MEGHAN COPIES GWYNETH

BY LADY ARGLWYDDES AWBREY

Dive into the drama: Meghan Markle’s explosive journey from royal bride to rebel takes center stage in ENTERTAINMENT, not ROYALS. She stormed into the monarchy, hell-bent on ripping it apart—not to blend in, but to seize the reins and reshape it. Her royal ambitions crashed and burned, and by 2020, she’d bolted from the palace. Fast forward to 2025, and the saga still sizzles.

The practice of one artist copying another has a long and complex history in the creative world, oscillating between homage, apprenticeship, and outright plagiarism. Historically, imitation was a cornerstone of artistic development. In the Renaissance, for instance, apprentices like Raphael studied and replicated the works of masters such as Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci to hone their craft.

This wasn’t seen as theft but as a legitimate path to mastery, a way to internalize techniques before innovating. Even later, artists like Picasso famously adapted elements from African art and the works of Cézanne, turning imitation into a springboard for groundbreaking originals. The line, however, has always been thin: copying to learn or transform is one thing; copying to pass off as one’s own is another.

In Meghan Markle’s case, the accusation of mimicking Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop—a lifestyle brand built on wellness, exclusivity, and a polished celebrity persona—raises questions about intent and execution. If Meghan’s venture, say American Riviera Orchard, borrows heavily from Goop’s aesthetic, marketing, or product lines (e.g., artisanal goods, curated luxury), the critique hinges on whether she’s adding anything new or merely riding Paltrow’s coattails. Historically, copying with transformation can succeed—think of how Andy Warhol lifted Campbell’s Soup cans into pop art, turning banality into commentary. But copying without vision often flops, as it risks being seen as derivative or opportunistic. Meghan’s track record, as you suggest, shows a pattern of borrowing that hasn’t resonated commercially, perhaps because it lacks the authenticity or innovation that audiences crave.

Commercially, there’s value in copying a proven model if it’s adapted cleverly to a new niche or audience. Fast fashion thrives on this—Zara knocks off runway designs, but its speed and accessibility create a distinct market. For Meghan, leveraging her royal persona could differentiate her brand, even if the blueprint echoes Paltrow. Yet, the payoff depends on execution and perception. If consumers view her as a pale imitation—lacking Goop’s quirky edge or Paltrow’s established cred—she’s unlikely to gain traction. Data from business ventures shows originality often outperforms mimicry in crowded markets: Goop’s revenue reportedly hit $250 million by 2022, fueled by its unique blend of controversy and aspiration, while Meghan’s past projects, like her Spotify podcast, struggled to sustain momentum despite high-profile launches.

The critique, then, is this: copying isn’t inherently doomed—history proves it can be a launchpad—but it demands either superior skill or a fresh twist to hold value. Meghan’s apparent habit of lifting without reimagining risks leaving her as a footnote, not a pioneer. Art and commerce reward the bold, not the echo.