This might seem far from novel for a fashion week known for its 19 minimum sustainability requirements, but even CPHFW demands speed: sprinting long distances from show to show and the knowledge of how much work, material, and carbon goes into a mere five-minute presentation.

Words

This isn’t a critique of what I saw, because I find it woefully unfair to attack those who are actually doing the hard work. Going after the people sticking their necks out is easier than interrogating the systems that make an industry so hard to correct. But CPHFW has decided not to fully perpetuate business as usual, and it was fitting that the week opened with a conversation about fashion’s climate solutions. Designers are often expected to lead the charge because they’re the most visible part of fashion, even as many of the industry’s toughest problems sit further upstream. Collina Strada’s Hillary Taymour, the week’s first international guest designer, put it plainly and explained that, “using sustainable fabric is like painting one nail...it goes so much deeper than that. It’s about establishing relationships with your producers and manufacturers.” Sitting alongside Emily Long of textile recycler Circ and The Climate Pledge’s Sally Fouts, they made us consider the less visible—and far more carbon intensive—infrastructure and systems that comprise everything beyond the fingernail designers represent.

STEM

This conversation stayed with me throughout the week, as I watched shows and presentations through the lens of what Hillary shared. But the images that come to mind are from the brands who forced us all to slow down. Sometimes painfully slow. Stem, the five year-old brand from Sarah Brunnhuber, had the slowest moving runway show I’ve ever experienced. The models mechanically glided from scaffolding and rafters, at a pace that would be akin to processional. The music mimicked machinery at work, echoing the backdrop of menders at their sewing machines who were working to repair t-shirts brought by attendees. My skin bristled at the pace of the walking, but I think the point was that we should feel some insanity right now—becaus we cannot fix what we’re unable to take the time to see.

When I asked Sarah about the show’s tempo, she shared, “the pace of the models was very intentional. Stem is about looking at the systems within fashion and challenging them and seeing how things can be done differently.” She further explained, “if I can get people to experience a sense of slowness, even for just 15 minute— to take a moment, to reflect—that feels like a job well done to me.” I admit it’s the one show where I can remember the intricate details of dresses’ fraying edges made from past Ganni collections’ upcycled fabrics. I wanted every piece.

aiayu

For aiayu, which has grown slowly and intentionally over 22 years, I was forced to slow down once again. Rather than a quick show or presentation, we were invited to a surprise experience that would last five hours. I gave into the moment, which began with a boat to Øens Have, the largest regenerative urban farm in Scandinavia, where we learned about transforming a former shipping facility into (rigorously tested) healthy soil and farmland. Rather than talking about fashion, we sat with the farmer, cut kale for our dinner, and immersed ourselves in the practice of actively listening to music in a beautiful yurt—sipping tea made from the garden herbs—while dinner was prepared. While this could easily sound gimmicky, it felt deeply essential and aligned. aiayu’s founder and creative director, Maria Høgh Heilmann, explained, “everything about aiayu comes from a desire to focus and slow down. When we thought about gathering people…it felt wrong to rush them through it. Starting at Øens Have, with your hands in the soil, and then sitting and really listening to sound as a material, these aren’t things you can hurry.”

After a day on the farm, we were invited the next day into her stunning studio—where a backyard barn—accessed by a long, wooden walkway meandering through wild grass—serves as the showroom. Rather than a runway show, we got to enter aiayu’ world, and just as we saw at Stem, repair was underway with three women mending sweaters (which you can do at any of the three aiayu stores in Copenhagen). Maria noted that a runway show is over in minutes, “beautiful, but fast, and it puts the clothes at a distance.” With the farm experience and studio visit, “people harvested their own dinner, sat with a soundscape, watched our repair specialists mend pieces by hand, and held raw fibres. There’s something much more honest about that. It let people meet aiayu the way I wanted them to: through touch, through time spent, through conversation, rather than from a seat watching something pass by at a distance. Making a garment is a long process, sometimes it deserves that same reflection and focus.”

