
Even figuring out where Telfar ends and the rest of the world begins is a difficult task. Telfar is a person who is also a brand based on a person. His customers are his friends, who are also sometimes his employees. Together, they run the world’s largest Black-owned fashion brand, but they do not believe in fashion, brands, or even capitalism in general. Their story is the one-in-a-billion outcome that every young creative person dreams of: to actually change the world.
A 2020 statement by
telfar
Telfar Clemens started his brand during a weird pocket of history that hasn’t quite been written yet. Post-9/11 New York City was a cultural wasteland compared to the decade prior. The nightclubs and boutiques that defined its underground were being converted into Chase ATMs and AT&T stores. Gentrification was turbocharged, and the economy was blissfully barrelling towards a recession. In 2005, Helmut Lang left his own brand, closing a chapter of avant-garde fashion that once defined the city. Amidst this wreckage, Telfar and the milieu of artists and designers surrounding him got to work building their own cultural infrastructure. Magazines wouldn’t cover them, so they made their own. Retail buyers didn’t mess with them either, so they made clothes for their friends. The luxury and beauty industries ignored them, so they sought different forms of patronage––from high culture (the New Museum and the Berlin Biennale) as well as the mass market (Kmart, White Castle,
and Century 21).
But Telfar always aspired to be more than a cult label. From its onset, the brand was (to borrow half of one of its early slogans) “for everyone.” Telfar’s design DNA is rooted in jersey, the same fabric as the Hanes T-shirts he used to make his first Frankensteined designs in his childhood bedroom. Those early creations were a blueprint for a totally new ethos. Rather than use fashion as an avant-garde critique of the mainstream, Telfar wanted to redefine what mass could be. He wanted to take what was normal and make it something weirder.
This vision morphed into reality during the surreal cultural moment of the Covid-19 pandemic. With the world cooped up on their phones, Telfar’s Shopping Bag went viral and sales skyrocketed. Suddenly, he was making appearances on network television and pioneering a form of “community marketing” that has become an industry playbook. Telfar had already gotten his flowers from the industry via a CFDA Award and the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund, but making something for the people was always the real end goal. Success wasn’t a coronation into the elite; it was a ticket out of the fashion system altogether. the brand started a TV station so they wouldn’t even have to be dependent on press. It also stopped having fashion shows, until its 20th-anniversary runway this June. With almost 200 models storming the alleyway behind its flagship store, including many friends and family, the show was a toast to the people who had helped Telfar exist against all odds.


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INTERVIEW
TELFAR + babak

THOM BETTRIDGE:
I feel like the Telfar story goes back farther than people realise. I remember 10 years in, people would still write articles about you like it was the brand’s first season.
TELFAR CLEMENS:
Uh-huh. Constantly “emerging.”
THOM:
Exactly. How long can you be “emerging” for? But I will say it blows my mind that it’s been 20 years of Telfar. Tell me about the first clothes you ever made and sold to another person.
TELFAR:
The first thing that I made was deconstructing three Hanes T-shirts to make these different shapes, kind of like a voluminous T-shirt. I started by deconstructing clothes. That was in middle school. Friends used to have Levi’s or Old Navy jeans or Hanes T-shirts. I would chop their jeans up and wash them in different styles, and chop T-shirts up into different shapes, and I would sell them to my classmates—or they would give me the pair of jeans and $20, and I would do the thing and give it back to them. It was like this $20 service: “Bring me jeans and a T-shirt, and I’ll do that.”
Babak Radboy:
What was your awareness of fashion when you were growing up ?
TELFAR:
Mostly just on the street. I would read every magazine on the weekend, because that’s the thing I was into. I would read Arena Homme +, Vibe, and all the magazines that had men’s fashion in it. I didn’t know what the brands were, because it’s not like you could go see it, you know what I mean? I knew what Karl Kani was. I knew what Iceberg was. I knew what everything was at the mall. Diesel was one of the stores that I had access to. I could afford to buy it if I saved up for months and months.
babak:
Hearing you say that is crazy.
I had the same thing when I was just growing up in Seattle. I knew where I was couldn’t be everything, so I would travel for hours to look at magazines.
TELFAR:
For me, it was Vibe. There was this person from Vibe, Emil [Wilbekin, former Editor-in-Chief], and he was the person you would see in every single thing. They would just mix all of this shit together. It was relatable as fuck, because it was like they’re wearing this Helmut Lang thing, and this Gaultier thing, and this Issey Miyake thing, but it’s in Harlem. It was specifically that magazine, really. Every weekend, I would be in Barnes & Noble, because they have a fashion section, and then also a gay section. At the same time, I was looking at just gay shit, because you couldn’t find it anywhere. I didn’t really use the computer like that.
THOM:
It was all right there. The fashion aisle and the gay aisle.
babak:
Right next to each other!


