For much of the last year I’d been nursing a growing, slightly shameful obsession. Tucked into buried browser windows and incognito tabs were pages and pages of the same guilty pleasure: a crisp white pair of Adidas Stan Smith sneakers.
Why the shame? I’ve seen the Stans all over New York, but not on the feet of the fashion crowd. Instead, they’re worn by relaxed bros in technical chinos and camp collar shirts—dudes who aren’t dressed badly, but aren’t actively trying to inspire envy and loathing with a breakthrough fit. Meanwhile, I’m the guy who’s constantly trying to remain in the “early adopter zone”, which mostly earns me a rep as “contrarian” and “annoying.” That often means looking for the next fashion moment where others aren’t, or sprinting so far ahead of the trends that I lap the guys who are only just now noticing wide leg pants. At least, that’s what I delude myself into believing. With the rest of menswear mining the Aughts, I’ve been forced to run ahead, picking through the hits of 2010s style. Thus my Stan Smith habit.
The real high water mark was Raf Simons’ Stan Smith, which showed up in 2014. Raf’s not coming back to revive the Stan anytime soon, but frankly, its rebirth seems inevitable. We’ve burned through New Balance, Asics, Nike, Converse, and Vans in recent years—not to mention fully cooked the Adidas Samba. Each micro-era has its own basic shoe. What’s more basic than the Stan Smith?
It’s the shoe that birthed a whole movement of minimalist sneakers, each one inching a little close to a platonic, almost nihilist notion of plainness. Common Projects, Veja, Greats, Koio—they wouldn’t be here without the Stan Smith. But no matter how hard they deconstruct and streamline the white sneaker, none will ever replace the OG.
When I imagine the Stan Smith in my mind, it’s lumped in with a kind of pre-hipster indie moment: relaxed faded jeans, a plaid button up. Kurt Cobain wore Jack Purcells, but his whole look makes as much spiritual sense with the Stans. On the other hand, they also feel right with classic dress pants and a thick-gauge sweater, in a quiet luxury, high-low way, a la Sofia Coppola. That low is a little lower than it used to be. The Stan Smith that Adidas sells today is a faux-leather amalgamation of recycled polyester; a glossier, ChatGPT-ified version of the genuine leather OGs.
Alexa Chung once said that the most embarrassing thing a man can wear is a brand new pair of white sneakers. Okay, what she actually said was that she felt dorky in brand new Converse, but still. I’m reminded of it each time I lace up my new Stan Smiths—because yes, I went for it. I swear their optic white “leather” somehow reflects onto my face, flush with humiliated understanding.
The end goal is to run them into the ground until they’re scuffed, scarred, and crushed into a boneless version of themselves, unidentifiable in color and shape. The sidewalls should be yellowed from UV exposure. The plastic sheen should give way to a completely matte surface that sponges up dirt and spilled drinks. It’ll take some time to achieve the right patina, which is a word I use with a mostly straight face.
I already know that the period between box-fresh and perfectly destroyed is less like breaking in raw denim, and more like trying to grow out your hair. There’s a painfully awkward phase I’ll have to traverse, one guarded by a gauntlet of smug fashion snobs jabbing me with “New shoes?” But on the other side is Stan Smith nirvana. And I’ll be waiting there to welcome you with some beautifully torched, basic-ass sneakers when you arrive.
