The moment happened three weeks ago at a gallery opening in Chelsea. I was hovering near the free champagne (as one does) when a woman with the kind of expensive haircut that looks effortlessly undone but definitely costs more than my monthly utility bills approached me. She was wearing head-to-toe neutrals in varying textured weights—the unmistakable uniform of a certain type of Manhattan money that wants to look understated despite carrying a handbag that costs more than some cars.
“I love your top,” she said, giving me that quick assessment scan that fashion people have perfected. “Is it The Row?”
I nearly choked on my Prosecco (not actual champagne, I discovered after my second glass). The oversized, perfectly-cut ivory button-down I was wearing—the one she had mistaken for Mary-Kate and Ashley’s luxury minimalist line—had cost me exactly $28.99 at Target two days earlier. I had popped in for paper towels and emerged with what was apparently a convincing luxury imposter.
“Thank you,” I smiled, deciding against both lying and full disclosure. “It’s really comfortable.”
She nodded knowingly, as if comfort was a secret code between wealthy minimalists, before drifting toward a particularly aggressive installation of woven human hair that everyone was pretending to understand.
When I shared this story with Emma over coffee the next morning, she wasn’t even slightly surprised. “Oh, that’s been happening with that Target button-down for months,” she said, stirring her oat milk latte with infuriating casualness. “Three people in the office have it. Katherine wore it to the Proenza show with vintage Levi’s and someone from Vogue asked if her ‘whole look was The Row.'”
How had I missed this phenomenon? As someone who literally gets paid to track fashion trends for a living, I was both professionally embarrassed and personally thrilled. The idea that a $30 Target piece was regularly being mistaken for an item from a brand whose button-downs typically start around $790 was exactly the kind of fashion intelligence I live for.
I immediately launched an investigation, starting with the shirt itself. At first glance, there’s nothing revolutionary about it—just a slightly oversized cotton button-down in that specific shade of not-quite-white ivory that expensive brands have claimed as their signature neutral. But the details reveal why it’s such an effective luxury dupe: the slightly dropped shoulder that creates a relaxed but not sloppy silhouette, the substantial weight of the cotton that holds its shape rather than clinging, the absence of any visible branding or unnecessary details, and that specific cut that manages to look intentionally oversized rather than simply too big.
Target isn’t exactly a fashion newbie—their designer collaborations have created retail hysteria since Michael Graves designed a teakettle for them in 1999 (yes, I’m ancient enough to remember this). But their current strategy appears more subtle: creating minimalist basics that capture the specific aesthetic of luxury brands like The Row, Khaite, and Toteme at radically accessible prices.
The button-down in question comes from their A New Day line, which has quietly become a goldmine for what I’m calling “stealth luxury”—basics with elevated detailing and cuts that code as expensive despite their budget-friendly prices. It’s not a direct knockoff of any specific piece (which would raise legal questions), but rather an interpretation of a luxury aesthetic that captures the essence without the trademark details.
After discovering the button-down, I began seeing these convincing Target pieces everywhere. There’s a $27.99 relaxed blazer with the kind of unstructured silhouette that Frankie Shop made popular. A $36.99 wide-leg trouser that could easily pass for something from COS or even Jil Sander with the right styling. A $24.99 mock-neck sweater that captures that specific Toteme vibe without copying any specific design.
The real secret, according to industry sources I spoke with, is that many of these pieces are being designed by people who previously worked for higher-end brands or contemporary labels. As department stores have contracted and mid-priced fashion brands have struggled, that talent has flowed toward mass retailers with the resources to hire experienced designers.
“Target’s not just knocking things off anymore—they’re employing people who understand luxury construction and design principles and asking them to apply that knowledge at a completely different price point,” explained a former buyer for a major department store who now consults for mass-market brands. “The pattern-making and understanding of proportion is genuinely sophisticated, even if the materials are obviously not the same quality.”
Of course, materials and construction are where you’ll find the real differences. The Row’s cotton has a particular hand-feel that comes from using the highest quality long-staple cotton, often woven in Japan or Italy. Their garments undergo extensive fitting sessions on multiple body types. The finishing—those invisible details like interfacing, seam allowances, and subtle garment washing—involves processes that would be financially impossible at Target’s price point.
But here’s the thing: none of those quality differences are visible from six feet away at a gallery opening after two glasses of mediocre Prosecco. What registers visually is the silhouette, the proportions, the color—and Target has gotten frighteningly good at nailing those elements.
The phenomenon isn’t limited to just that one button-down. After my gallery encounter, I decided to conduct a highly unscientific experiment. I wore five different Target pieces to industry events over two weeks, styling them as I would designer items—minimal accessories, understated shoes, confidence. The results were illuminating.
A $39.99 oversized sweater vest worn over the infamous button-down with wide-leg trousers garnered compliments from two fashion editors who specifically asked if it was “designer.” A $32.99 boxy T-shirt in a specific shade of butter yellow (a color The Row has featured prominently) had a colleague asking if I’d “invested in some new basics.” A $27.99 pair of flat leather sandals with minimalist strapping was assumed to be from ATP Atelier or some other Instagram-favorite footwear brand.
The key, I discovered, is all in the styling—creating the complete luxury minimalist illusion rather than letting any single piece stand alone. The formula has specific components that, when followed, can transform even the most humble mass-market finds into convincing luxury imposters.
First, there’s color. The luxury minimalist palette is specific and subtle: ivory (not stark white), chocolate brown, black, camel, and muted sage green. Avoid anything too bright or trendy-looking. The goal is timeless, expensive neutrals that look intentional rather than like you couldn’t decide on a color.
