Daisy plays defence for athleisure’s humble beginnings in working-class neighbourhoods as fashion giants like Balenciaga cash in…

Sports and fashion now seem to unquestionably go hand in hand: queuing for the coolest new Nike trainers? Of course. David Beckham in H&M adverts? Makes sense. Serena Williams opening the Vogue World Runway at New York Fashion Week? Hell, yeah!

And listen, we love seeing fashion and sports embrace each other, but whilst Lewis Hamilton is in the news for refusing to ditch his jewellery when he races, and luxury fashion houses seem to roll out endless collabs with sports brands, we seem to have lost sight of sportswear and athleisure’s strong links to class that still hold today; links to a world of men in hoodies being consequently considered threatening, and young mums in tracksuits deemed “chavs.” A world high fashion has always tried pretty hard to distance itself from…

So, what does it all mean in regards to fashion’s constant adoption and exclusion of working class ideologies, ad infinitum?

The Big Players

Let's kick off (pun intended) with a rundown of what I mean when I talk about fashion's obsession with sportswear.

There are the collabs… Gucci × Adidas. TNF × Gucci. Dior × Converse. Michael Kors × Ellesse. Louis Vuitton has also provided leather carry cases for the FIFA World Cup since 2010 and this year, even crafted a five-piece collectable collection to accompany it. Stella McCartney also designed Team GB’s Olympic kit in 2012. 

We’ve got the campaigns… Michael Jordan for Nike. Cristiano Ronaldo for Calvin Klein. Gigi Hadid for Reebok. Kylie Jenner for Puma.

And then, of course, we’ve got street style: name one it-girl or fashion influencer who hasn’t been papped in a tracksuit, cycle shorts or trainers. Name one friend who doesn’t own any of the above. In fact, if it’s been tagged as ‘streetwear,’ it’s almost always heavily influenced by sports.

Who else is playing?

Consider where these trends came from: trainers were first made for the gym; basketball shorts were made for the courts; and leggings were ultimately destined for aerobics classes. 

But generally speaking, sports itself has historically been divided into working class and upper/middle class games with young children in poorer neighbourhoods playing football at the park or boxing at their local club, for example; whilst upper class sports, according to research, are more likely to be non-contact games like tennis or golf. So even before fashion gets involved, sports have already established class-based hierarchies for these uniform trends to be filtered through.

For so many young people, sports are a welcome escape from desperate circumstances; a way to stay safe and distracted from undesirable situations, with a heavy influence on daily life. So when we look at the sportswear elements that have become mainstays in ongoing trend cycles — think cycling shorts, sweatshirts and hoodies, jogging bottoms, little boxing shorts or running shorts, and, of course, trainers — what side of the class boundary do you think they stem from?

Consider also the different ways that we regard the people who wear their sportswear: Bella Hadid in a pair of cycling shorts = effortless chic. A random, plus-sized woman at the local shop wearing cycling shorts = lazy? 

Kendall Jenner in a tracksuit = too cool to bear. A random, young mum wearing a tracksuit whilst carrying the shopping home through her local estate = gross.

A hot, wealthy man in a big hoodie = so cosy and cute. A man in a hoodie in a poor area of the city = cross the street and avoid him as he probably means trouble. 

Moving away from hypotheticals, let’s rewind to the mid-1980s when Run-DMC popularised the Adidas Superstar trainers as the first celebrity collaboration for the brand outside of legitimate sports stars. First released in 1969, the Superstars experienced steady adoption among players in the NCAA and NBA, with the ultimate cosign from basketball legend Kareem Abdul-Jabbar catapulting the sneaker silhouette into popular culture and consequentially, the lexicon of B-boy aesthetics. And thus, the shoes were quickly associated with gangs, especially when worn without laces as this was said to symbolize the wearer recently coming out of jail.

In fact, in 1985, Gerald “Dr Deas” Deas, a doctor fed up with rising crime in his neighbourhood, penned Felon Sneakers, a poem-turned-song criminalizing the shoes further by warning against the dangers of sneaker culture. And so Run-DMC responded by putting out the song My Adidas, reclaiming the shoe as a symbol of self expression instead of yet another way to demonize their demographic of young Black men in America. 

And since then, we’ve witnessed fairly constant reclamation and challenging of the stereotypes that come along with sportswear.

The Starting Line

Sportswear inherently looks sick, and as we break through the barriers of it being used as a reason to look down on people, it's important to celebrate the growth of such a successful, long-standing trend. However, it's even more important to look back on where said trends and success stem from, who makes them possible, and where the double standards lie — especially when some people still get shit for wearing their cosy sportswear, whilst others get put on best-dressed lists!

It's called class warfare: the antagonism and tension existing in a society because of the socio-economic imbalances between classes. And fashion feels the tension across the board: can social structures actively working to suppress the rights of the working class in favour of healthy profit margins simultaneously glamourise them and their style? Can working class individuals ever be part of a trend adopted by those who feel like they are socially superior? Maybe there is no answer, maybe there is only an uneasy, and unidentifiable tension. 

In a 2018 interview with Dazed, designer Nasir Mazahar explained his feelings towards being deemed a “streetwear designer,” and his attitude towards the relationship between fashion, typical sportswear and class.

“Adopting tropes typically associated with working class young people, his work was — and is to the day — quickly categorised as “urban.” “It’s a class thing, isn’t it?” he says of the use of these terms in relation to his work. “I think ‘urban’ means working class… They have to be like, ‘no, this isn’t fashion, this is something else. Fashion isn’t this, fashion isn’t tracksuits, fashion isn’t mixed ethnicities, fashion’s not about that really.’ So they have to be able to name it something else… Givenchy sells trackies, and sweaters and T-shirts, but Givenchy would die if they called it streetwear!”

