The Curious Evolution of Good Taste: From Status Symbol to Meme to Banned App

Written By Hyning Gan

A deep dive into the history of aesthetic gatekeeping, how it still shapes today’s design landscape, and why taste is easier than ever to access—but harder to define.

Image from Heaven by Marc Jacobs Spring 2023 campaign, shot by Ari Versluis
Words inspired by @nolitadirtbag instagram

For my sophomore-year typography class, we were assigned to create a publication based on the concept of Taste. Now, there were many ways one could take this, from dissecting the cultural nuances of Japanese cuisine to documenting the journey of becoming a sommelier. I, however, chose something more personal: taste as individuality.

Taste is everywhere now—or at least, the illusion of it is. Anyone can curate an aesthetic—scroll through Pinterest, save some references, borrow a vibe off TikTok. But does access actually mean cultivation? How much of it is rooted in individuality and artistic expression, or are we all just assembling pre-approved visuals, mistaking curation for originality?

At the time, I wasn’t thinking about these questions. But my final project, Embodied Spaces (I promise this isn’t just self-promo—trust me, I’m going somewhere with this) planted the seed. I photographed my creative friends in their most intimate space—their bedrooms—each a physical manifestation of their personal taste. Through these conversations, I realised taste isn’t just about visual preference; it’s tied to identity, perspective, and how we navigate the world. It’s what separates a seasoned creative from someone who’s just good at making moodboards. That project made me think more critically about what it even means to have taste?

full flipthrough of my final project book: embodied spaces

Looking back, it was the beginning of a bigger question—one I want to explore now. If my last piece was about how trends manipulate visual culture, then this is the logical next step: if we know we’re being spoon-fed aesthetics by corporations and algorithms, how do we resist? How do we develop taste that actually feels like our own? What does it mean to have good taste today—and more importantly, who decides what that even is?

To understand how we got here, we first have to look back at a time when taste wasn’t something you curated—it was something you had to be granted access to.

“How do we develop taste that actually feels like our own? What does it mean to have good taste today—and more importantly, who decides what that even is?”

“Taste has been coming up a lot in the design world lately—both the lack of it and the need for it.” As Elizabeth Goodspeed puts it, in an era where AI, templated tools, and design tutorials have made technical skills more accessible than ever, having skill isn’t enough—you need taste. Ira Glass’s Taste-Talent Gap describes the frustration of having taste that outpaces ability. But today, we’re dealing with a different kind of gap—not between taste and talent, but between access and cultivation. If taste was once a rarefied, hierarchical construct, today it feels both everywhere and nowhere at once.

Graph of Taste x Skill Gap from ADPList Newsletter by Felix Lee
Comic discussing the perils of this gap when being a beginner by Mark Luetke

Now bear with me while I take you on a little design history detour (rather, allow me to make use of my degree). For most of history, taste wasn’t a personal choice—it was dictated by aristocrats, institutions, and elite designers. Nowhere was this clearer than The Great Exhibition of 1851, a grand spectacle of British design held in London’s Crystal Palace. Organised by Prince Albert and Henry Cole, it was meant to showcase the best of industrial craftsmanship but in reality, defined taste as a luxury of the powerful (not to mention a obscene display of colonial dominance).

Interior and exterior of the great exhibition at the crystal palace in 1851

William Morris pushed back against this excess with the Arts and Crafts Movement, rejecting mass production in favour of craftsmanship and natural beauty. His Pimpernel wallpaper (1876) and Strawberry Thief textile (1883) became hallmarks of his vision—meticulously designed, rich in detail, and intended to bring beauty into everyday life. But while Morris championed accessibility in theory, his handcrafted works were too expensive for the masses, keeping “good taste” in the hands of those who could afford it.

This contradiction was clear in exhibitions like the 1901 Arts and Crafts Exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum, which aimed to "educate" the public—particularly the working class—on good taste by showcasing handcrafted, well-designed objects. While framed as democratising beauty, it was deeply patronising, reinforcing the idea that the upper class maintained their position as arbiter of good taste.

left: The Green Dining Room, best preservation of William Morris’ design aesthetic
centre: a ticket for Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society, 1887
right: Trellis wallpaper, by William Morris & Phillip Webb, printed by Jeffrey & Co.1862

Then came Art Nouveau and Art Deco, movements that put taste on display—but only for those with access. Hector Guimard’s swirling Paris Métro entrances (1899-1905) embodied Art Nouveau’s organic elegance, while Émile Gallé’s intricate glasswork turned everyday objects into elite status symbols. By the early 1900s, Art Deco’s sleek, geometric aesthetic transformed buildings like the Chrysler Building (1930) into monuments of luxury. For centuries, the understanding of good taste was simply a privilege of the elite.