Second, focus on proportion and silhouette. The current luxury aesthetic favors slightly oversized, relaxed fits without veering into sloppy territory. A precisely dropped shoulder, a perfectly slouchy trouser, a deliberately boxy jacket—these silhouettes read as intentional design choices rather than ill-fitting garments.
Third, embrace monochromatic or tonal dressing. Nothing says “expensive minimalist” like wearing slightly different shades of the same color family. The Target button-down paired with ivory trousers and cream accessories creates the impression of a considered luxury ensemble rather than separate budget pieces.
Fourth, keep accessories sleek and minimal. A statement earring or chunky watch will immediately disrupt the stealth luxury illusion. Stick to understated, architectural accessories—a simple gold hoop, a leather belt with a minimal buckle, a structured bag with no visible logo.
Finally—and perhaps most importantly—there’s the confidence factor. I’ve noticed that people rarely question whether something is expensive if you wear it with the absolute conviction that it belongs on your body. Hesitation reads as inauthenticity; confidence transforms even the most humble garments.
Emma, who has elevated budget fashion to an art form, adds one more crucial element: “Quality basics are worth spending on, even if they’re from Target,” she told me. “Get them tailored if necessary. A $30 shirt that fits perfectly will always look more expensive than a $300 shirt that fits poorly.”
She’s right. I’ve started taking select Target pieces to my neighborhood tailor for minor adjustments—shortening too-long sleeves on that button-down, tapering the legs of wide trousers slightly to create a more deliberate silhouette. The alterations often cost almost as much as the garment itself, but the result is a piece that genuinely could pass for designer to all but the most discerning eyes.
Of course, there’s a larger cultural conversation happening around this phenomenon—about what we value in clothing, why we assign status to certain brands, and the ethics of both luxury markup and mass-market production. I’m not suggesting that a $30 Target shirt is equivalent to a $790 garment from The Row in terms of quality, longevity, or ethical production. They are fundamentally different products with vastly different business models behind them.
But what’s fascinating is how effectively Target has identified and reproduced the visual signifiers of luxury minimalism—the aesthetic cues that read as expensive and elevated—while stripping away the actual expense. They’ve essentially created a semiotic shortcut to looking refined and tasteful without requiring the bank account to match.
“It’s democratizing a certain aesthetic that used to be financially exclusive,” noted a stylist friend who regularly works with clients ranging from students to celebrities. “The gatekeeping around looking expensive is breaking down in interesting ways.”
I’ve observed this firsthand. A junior assistant at our office recently wore the Target button-down with vintage Levi’s and minimal jewelry to a major industry event. Standing next to editors wearing actual designer pieces, she looked equally appropriate and stylish—the subtle codes of luxury minimalism perfectly replicated on a starting-salary budget.
For those looking to experiment with this stealth luxury approach, I’ve identified a few current Target pieces that have particularly effective designer energy:
The Universal Thread oversized linen blazer ($37.99) has the same relaxed, unstructured silhouette as jackets from brands like Toteme and Vince, particularly in the oatmeal color. The slightly padded shoulder and longer length read as intentional design choices rather than budget constraints.
The A New Day wide-leg trousers ($29.99) have a high-rise waist and fluid drape that mimics much more expensive pants, especially in black or cream. Paired with the infamous button-down and minimal accessories, they create a convincing luxury silhouette.
The mock-neck sleeveless sweater ($24.99) captures that specific The Row energy when sized up and worn with wide-leg pants or a midi skirt. The substantial ribbed knit and clean lines look significantly more expensive than the price suggests.
The leather slide sandal ($27.99) offers the minimalist, architectural lines of designer footwear for a fraction of the price. In the cognac brown color, they’re a dead ringer for sandals that typically retail for hundreds more.
During my investigation, I visited three different Target locations and found that certain store locations receive more of these stealth luxury pieces than others. The stores in more affluent neighborhoods or urban areas with fashion-conscious demographics tend to stock the full range, while suburban locations might carry a more limited selection. The pieces are also frequently available online, though they sell out quickly as word spreads.
The woman from the gallery recently emailed me about a potential collaboration (we’d exchanged contact information after bonding over our mutual confusion about the human hair installation). Her message ended with a casual P.S.: “Still thinking about that gorgeous ivory shirt. The Row makes the most perfect basics, don’t they?”
I smiled at my screen, oddly proud of my Target find’s convincing performance. The democratization of good design is something worth celebrating, even if it comes with complicated questions about originality, intellectual property, and the true value of clothing.
For now, I’m enjoying the slightly subversive thrill of mixing my actual designer pieces with convincing Target finds—playing a fashion version of spot-the-difference that almost no one seems able to win. That button-down has now been worn to four industry events, paired with everything from vintage Levi’s to a Dries Van Noten skirt, and it continues to collect compliments and designer misattributions.
Is it The Row? Absolutely not. Does it capture something essential about why The Row’s minimalist aesthetic is so appealing? Surprisingly, yes.
In a fashion system increasingly driven by visual impressions rather than tactile experiences—where most people encounter clothes through images before ever touching them—Target has identified and replicated the visual language of luxury while sidestepping the actual luxury. It’s a brilliant business strategy and a fascinating cultural phenomenon that reveals how much of what we perceive as “expensive” is actually about design rather than materials.
So if you happen to see me at an industry event looking suspiciously put-together, now you know my secret: I’m probably wearing at least one piece of Target, expertly disguised by strategic styling and worn with the unshakable confidence of someone who knows that true style has never been determined by price tags.
