The Rise, Fall, and Reinvention of Quiet Luxury:A Study in Fashion’s Most Elusive Trend

A Brief History of Stealth Wealth

The concept of restrained elegance—clothing that whispers rather than shouts—has existed long before TikTok declared The Row a cultural phenomenon. Historically, the ultra-wealthy have always had an affinity for understated dressing, a direct counterpoint to the ostentatious displays of nouveau riche opulence. Think Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy in the ‘90s, swathed in bias-cut slip dresses and cashmere coats, or even Coco Chanel’s rejection of excess in the 1920s, favoring structured tailoring over the frills of Belle Époque fashion.

Even in the ‘70s, luxury wasn’t always a monogrammed Louis Vuitton suitcase. Halston epitomized the quiet luxury of his era, making fluid, impeccably cut jersey dresses that looked effortless but cost a small fortune. Fast-forward to the ‘90s and early 2000s, and Phoebe Philo’s Celine became the textbook example of elevated minimalism: butter-soft leathers, clean lines, and an absence of logos, because true wealth didn’t need to be advertised.

Fast forward to 2023-2024, and suddenly, quiet luxury is a marketing goldmine. Brands like Loro Piana, Brunello Cucinelli, and Toteme saw surges in popularity, their muted palettes and discreet tailoring serving as a direct contrast to the logomania and Y2K revival that had dominated runways just a season prior. The HBO show Succession became an unintentional lookbook for the aesthetic, with Shiv Roy’s draped Ralph Lauren turtlenecks and cashmere coats turning her into a reluctant fashion icon.

But what’s interesting is how quickly quiet luxury was co-opted by the masses. Suddenly, high-street brands were mimicking the look—Zara pumping out camel wool coats, Mango producing Toteme-esque scarves—diluting the exclusivity of what was once reserved for those who didn’t need to prove their wealth. And therein lies the irony: when something designed to be anti-trend becomes the trend, does it lose its meaning?