In an airy, gallery-like boutique off London’s Mayfair, a plain white cotton T-shirt carries a price tag north of £1,000. The brand behind it – The Row – hardly ever advertises or posts on social media, yet its cult-like following eagerly snaps up £180 cashmere socks and £7,000 coats without a logo in sight. How did we get here? Exclusivity in fashion has always been a bit of a paradox – we desire what is denied to us. Gone are the days when a monogrammed bag or loud label automatically conferred status. Now, if you know, you know – and if you don’t, the truly exclusive brands won’t bother to tell you.

Founded by Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, The Row has become a case study in how to make a brand feel ultra-exclusive without the typical trappings of designer brands. In fact, The Row often achieves more by deliberately doing less. Its approach teaches us that luxury today is as much about what a brand withholds as what it offers.

‍

The brand that sells silence

Breaking into the top tier of luxury fashion is no easy game—most newcomers don’t make it, especially against their European counterparts (Hermès, Chanel and Louis Vuitton, names built on generations of prestige and backed by the kind of clientele that includes A-listers, royals, and the old-money elite) So when The Row began in 2006—its early pieces sold privately out of Paris flats, the odds weren’t exactly stacked. Fast forward almost 20 years, and The Row has not only earned its place but commands real fashion respect.

It’s no surprise Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are behind it. Long admired for their haute ragamuffin style, they’ve been tastemakers since they were teenagers. While their then peers—Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, etc—leaned into overt glamour and logo-heavy wardrobes, the Olsens carved a different path: slouchy silhouettes, earthy layering, and a Starbucks always in hand.

Their business instincts showed up early. In 1993, they founded Dualstar Entertainment Group, launching a tween empire of fashion, beauty, and home goods. Once they’d mastered that world, they pivoted, entering high fashion with The Row—named after London’s Savile Row—a nod to the home of bespoke clothing.

“For us, it’s always been about anonymous clothing,” Mary-Kate once said. “We started with the idea of figuring out whether good product would sell without a label, which is why we had a gold chain [sewn into the clothing] instead. And it did. From there, it was one item at a time.”

I think The Row caters to a certain type of New York fashion girl—the kind who’s understated but deeply in-the-know. Yes, the prices are steep, maybe even excessive for what you’re getting. Still, it’s not just about the clothes. In New York, there’s this unspoken pressure to look the part, to prove you belong. People move there with big dreams, and part of that dream often involves keeping up appearances. The Row has become one of those places you feel you should shop at—whether or not it makes sense—because it signals taste, status, and quiet ambition.

‍

‍

They’ve built a world where being seen less actually makes you feel like it’s worth more. Its brand language is minimal, its product range deceptively basic, and its presence so under-the-radar you could almost forget it exists… until you realise everyone you admire in fashion owns something from it.

And I think that’s the first layer of exclusivity. The brand isn’t trying to reach you. It’s not even necessarily waiting for you to reach it. It simply exists (and costs a lot doing so!).

How to market the Unattainable

Exclusivity often begins with scarcity – intentional limits on who can access the brand and how. The Row exemplifies this: for years it operated only two discreet stores (Los Angeles and New York), turning shopping into a pilgrimage. Even today, with a London base and other flagships added, the stores feel more like private showrooms than retail outlets. This lean distribution means few people ever handle the clothes in person – a strategy akin to Hermès’ famed waitlists – which only heightens desire.

Similarly, The Row keeps tight control over supply and rarely discounts its merchandise. (Only about 16% of its products were ever on sale, versus ~50% for peer brands.) If you missed out on that perfect ivory coat this season, too bad – it likely won’t sit around waiting for a markdown. By design, availability is an privilege.

Hand in hand with scarcity is brand storytelling and mystique. From the outset, The Row’s founders – Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen – chose understatement over hype. They gave few interviews, shunned flashy marketing, and let their meticulously crafted garments speak quietly for themselves. Their very first print campaign came in the form of a look book rather than a traditional magazine ad. In 2008, they cast model Lauren Hutton for their debut seasonal look book—shot on a beach house deck—marking the brand's first foray into printed promotion.

