If You Could Wear Only One Brand for the Rest of Your Life, What Would It Be?

Dear detective,

I’m not dead. Yet. 

But if this letter that I’d stowed away within the innermost recesses of my closet – and is now in all likelihood preserved in a sealed evidence pouch – has made its way into your hands, then it’s highly likely that breathing is an activity I’ve stopped doing. Which also means, to my utter mortification, that my wardrobe has been dug into, dissected, and investigated.

“Who was this person?” you’re probably asking. And judging by the state of my underwear drawer, you might also be wondering, “How did he manage to live as long as he did?” So, as someone who goes a long way back with the victim, I figured, why not just save you the trouble and show you around instead?

Except the underwear drawer. Had I known I’d be autopsied the next day, I’d have worn better ones myself.

Now, the first thing you’ll discover, dear detective, as you burrow into my ’drobe, is the outerwear – the vintage black leather jacket that I’ve worn regardless of the season, the black blazer I wear with mismatched black pants, and of course, my sumptuous olive peacoat that is truly to die for.

All of which generally renders visibility within the precious real estate of my closet rather limited. A good place to hide a body, perhaps?

Then you’ll notice my purses – my prized Proenza Schouler Ps1, the metallic silver Burberry Rucksack I nabbed at a bargain, a couple of Bal bags, and a smattering of Issey Miyake. Unless, of course, they’re what the murderer was after, in which case, you’ll notice the denim – the exact numbers of which I shall only disclose to my lawyer. The keyword here is numbers.

And of course, there are the other pieces – distressed band tees, Prada boots, Prada sneakers, unnamed boots, unnamed sneakers, all worn and weary and devoid of all appeal to my eventual expirer. 

So detective, before you close the case and chalk this all up to the chaotic eccentric of a man who’s never met a black garment he didn’t love, I’ll spare you the guesswork with one final question: if you had to pin my whole wardrobe on a single suspect – one brand, no accomplices – which would it be?

Betrothed to the Brand

All this to ponder, dear reader, on the question at hand: had I possessed the limitless liquidity of a Real Housewife, would I be able to live in one label only for the rest of my life? And what would it be, if I were?

The question was first posed on an episode of the Pair of Kings podcast, where host Michael Smith immediately swears his solemn allegiance to Rick Owens. But then again, Owens, like fellow creatives Raf Simons and Thom Browne, has built a dedicated tribe who swears by his brand. And for Smith, a renowned Rick-fluencer within the hyper-specific New York niche of Rick-heads who can all tell the seasons apart from the mere ebb and flow of fabric, Rick Owens is not just a perfectly justifiable response, but in fact, the most natural.

What I find more interesting, however, is the phenomenon where people – living, breathing, and card-carrying – have made this commitment towards a label that lacks a vision as specific as Owens’, i.e., most luxury houses today. 

These people, dear reader, are the VICs – Very Important Clients – and fashion has spent the last decade building entire economies around them.

“If all I buy is Gucci,” writes Buzz Bissinger, who, at the time, owned 81 leather jackets, 75 pairs of boots, and 115 pairs of leather gloves, and sat front row at Frida Giannini’s Gucci, “I will be fine.” 

Tom Brady, Bissinger’s spiritual successor, walked Demna’s Times Square Gucci runway last season in an all-leather outfit, alongside Paris Hilton, shortly after telling the undergraduates in Georgetown’s McDonough School of Business “to quit or to fight your ass off”.

Where it was previously only Hermès that required you to purchase porcelain plates and dog kennels (dog not included) before it let you near a Birkin, now Loewe, too, invites you to taste its branded pistachio ice cream. In place of independent establishments are Aimé Leon Dore cafes serving Aimé Leon Dore coffee. Not to mention, you can go on wellness retreats with Dior!

And these VICs, reports The Cut, routinely spend $60,000 ahead of runway shows, choosing outfits to wear to brand-hosted dinners in Venice and cocktail parties in St. Tropez and private museum tours in Vienna, just so they can return to their favorite brand, and, of course, spend some more!

And Then There Was One

On the other side of that coin is Sol Thompson, co-host of Pair of Kings, and a fashion critic himself, who had a harder time answering the question. 

Eventually – and agonizingly – Thompson lands on Saint Laurent, because the brand simply offers everything. The excesses of Stefano Pilati, the slick seduction of Hedi Slimane, the operatic glamour of Anthony Vaccarello. A complete, coherent wardrobe across all eras and iterations.

But looking at my own wardrobe through the forensic eye, to point to a single house and say that, all of that, forever, please, feels increasingly challenging. After all, when I don that vintage leather jacket and a pair of drainpipe denim, I’m imbued with the spirit of Slimane’s Saint Laurent. My slick black blazer is Tom Ford’s Gucci at its most predatory.

Spiritually, I want to be a model on Dario Vitale’s sole Versace runway, candy-stripe jeans and all. On Wednesdays, I am an inscrutable fashion insider in archival Margiela. My Proenza Schouler PS1 is a study in the Olsen’s artful dishevelment. In my Prada platform boots, I’m proud and empowered. 

And in the Adidas sweatpants I’ll never wear in civilized society? Well, that’s its own kind of cosplay. And perhaps, at the end of the day, all of fashion is that – a performance. Whether the brand we choose genuinely represents our consistent selves, or we’ve simply decided to perform consistency so convincingly that the performance has become the self, who can tell?

Perhaps the brand archetype I conform to, as the detective might eventually conclude, isn’t Saint Laurent. Neither is it, Celine. Or Proenza, or Prada, or Versace. And it’s certainly not Hermès, though I do covet the occasional horse.

It is, in fact, my own. Which is either an answer most potent in its liberation, or a very roundabout way of saying that I simply cannot make up my mind.

What’s yours?