I don't remember the first time I saw or heard about a sneaker collaboration. It was, more than likely, sometime in 2006, when I first cultivated my interest in sneaker culture—but that's unimportant. I knew, instantly, how collabs made me feel. The idea of someone—who has a strong connection to the piece of footwear they were being asked to put their imprint on— being given the freedom to relay their personal story on a product seemed unreal. The fact that Nick Tershay, the man behind Diamond Supply Co., was able to design a Nike SB Dunk Low in the colorway of Tiffany & Co.—get it, diamonds—not only made me more invested in the story of the collaboration, it made me realize that sneakers could be seen as more than things we wore on your feet. They were representations of who we are and how we wanted to be perceived.
Like other so-called sneakerheads, I was only a fan of a few different silhouettes at the time: Nike Dunks, the highlight years of the Air Max series, and a few random Nike Basketball models that were resurrected from the mid '90s. This changed as I got deeper into sneakers, and collabs are an integral part of the reason why.
The ASICS Gel Lyte III? I bought my first GR pairs because I saw what Patta did with it in 2007. And the same can be said for the New Balance 1500 after I saw Solebox's "Toothpaste" pack and "Purple Devils," or the Saucony Shadow 6000—that I scooped from the local outlet for $50—after I had seen Bodega give the brand its stamp of approval.
I can't go on record and say I own a ton of sneakers that were only released in-store at shops in Berlin, Amsterdam, or Los Angeles, because that's not true. I typically don't have the wherewithal to procure my grails. What collabs did for me, however, was made me realize that were other options out there and they didn't all come from Nike or were strictly released at Foot Locker at 8 a.m. on Saturday.
To put it bluntly: If it wasn't for brands entrusting boutiques and streetwear brands to be genesis, their springboard moment, to re-launch archival product, I'd be a one-dimensional, corny sneakerhead. And I have no problem admitting that. By "corny sneakerhead," I mean someone that's afraid to wear something outside of their comfort zone.
it's made me reconsider sneakers that I don't even like.
In all seriousness, that's why collaborations are so important. They can be viewed, plainly, as marketing techniques to garner enthusiasm around future inline releases, or they can be much more than that.
Would anyone be talking about Brooks Heritage right now if it weren't for Concepts' "Merlot" version of the Chariot? Maybe, but I know I wouldn't have as much excitement around what the throwback runner could mean if it weren't for the magic that Concepts had put into it. The same also can be said for nearly every other brand not named Nike that's looking to catch our attention.
This doesn't go to say that every collaboration is good either, or that we should hold store x brand sneaker in high reverence—because, to be honest, a lot of them suck. But if it takes an out-of-the-box color scheme, an elaborate reference, or the application of premium materials to get us to realize why the Diadora n9000, Le Coq Sportif Eclat '89, or Reebok Instapump Fury are welcomed additions to the average person's rotation of Air Jordan 1s, Air Max 1s, and Air Force 1s, then so be it.
I'm well aware that drooling over limited-run collaborations will get me labeled as a hypebeast, and my fascination with collaborations has gotten so intense that it's made me reconsider sneakers that I don't even like. That's the point of a powerful collab: to get us so wrapped up in the back story that we completely forget that we're discussing a sneaker that could get us laughed out of conversations with our closest confidants. It's gone far beyond just putting me onto new things—it's at the point where I see a teaser, or even a full reveal, of something I knew I would never buy and I instantly think to myself, "Oh, wow, those are really good." And I patiently count down the days to the release. When this happens, I probably won't buy the sneaker, but it's a moment where I can admit that, maybe, I was being narrow-minded.
Popular thinking would lead us to believe that the O.G. models are the iterations that we should cherish, and I still think this is true. But in today's era, where we're multiple decades removed from when something first came out, we need reminders of why a sneaker is worth our time, money, and energy. If this means we need a campaign that sees 14 collaborations release alongside the retroing of a runner from 1985, so be it.
We live in a retail climate where we can honestly question, "Are there too many sneaker collaborations?" Whether the answer is yes or no, neither is wrong. Still, we can collectively look back and say that without these limited mockups, we—unless we were down since day one or have a very limited scope of what we're into—wouldn't be the sneakerheads we are today. Myself included.
Maybe it's because I write for a living and I can easily get wrapped up in a good yarn, but I'd like to believe that collabs, at their very core, are proof that sneaker culture is about more than stacking boxes in your bedroom, waiting online for the next restock, or re-selling to come up on a few extra dollars. They're how we connect what we love to the world around us—and the regional, personal, or pop-culture based colorways give us something tangible to latch onto other than the tired, brand-driven marketing of yesteryear. It just so happens that they've made us realize there are amazing back catalogs, and new models, too, worth checking up on. We just need a little a sugar—or sneakers produced in short runs—to make the medicine go down.
Matt Welty is an editorial assistant at Complex and he's still mad about collabs he passed on six years ago. You can follow him on Twitter here.
