Somewhere in a quiet Tokyo studio, surrounded by wilting soles and the soft glow of polished petals, Kosuke Sugimoto is tending to a garden unlike any other. It’s not made of roses or orchids. It’s blooming from sneakers. Not the kind you’d toss in a gym bag, but vintage, iconic pairs that once stomped through runways and city streets—now reborn into sculptural flower arrangements that whisper something deeper about fashion, time, and the art of letting go 🌸.
At first glance, Sugimoto’s Shoetree project might feel like a playful homage to sneaker culture, something whimsical and clever. But spend a little time with his work, and you realize it’s quietly dissecting the entire concept of luxury. In a world that often worships the pristine and the new, Sugimoto finds meaning in what’s worn, crumbling, and forgotten. His art doesn’t reject consumer culture—it reimagines it, giving luxury sneakers a second life after their laces have frayed and their soles have crumbled.
There’s a tenderness to how Sugimoto works, and it mirrors the way many people feel about their favorite pair of shoes. Think of a well-loved pair of Balenciaga Triple S that accompanied someone on their first trip to Paris, the Gucci Aces worn at a friend’s wedding, or those Off-White Prestos you finally tracked down after months of searching online. These shoes become silent witnesses to your personal history. So when they break down—not from abuse, but from hydrolysis, the slow chemical disintegration of sneaker soles—it almost feels like grief. Sugimoto doesn’t see that disintegration as failure. Instead, he calls it a "justification of deterioration." That phrase alone reframes the conversation about aging and decay—not just for sneakers, but for everything we cherish.
It’s a notion that resonates strongly with collectors and fashion lovers, especially in luxury circles where rarity often determines value. In Sugimoto’s world, the most valuable shoes aren’t those that have been kept untouched in boxes, but those that have lived. It’s a bold inversion of traditional luxury ideals, where scarcity is often artificial and preserved in glass cases. Here, the damage is the detail. It’s not unlike how some connoisseurs prize patina on leather—those little creases and color shifts that only time can create. And if a Birkin bag with softened corners can tell a richer story than a brand-new one, why shouldn’t a worn pair of Raf Simons x adidas sneakers deserve a second act?
There’s something almost romantic in how Sugimoto chooses to preserve these shoes. Instead of restoring them to their former glory or archiving them like museum pieces, he integrates them with flowers. The combination is startling at first: the tough, synthetic form of a sneaker blooming with fragile petals. But it works. A pair of Air Jordan 1s with time-warped midsoles becomes the vessel for a pastel chrysanthemum explosion. An old pair of New Balance runners erupts with wild lavender stems. These aren’t gimmicks. They’re elegies. They’re love letters to the objects that shaped our aesthetic identities—and, in some cases, our youth.
This sort of project also feels surprisingly timely, especially as the luxury fashion industry grapples with issues of sustainability. High-CPC keywords like luxury upcycling, sustainable fashion design, and artisanal craftsmanship aren’t just buzzwords anymore—they’re pillars of how the modern elite think about style. Sugimoto’s work fits snugly within this growing desire for thoughtful consumption. His Shoetrees aren’t mass-produced. They don’t scream for attention. Instead, they ask you to pause, reflect, and maybe even feel a little nostalgia. That emotional resonance—that human touch—is something money can’t buy, and yet ironically, it's what makes these creations so valuable to luxury tastemakers.
Sugimoto’s inspiration wasn’t driven by a sudden eco-awareness. It was personal. He once described how a favorite pair of sneakers disintegrated on his shelf, untouched for years. That quiet unraveling wasn’t dramatic. It was slow, like watching an old photograph fade. But it moved him deeply, and that moment seeded what would eventually become Shoetree. It’s a relatable feeling for many collectors, especially in fashion. Whether it’s a Chanel jacket from the '90s that doesn’t quite fit anymore, or a pair of Maison Margiela boots whose soles gave out just as you were finally ready to wear them, time doesn’t always align with desire.
In Sugimoto’s hands, these decaying icons find a new role—not hidden away as relics, but transformed into artworks. And while the art world has always toyed with repurposing the mundane, Shoetree stands apart by how delicately it handles the emotional connection people have with their possessions. There’s no sarcasm here, no postmodern wink. Just respect—for the item, for the person who wore it, and for the life it once lived.
Collectors in cities like New York and London are already taking notice. Some have commissioned Sugimoto to transform their own “retired” pairs. Imagine a Tokyo-based banker asking to preserve his beat-up Lanvin sneakers, or a Berlin DJ requesting an arrangement from her beloved Rick Owens high-tops. These aren't transactions. They're collaborations. The result is something both sentimental and striking—something you’d be more likely to place in a penthouse living room than a sneaker shelf. These living sculptures don’t just challenge the definition of art or fashion. They stretch our understanding of what luxury truly means.
And let’s not overlook the tactile beauty of the works themselves. There’s something calming, even meditative, about how Sugimoto arranges the flowers. He favors balance—not in the symmetrical sense, but in emotional tone. The soft blush of a rose gently offsets the matte black of a Yeezy Foam Runner. A tangle of ivy escapes from a disintegrated sole like nature claiming its space back. It’s the kind of visual poetry that lingers in your mind long after you’ve seen it. And in a luxury market that’s constantly chasing the next big thing, there’s a quiet power in choosing to stop and honor the old instead.
In many ways, Sugimoto’s Shoetree project is more than a clever idea. It’s a cultural statement. At a time when luxury fashion is pivoting toward authenticity, intimacy, and individuality, his work speaks volumes. It suggests that beauty doesn’t have to be preserved in stasis. Sometimes, it has to be let go, reimagined, even mourned a little. Only then can it bloom again 💐