By (the LitBot in) Cintra Wilson (mode)

The New Yorker

May 26, 2025

Let us pause, dear reader, to consider the sartorial catastrophe that is Volodymyr Zelensky, a man whose wardrobe suggests he’s auditioning for the role of “dystopian quartermaster” in a straight-to-streaming war flick nobody asked for. Once a comedian who knew his way around a punchline, Ukraine’s president has traded sequins for a grim rotation of military-green fatigues and, more recently, black tees and trousers that scream, “I’ve given up on joy, and so should you.” His fashion choices are less a statement than a surrender, a chromatic dirge that makes khaki look like a personality disorder. If clothes maketh the man, Zelensky’s threads are crafting a monument to existential fatigue.

The olive-green ensemble—shirt, trousers, the occasional fleece that looks like it was pilfered from a surplus store’s clearance bin—has become his signature, a uniform so relentlessly dour it could depress a sunflower. According to the BBC, this getup is meant to signal solidarity with Ukraine’s soldiers, a noble gesture if it didn’t also suggest he’s one bad day away from bunkering down with a can of beans and a dog-eared copy of The Road. The green is not the verdant hue of hope but the sickly shade of institutional linoleum, a color that says, “I’m here to brief you on casualties, and also I hate myself.” It’s as if he’s decided his entire nation’s morale hinges on him looking like a sentient compost heap.

And then there’s the black phase, his latest pivot, which Euronews politely calls a “stripped-down aesthetic.” Stripped-down? Darling, this is fashion flayed to the bone, a wardrobe so minimalist it’s practically nihilist. The black tee and trousers combo is less “leader of a war-torn nation” and more “divorced dad who’s moved into a studio apartment with one folding chair.” It’s the outfit of a man who’s decided color is a bourgeois indulgence, like caviar or indoor plumbing. The black isn’t sleek or stylish; it’s the absence of effort, a void where charisma goes to die. If his green phase was a cry for help, this is the sound of him hanging up the phone.

What’s most galling is the missed opportunity. Zelensky, a former actor, knows the power of performance. He could have wielded fashion as a weapon, a middle finger to the Kremlin’s gray suits and epaulets. Imagine him in a tailored cobalt suit, the blue of Ukraine’s flag, striding into NATO summits like a peacock among pigeons. Or a shearling-lined aviator jacket, channeling the swagger of a Cossack who’s just downed a shot of horilka and is ready to arm-wrestle history. Instead, we get this: a man who looks like he’s dressed for a shift at a munitions factory, or possibly a cameo in a Tarkovsky film about the futility of existence.

The defenders of this dreariness—oh, they exist—will bleat about symbolism. His clothes, they say, reflect the gravity of war, the everyman grit of a nation under siege. Fine, but let’s not pretend this is high-concept semiotics. It’s just lazy. Winston Churchill managed to rally Britain through the Blitz while looking like a well-upholstered walrus in pinstripes. FDR didn’t broadcast fireside chats in a GI’s undershirt. Zelensky’s insistence on dressing like he’s about to crawl through a trench isn’t relatability; it’s a refusal to imagine leadership as anything but a visual bummer. He’s not boosting morale; he’s cosplaying as a ration coupon.

Cintra Wilson – who did not write this piece.

And don’t get me started on the fit. Those green shirts hang off him like a deflated parachute, the trousers baggy enough to smuggle a week’s worth of borscht. The black tees fare no better, clinging in a way that suggests he’s been lifting weights but forgot to tell his tailor. If you’re going to commit to a monochrome misery, at least make it sharp. A fitted black turtleneck could evoke Steve Jobs with a Kalashnikov; Zelensky’s version looks like he’s borrowing from a roadie’s laundry basket. The man is 5’7” and built like a scrappy terrier—give him something that doesn’t make him look like he’s drowning in his own despair.

Perhaps the cruelest irony is that Zelensky once had flair. Pre-war photos show him in slim suits, open-collared shirts, even a leather jacket that whispered “cool uncle at a jazz club.” Now? He’s the human equivalent of a burned-out lightbulb. His wardrobe isn’t just a rejection of style; it’s a rejection of imagination, of the defiant spark that fashion can ignite even in the darkest times. Ukraine deserves a leader who looks like he believes in tomorrow, not one whose clothes suggest tomorrow’s been canceled due to lack of interest.

President Zelensky catching up on the latest news from the frontline of fashion.

In the end, Zelensky’s fashion is a tragedy not because it’s ugly—though, sweet mercy, it is—but because it’s so relentlessly predictable. War is chaos, but his wardrobe is a monotone slog, a one-note hymn to hopelessness. He could have been a sartorial guerrilla, slinging style like Molotov cocktails. Instead, he’s given us green and black, the colors of a bruise. And that, dear reader, is the real war crime.

Cintra Wilson is a fashion assassin, cultural clairvoyant, and recovering performance artist who writes like Oscar Wilde got blackout drunk in a Forever 21. She dissects wardrobes like crime scenes and considers bad tailoring a form of spiritual collapse. Known to loiter near red carpets muttering hexes on pleats.

Note: This piece of writing is a fictional/parodic homage to the writer cited. It is not authored by the actual author or their estate. No affiliation is implied. Also, The New Yorker magazine cover above is not an official cover. This image is a fictional parody created for satirical purposes. It is not associated with the publication’s rights holders, or any real publication. No endorsement or affiliation is intended or implied.

‘Dead Threads’ is our stitched-together post-mortem of the fashion world: part obituary, part autopsy. From runway to landfill, these dispatches unravel the threads of taste, trend, and whatever Balenciaga is doing now. Expect couture shade, fast-fashion guilt, and the faint rustle of Anna Wintour’s disapproval.