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THOM:
Were there pop cultural figures of this time, style-wise, that you were drawn to?
TELFAR:
All the R&B divas. Specifically, I would say that any pop culture person that identified as lesbian is on my list of style icons. It was just like, “Are they a lesbian? I see myself in them.”
THOM:
Missy Elliott?
TELFAR:
Obviously. I’ve said it a million times. TV is so impressionable on style, and it was specifically music videos, because that was the medium. That was the main event for everything.
THOM:
I’m curious, as you moved from making clothes to starting the brand, what was New York like at that time? You were obviously close with the people working on DIS Magazine2 and Hood By Air3. Did it feel like you guys were collectively working side by side on something?
TELFAR :
Not really in that kind of way. I was definitely doing the thing, but kind of quiet about what I was doing with other people. I wasn’t talking to Shayne [Oliver, the co-founder of Hood by Air] about what I was making. I was just making stuff. I don’t remember there being a conversation about what I was going to make.
babak:
I was doing stuff for DIS. I was at the first meeting with DIS, because I was already doing a magazine4, and they thought it was going to be a print magazine.
TELFAR:
It wasn’t really work yet, like, “I need to make a living.” It was like, “I’m trying to figure out how to make this thing.” I just remember being like, “Oh, I want to make this thing because it’s not around. I want to make this thing because I really want to wear it. I want to make this thing because that thing doesn’t exist.” That was the exciting thing about it.
THOM:
When did you realise that making clothes could be your job?
TELFAR:
I didn’t even think that it was a job. I was going to be an accountant. I stayed in business school because I didn’t trust that fashion was sustainable at all. I still kind of don’t trust it. At that time, I was selling stuff on consignment. There was this Lower East Side thing of people who made clothes and sold other people’s clothes, which supported them being able to make their own clothes. I was like, “I want to be like that.” At this point, I decided that I’m not going to be an accountant, because I want to make clothes and figure out how to not have to deal with anyone—do it on my own.
babak:
Except for your friends.

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TELFAR:
Except for my friends because I wanted to make my friends clothes. At that time, Shayne made clothes too. It was the beginning of everybody actually just making their own clothes.
THOM:
At some point, around that time, DIS wrote something that I think defined that era. They had this manifesto “not being Downtown and not being Uptown”
TELFAR:
It’s cooler to be Midtown than Downtown.
babak:
The way regular shit actually looked crazier than all these projections of the future.
THOM:
Exactly. One of your early slogans was: “Not for you, for everyone.” There was also the proliferation of “normcore” as a concept at this time. I don’t know if it was about the rise of social media or what, but it felt like the first time that something mainstream could be the subject of high fashion.
TELFAR :
The most high fashion. At that time, I remember working in Midtown, so I would literally be coming from Red Hook into the city, and you would see every kind of silhouette. You get to Midtown, and then it’s New Jersey––and all of these inter-borough, hotel-visitor-type people that you could spot from a mile away. The one item that you see in every single borough is the one item I wanted to fuck with, you know? Because you just saw every version of it. It’s like the ballet flat.
babak:
You ask yourself what are my raw materials? Telfar’s raw material is the ballet flat, the polo shirt––the stuff that’s already here that’s raw as hell.
TELFAR:
Totally, it’s raw, it’s so available and people also don’t even know what they’re wearing. It’s just available. It’s so quick and it’s so easy. I remember at that time people weren’t wearing leggings. The person wearing leggings outside was wild.
babak:
It was crazy to go outside like that. That moment was actually before social media, before this hyper-individualisation of today where we don’t even see the same world because we all see a different feed. And somehow, we thought individualism was retro. We were so profoundly wrong when we imagined the future because it felt like this idea of individual distinction was already so tired. We were interested in the mass—now everything is individualised while getting less and less distinct at the same time, do you know what I mean?


