Telfar
In August, Telfar released a new hero purse: a nylon-coated “plastic bag” taking the shape of bodega and take-out bags. It was the first time in years that the New York City-based label launched a silhouette that could arguably rival their faux leather shopping bag, colloquially dubbed the Bushwick Birkin that’s become ubiquitous in the closets of Brooklyn transplants on a budget. The latest drop is designer Telfar Clemens’s cheeky dig at New York City’s plastic bag ban and a rebuttal against the “plastic bag allegations” of his iconic logo-emblazoned totes, which are made from polyurethane and polyester. But in its plasticky folds signals a wider change in commentary about the state of the world.
Earlier this year, fashion noticeably shifted away from the meticulous put-togetherness of “clean girls,” whose slick-back buns and pared-back ensembles once reigned my FYP, to a more chaotic way of dressing. The Wall Street Journal called this resurgence “trashcore” — looks that are “aggressively distressed, artfully mismatched, and uniquely messy.” Its hallmark items recall the anarchisms of 2000s Hollywood, or another desperate attempt to rebrand the indie sleaze aesthetic: American Apparel-esque neon tights, teeny tiny bikini tops, and daisy dukes worn by Addison Rae; or baggy pants, smiley-face slippers, and bug-eyed Skylrk sunglasses sported by Justin Bieber. There’s an almost skillful art to the purposeful, dirtbag style slowly swaying the masses. But lately, trashcore has been evolving into a literal interpretation of its name.
Ashley Williams’s garbage-filled accessories are a new indication that trashcore is in full swing. The London-based designer is selling “one of a kind” ballet flats and mini bags that memorialize candy wrappings, cigarette butts, and faded receipts — items typically found after rummaging through the bottom of an old purse — behind a layer of PVC. Marge Sherwood, a Korean accessory brand, has added a see-through shellac to their popular baguette silhouette that doubles as a window for crumpled wrappers, a broken iPod nano, a pack of gum, and other miscellaneous items. Like Telfar, Demna Gvasalia, formerly Balenciaga’s creative director, is often putting a satirical spin on the mundane; in late 2023, in one of the earliest iterations of this trend, the designer launched an assortment of clutches inspired by crinkled chip bags.
Unlike the proliferating memes that focus on a product’s decreased quality or the return of long-forgotten cultural relics from decades past, fashion’s current obsession with commodifying all things disposable actually feels like a recession indicator. Murmurs of economic uncertainty and an impending recession are influencing purchase decisions. Lyst’s Q2 report from this year revealed that shoppers are turning to “lower-lift, high-impact purchases” that offer levity and “emotional resonance without high financial commitment.”
Marketing what’s essentially zhuzhed up litter feels ironic — Ashley Williams’s trash-lined accessories are upwards of $800, while Teflar is charging nearly $200 for a “plastic bag.” At a time when the cost of living is higher than ever and tariffs threaten luxury imports, charging hundreds for junkified garments feels eerily Black Mirror.
But I’ve also gathered that fashion’s foray into the landfills speaks to an ever-growing appetite to stand out, like how Lorde’s normcore style juxtaposes the typical pop star glam, or how linking charms and trinkets onto purses and belt loops is ultimately an attempt to showcase a sliver of character to the everyday uniform. There’s an itch for individuality, and the unseriousness of repurposed garbage is an antithesis to conformity. Whether trashcore is a solution to an impending recession is up for debate — but at least I know now that the next time I get Chinese take-out, the plastic bag it comes with can be my new purse. Best of all, it won’t cost me $200.