In 1996, a former concert promoter named Simon Lock had the audacity to stage a fashion week in Sydney. Armed with little more than grit and a vision, Lock—through his company, Spin Communications—established what would become Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Australia. It was the first organised platform to showcase Australian fashion on an international stage, a bold move in an era when local designers were rarely recognised beyond national borders.
The inaugural shows were modest but electric with possibility. What followed over the next decade was nothing short of a creative explosion. By the early 2000s, Australian Fashion Week had become a kaleidoscope of raw energy, emerging talent, and a touch of punk irreverence. Brands like Wayne Cooper, sass & bide, and ksubi (then Tsubi) – not to mention our own Karen Walker, Kate Sylvester and Trelise Cooper – commanded not just local attention, but international acclaim. These were designers who understood the magnetic appeal of the Antipodean lifestyle—sun-drenched rebellion mixed with global ambition.
Fashion Week’s venues mirrored the industry’s sense of experimentation. From the industrial cool of Fox Studios to the spectacular harbor-side setting of the Overseas Passenger Terminal at Circular Quay, the event was as much about creating atmosphere as showcasing clothes. Models stomped runways lit by golden afternoon light. Journalists and buyers from Europe, Asia, and the U.S. made the long-haul trip to witness what felt like a new frontier in fashion.
But like many fashion fairytales, the story shifted with time.
In 2005, IMG—the global sports and fashion events juggernaut—acquired Australian Fashion Week. The move marked a transition from scrappy outsider to institutional mainstay. Under IMG, the event gained structure and polish. Gone were the rogue pyrotechnics and anarchic runways; in their place came sleek production values and a more disciplined global marketing strategy.
Between 2015 and 2024, the event experienced a quiet renaissance. The focus shifted toward resort collections, positioning Australia as the Southern Hemisphere’s answer to the cruise calendar—a smart move that tapped into the country’s natural climate advantage and global fashion’s increasing obsession with seasonless dressing. Designers like Dion Lee, Camilla and Marc, Zimmermann, and Christopher Esber emerged as international heavyweights, balancing commercial success with a sharp design sensibility that felt unmistakably Australian.
But while the fashion was strong, the landscape around it was shifting. The media world that had once propped up Fashion Week—editors, glossy magazines, print critics—was rapidly eroding. Vogue Australia, once the event’s de facto tastemaker, no longer wielded the same authority. In its place rose a new generation of influencers, TikTok stars, and content creators whose front-row presence was measured in engagement metrics rather than critical insight.
This shift redefined the very nature of Fashion Week. No longer a trade event for buyers and editors, it became a brand activation platform—an Instagram backdrop, a TikTok soundbite. And while this democratization brought fresh energy and wider visibility, it also muddled Fashion Week’s purpose. Who was it for now? Designers looking for wholesale orders? Influencers curating content? Consumers seeking style validation?
By late 2024, the cracks in the foundation became visible. IMG, citing strategic refocus and economic headwinds, announced its withdrawal from Australian Fashion Week. After nearly two decades of stewardship, the global powerhouse handed the reins to the Australian Fashion Council (AFC), a nonprofit more accustomed to policy reports than runway logistics. The move left the industry in a state of suspended disbelief.
Was this the end of Australian Fashion Week as we knew it?
The AFC’s rescue of the event was seen by many as both a lifeline and a reset button. Unlike IMG, the AFC’s interest isn’t in media optics or brand partnerships but in nurturing the local industry from the ground up. Their mission is one of sustainability, equity, and long-term growth. And while noble, the transition raises serious questions: Can a not-for-profit body deliver the same level of global visibility and production gloss? Can Fashion Week survive without the star power and marketing muscle that IMG once supplied?
The answer might lie in a return to roots.
There’s a growing consensus that for Australian Fashion Week to thrive, it must evolve into a platform tailored to today’s realities—less about spectacle, more about substance. The rise of digital presentations, direct-to-consumer models, and slow fashion ideals means the runway no longer holds the same centrality. Future editions of Fashion Week might feature hybrid formats, showcasing innovation in sustainability, craftsmanship, and Indigenous design narratives—areas where Australia has something genuinely unique to offer.
Moreover, the country’s role in the global resort calendar is still a powerful card to play. The climate, timing, and aesthetic sensibility of Australian designers offer something increasingly rare: clothes that are both desirable and wearable. The challenge lies in reframing the event not as a second-tier Fashion Week, but as a global destination for resortwear innovation. Think less Milan, more Rio.
For that to happen, the AFC must rally a coalition—designers, media, government, and private sector—to fund and fuel the next chapter. That could mean better travel subsidies for international buyers and press, smarter integration with e-commerce platforms, or even embracing emerging tech like virtual reality runways and AI styling tools.
Fashion, after all, has always been about transformation.
As we look back on nearly three decades of Australian Fashion Week—from Simon Lock’s audacious dream to the influencer-saturated front rows of the 2020s—it’s clear the event has mirrored the trajectory of fashion itself: disruptive, aspirational, sometimes lost, but always evolving.
What remains now is a question of relevance. Can Australian Fashion Week become more than a highlight on the local calendar? Can it evolve into a strategic tool for economic growth, creative export, and cultural storytelling?
The runway is wide open. All it needs is vision—and perhaps, just a little of that reckless brilliance that sparked it all in 1996.