Prior to this, The Row relied heavily on quietly strategic brand-building: starting with just a perfect T‑shirt in 2006, which Barneys New York snapped up. It wasn’t until the Hutton look book that their aesthetic was formally shared via print.

The Olsen twins have built a label rooted in discretion. They don’t do social media. They rarely give interviews. Their public appearances are fleeting but dissected with the kind of intensity reserved for modern myth. In a time where most celebrities are constantly online and selling something, their distance only adds to their allure. The brand’s press-shy aura and ultra-minimalist aesthetic create FOMO by suggestion – a sense that something precious and refined is happening behind closed doors, and if you’re not a client, you’re simply missing out. It’s a masterclass in generating buzz by withholding – a stark counterpoint to the logo-plastered, omnipresent luxury brands of the 2000s.

Quiet Luxury: Status in Subtlety

Walking into The Row or even just glancing at one of their garments, you might be struck by what’s not there: no ostentatious logos, no garish patterns, no loud colors vying for attention.

To the untrained eye, an outfit of perfectly tailored black trousers and a cashmere knit might pass as unremarkable. As one observer noted, even The Row’s handbags are “recognisable only to the initiated,” being logo-free and subtle in their design. In the discreet language of quiet luxury, these are fluent signals. This logo-less branding is at the heart of quiet luxury. By eschewing obvious branding, The Row forces you to focus on the craftsmanship: the touch of the fabric, the drape of the silhouette, the tiny details that only a trained eye notices. In a sense, the magic is in the details of these garments.

Lyst reported a 93% jump in brand searches in Q1 of 2024, and the Margaux tote became the accessory of the season, with a staggering 198% increase in demand.

The broader appeal of this aesthetic speaks to a post-pandemic cultural mood. After years of logomania and Instagram flexing, truly affluent consumers now prize a kind of anonymity – a way to wear their wealth without broadcasting it. In 2024, “quiet luxury” was everywhere. The Row, naturally, fit right into the moment.

HBO’s hit series Succession (which dressed its billionaire characters in Loro Piana sweaters and Tom Ford suiting sans obvious logos) helped crystallise this ideal in the public imagination. Social media conversations and TikTok trends in 2023-2024 further popularised the term “stealth wealth,” though often missing its irony – the most expensive clothes can look the plainest. Quiet luxury brands like The Row, Brunello Cucinelli or Loro Piana serve those who “don’t need to show off their purchases” to feel secure.

This whispery, refined approach has given luxury a fresh cultural cachet: it’s no longer cool to flaunt excess; it’s cool to appear above the impulse to flaunt. Of course, the exclusivity is still very much there – just coded in subtle details.

Exclusivity also resides in the price tag.

The product doesn’t explain the price. The price explains the product.

Let’s be honest: if you took the logo out of a Gucci bag or a Balenciaga trainer, people might still clock the design. There’s always a gimmick, a flourish, a signpost. The Row gives you none.

The value is invisible. The garments are impeccably made, yes. But it’s not about that. It’s about scarcity, control, and identity.

That’s where the pricing psychology kicks in.

In luxury’s topsy-turvy economics, high prices attract more than they deter – a phenomenon economists dub the Veblen effect. The Row has embraced this reality with unapologetic audacity: its leather trench coats retail near $10,000, and even a simple cashmere overcoat costs ~$8,990. Only a privileged few can afford such pieces at full price, and that’s precisely the point.

The veblen effect states price is not just about covering costs or even quality – it’s a communication tool, a deliberate signal that “this is not for everyone.” A high price suggests rarity, superior quality and above all, membership in a restricted circle. The strategy is clear: by making an item financially out of reach for most, a brand cultivates an image of prestige and discernment. It’s no coincidence that many big luxury houses routinely hike prices multiple times a year – not merely to pad margins, but to reinforce that aura of unattainability.

Why do rich people buy from The Row?

