Can the Cult of Kiko Kostadinov Go Mainstream?

On a muggy New York day in late July, Kiko Kostadinov is poking around an upscale vintage store in Williamsburg. Kostadinov, 35, is one of the most talented fashion designers of his generation, a tattooed brainiac from Bulgaria whose namesake London-based brand is on a serious hot streak. Kostadinov’s left-field runway collections are flying out of stock rooms, and a steady stream of collaborations with the likes of Asics and Levi’s is generating ever-more hype for his independent operation. Still, nothing appears to make Kostadinov happier than digging through piles of dusty garments.

He’s not here to shop, not exactly. The normally shy Kostadinov is on a research mission, searching for unusual clothes that might inspire his own unusual designs. “I already have a rack of, like, 20 things there,” he says, thumbing at a swath of pieces he’s put aside, before sticking his arms back into a rack of midcentury dresses. There are plenty of handsome chore coats and secondhand staples nearby, but the designer seeks much weirder source material. “It could be a pattern, it could be the way they washed it,” he explains, moving on to some ugly ’80s blouses that are a riot of shiny rayon and shoulder pads and confounding pleats—exactly the kinds of ersatz details he abstracts in his idiosyncratic, futuristic menswear.

Kiko Kostadinov’s silhouettes morph season after season. From top: Fall 2024, spring 2020, spring 2024. Vogue Runway

As he rubs fabrics between his fingers and turns things inside out, I wonder if this is what it was like to witness Yves Saint Laurent trawling the souks of Marrakech, assembling a radical worldview stitch by stitch. “I don’t know why I love these pieces so much,” he says, examining an exquisitely strange ruffled pullover that I can almost see morphing into a runway look. Because, perhaps, it already has: “And then I have to go—Stop, I have so many!”

Today, Kostadinov is going incognito by his standards, wearing an oversized vintage Orvis T-shirt and flowy black trousers of his own design. A ball cap is pulled low over his dark brows. His clothes tend to attract attention because Kostadinov seems to reject the easy and approachable. His jackets are mutated hybrids of references spanning sartorial history, cultural motifs from his native Bulgaria, and art; his shirts shaped by a jungle of complex darting techniques. In the fast-fashion era, Kostadinov’s singular weirdness is an advantage: “It’s not copyable,” remarks the contemporary artist Ryan Trecartin, a close collaborator of Kostadinov’s.

Kostadinov founded the brand in 2016 after graduating from London’s Central Saint Martins, and has found steady growth ever since. Yet after nearly a decade he still has a hard time shaking his reputation as a cult designer. He is often referred to as an artist—a compliment but a telling one. The brand is stocked in many specialty high-fashion stores but few mainstream outlets, and critics have at times questioned whether his clothes are too complicated. Implicit in such critiques is that they are far too niche for a widespread audience.

Kostadinov, for his part, doesn’t seem to care about critics’ idea of scalability. “I just want to make cool shit,” he says. This strategy seems to be working: His renown—and business—is growing rapidly. In 2024, he opened an office in Paris and a retail store in Tokyo, designed by Trecartin, that has at times attracted lengthy lines of eager shoppers. “Most of the stuff that we make for the show we sell,” Kostadinov notes as he fiddles with pieces of wool and polyester. “Now with the store, it’s a game changer.”

Last summer, he jolted the June edition of a relatively turgid Paris Fashion Week back to life with a presentation of what he referred to as science-fiction clothing for now. Those clothes were some of his weirdest and most compelling to date, with wool herringbone blousons bearing armor-like chest panels, simple cotton trousers made complex through intricate pleating down the legs, ankle-length tunics in crisp poplins of electric blue and faded lime, padded hats that unfolded into wearable gilets, and puckered-nylon pirate boots. Every silhouette that walked down the spartan runway packed a concise visual punch; every piece examined backstage revealed a suite of ingenious details. “We can’t create emotion through a big set or through special invitation,” he acknowledges. “The only way to create emotion is through the clothes.”

You can find precedents for focused creative mavericks establishing global followings in Kostadinov’s closet. He is a tier-zero clothing obsessive, with an encyclopedic knowledge of fashion history and a collection of rare Yohji Yamamoto pieces—a patron saint of garmento nerd-dom. He also looks up to Rick Owens, independent purveyor of luxury wraithlike rave garb. “I would love to wear it,” he says, “but it’s not really practical for me.”

Like Owens, Kostadinov is the best model and muse for his own work. And like Owens, he commands a hard-core customer base that embraces his passions unreservedly: On Discord, there’s a 1,000-strong Kiko Kostadinov fan club where members flex their collections. But lately, his work has begun to creep into more public spaces thanks to a handful of celebrities dedicated to developing singular personal styles. Timothée Chalamet, for one, has taken to wearing ugly-cool Asics sneakers of Kostadinov’s design. And Stefon Diggs takes time out of his itinerary of big--budget Paris Fashion Week shows to sit front row at Kostadinov’s low-key catwalks. “I haven’t seen anything like it,” Diggs says. “These days you see a lot of the same things repeatedly, maybe a little tweak on the silhouette. But Kiko is really jumping out there to do something totally different.”