From left to right: art nouveau paris métro entrance by hector guimard
assorted art nouveau glassware by Émile Gallé
exterior and interior art deco details for the chrysler building designed by william van alen

But by the 20th century, design movements began pushing back, reshaping taste as something for everyone. Modernism pushed the idea that everyone deserves good design that is as functional as it is accessible. The Bauhaus School (1919) blended art, craft, and industry, rejecting ornamentation in favour of efficiency. Mid-Century Modernism took this further, with designers like Charles and Ray Eames making sleek, functional furniture mass-producible—like the now-iconic Eames Lounge Chair (1956). Companies like IKEA scaled this vision, making once-exclusive aesthetics available to the masses.

Left: the bauhaus school founded in weimar germany in 1919
right: charles and ray eames with their design, rocking armchair rod (RAR)

Which brings us to now. If taste was once dictated by hoity-toity aristocrats and institutions, today’s gatekeepers are harder to pin down, but just as influential. The power to define what’s valuable hasn’t disappeared; it’s just shifted to algorithmic platforms, influencers, and online culture. Instead of being exhibited in galleries, taste now circulates through moodboards, viral trends, and self-referential irony. It feels decentralised, but in reality, it’s shaped by forces that are faster, more invisible, and arguably more homogenising than ever.

Take @nolitadirtbag and @thefakerothko, meme accounts that mock and reinforce subcultural aesthetics at the same time (yes, I am indeed intellectualising my meme consumption). They don’t just observe trends; they define them. Their hyper-specific references to New York’s creative class or the latest microtrend create an in/out group dynamic (shoutout Social Identity Theory, Tajfel & Turner, 1971)—where knowing what’s being made fun of is part of having taste itself. In some ways, they function like the design biennials of the digital world—spaces where aesthetics are examined, deconstructed, and reassembled for cultural relevance. The difference? Instead of gatekeeping through exclusivity, they do it through irony.

Some of my favourite memes that make fun of taste within subcultures via @nolitadirtbag and @thefakerothko

But perhaps the most dominant tastemaker today isn’t a person at all—it’s the algorithm

Social media dictates what surfaces on our feeds, shaping our visual world in ways that feel personal but are largely preordained. TikTok, in particular, has been one of the most influential forces in shaping aesthetics—not because it presents a singular style, but because it accelerates micro-trends at an unprecedented scale. Which is why the recent TikTok shutdown in the US (and its comically fast revival) is so fascinating. The platform was one of the few spaces where the development of taste can emerge from micro-communities, personal algorithms, and participatory culture. Now, with its future unclear, users are scrambling—migrating to Instagram, YouTube, and 小红书 (or REDnote, as you Americans call it). These platforms, however, operate under stricter moderation and curated visibility. How would the proliferation of new trends and tastes change within the online zeitgeist?

“True taste isn’t just about what you like—it’s about knowing why you like it, understanding where it comes from, and how to combine disparate influences into something uniquely yours. ”

While it’s never been easier to access “good taste,” actually cultivating something unique still requires effort. Most people don’t naturally develop taste; they aggregate it—piecing together aesthetics from influencers, Pinterest boards, and viral trends rather than engaging critically with a variety of diverse sources. In an era of algorithmic curation, putting in the effort to cultivate genuine taste is an act of resistance against the homogeneousness of it in itself.

would i say my pinterest home page captures my taste pretty well?

If technical skill has become easier to acquire in the digital age, taste has only become harder to cultivate. The challenge isn’t just finding inspiration—it’s knowing how to filter, interpret, and shape it into something distinctly personal. Taste is a practice of exposure, discernment, and synthesis, shaped by historical, cultural, and personal contexts. This is not a call for you to unfollow your favourite fashion creator or delete all your saved posts—collecting inspiration has always been fundamental to the creative process. But there’s a difference between consuming passively and curating intentionally. Those with a refined and intentional sense of taste don’t just absorb aesthetics—they shape them, challenge them, and push them forward.

“Taste is a practice of exposure, discernment, and synthesis, shaped by historical, cultural, and personal contexts.”

So where does that leave us? Look, I’m not saying we need to start gatekeeping taste again (I could never survive a William Morris design critique). True taste isn’t just about what you like—it’s about knowing why you like it, understanding where it comes from, and how to combine disparate influences into something uniquely yours. If everything is aesthetic and nothing is original and taste is everywhere yet nowhere at once, maybe the only thing that matters is what you make of it.

Hyning Gan
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