Kinraden

The other forced slowdown came from KINRADEN, the fine jewelry brand founded in 2014 by architect Sarah Emilie Müllertz. The brand took over the entire sidewalk in front of their iconic shop to celebrate their collection, ALL THINGS TINY—delicate additions to three signature collections, with proportions distilled into lighter, more delicate expressions. As we sat at one long table featuring bread, jams and cheeses, there was no show or sales pitch but rather a moment for the founder to share what is inspiring her: the small moments that make up a life; the lavender she smells before bed; the little pieces she collects. This might make her sound reserved, but to the contrary—and despite her diminutive frame—she is a force. And someone who is far more interested in talking about how politics and interconnectedness influences her designs than fashion for fashion’s sake. And that is because her designs are made to be dismantled and reused by future generations.

Collina Strada (Once Again)

Closing out the week was Collina Strada’s runway show, the first-ever international guest designer at CPHFW, which was supported by The Climate Pledge. The clarity, fortitude, beauty, and sustainability ethos of Hillary Taymour has never been clearer to me than it was at this show—in part because I had in mind what she shared earlier in the week: the materials a designer uses in a collection is a mere fingernail on an entire body. I saw behind the scenes how hard she worked to transform deadstock into a stunning and ethereal yet punk collection. The Climate Pledge helped her get a sewing machine so she could work each night—far from the norms of her NYC studio—to finish the details in what was my favorite collection. That Collina Strada is doing this again for NYFW is beyond comprehension, and perhaps an affront to my theme of slowing down. Yet I also understand not slowing down when it comes to making and creating in a world that so desperately needs it.

She and so many women (it’s impossible not to acknowledge that every brand noted here is women-led) delivered on a new vision for what fashion can be if we just take a pause, pay attention, and create with intention.

Erin Allweiss is a writer, longtime member of the ONE Magazine community, and founder of @theno29, an award-winning agency at the intersection of fashion, culture, and sustainability. With a background spanning environmental policy, climate advocacy, and global fashion, she brings a distinct perspective to the industry’s most important conversations. Based between Paris and New York, Erin’s writing has appeared in Vogue and other leading publications.
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Interview published for ONE Magazine Online
Images courtesy of Copenhagen Fashion Week, Stem, The No29

The brand partners with a mother-daughter duo in Madagascar to craft accessories from hand-harvested raffia palm. Though Katie never traveled to the island, she found an immediate kinship with the family through community connections, drawn by a shared philosophy that beauty requires patience, respect, and a reverence for the natural world.

In this conversation, we sit down with Katie Dawley, Global Brand President of Vitamin A Swim, to explore the journey of these handmade pieces; from the extraction of the fiber to the generations of weaving knowledge preserved in every stitch. We discuss how this collaboration bridges cultures, prioritizes artisanal livelihoods over mass production, and transforms everyday accessories into treasures that carry the story of their makers and the earth they come from.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Vitamin A Swim captured for One

Katie, your journey to Madagascar and the discovery of this mother-daughter duo is deeply personal. Can you share what brought you there and what you felt in that first moment of connection?

I have not actually been to Madagascar. I met this partner in community. The first thing that struck me wasn’t just the beauty of the work—it was the humanity and heritage behind it.

You can feel when something has been made by people rather than produced by a machine. Every piece carries subtle variations that tell you someone shaped it by hand.

As a brand, we’re always searching for partners who value craftsmanship as much as design. Meeting this family felt less like finding a vendor and more like discovering people who share the same philosophy - that beautiful things should be made thoughtfully, patiently, and with respect for both people and the natural world.

How did the collaboration between Vitamin A Swim and the artisans come to life? What values or stories were you hoping to honor through this partnership?

Our design process has never been just about materials - it’s about the entire journey of a product, from the natural resources it begins with to the people and trusted partnerships that bring it to life.

That’s what drew us to this mother-daughter team, whose work celebrates generations of craftsmanship, uses renewable natural fibers, and creates meaningful opportunities within their community. Those values mirror the way we’ve always aimed to build Vitamin A.

From our first conversation, it was clear we shared the same philosophy. Our goal was to honor what already makes the work and the process extraordinary, and create products that allow their artistry to shine.

Could you walk us through the materials you work with, especially raffia? How is this natural fiber grown, harvested, and prepared for weaving?