Kostadinov was first captivated by clothing as a teenager in Pazardzhik, Bulgaria. At the time, the former member of the Soviet bloc was not exactly a fashion hot spot, and the words TK Maxx held an exotic mystique to a young Kostadinov, who waited by the door for sportswear by brands like Umbro that an uncle living in London would send home. “When I opened this treasure box I felt like, Wow,” he recalls. “It was kind of like wearing Saint Laurent for me now, that kind of level.”

From top: Fall 2018, spring 2023, spring 2021. Vogue Runway

His family joined the uncle in 2006 when Kostadinov was 16. Kiko barely spoke English, and often retreated to high-street clothing stores between and after classes. After bailing on an IT training program, he applied to Central Saint Martins, getting in on his second try. When he arrived, he furiously played catch-up. “I had to learn about contemporary art, Margiela, Comme—I had no idea,” he says. After earning his BA, he landed in the school’s prestigious MA fashion menswear program, becoming an expert in the language and history of fashion, funding his tuition by buying vintage Issey Miyake and Comme des Garçons pieces from Japan and reselling them on eBay.

“What I admire most about Kiko is that he decided who he wanted to become and actively made himself into that person,” recalls Olya Kuryshchuk, the founder and editor in chief of fashion magazine 1 Granary, who overlapped with Kostadinov at school. “I don’t think I’ve ever met another student as determined as Kiko was at university.”

Now, Kostadinov co-owns the entirety of his company with Laura and Deanna Fanning, the Australian twin sisters who have been creative directors of Kiko Kostadinov womenswear since 2018, when Kostadinov hired them out of Central Saint Martins. It’s a notable setup, reminiscent of the creative structure of some of LVMH’s biggest houses, which split duties between men’s and women’s designers. The brand now counts 30-some employees, including Kostadinov’s mother, who works in production.

“Whenever people are like, The big fashion houses are so established that there’s no way to emerge as one now, I’m always like, No, that’s not true,” says Trecartin. “Kiko is definitely going to be as big as these fashion houses someday.”

But does Kostadinov actually want to go huge? Back in 2017, he began filling his engine with rocket fuel when he launched a collaboration with Japanese sportswear giant Asics. The partnership is one of an ever-evolving buffet of side projects that reflect Kostadinov’s deep capacity for reinvention and deft understanding of how to create desire, like an intentionally enigmatic line of art merch dubbed Otto 958, space-age leather goods made with Ecco.Kollektive, and new made-to-order Japanese furniture.

When the first Kiko Kostadinov x Asics dropped, it was in the midst of a bumper crop of sneaker collabs with emerging talents. But when Kostadinov’s futuristic trainer in limeade was swiftly snatched up by contemporary taste arbiters like Kanye West, Kostadinov had the insider status symbol sneaker of the moment—a ticket to fashion stardom any of his young, cash-strapped designer peers would have killed for.

So it came as a surprise when Kostadinov hit the brakes on the collab in 2019, pulling his namesake footwear from the runway. “People were recognizing the shoes more than the brand,” he says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t study so long in fashion school and pay for my fees and start the brand for it to be turned into a sneaker corporation.” Kostadinov instead pitched Asics a unisex sportswear line dubbed Asics Novalis, as well as a separate line of styles “curated” by the designer—the ones Chalamet was photographed in while pumping gas in LA last December. To his credit, by renegotiating the partnership on his own terms, Kostadinov’s sequel Asics project seems poised to be an even bigger blockbuster than the first.

On that afternoon in late July, Kostadinov appears to be reconsidering his dedication to niche. As we head to the checkout with a couple thousand dollars’ worth of garments in tow, he is describing the commercial reception to his June show when he casually drops the news he’s been keeping to himself all afternoon: “And we’re opening a new store in LA.”

He flashes an almost sheepish grin when he notices my surprised reaction. Kostadinov has made a career out of keeping his audience guessing, but I wouldn’t have bet that he would open his second flagship out in Los Angeles, nobody’s idea of an avant-garde fashion town. Is this Kostadinov building his global fashion house, or another eccentric twist in his brand’s nonlinear evolution? Could it be both?

Kostadinov in his Tokyo store, designed by Ryan Trecartin as more art exhibition than retail space.

Four months after our shopping trip, Kostadinov is putting the finishing touches on the Los Angeles store. Literally—on a bright afternoon in late November, a few hours before the grand opening, a few employees are hurriedly stapling roofing shingles to the walls.