Watching well-to-do kids dress up head to toe in the “urban” “streetwear” their predecessors would have teased other kids for wearing just doesn’t sit right. After all, working class aesthetics are not a subculture or a trend. Literally think of the middle and upper class boys who now dress and talk like “roadmen” in sportswear, or magazines who fully do their fashion editorials on location at their local council estate — somewhere they’d probably have demonized and looked down upon, before it became a ‘cool’ place to be seen.

And the sportswear world isn’t the first to tempt its clientele with a new launch of class warfare. It's been a long game for the fashion world, lapping up elements from the working class and turning a blind eye to class issues all at once. Our editor Karina dug into the conflicting actions going down at Vetements when Guram Gvasalia became the brand’s new creative director earlier this year. His announcement to Instagram stories read:

“I felt I needed to come out publicly [as creative director] for all the kids out there who have no means to pay for fancy design schools with [their] 50-100k yearly tuition fees. Those who need to take day jobs to pay the bills, while self-learning design at night. For those who come from underprivileged families and feel like they will never belong to the fashion world…”

… which is a lovely sentiment. But made us wonder who exactly he thinks this high fashion brand is for.

In one of our video essays early this year, TOMES Editor-in-Chief Karina spoke on the blurred lines between culture, style, profit and critique:

“Given Vetements’ tongue-in-cheek sartorial critique of fashion's gentrification of culture […] into this diluted and overpriced ghetto kink, does it not stand to reason that they would charge, like, $500 for a heat press, basic-ass graphic tee?

If the consumer behaviour exhibited by the hype beast who will collect these pieces regardless, who’s not part of the conversation that they are proposing, [we need to be aware of] the fundamental understanding that for certain communities, price-matching fashion houses [is] lowkey a political statement.

Because in Vetements, we’re seeing a group of former refugees seizing a moment that they are literally critiquing as well as profiting from sizeably. Obviously I’m screening over massive variables like race and sustainability, the latter of which Vetements have no grasp of whatsoever.

I’m just genuinely curious as to why a class-focused brand such as Vetements isn’t being afforded that safe space for these discussions with the people who should be in on the joke, which is where the “who is this really for?” question comes in: are they supposed to be dressing we, the people, or eating the rich on our behalf?”

And it's true — if a brand is making wonderful commentary of fashion’s appetite for gentrifying everything it can get its hands on, and turning culture into empty trends as a result, how far can that critique go when the people whose culture is the one actually being borrowed from aren’t able to join in the conversation? Especially when the brand in question isn’t explicitly talking about class issues or working to aid that class struggle.

And then, we have Balenciaga’s weird and definitely confused attempts at the very same tongue-in-cheek appropriation of working class culture, deserving of a whole new article unto itself, really. But in the meantime, glorious hosts of fashion podcast Dressed: the History of Fashion, Cassidy Zachary and April Calahan’s analysis of the brand’s $1800+ leather trash bags of 2022 clearly illustrate the tension over Balenciaga’s take even with Demna at helm…

“I do understand the commentary that Demna is attempting to make here, Kennedy (BoF journalist whose article they are referencing) puts it very succinctly, you know, she says they’re questioning the definition of luxury and poking fun at fashion. I get that..”. 

“And your customers, I would argue.” 

“and that is my point! That is exactly my point, it’s very Duchamp-ian… Marcel Duchamp started making ready-mades in 1914, famously in 1917 he released his fountain which of course was a ready-made urinal which he signed… and this is like a really early example of conceptual art. Which basically calls into question what is and isn’t art. All this questioning… being over 100 years old now, it’s really played itself out.” 

Zachary and Calahan then go on to ponder the relevance of applying this worn-out, and pretty predictable conceptual approach to fashion today. It doesn’t really make fun of fashion, but it does make fun of their customer, creating an inside joke exclusively for the fashion elite…

“from the customer's standpoint, they’re then like, "‘hey, let’s buy this symbol of the working class: the IKEA bag or the DHL shirt, but we’re gonna pay way more money for it so we can flaunt the fact that we aren’t like you — the people who shop at IKEA and the people who work at DHL…’ In my opinion, this is all so very Mean Girls.” 

And is it all a joke? Are middle & upper class fashionista’s donning tracksuits to say “hey, look at the novelty; I’m making fun of myself; I’m in on the joke — and now you’re out?”

On another note, as athletic and sports inspired clothing becomes more trendy it’s price has increased – and I’m not just talking about the designer versions, sports branded pieces are more expensive too. 

When the classic Air Force 1’s debuted in the mid-late 1990s they retailed for just under $60, now they can easily be $90 or over $100 if they have fancy details or collaborative designers on board. Trainers that used to be a staple cheap, decent quality shoe for everyone are suddenly the pieces that kids are emptying their piggy banks for – or even robbing each other for, in extreme cases. They’ve become status symbols, that are somehow symbols of the working class at the same time.

The Punchline

Am I coming to a conclusion? Not really, the working class always seems to be the butt of the joke in fashion. Or perhaps more accurately, marginalised communities are the butt of the joke every time we’re appropriating, copying or ripping off their work; every time we think we’re appreciating it, but are actually leaving them out of the conversation or closing doors on their progression into the fashion world. Even when we are taking a page out of the Balenciaga/Vetements book by deliberately dressing like them, whilst making it clear we are not the same. It seems like it’s all a game to the fashion elite. 

It's really tiring for actual working class people to watch their identity get picked up again and again, whilst still having the fashion industry loom over them as this impenetrable world for anyone who isn’t part of a long chain of nepotism. A world where they are told time and time again that they will never achieve the lifestyle required for admittance — even when that lifestyle is modelled after their own.

credits

words — daisy riley

design — karina so.