One of the reasons we were drawn to raffia is because it already embodies the values we believe in.

The fiber comes from the raffia palm, where only the young leaves are harvested by hand, allowing the tree to continue growing year after year. Once harvested, the leaves are dried naturally in the sun, softened, sorted, and transformed into beautiful fibers through generations of craftsmanship. The artisans often use traditional plant-based dyes, so even the color reflects the rhythms of the natural world. The plants used to dye the fibers evolve as you move through the seasons. The rhythm of nature is found in every step of the process.

What I love most is that the material never loses its origin. When you hold one of these bags, you’re holding something that still carries the character of the landscape it came from and the hands that shaped it. That honesty is what makes it feel so special. Each piece is truly unique.

What makes the weaving technique this family has practiced so unique, and how has it been passed down through generations?

One of the things I admire most about this partnership is that the techniques themselves aren’t something that can be rushed or automated. They’re learned over years - passed from mothers and grandmothers to daughters, then reinforced within the atelier by experienced artisans mentoring the next generation.

As a brand leader and artist at heart, that’s incredibly meaningful to me. Every bag carries generations of knowledge that simply can’t be replicated by a machine. It’s a reminder that craftsmanship isn’t just a skill - it’s a form of cultural heritage. We feel incredibly fortunate to help create demand for that tradition so it has every reason to continue.

Each piece created is handmade. Approximately how long does it take to craft a single hat or bag, and what does that process feel like for you?

One of the things that surprised me was how much time is invested in every piece. Depending on the design, a single bag can take anywhere from several hours to three days or more to complete by hand.

In a world that’s become accustomed to instant production, I think there’s something incredibly beautiful about that pace. Time becomes part of the product. Every stitch reflects patience, skill, and intention - and I believe you can feel that when you carry one of these works of art with you.

How do you see your work as a connection to the land and to the Earth? What does it mean to you to create with such natural, earth-centered materials?

Nature has always been our greatest source of inspiration. It’s why we’re so intentional about the materials we choose to welcome into the collection, with an increasing focus on natural fibers.

We look for materials that already have a story before we ever begin designing with them. Raffia is one of those materials. Its beauty comes from the landscape, the hands that harvest it, and the generations of knowledge that transform it into something lasting. It’s renewable, biodegradable, and harvested in a way that allows the palms to continue growing year after year. The artisans also work with traditional plant-based dyes that celebrate the natural variations found in the environment.

To us, that’s what modern luxury feels like - authenticity not perfection. Products that carry the story of where they came from and reconnect us with the people and places behind them.

What does it mean to you to support artisans in Madagascar through the Vitamin A Swim brand? How does this impact the community and your own creative vision?

The most rewarding partnerships are the ones where everyone benefits.

Working with this atelier allows us to create products we’re genuinely proud of, while supporting meaningful employment for hundreds of artisans and helping preserve a remarkable craft.

Beyond the social impact, it’s about recognizing the value of human skill and making sure that knowledge continues to be celebrated.

Creatively, it’s incredibly inspiring. We aren’t designing around a factory’s limitations, we’re designing around possibilities - powered by human hands.


As you continue to grow this collaboration, what new ideas or explorations are you most excited to pursue with the mother-daughter duo?

What excites me most is continuing to push the creative conversation.

Every season we learn something new from one another. We bring ideas from our California perspective; they bring generations of craftsmanship and technical expertise. The most successful products have come from that exchange rather than one side directing the other.

From a design perspective, we’re excited to explore new silhouettes, new weaving techniques, and expand beyond bags into accessories like belts and hats.

Beyond the product, I’m most excited about telling the story more completely. Every bag carries the work of so many hands, so much patience, and generations of knowledge. The more we can share that journey, the more these pieces become something people treasure rather than simply own.

In a world of mass production, why do you believe it’s so vital for brands like Vitamin A Swim to prioritize and uplift artisanal craftsmanship?

Mass production has made products more accessible, but it has also distanced us from the people who make the things we own. Artisanal craftsmanship reconnects us to that humanity.