My main take away from decoding the type of people who shop here is this: The Row doesn’t sell trends. It sells taste. And secondly: It’s not aspirational in the typical luxury sense either. No one looks at a £940 pair of The Row flip flops and thinks, “One day I’ll own those.” They look at them and think, “What am I missing?”

That question — why do people pay this much for something that looks like nothing — is what makes the brand feel exclusive. It’s the fashion equivalent of not getting the joke, and watching everyone else in the room laugh anyway. So you assume the joke must be brilliant. The product must be incredible. The price must be justified. Because rich people — especially stylish rich people — wouldn’t buy bad basics. Right?

That’s the genius of The Row. It’s not about creating desire. It’s about creating doubt. The feeling that maybe there’s a secret you’re not in on.

Celebrity wearers of The Row

Admittedly, I first discovered The Row—founded by celebrities, don’t forget—after spotting it on a few well-dressed famous faces. So naturally, I went down a rabbit hole of who's been wearing it (for fun, of course). No surprise—it's a line-up of the usual It girls, style insiders, and the poster faces of quiet luxury:

‍

‍

‍

‍

‍

The 2025 mindset: a pyramid narrowing at the top

Stepping back, the rise of hyper-exclusivity across sectors (beauty, travel, wellness – conversations for another day) is underpinned by some telling cultural and economic trends circa 2025. For one, the luxury consumer base has bifurcated. As top brands pushed prices into the stratosphere, many aspirational customers were simply priced out. (In 2024 alone, the personal luxury goods market “lost” around 50 million consumers who could no longer afford the entry point.)

Rather than pull back on pricing, most luxury maisons doubled down on courting the ultra-rich. Today, ultra-high-net-worth individuals (billionaires and centi-millionaires) represent only 2–4% of luxury clientele but drive an estimated 30–40% of luxury spending. The strategy for growth, then, has been to captivate this rarefied top tier – even if it means forsaking volume and accessibility. In a sense, exclusivity has become the brand, overtaking heritage or even product innovation in importance. We see heritage houses like Burberry and Gucci trying to “go upstairs” and recast themselves as more exclusive, while newer players like The Row find success by starting at the top and resolutely staying there.

Culturally, the desirability of exclusivity reflects a post-pandemic craving for meaning and quality. Customers with means would rather buy fewer, better things – a £3,000 coat that lasts a decade, a signature perfume only they wear – than chase every trend. Owning something scarce and storied brings a sense of connoisseurship and differentiation in a world overflowing with mass-produced goods. The phrase “quiet luxury” also signals a rejection of vulgar excess; it’s a flex of cultural capital over mere financial capital. Wearing The Row or checking into Aman says: I don’t need to shout – my discernment speaks for itself. There’s also a psychological gratification in being “accepted” by an exclusive brand or club. Whether it’s scoring that limited-edition lipstick or being recognised by name at a private hotel, these moments feed a human desire for recognition and belonging – albeit within an elite peer group. In a time when social media broadcasts everything to everyone, the truly wealthy increasingly seek walled gardens of experience, away from the crowds.

‍

‍

Insight over image is the mantra guiding this new era of luxury. Brands feel exclusive not because they trumpet their prestige, but because they cultivate it subtly: a tight grip on distribution here, a legendary origin story there, prices that make even millionaires blink – all sending the signal that this is something special. As consumers, we’re witnessing a fascinating experiment in branding: scarcity and restraint are being glamourised, and mystery is a marketing strategy.

In the end, what truly makes a brand feel exclusive is the feeling it elicits in its audience – a mix of longing, admiration, and a dash of intimidation. It’s that tingle of almost belonging to a world just out of reach. As exclusivity permeates fashion, beauty, travel and beyond, the savviest brands understand that their most valuable product is not a handbag or a hotel suite at all. It’s the aura around it – the story that this could be yours, if only you’re fortunate, and fast enough to get it. And for those who do get it, the reward is not just a product or experience, but the quiet thrill of being one of the chosen few.