Shafiq Samat, 27, is triumphant. Beaming, he raises his prize: a worn pair of low-top leather boots, its upper appears to be made entirely of woven hemp. The shoes are the Nike ‘Considered Boot’ and they bear the fresh signature of designer Jeff Staples—the reason for Samat’s victory. He had queued for hours to win the autograph at Sneakercon Southeast Asia, where Staples was an invited guest. Samat was one of thousands. Hosted by Singapore from April 1-2, the inaugural event–which began as an annual convention in the US for sneakerheads to buy, sell, trade and mingle–drew about 10,000 people, some from as far as Greece. The highest priced pair on sale was marked an eye-watering $65,000. Abroad, the ‘Air Jordan 13s’ worn by Michael Jordan at his final NBA match—dubbed the “Last Dance” pair— sold for a record-smashing $2.2 million at auction, thrusting sneakers, and their hefty price tags, into the limelight once more.
Around the once humble shoe, hundreds of thousands of sneakerheads have gathered to form an immovable class—a community. To the ambivalent wearer of shoes, the whole thing can be a head-scratcher. What drives the mania?
Profit is the most obvious reason. Limited quantity releases, or “drops,” drive up prices and enable flipping, a practice that has become embedded in the culture. “It’s something you have to go through,” stresses Xuan Sim, head of Content at O4X, the local franchiser of Sneakercon. Samat, who at one point owned 80 pairs, used to buy three pairs every drop. He packages it in catchier terms, “one to rock, one to stock and one to resell.”
It’s an adage that rings true in the trading pit, Sneakercon’s legendary forum where sneakerheads congregate to barter and sell.“In the pit, there were people buying shoes one moment and then instantly selling them for a higher price the next,” Sim recalls. The exercise is known as trading up and is not so much tolerated as embraced. Successful flippers are minor celebrities. Sim, who owns 50 pairs, speaks reverently of Jaysse Lopez, a former homeless person for whom flipping became an alleged $70m enterprise. Lopez was an invited guest at Sneakercon Southeast Asia. “People came up to us to thank us for bringing him down,” Sim says. “That’s how much of an inspiration he is.”
“It’s such a phenomenon precisely because there’s a strong emotional tie to what is being flipped.”
But sneakers are more than just an asset. To its devotees, they are the zenith of self expression. “I used to walk with my head down just staring at shoes,” says Jaydon Ng, 21, whose collection once numbered 50. “I buy my clothes to match my kicks,” says Samat, who owns a vintage clothing store. He adds: “I keep my clothes neutral [because] my sneakers are the statement piece.”
The franchisers say emotions are at the core of the craze. “It’s such a phenomenon precisely because there’s a strong emotional tie to what is being flipped,” remarks Michele Lee, 48, managing director of O4X. When asked why, they are momentarily stumped. Likely, it is a question that has long been taken as a given. “It’s the mystique,” Lee eventually declares, “how a ‘nothing’ sneaker can become ‘something’ just because someone wore it.” The line sums up the very history of the sneaker, which went from dowdy artefact to cult object seemingly overnight. Air, Ben Affleck’s latest film, tells the tale of how a sagging Nike, circa 1984, courted a then fledgling Jordan to launch the ‘Air Jordan 1s’—the sneaker that would take them from flailing company to the number one shoe and sports brand in the world. Today, the Air Jordans sit at the very heart of the collecting frenzy, the embodiment of its namesake, Jordan, a figure who has transcended not just his sport, but race, class and generations.
Perhaps because the story of the sneaker is in essence one of wrested victory, an aspirational through line seems to run through the collectors. Ng started collecting at age 14, chiefly to impress his friends. “At the time it was all for the gram, you know?” he says, coolly. With only a $40 weekly allowance to his name, he routinely saved $10 a week until he managed to snag his first pair, the Vans Style 36 in red and white. (“Not the regular black and white.”) He went to staggering lengths: “Back then, I would wear my sneakers for like five minutes, take a picture and then immediately flip them.” He would use the money to trade up until he got to the pair he liked. Right now, that’s the Hysteric Glamour x Kiko Kostadinov x ASICS GEL-Quantum Lylia in Cotton Candy– a coveted pair that retails for about $915.
“It’s the mystique of how a ‘nothing’ sneaker can become ‘something’ just because someone wore it.”
In a candid admission, Ng says: “In sneakerhead culture, wearing a higher value shoe means you’re a higher value person and I like that.” The sneaker has morphed into status symbol–its writhing lines of cool and gauche inscrutable to all but its hawk-eyed adherents. Often, gratification comes in the fleeting instant of recognition. “When I get that nod of approval from someone, it’s the best feeling,” says Samat, “game recognise[s] game, you know?”
Still, motivations can be very personal. “I no longer buy hype drops. I go for what’s rarer or what I wanted to buy in the past but couldn’t afford,” says Samat. The hunt for the perfect pair can be an arduous operation. “I’ve spent years researching and searching for my holy grails,” shares Samat. “It took a year to find these,” he says of his signed Nikes. Though they’re easily his most valuable pair–he puts their current value at about $5,000–he is reluctant to part with them. “I’ll be keeping them for a long time,” he says, grinning.
But the hyper-commodification of sneakers has led to some unhappiness. On the matter, Ng is scathing: “I consider myself a former sneakerhead because people treat shoes like assets, not like shoes anymore. They don’t care about the craftsmanship or the story or the colourway,” he continues, “so I’ve moved on to clothes.” (Ng is the young owner of a vintage clothing business) Others are more optimistic. Despite the inflation, Samat is sanguine: “I think it’s a good thing even if prices are up because it means the culture is expanding.” Sim adds: “Most people are more excited to see their old sneakers suddenly worth so much.”
Yet, all are united in their unbending love for sneakers. Ng interrupts his tirade to whip out shoe after “dub” shoe. (“Dub” is Gen Z speak for dope) He hastens to add: “I still really value a good shoe. If you ask what I’d rather spend on, shoes or clothes, it’s shoes 100%.” Unprompted, Samat leaps to show off his rotation, speaking volubly about each pair’s make and history. One by one, he produces sneakers he had tucked under his chair for precisely this moment, parading the aforementioned Nike ‘Considered boot’, Reebok ‘Club C x JJJOUNDs’, Asics ‘Gel-Kirils’ in “Cilantro” and Nike ‘Air Jordan 1 Retro High’s’. Sim thinks sneakers can be art and is concerned with their minutiae, casually dropping jargon like “aglet” (tip of the shoelace) and gum-sole (a light brown sole) in conversation.
Their enthusiasm is hard to square with whispers of a cooling market. The Last Dance pair may have smashed auction records but its $2.2 million price tag was still well below Sotheby’s projected $4 million. Supreme collaborations, once famed for selling out in seconds, now sit on sites for days. Last year, the global sneaker market grew a mere 2.7%, a dramatic decline from the 19.5% boom recorded in 2021. The sneaker’s era of hyper-growth appears to be over yet more people than ever before are now sneakerheads. The community has also grown more inclusive; what was once a young-male dominated craze in the US led to a turnout at Sneakercon Southeast Asia that was almost equally split between genders, with an age range of 10 to mid 60s.
When, then, does a fad solidify into subculture? Is it when a trend has lived past its height or when it transcends its original borders of geography, gender and age? By any yardstick, it seems the sneakerheads are here to stay, with or without the hype.