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THOM:
With most independent brands, the goal is to create a niche energy and sell very expensive things to a small cohort of clients. But it always felt like you guys were creating a prototype for something that could be mass-produced. Even when it was niche, it still had ambitions that were more mainstream.
babak:
What was different about what Telfar was doing from the general-postmodern-deconstruction thing that was in fashion in the early 2000s, is that it wasn’t about elevation. The framework wasn’t taking a common thing as an ironic joke, then elevating it into a luxury item.
THOM:
That’s more the Margiela or Demna vibe.
babak:
It was coming from a different place that wasn’t a joke about mass production. It was a provocation of what could be mass—that what could be mass could actually be different. When we started working together, when I look back on it, everything we did from the very first shoot was projecting [Telfar] as Isaac Mizrahi. Actually, at the first show, the quote [we used] was, “I want to be Michael Kors, but on purpose.”
TELFAR:
Again, people don’t even know what they’re wearing when they’re wearing it. At that time, you would just see a Michael Kors bag everywhere. That’s what I consider fashion to be. If you saw it on six or seven different types of people that are going in all these different directions, that’s fashion.
THOM:
Early on, you were plugging the brand into different things besides the fashion system. You did projects at art museums long before you had a show in Europe. For example, the New Museum show you did in 2014, which if I remember correctly was where your famous bag debuted. And they were sponsored by Kmart! At that time, a fashion brand being plugged into the art system versus the fashion system wasn’t really happening. How did that come about? Was it just the path of least resistance?
TELFAR:
Sort of. People in art appreciate what I do more than fashion.
babak:
This year has really made me go back to that time period, and I realised something kind of funny. Pre-2008, we’re all doing our thing, and we are the next generation and we have a certain vision of the future, right? Then the financial crash of 2008 happens ——
THOM:
—fashion really regressed in the recession.
TELFAR :
Regressed! That’s when Rag & Bone became popular.
THOM:
I think of selvedge denim when I think about that time.
TELFAR:
Completely. It was like, “No, people can’t really take a risk and buy clothes like [ours].” It got really conservative.
babak:
It got really conservative. If we bring ourselves back to that point: My whole plan was I was going to be a commercial art director, and then I would have lots of free time to do the shit I liked. DIS was trying to have a magazine. Telfar was trying to have a fashion brand. Fatima [Al Qadiri] was trying to make music. Ryan [Trecartin] was trying to make TV or a big vampire movie. We wanted to be part of mass culture—but the masses were getting squeezed. So we all ended up in art museums. All of us ended up as art refugees.
TELFAR:
The fashion world was very rigid. And also, I hated it just as much as it hated me, you know what I mean?
babak:
But these were also survival strategies. We had to innovate because whatever the normal route was not open to us—so the Telfar bag was actually born in an art museum6. It was an art object, an art installation.
THOM:
At this time, you were doing a lot, but when you look back at the press archive, a lot of things weren’t really captured. Did you just not care about press? Or did you feel like they were ignoring you?
TELFAR:
I feel like that’s one of the reasons that video became such a big part of the work. Because I was like, “No one’s going to see the collection at all. No magazine wants to shoot it.”

