My relationship with Birkenstocks is alarmingly similar to that of the actors who feature in adverts for German car manufacturers like Audi or Mercedes. Such actors, with their chiseled cheek bones and stylish stubble, slide into these beautiful machines that pose as mere automobiles. The actor seems immediately at home when he slides the key into the ignition, feeling at once tranquil and contempt, and yet aware of the power of the beast he is in control of. When I slide my feet into one of my pairs of Birkenstocks I feel the same way: in control and fully aware of the power of the sandals below me. German engineering, whether for your car or your feet, really is superior.

It is therefore with considerable sadness that I learn of the collaboration between Rick Owens and Birkenstock. Not sadness at the collaboration, but rather at the inevitable description of the final product as part of the increasingly trendy ‘ugly fashion’. It’s a harsh and damning label to apply to any product, let alone one which is sleek and mysterious, not loud, brash and ostentatious.

"If everybody liked to wear the same colours, materials and styles, then there would be no fashion."

Indeed the very idea of ‘ugly fashion’ is counterintuitive and amounts to a sinister attempt to undermine the very premise of fashion as an expression of individuality and the manifestation of taste. By claiming some fashion to be objectively ugly– because it’s outlandish, uses ‘unpalatable’ colours or is just simply different– you’re attempting to normalise individuals and gloss over difference.

If everybody liked to wear the same colours, materials and styles, then there would be no fashion; you’d only need a very limited number of brands to make an even more limited number of items. Aspiring to be different, unique ,and individual shouldn’t be dismissed as ‘ugly’– surely history has taught us that, if nothing else.

The beauty of the Birkenstock is its sheer unpretentiousness– which is, perhaps ironically, the one downside to a fancy Los Angeles collaboration with an enigmatic designer, where their sandals will be sold in disused shipping containers (naturally). I’ve spent numerous holidays selling Birkenstocks from a small and chronically failing upmarket London shoe shop, housed in an old chemist's in a part of London where you’d think the clientele are looking for Burberry, not Birkenstock.

And yet there has always been a constant stream of children, builders, artists and everyone in-between who are looking for their third or fourth pair of Birkenstocks, or to find out what they’re missing out on. This is the humble customer base of the most comfortable and utility-minded sandal in the world.

Owens is an innovator of futuristic-looking fashion; the man himself is, unsurprisingly, also somewhat futuristic looking. Typically clad in black, with sharp, angular facial features, he could well be an assassin or, depending on his outfit, a typical Los Angeles muscle-beach-frequenting hippy.

On the basis of this ambiguous portrait I’ve painted of the enigmatic Owens, it would be fair to say that his Birkenstock collaboration is something of a self-portrait. His designs are monochrome works of art. The use of pony hair, in one design, creates an elegant and fluid sandal, the jagged wisps of grey hair flowing off of the straps reminiscent of Owens’ own feathery black shoulder-length locks.

It’s not surprising that high fashion should be magnetically pulled towards a brand like Birkenstock. Its elegance, simplicity and utility is something that is near-impossible to cynically replicate from a commercial standpoint. Such achievements are only possible organically—by striving for quality and comfort– not brand supremacy, or, worse still, rocketing profit margins. Birkenstock has received widespread recognition and respect for its brand simplicity and authenticity, and even David Beckham has been photographed rocking a pair