Brand Me
Labels matter. Ironic, given the decades spent disposing of them, that the last tags left are on our clothing. Considering the world’s wealthiest individual’s portfolio includes Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, Fendi and Off-White; clearly, the public is concerned about image.
While trends continually evolve, nowhere has flipped faster than skatewear. Counterculture origins have been repurposed by high fashion to form the coveted deluxe streetwear aesthetic. You have Supreme’s success to thank.
In 1994, Supreme was a shop in an old office space in lower Manhattan, stocking obscure or hard-to-source skate supplies, later accompanied by a team of professionals who became the envy of the industry. By 2020 it had taken on a mythological status as the epitome of ‘hypebeast’ culture, completing its transition from community to corporate with a $2.1b handover to VF Corporation. The significance, private equity firms started taking streetwear seriously.
Supreme didn’t just write the bible; brands became disciples. Founder James Jebbia’s strict understocking policies ensure scarcity, which, it turns out, only heightens demand. It’s nothing new, brands are constantly innovating to exploit everyone’s desire to obtain what’s narrowly out of reach, but Supreme’s weekly drops from their current season are PR perfection.
Credit where it’s due; Supreme are professionals at piggybacking off others’ success. During their ascent, they’ve borrowed credibility at every opportunity. Collaborations between clothing and lifestyle brands are inescapable. It has become commonplace, but it was an incredibly unusual business practice. Rival companies working together and splitting the profits would be inconceivable in another sector.
Supreme’s diligent and selective alliance with LV and Burberry attracted the attention of an affluent audience while assuring their credibility. Simultaneously, fashion aristocrats began realising they needed Supreme’s relevance.
Though, did anyone foresee the resale boom? Turns out, if you keep items understocked so customers can’t purchase them in your stores, they’ll find another place to cop your clothes. The rise of StockX and its likenesses has only exacerbated the acceleration of this trend.
It’s easy to see why. Predictions estimate people with fast fingers or better bots will generate $64b from second-hand sales in 2024. It’d be wrong even to criticise resellers; all they’ve done is exploit our obsession with desire and expose the extent we’re willing to be overcharged.
But why are we intent on acquiring these items, irrespective of the cost? There is a cache to flaunting something overpriced. On Instagram, you’ll find individuals proudly revealing the thousands they’d shed for exclusive gear, lauding the labels while reciting the item as one of only 100, all the while failing to spare a breath to reference their clothing’s aesthetic.
Few luxury streetwear brands have done anything to progress the course of design. The only compliment I can spare Ye these days is that Yeezy’s innovative approach has legitimately altered sneaker silhouettes and spearheaded a modernist trainer revolution. Even then, the name outweighs the achievement, and his trainers are sought after as a status symbol.
That’s sort of the point. The brand is defining and whatever you wear establishes your look, in turn, revealing a proportion of your personality. Your aesthetic is inseparable from its logos.
Ask yourself, would you still wear your wardrobe without the labels? Do you love your clothing or simply the company it keeps?