The Theatre of Imitation

We’ve all been watching from front-row seats, the ping-pong tariff match that has been happening between China and the U.S.—craning our necks as each side lobs tariffs across the Pacific like it’s a spectacle worth clapping for. And while we ooh and aah, lean in, and keep score, one player isn’t just volleying policy.

China isn’t just responding—it’s composing. A slow, deliberate tempo. An endgame with no applause.

Chinese analyst Victor Gao made it plain: the Red Dragon is fully prepared to “fight to the very end…because the United States is not the totality of the market in the world.” The subtext is clear. China will not take this lying down.

I am no economist—I won’t pretend to chart this conflict through spreadsheets or floating currencies. But if we want to understand what’s actually happening beneath the spectacle, we need to look—briefly—into the shadow theater of global economics.

Intellectual Property (IP) laws—copyrights, patents, and trademarks—exist to protect ideas. To make ownership official. And historically, Western nations (especially the U.S.) have accused China of sidestepping this system altogether—of piracy, of imitation, of counterfeiting across luxury goods, tech, even pharmaceuticals.

And yes—China has signed treaties. It has written the rules. But the enforcement? That’s a spotlight that flickers. Only ever shining when national interest steps into the limelight.

Over the past decade and a half, China has tried to clean up its image: tightening IP enforcement to court foreign investment, to play nice with the West, to look modern and legitimate. But now, with tariffs escalating like a fever, there’s been a shift. A partial reversal. Less copyright policing. More consumer appeasement. And not just domestically—for the world.

Especially now, when global consumers are trading authenticity for access. Prestige for price. People no longer want to be let into luxury—they want to wear it on their terms, even if it’s imitation.

Which brings me to what I’ve been watching unfold like a slow tide: the rise of replica culture.

Until recently, replica culture lived in the shadows. But something’s changed. TikTok “luxury plugs,” WhatsApp vendors, and live-stream auctioneers—they’ve taken center stage. A new global market place, loud and open, pretending to be the original source for Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton, and even Hermès.

And people are buying it. Buying into it. Hungry for the illusion of elegance at a discount, they scroll and bid and celebrate.

According to the OECD, China accounts for more than 80% of all counterfeit seizures worldwide. That number is growing, amplified by e-commerce platforms like TikTok, DHGate, and Alibaba’s empire.

It's delusion, dressed up in designer ribbon. And I keep asking myself: have we collectively abandoned common sense? Or was I foolish for expecting too much from a senseless society to begin with?

Let’s start with the more obvious red flag: how many manufacturers does one luxury house need to make the same product? Out of the dozens of factories claiming to be the original source for the same Louis Vuitton Speedy, do we not stop to think that someone has to be lying? They’re not all telling the truth. Most of them aren’t. TikTok creators push different DHGate stores selling the same bag—each claiming to be “the plug.” No. they’re not. They’re just good replicas.

We’ve seen evidence. Il Fatto Quotidiano, followed by Reuters, exposed a Dior production scandal—in Italian factories, not Chinese ones, underpaid, producing bags for 53 euros apiece. The outrage was swift, but the truth of the matter remains: Dior never lost control of the narrative. They knew who made their bags, and it wasn’t a factory live-streaming from Shenzhen.

Then there’s Hermès. A brand that worships control. That mythologizes its own artisans. The Birkin isn’t just stitched—it’s conjured. Scarcity is part of the performance. It’s the product, too.

And yet, I’ve seen Van Cleef dupes sold in real time. Cartier bracelets passed around in velvet-lined boxes. “Same source,” they say. My question is simple: would those bracelets hold up under a gold tester? Under a diamond tester?

I’m not denying that some hardware or materials come from Chinese factories. Zippers, maybe. Hardware, perhaps. But luxury—true luxury—what you’re paying for isn’t just product. It’s control. Exclusivity. Narrative. Scarcity. Forty factories aren’t making the same $3,000 bag. They’re making lookalikes for an audience who wants to believe they’re real.

Let me be clear: I am not against fake goods. If you want a replica, buy a replica. What makes me twitch is the moral laundering. This idea that buying fake is a political act. That pretending to dismantle capitalism while checking out fake Gucci is somehow radical.

That is not rebellion. That’s luxury cosplay. It’s aspirational consumption dressed in activist drag.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about rebellion against capitalism or consumerism. That’s part of it, yes—but it runs deeper. This is rebellion against luxury itself—a system that has long been niche, picky, and restrictive. Luxury has always been about who gets to belong—and who doesn’t. And now, we’re watching people force the door open.

As Dana Thomas writes in Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster, today’s luxury industry is less about craftsmanship and more about branding, exclusivity, and controlled access—designing desire while gatekeeping identity. Replica culture, in many ways, is a grassroots revolt against that exclusion.

I saw a woman unbox over $15,000 worth of fakes on TikTok, proudly claiming they came “straight from the source.” The comments were filled with jubilation. Finally, people felt like they had access to a world that once rejected them.

Because it’s not about the bag. It’s about proximity. To power, to status, to desirability, to a world that has always been behind a gate. And if the bag looks real, maybe they do too. Maybe they finally belong.

This isn’t about deconstructing luxury. It’s more about crashing it. People aren’t tearing the house down. They’re slipping in through the back door and saying, “I live here now.”

There are, however, Chinese manufacturers doing something interesting. Under the relaxation of IP laws, some have leaned into honest disruption. The furniture space is a good example. TikTok is full of sellers saying: “You liked the Cloud couch? We made one. Same style, half the price.” They’re not claiming to be RH’s manufacturer. They’re acknowledging the trend and responding to the demand. That’s what actual market disruption looks like. There’s a clear difference between a dupe and a replica—and that distinction matters.

And finally, the part that truly makes my eye twitch: the “suck it, America” rhetoric. Let’s be real—most of the brands being knocked off aren’t American. So when buyers frame replicas as an act of martyrdom or rebellion against capitalism, they’re swinging at the wrong enemy. That’s like protesting Starbucks by vandalizing your local pâtisserie.

If you want to hit the U.S. where it hurts, fashion’s not the strategy. Try tech. Try pharma. Try agriculture. That’s the backbone—not European fashion houses.

And from China’s side, turning a blind eye to all of this might feel like soft retaliation. But there are consequences. Not all retaliation is clean. And not all partnerships survive the aftertaste.

At the end of the day, buying a fake bag isn’t a moral failing. But pretending it’s an act of resistance? That’s a lie we tell ourselves to soothe the sting of exclusion. To make our desire feel revolutionary.

Replica culture isn’t the enemy. But the stories we’re building around it? They’re getting murky. We’re watching a geopolitical drama unfold in TikTok comment sections. And while we think we’re flipping the system, we’re really feeding into it—one logo at a time.

Not all of this is shallow. Some of it is survival. Some of it is style. And some of it, maybe, is a quiet revolt. But if we want to understand what we’re really doing—we have to start calling it what it is:

A market.

A mirror.

And a choice.