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TELFAR:
It was like, so let’s get Jaiko [Suzuki, artist] to take a Super 8. Let’s have DIS actually shoot it and we do a really cool video that actually just means something. Each time I would make clothes, it would be some sort of collaboration. I usually was with someone in the artworld that would help bring it. It was really about how to make things work to our benefit, after all of the work that we put into the thing. We wanted our work to actually just go somewhere that’s appreciated, actually understood, rather than just making it for Style.com and Vogue. People that don’t care.
THOM:
Why didn’t they care?
TELFAR:
When I would look at the European young designers that would come out, they’re on the cover of the magazine the first day. I kept being like, “If I was in London or in Paris, this would’ve been worked out.”
babak:
But it wasn’t just the location. The reality is that fashion is a colonial institution. It’s the same wing of the State protecting regional cheeses and wines. And it’s about a monopoly over a certain product. And the product is cultural. Fashion has to remain French—which is to say white. It doesn’t matter if there’s not even one French designer left in it. They own that category, right? And as long as they have that monopoly, they’re going to be in a privileged position in what is one of their major exports, which is luxury. So if there are 10 years where Telfar isn’t getting covered, it’s because it’s not seen as exploitable, or even relevant to the task of exploitation, which is about controlling a narrative about what is valuable. So you’re looking at the world, you’re looking at who has money, and where the money is, and you look at Telfar—and it’s like, “This has nothing to do with our values.”
TELFAR:
In that period of the 2010s, people could just take the thing. We were presenting new ideas about things and they would end up on other brands’ runways or collections.
THOM:
Was there a time this happened where you were like, “Damn?”
TELFAR:
I don’t even feel like mentioning them, though, because it would be a long list. [Laughs.] The Jeremy Scott plastic bag one. That was one-to-one. DIS clocked that.
babak:
Our bag as a merchandising strategy did not exist. It’s the core of so many brands now.
TELFAR:
That’s everybody’s. There was that jean... honestly, I could make a list of my jeans on other designer’s runways.
babak:
The triple boot too.
TELFAR:
Yes, the triple UGG boot. It was a very specific point in time, where these brands with the infrastructure and the resources could take from anywhere––and it was fine.
babak:
It was before the comment section. Those brands were under so much pressure to grow—they needed the new ideas, so they took from people who literally just didn’t have the resources to do shit. So we are like a raw material for their mood board––you can just take this. Our entire approach to runway integrated with music and community, that’s every runway show now. The word “community” was probably the central word of global marketing for the last five years. … Alexander Wang came for our half tank. Balenciaga did our jeans a few times. Marc Jacobs foremost—the bag, the marketing, the customer. That’s really shameless. Marc Jacobs was really struggling before that bag.


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THOM:
It still is. But before we get to the present let’s talk about the White Castle moment. It felt like a project that brought a lot of new people into the brand