From top: Fall 2021, fall 2022, and spring 2025. Vogue Runway

The shop is smack in the middle of the buzzy micro-neighborhood of Melrose Hill, which in the past few years has been transformed by hip developers from a stretch of auto body shops and discount furniture stores into a pocket of photogenic cafés and art galleries. The corner space is in a pleasant mission-style complex on North Western Avenue, about a block away from a sprawling new David Zwirner gallery complex. The plan is to open the doors for a cocktail party in a few hours’ time, and Kostadinov is quietly discussing the evening with Laura and Deanna. (Kiko and Deanna got married in August. They wore custom Kiko to the altar.)

“Everyone says it’s going to be crazy,” notes Kostadinov, who is wearing a gray hoodie with the name “Trecartin” splashed across the hem in electric blue type. Kostadinov tapped Ryan to design the store, which currently looks like a sort of fantasy suburban landscape under alien invasion, with floor-to-ceiling roofing shingles, a grassy green carpet, and clothes hung from fixtures that look like they could have been sourced from a Dover Street Market on Mars. “I’m like, okay, that’s good,” adds Kostadinov, who has been posting the opening-announcement flyer all over Instagram. “The more people there are, the more I can kind of hide in a corner.”

Though he’s getting used to growing pains, it still seems to bug Kostadinov that the job of global fashion designer involves duties other than cutting fabric and pinning patterns on a mannequin in his bustling London studio. “Obviously, I have an opinion on image and how things need to look in a campaign, or I will be involved in the process of picking a color for, I don’t know, a chair?” he muses. “It’s not what a fashion designer is supposed to do. Do I like it? I don’t mind it, but I like just making clothes, really.”

Kostadinov’s clothes thrum with a strangeness and surprise more often found in contemporary art than fashion. His deep ties to the art world stretch back to one of his side projects, when, in 2018, gallerist Al Morán tapped Kostadinov to soft-launch a fine-art practice at his space, Morán Morán. The show, titled “Otto 958,” revealed Kostadinov’s experimental tailoring process in five overcoats combined with vintage cycling and rugby jerseys, which hung from the sculptural racks that now sit in the store. “I think there’s just a deep connection between how Kiko thinks about art and how he thinks about fashion,” says Morán. “He builds those bridges in a really considered way.” Then, in a very Kiko move, Kostadinov and Morán turned Otto 958 into a line of limited edition art-adjacent merchandise—yet another outlet for his restless creativity.

In LA, the bearded Morán is overseeing the final preparations for the grand opening. (He had introduced Kostadinov to Trecartin, a star on the Morán Morán roster.) “I’m so washed on current aesthetics,” Morán notes with approval. “I feel like right now what the world needs is maximalism and a real POV that stands for something.” Trecartin adds, speaking of Kostadinov: “He was like, Make it an installation. Think of it as making art. Don’t think about what I want.”

A few hours later, when it’s time to open the shop, Kostadinov can’t afford to hide in the corner. “We need more staff!” he exclaims as a steady stream of bodies pours through the door and heads straight for the merchandise. Outside, a 50-deep queue stretches down the sidewalk. There is such a shopping frenzy underway that a bartender set up in the courtyard is left idly playing with her phone. About an hour in, Kostadinov is rushing to replenish the racks when there’s a knock on the window: Steve Lacy, trying to skip the line. Kostadinov lets Lacy in and gives him a familial hug before the pop star grabs a pricey leather jacket with geometric pockets cut across the front.

Lacy has been one of Kostadinov’s best clients since 2018. “Kiko is my favorite because he keeps my inner child alive,” Lacy says, his eyes lighting up as he caresses a pair of zip-off cargo pants.

If Kiko Kostadinov is still a cult designer, the cult might be much bigger and more intense than even he imagined. And it’s expanding in real time. Along with Lacy, there are plenty of diehards in the house, with rare blousons bearing years of wear on their backs. But there are also plenty of outsiders without a pleat among them hungrily grabbing their first pair of advanced trousers.

By the bar, I find Deanna catching a breath of fresh air. “I remember we had a meeting with a really big e-comm stockist to buy our first collection, and the buyer was like, Oh, you don’t have any dresses here, I’m not going to be able to sell this collection,” she says with a laugh. “Anyway, that e-comm store doesn’t exist anymore.”

It’s a fitting metaphor for what’s happening inside. Rather than abandoning his niche on the way up, Kostadinov is building a new fashion establishment in his image.

Once Lacy has bought the last of the half-dozen leather jackets available, the crew heads to a nearby wine bar to celebrate—the night’s sales have exceeded all expectations. With Morán playing host and Trecartin holding court, it feels more like a gallery party than a fashion dinner. Both men agree that Kostadinov could be considered a contemporary artist in his own right. But Kostadinov, now undeniably at the helm of an ascendant fashion powerhouse, is uncomfortable with the comparison. “I always try to learn from artists,” Kostadinov tells me, “but I’m not an artist. I’m a fashion designer. I’m not even a creative director. I’m just a designer. I’m a clothing designer.”

Samuel Hine is GQ’s senior fashion writer.

A version of this story originally appeared in the March 2025 issue of GQ with the title “Can the Cult of Kiko Kostadinov Go Mainstream?”