chronological, linear structure like Amatora, but it’s focused on making sense of what’s happened in culture over the last 25 years.

It starts in 2001 and ends in early 2025, tracing both major cultural moments and micro-trends—such as the rise of particular celebrities or styles—but its real concern is broader: the shift in our core cultural values. The title Blank Space refers to the idea that where there once was a central creative force in culture—something grounded in artistic or symbolic invention—there's now something missing. Culture today often feels like it functions mainly as a vehicle for entertainment, commerce, and politics.

People keep saying “culture is dead” or “culture is in crisis,” and yet we’re surrounded by more cultural production than ever. Culture is undeniably influential—economically, socially, politically—but what’s vanishing is the idea of culture as a human endeavor rooted in experimentation and symbolic meaning. That space is fading. And it’s not just capitalism or corporate structures causing it—there’s been a broader ideological shift. The very people who once championed artistic innovation are now repurposing culture for other ends.

In many cases, people believe they’ve made the right decision: that it's better to use culture as a tool for political messaging or financial gain rather than for the sake of creative expression. So the book looks at that shift and asks, “Where are we now—and can we do anything to change it?”

That’s fascinating. In Greek, we use the word “culture” almost exclusively to refer to something sophisticated—intellectually or artistically. It always implies “high culture.” We wouldn’t typically apply the term to entertainment or to something born on the internet.

Right. That’s part of the tension I’m getting at. There’s been a redefinition of what culture is—or at least, what it's for.

And why Blank Space? What's behind that title?

It's partly a joke about the Taylor Swift song, but also it really conveys the feeling that something's missing. What I’m tracing is a broad cultural shift: a growing absence of focus on creative invention. There are, of course, still people pushing culture forward—but fewer of them, and they seem less influential than, say, their counterparts in the 20th century.

And you might say, “Well, people’s values have changed—they don’t care as much about artistic experimentation or innovation.” But then, you look at what people still wear on their T-shirts: Nirvana, James Dean, icons from the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. The culture of past decades—the inventive, experimental kind—is still romanticized. There's a sense that it was more real, more valuable, than what’s being made today. And yet today’s creators are pushed toward producing things aimed at short-term success or market trends.

You mentioned Nirvana. If we think about subcultures like punk or grunge, what did those cultural movements have that today’s internet-based movements don't?

Great question. In the 20th century, there were four primary groups responsible for cultural innovation: subcultures, countercultures, artists, and the creative class. Subcultures—like punk, mods, teddy boys—still exist, but they’re much weaker today. Part of that is because society has become more tolerant. In the past, if you didn’t feel you belonged in mainstream society, you’d build your own world. So in a sense, the decline of subcultures is a sign of progress. But also, many subcultures have moved online—into cyberspace, where people find their communities anonymously. That anonymity and digital distance mean they’re not expressing themselves through physical styles or objects in the same way. It results in less visible or material creation.

At the same time, liberalism has become so dominant that many subcultures emerging today are actually right-wing or anti-liberal. And those don’t integrate as easily into industries like fashion, the way punk did. Remember, people like Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood understood fashion deeply—they helped punk become fashion. That kind of crossover is rare today.

Countercultures—people building new belief systems entirely—are also fading. The 60s-style idealistic counterculture hasn’t really reemerged. Even after the Great Recession, we didn’t see a strong anti-capitalist wave. Instead, a lot of young people just wanted to make money quickly and feel secure.

As for artists, the art world has its issues. It’s been co-opted by large institutions and luxury brands. The artists who succeed are often the ones who commercialize easily. Natasha Degen makes a good point about Yayoi Kusama: her work translates well into consumer products. You can put her dots on a handbag and voilà—it’s art. That kind of gimmick fits the era.

Lastly, the creative class—designers, marketers, cultural workers—used to define themselves in opposition to mainstream taste. They took inspiration from subcultures and artists to form sophisticated new styles. But in the past 25 years, that dynamic has inverted. The creative class has been instrumental in dismantling the divide between high and low culture. Now, what’s cool is embracing pop: watching reality TV, listening to Taylor Swift, and engaging with mass culture proudly. That shift has diluted the push toward newness and experimentation.

I’ve been reading your book Status and Culture, and I wanted to touch on that too. In a world where everything feels accessible—where anyone can use AI to make art or find obscure references online—how do we talk about status or being different anymore?

That’s the big dilemma. It’s not just that everything is accessible—it’s that people feel like everything is. Even if something is exclusive or hard to get, people assume they could just go online, search for it, and buy it. That perception erodes status barriers based on taste.

So, status has shifted back to money. Money is still an effective barrier. Take the Birkin bag—it’s never been more culturally prominent. Everyone knows what it is now. It was even referenced in a hit U.S. song last year—the first line is about the artist’s girlfriend wanting a Birkin. It’s gone mainstream.

But to get one, you have to spend a lot at Hermès before you're even shown the bag. Or you spend a fortune on the resale market. So it’s exclusive, but in a very monetary sense.

There are also newer forms of status. Restaurant reservations, for instance—getting into an exclusive restaurant has become a flex, because it’s not always about money. You have to be there, in the right city, and know the right people. So, physical presence matters again. That’s one way we’re seeing a re-balancing after the digital overload.