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babak:
My job was to communicate what the clothes were saying and what they were doing—which was something radical—into other mediums; videos, words, runway shows. But also into a way of operating in the real world. So if the clothes are making this impossible claim around scale—around being mass—we need to make impossibly big shows. Videos that look like Gap ads, spaces that look like malls. ... So that was the impetus for starting to work with Kmart and put it in the New Museum. Suddenly, journalists could write about what the clothes were doing because it was reflected in the whole experience. All of a sudden we got press—and it also looked big even though we were broke. All that shit was done by just sponsor-decking our asses off. Before targeted ads, brands had to sponsor shit. So all you had to do was convince brands you’re the shit by making a fucking PDF. It was on purpose that we started seeking out these types of sponsors who nobody else wanted to touch. But it was also a necessity because we couldn’t go to beauty brands—that was a Caucasian industry. The idea of making anything for non-Caucasian skin––you’d be wearing foundation that’s so many shades lighter. So you sell the idea of the New Museum to Kmart and the idea of Kmart to the New Museum.
TELFAR:
That was right before the CFDAs.
THOM:
What made you guys decide to do the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund?
babak:
I looked through all my old emails trying to find the exact message, but basically someone emailed me that we should apply to the Fund. We were hesitating about entering because we barely had resources for the regular shit that we were trying to do, but then we had this idea to not just design the uniforms for White Castle but to produce them. That was a 20,000 unit order. White Castle meant a check big enough that we could actually be a company. That’s how we got Spencer [Morgan Taylor, producer] to come on for all the things we were doing. Instead of just getting together for the show twice a year, we were going to work together every day and we were going to win this fucking thing.
THOM:
The CFDA is part of the institution you guys were outside of for a long time. When you won, did it feel like you were inside the machine? Or did that happen when you showed in Paris for the first time in 2019?
TELFAR:
We had to almost not even say we were showing in Paris. People in the CFDA did not want us to. They block you from doing that. The French people didn’t want us there, either.
babak:
But we were being promoted like this up-and-coming “diversity” thing, and we were very aware of that and of the limitations. It wasn’t only happening to us. That was a cultural initiative of diversity with very specific goals to benefit those in power—not us. You would get tons of press and no sales, and it was clear we were being used. We started to get more and more intentional and challenging—we would say in our press release: “If everyone in this show is Black, how can you say it’s inclusive?” And they would say it was a shining example of inclusivity. So what does that mean? The only way an all-Black show is inclusive is if you assume that the viewer or reader must be white. That it is all done for white people to watch and consume. Which is exactly what it is. They have a diversity quota—and that is the only reason they are covering our show. So you get a glowing review, and reading it is actually disgusting.
TELFAR:
Just being in that entire system is where you see your place—who you’re sitting next to at any dinner. It’s like, “Oh, y’all at the Black table?” Then, when they want to mix, it’s like you’re there for a specific purpose to make them feel something. I would leave those events feeling really annoyed. Also, I didn’t have fun. Nobody there is having fun.

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babak:
That’s the lesson: How do we do this for each other—not for some viewer.
TELFAR:
—and actually enjoy it?
THOM:
It was interesting, because at that time, it was like there was this idea that the industry was going to reinvent itself by finding avant-garde geniuses and then elevating them. That was like when Demna was taking off with Balenciaga, and Virgil at Louis Vuitton, and all the rumours around Martine Rose—
babak:
It became exploitable.
THOM:
To me, another turning point feels like the transition from The Gap project you started in 2020.
babak:
We were trying to move forward from this trap that we were in. When we showed at Pitti Uomo [in January 2020], we were pretty sure we were going to stop showing after that. Period.
THOM:
Really?
BABAK:
Gap was supposed to give us a gap year—a bridge to exit the fashion system and wholesale and just go direct with our own people. They rolled out the red carpet—but when they finally made their proposal it was literally an appearance fee as part of a diversity initiative. I was really disgusted, and I made them a crazy proposal. I asked them, “What is the budget for this entire diversity proposal?—which is actually going to some white ad agency, and not us? Give us that whole budget, and we will come on as the designer and the agency. We will make the clothes, the campaign, the billboards, and the TV ads—it’s a bold move—and you will see the cultural impact.” They were on board.
TELFAR:
I just don’t know what would have happened if that happened, but I’m glad it didn’t.
babak:
When Covid hit—The Gap was the only incoming check. And then nothing...
THOM:
They just ghosted you guys?
TELFAR:
They had shut down.
babak:
“This email address no longer exists.”
THOM:
Wow. Then all of a sudden, Kanye is doing it.
babak:
That’s what actually happened.
TELFAR:
That’s literally what happened, but I don’t regret it at all.
THOM:
But Covid ended up being the supernova moment for you commercially with the bag. Did you guys consciously engineer that as a way to get money in?
babak:
We didn’t.
TELFAR:
At that time, we were acting differently on social media. We were just reposting whatever people posted with Telfar in it. When the bag started selling out in minutes, we were reposting every single story.

