When Balenciaga unveiled the Triple S in 2017, the sneaker world collectively squinted. This was not a shoe that whispered elegance or nodded to athletic heritage. It was a deliberate, bulbous, multi-layered behemoth that looked like it had been assembled from the spare parts of a dozen forgotten dad shoes. Its exaggerated sole, chunky mesh and leather panels, and deliberately distressed finishing defied every conventional rule of footwear design. Yet within months, the Triple S had become the most copied, discussed, and divisive sneaker on the market, and in doing so, it permanently altered the trajectory of sneaker culture. The shoe did not merely introduce a new silhouette; it inaugurated an entire aesthetic movement—the ugly sneaker trend—that would reshape how luxury fashion, streetwear, and mass-market brands approached the design and marketing of footwear.

The Triple S was the brainchild of Demna Gvasalia, Balenciaga’s creative director and a master of subversive fashion. Gvasalia had already made a name for himself with Vetements, where he championed a deliberately anti-luxury, ironic take on consumer culture. At Balenciaga, he applied that same logic to sneakers. Where previous luxury sneaker efforts—such as those from Gucci or Saint Laurent—had focused on minimalism, premium materials, and subtle branding, the Triple S was maximalist, rough, and almost confrontationally unattractive. Its layered sole was inspired by the running shoes of the 1990s, but exaggerated to the point of absurdity. The upper combined elements of basketball, running, and hiking shoes in a Frankenstein-like patchwork. It was a shoe that screamed for attention while simultaneously mocking the very idea of fashion.

The immediate reaction was polarized. Purists decried the Triple S as a cynical gimmick, a $800 shoe that looked like it cost twenty dollars at a thrift store. Critics called it a passing fad, a joke that would soon wear thin. Yet the shoe’s commercial success proved otherwise. It sold out instantly, spawned countless imitations from brands like Adidas, Nike, and Skechers, and became a staple on runways, street style blogs, and the feet of celebrities from Rihanna to A$AP Rocky. The ugly sneaker trend was born, and it refused to die. The key to its longevity lay in its cultural resonance. The Triple S arrived at a time when sneaker culture was becoming saturated with retro Jordan retros and minimal white leather silhouettes. Consumers, particularly younger ones, were hungry for novelty. Gvasalia provided it in a form that was simultaneously nostalgic and futuristic, familiar and alien.

The impact of the Triple S extends far beyond its own sales figures. It forced the entire footwear industry to reconsider what a sneaker could look like and what it could mean. Before 2017, luxury sneakers were largely about refinement: clean lines, muted colors, and logos embossed on smooth leather. After the Triple S, luxury sneakers became about attitude, volume, and deliberate ugliness. Brands like Louis Vuitton, Prada, and Dior quickly released their own chunky, layered models. Even heritage athletic brands like New Balance and Asics saw their classic 990 series—long dismissed as orthopedic dad shoes—rediscovered and celebrated precisely because they looked “ugly” in the same way. The Triple S had flipped the hierarchy: what was once an embarrassment became a status symbol.

The ugly sneaker trend also democratized luxury sneaker design in an unexpected way. By embracing a silhouette that was inherently low-status—a mash-up of cheap, functional shoes from the pre-athleisure era—Balenciaga made a pointed commentary on class and taste. The Triple S was a two-fingered salute to the notion that luxury must be beautiful. It argued that fashion’s most powerful statement is often about context rather than form. Wearing an intentionally ugly, expensive shoe communicated that the wearer was in on the joke, that they understood the codes of fashion well enough to subvert them. This kind of irony-fueled status signaling became the dominant mode of sneaker culture for the next several years, influencing everything from the rise of Crocs to the popularity of oversized, bulbous silhouettes from brands like Eytys and Hoka.

Today, the ugly sneaker trend has evolved, but its DNA remains visible in every chunky sole, every exaggerated heel counter, every deliberately clunky proportion. The Triple S paved the way for models like the Balenciaga Runner, the Track, and the X-Pander, each pushing the aesthetic further into abstraction. More importantly, it demonstrated that luxury fashion could lead rather than follow sneaker culture. Before the Triple S, luxury brands largely borrowed from athletic heritage. After the Triple S, they asserted their own visual language, one that was sometimes alienating, sometimes hilarious, but never boring. The ugly sneaker was not a mistake or a fad; it was a revolution, and Balenciaga lit the fuse.