Yes! I’ve noticed some events are deliberately advertised only by word-of-mouth, not online, and they end up feeling more exclusive just because of that.

That’s a response to the flattening effect of the internet. And it's tied to what’s called semantic drift. In an example of what's called semantic drift, the word “gatekeeping” used to mean institutions keeping people out. Now, it means withholding cultural knowledge from the public, keeping it within your close circle, not sharing it online.

And I think this has become a necessity, because if you put something online, it can go not just from one person to 10 people to 100 people—it can go to a million people instantly. I live in Tokyo, and there are these little cafés that have only 10 seats. Suddenly, someone does a TikTok video about them, and now there’s a line down the block. If you liked going to this café and you wanted to walk in every day—there's no reservation system—and just have a quiet cup of coffee, you risk destroying that experience by putting it online.

So there was a period in which the internet seemed to be the answer to everything: the internet will solve all problems. And now we’re seeing that putting certain things online can damage them. We're entering a period of readjustment, where people are becoming more careful about what they share online and what they keep among their close peer groups.

But I’m thinking about brands that decide to go offline. For example, The Row has stayed offline for quite some time. Can this be a viable strategy? Or is it just a gimmick?

It can be both. Some brands may use it cynically—like, “Let’s do this little trick where we don’t put things online and don’t let people take photos”—but it can also reflect a genuine intention to build a true community. By keeping things offline, you allow that community to flourish more organically. So the real question for brands is how much internet exposure they want for their activities. Are they doing it as a gimmick while still relying on the internet for everything? Or are they dividing their strategy: this is what we do online, this is what we do offline?

If all of this is happening, is there space today for new subcultures to form? Can anything emerge that’s as powerful as the subcultures we experienced in the '70s, '80s, or '90s?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t see it right now. I’m optimistic that it’s possible, but there are a few reasons why it’s rare. One is what I’d call a subcultural or artistic mindset: the idea that “I’m dissatisfied with the status quo, so I’m going to create my own thing.” That used to be the spirit of the avant-garde—it was political in a way. Maybe that kind of thinking is gone. But even the idea of creating something new because mainstream culture isn't supplying it—that’s become rare.

Even when people are dissatisfied, they don’t always convert that into a stylistic or creative shift. Or they do, but it's a superficial novelty. They’re repeating things that already existed. Sometimes they think they’ve invented something new, but if they understood the past, they’d know it's not new at all. The avant-garde could rebel because they deeply understood the past. Now, there’s a lot of repetition and a lack of historical awareness.

So the novelty is surface-level, not structural?

There’s no depth. You look at it and you immediately understand the reference. There’s nothing that shakes your view of the world or moves you emotionally. The internet writer Katherine Dee wrote a good essay about it. She argues that cultural stagnation isn’t real—we’re just looking in the wrong places. Films and music may feel stale, but the internet is where new cultural forms are being born. I’m sympathetic to that argument. She mentions how TikTok creators often play two roles in a skit and create something clever, comparing it to vaudeville. But even that feels like a repetition of known formats.

The true power of subcultures or new art is when you encounter something and you don’t immediately know how to interpret it. You have to learn its rules. That’s a high bar, but that’s the kind of creativity that endures—not just new jokes in old formats, but new formats altogether.

So when something is superficial, you feel it emotionally—or rather, you don’t.

You recognize it, maybe you understand the intention, but it doesn’t change you. There’s a lot of neo-pop art right now that plays this game. Take Jeff Koons: part of his art is saying, “Look how superficial this is—isn’t that interesting?” But now we’ve seen that. It’s boring. The commentary on superficiality has itself become superficial. The whole conversation is exhausted.

What makes me optimistic is that for the last 25 years, we've gone all-in on the internet, on digital everything, on monetizing everything. But we’ve hit a wall. People feel it. Things are boring. That’s the first step to fixing it. I think we’ve peaked on living 100% online, and most people don’t want to go further. So maybe something new can finally begin.

Final question—my favorite. What do you find so exciting about living in Japan? I’ve never been, and I’ve read some of your thoughts on it, but I’d love to hear more.

It’s hard to know where to start, but I’d say Tokyo’s scale is so vast that it’s almost beyond human comprehension. I’ve spent the last 10 years walking the city—doing 20-kilometer walks, exploring new neighborhoods—and I still feel like I haven’t scratched the surface. There’s always somewhere new to go that’s just 45 minutes away. New shops, new cafés, bars, stores—many opened out of passion, not profit.

There’s a constant stream of new cultural activity. Every week, you can find something exciting. It’s a comfort to know you won’t be bored, because in six months something new will pop up. There’s a craft mindset in Japan that I really admire. If someone opens an organic food shop, they go deep into it. If it’s a coffee shop, they’ll invent a new way to brew coffee. People want to do their jobs well, not just to make money, but because it’s part of their identity.

That improves everyone’s lives. It’s something that’s been largely erased in American culture, I think, especially by large corporations whose model is to minimize costs and maximize profit. But in Japan, there’s still a strong sense of delivering real value. That’s what makes it such a great place to live.

You’ve convinced me. I’m definitely going to visit now.

You should. You’ll love it.