Streetwear thrives on three things – boldness, grit, and an understanding of the everyday, but when it begins to draw inspiration from struggle, it raises the question: can exploitation be justified for aesthetic purposes?

Sat on a gravel pavement in Lviv, Ukraine, Slavik donned a bubblegum-pink coat, tattered jeans, and a fur winter hat. The next morning, he paired a juicy couture-inspired sweater with camo parachute pants. No two outfits were ever the same, and Slavik looked like he’d been
pulled off the front cover of a high-fashion magazine.

The mismatched textures and vibrant hues caught photographer Yurko Dyachyshyn’s eye, who posted Slavik to Instagram. Overnight, he went viral. Feeds flooded with attempts at re-creating the looks, and soon after, luxury streetwear brands like VETEMENTS released
eerily similar collections that made millions.

The outfits, however, were born out of survival, not style. Slavik was homeless, making the best of a bad situation, and watching as his reality was commodified, while he reaped none of the benefits.

From normcore’s celebration of the ordinary to derelict chic’s calculated wear and tear, fashion has always flirted with the aesthetics of poverty, and luxury streetwear is no exception.

Known for its complex textures and oversized silhouettes, distressed designs are ingrained into the very fabric of the high-end streetwear market, and ironically, the poorer you look, the richer you need to be.

Vjollca Tahiri is a fashion designer based in Hannover, Germany, at CBR Fashion Group, whose work spans couture, luxury streetwear, and everyday wear. She offers some insight into why so many iconic brands seem drawn to the aesthetic.

“It’s an instinctive pull toward imperfection as beauty, but the goal is for the distressed pieces to feel emotional, not sloppy,” she says. “It’s about balance and executing the work thoughtfully, not randomly, combining textures, hand-finishing techniques, and meticulous construction, to create something powerful.”

Consider Yeezy’s Season 3 Destroyed Military Rib Sweater, with a worn texture and moth-bitten holes, which retailed at £1,400 or Nordstrom’s mud-splattered jeans, which in 2017 went for £330.

Golden Goose, a luxury Italian brand, joined the trend in 2018 with their shredded-up Super Star sneakers, featuring heavy scuffing straight out of the box.

But few brands have leaned into scarcity-core quite like Balenciaga, which released its Ready-To-Wear collection during the early days of the Ukraine War. The line, defined by oversized parkas, raw hems, and most notably (and absurdly) a black garbage bag, complete with a quality drawstring closure, was, of course, priced at over £1,780.

For Tahiri, though, it’s a chance to blend style and comfort. “When I design, I want the wearer to feel like it’s something they’ve lived in for years, even if it’s new, it should evoke ease, a sense of personal history, and with these clothes, that’s possible,” she says. “But given the conversations happening around fashion and class, designers are absolutely aware of how it can be interpreted socially.”

Premiums are charged for even the most weathered-looking pieces, turning them into symbols of status and exclusivity, all while those experiencing real hardship are met with ridicule, not reverence.

Those whose lives inspire the trend are rarely, if ever, the ones profiting from it, and as luxury labels continue to benefit, they don’t acknowledge, much less challenge, the conditions keeping poverty alive.

London-based fashion psychologist and creator of The Style and Wellbeing Consultancy, Dr. Dion Terrelonge, explains that there is a deeper psychological appeal behind dressing like you’ve got nothing.

“One purpose of fashion is escapism, people often think of it as a means of getting away from negative situations, but this isn’t always the case, those who find themselves in very comfortable circumstances without or with fewer challenges can crave the unpredictability
their own lives lack,” she says. “Adopting a distressed look makes them feel more edgy, and when they embrace bolder forms of streetwear, they’re able to embody the values that come with it.”

She explains that the trend taps into the psychological framework of self-concept.

“The thing about clothing is that it’s a very useful way of exploring yourself, it allows us to literally try on different identities, we do this until we find one or a couple that align with who we are or who we wish to become,” she says. “Often it’s authenticity that people are in search of, and we find in pop culture it’s the working class that is seen as more authentic, therefore, the wealthier customers who buy into luxury fashion may find that embracing a distressed aesthetic allows them to encapsulate that.”

Though she says it’s easy to explore identity when there’s no real pressure.

“This type of fashion is a little problematic in that people experience what its like to dress like somebody who is of a lower socio-economic status without any of the harsh realities – the wealthy consumer gets to feel grounded but within the safety of that wealth, its very avoidant,
and quite a privileged way of expressing parts of the self.”

Still, not every nod to hardship is exploitative. For some, the aesthetics are a genuine source of creative inspiration.

Streetwear has long borrowed from lived experience; in the 1980s, West Coast skater culture, with its loose tees and baggy jeans, defined foundational brands like Stüssy, while in the 1990s, Brands like FUBU were born out of fan-favourite artists like Tupac or Aaliyah
wearing oversized jackets with Timberlands. It’s possible luxury brands aren’t romanticising struggle, they’re simply making space for more unconventional style.

“The reason people like the look is because it feels different,” says Louna Mahjoub, founder of Dragon Streetwear and a TikTok influencer based in Paris, France, whose fit checks have earned over 1.7 million likes. “Some people see it as edgy, I do, it’s creative and gives your
outfit personality.”

She acknowledges that luxury brands can sometimes go a bit far, but that the messy look is exactly what sets streetwear apart.

“I get the criticism, and I see how from the outside it seems out of touch, but streetwear isn’t about following strict rules, it’s about showing who you are through your clothes,” she says.

“It’s cool how you can mix different pieces, throw on something old with something new, and even if it looks dishevelled to everyone else, it still works, and the fact that bigger, more well-known brands are advocating for that individuality isn’t a bad thing at all.”

For Louna, there’s artistry in the look – and that’s fair, when it’s a choice, but for countless others, it isn’t. It’s just another Monday.
Streetwear doesn’t aim for clarity; more often than not, it invites wearers to embrace the uncomfortable.

And in this case, that means asking the question: expression or exploitation? Fashion has always pushed the boundaries, and in its pursuit of originality, will continue to, maybe deliberately so.

As for where this leaves someone like Slavik? Possibly a casualty of a trend that glorifies poverty, or maybe an unexpected inspiration.
Whichever way you choose to look at it, one thing is clear: there is a bigger conversation to be had here, and it’s one that doesn’t need a clean-cut answer to matter.