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babak:
Other brands basically went offline—but we were just reposting, reposting, and reposting. So many people started posting pictures, and they were really funny, because people are basically documenting Covid, right? I remember there was a newsreel thing from BBC about airports shutting down, and this girl walks by with a Telfar bag. Post that. People in line for groceries and toilet paper. Post that. The brand didn’t stop. It was taken over by people. So, it just started to do its own thing, you know?
THOM:
You were like, “Okay, I’m just going to make the community the content.”
babak:
It’s not that simple. In retrospect, it’s easy to forget that the actual experience of Covid was this radical opening of the unknown. The media, the State—could not project images of the future. The future was unknown—and people had to fill in the blank, and the stakes were literally life or death. Okay—so there was an unleashing of the imagination. We had zero strategy around the bag and Covid—our strategy had started a year before—and it was about freedom from self-exploitation: to be able to just depend directly on people like us, instead of selling people like us to the power structure. That was what we were doing—and then, at a certain moment—when the world is upside down—all of a sudden, masses of people wanted that, too. The bag became this symbol.
TELFAR:
Also, people just didn’t want to keep spending their money on things that meant luxury. It was kind of like this: accessibility, easiness, and the Covid energy of people dressing very easily.

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THOM:
So this user-generated-content wave was also what led to Telfar TV. What was the mission of the TV studio? Because you’ve got this bag that’s selling really great, and you’ve got new resources. How did that feel like the place to focus?
babak:
Well, we were exiting fashion, so we did it for our own audience.
TELFAR:
When I would see what the brand was on the internet, I would just want to bundle the energy, take it off Instagram, and have our own platform and our own way of communicating with people.
babak:
That was such a meaningful process, the way that our intentions linked up with a mass change. When the bag just kept selling and selling and selling, I was like––this could just turn into some random product, because the significance-to-sales ratio is being diminished the more it sells. We need to take this money and do something that connects with the actual desire behind why people are buying this bag to begin with. Which is essentially a desire for another world. How do you do that? Not by buying a bag. Not by making one person rich. Telfar TV was supposed to be this experiment, creating a very fucking different set of material conditions. So that’s the same way we exited the fashion industry: What about filmmakers? What about writers? What if they were funded by their own people, and not through some studio, not through some platform? What would happen? Could mass communication make a cultural foundation for mass exit strategies? For real material change? That was the basis of that kind of experiment.
THOM:
Then, that kind of morphs into the store, which is covered in video screens.
TELFAR:
We were asking ourselves, “Do we want the store to make money, or is it more about coming there and actually experiencing what Telfar is?” We had a lot of new customers from the bags who knew nothing about the history of Telfar, and why people were into us. I always thought of the bag as the entry point to the brand, but it also became a situation where people would just buy the bag.
babak:
Today, the bag is seen as just a product. It’s not even connected to a person anymore. It’s not connected with a story. It’s not connected with intention. And so, with the store, there was this desire to create something small and more intimate.
TELFAR:
And with the show [in June 2025], the first collection made in New York, it’s going to be a show where you can actually go and buy the thing in the store. It’s more one-to-one, being able to touch it, see it right after. I feel like it’s a different scenario now.
THOM:
When I think about this story from start to finish, it’s about shedding everything that sits in between you and the audience. Most brands, they have an audience, but they have investors and retailers and there’s all this shit that’s—
TELFAR:
—blocking the way. We’re finally getting to this place of just being people that know what they’re doing because they’ve been doing it.
babak:
It’s funny because we have gotten so much press for every little thing we did over the years, but there’s never been an article that has even mentioned, by the way, this is the largest Black-owned company in fashion. That’s not press-worthy because that’s not a narrative that serves power. Diversity is a narrative that serves power. But honestly, being the biggest company was never our intention. Our intention was to be able to live and work and express ourselves without just feeding back into this power structure. Our individual success has not made that true. It’s better than being owned by an investor and beholden to the industry—but it’s totally incomplete. The changes we want are not going to come from selling or buying a bag. It’s going to take real organisation and real resistance, which requires a culture. And we want to contribute to that—in any fucking butterfly-flapping-its-wings kind of way we can—and it’s not easy or fast. But that’s what keeps us going. Because it’s not about the money.