When brands choose to invest in handmade work, they’re not just preserving techniques, they’re preserving livelihoods, culture, and a different way of thinking about value. I believe consumers increasingly want that connection. They want fewer things that carry greater meaning.

If you could share one message with consumers about the stories behind these accessories, what would you hope they take away?

I hope people see these pieces as more than beautiful accessories, and more as cultural craft.

Before a bag reaches someone’s wardrobe, it’s already lived an extraordinary journey—from a raffia palm growing in Madagascar, to careful harvesting, natural dyeing, generations of weaving knowledge, and finally the hands of an artisan who patiently brings it to life.

If someone pauses for just a moment to appreciate that journey, I think they’ll care for the piece differently. They’ll wear it longer, treasure it more deeply, and recognize that every handmade object represents something increasingly rare: time, skill, and a very human connection between the maker and the person who carries it.

Since 2000, Vitamin A Swim was founded on the idea that the pieces you live in don't have to compromise the earth.

For more information and to view the raffia collection, visit vitaminaswim.com
Follow on instagram @vitaminaswim
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Interview published for One Magazine Online

In the vibrant fashion landscape of Warsaw, Zofia Chylak has carved out a unique space where the quiet dignity of Polish tradition meets modern, sustainable luxury. Founded in 2014 by an art historian with a deep reverence for the Northern Renaissance, Chylak began as a sanctuary for those seeking timeless leather goods, quickly evolving into a brand that champions the slow, deliberate art of craftsmanship. From the intricate, seven-hour woven bobbin lace of Bobowa to jewelry inspired by the shapes of childhood baked goods, Chylak is more than a label; it is a narrative of cultural pride, ethical production, and the enduring power of the human hand. In this intimate conversation, we explore how Chylak’s journey from shy childhood dreams to a global fashion statement reflects a profound commitment to preserving heritage while shaping the future of conscious design.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Chylak

Could you share a bit about the path that led you to establish Chylak, and what moment or realization convinced you that it was time to launch your own brand?

Fashion has been important to me since I was very young. I was quite a shy child, and I clearly remember the moment when I realised that clothes could act as a kind of shield - something that gave me confidence. I was raised by women who had a beautiful and very distinctive way of dressing. That had a huge influence on me.

The idea of pursuing fashion professionally came during my second year studying Art History at university. At the same time, I started working for one of the Polish fashion designers and learning tailoring. Later I went to New York for internships, and when I came back to Poland I already knew I wanted to start my own brand. I was young and, at the time, I simply didn’t see any reason not to do it straight away.

The brand began with bags before expanding into other accessories; what was the thinking behind that evolution and what prompted each new step?

My previous experience and education were focused on clothing. But I noticed that, back then, most new fashion brands in Poland were making clothes. I really wanted to do something different. I felt there were almost no young brands focusing exclusively on handbags, so I decided to give it a try. It turned out I had very little competition, which made my journey much easier. Once the brand was established, it became much easier to gradually expand into other product categories.

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Now, with the launch of the AW26 collection and a refreshed brand identity, the focus shifts: legwear is no longer an afterthought, but a central, intentional design piece. In this conversation, Linn Frisinger reflects on ten years of progress, the honest complexities of circularity, and why the future of fashion lies in evolution rather than perfection.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Swedish Stockings

Before Swedish Stockings became a global name in sustainable fashion, you were navigating a very different landscape. Could you take us back to the beginning and share a bit about your background and the specific moment or realization that compelled you to leave the traditional path and build a company dedicated to reimagining hosiery?

I have no background in fashion. Before starting Swedish Stockings, I competed in show jumping, and that discipline, resilience, and competitive drive have carried straight over into running a company. There are actually many similarities. I also grew up in an entrepreneurial family, so the idea of building something of my own was always there. The real turning point came after watching the documentary The Light Bulb Conspiracy. It opened my eyes to planned obsolescence, and I realized just how unsustainable hosiery was - a product made from plastic, often worn only once or twice before being thrown away. It felt like both a huge gap and a challenge I wanted to take on.

When you first started Swedish Stockings a decade ago, you called tights the "plastic straws of the fashion industry." Now, looking at the landscape today, do you feel the industry has finally started to listen, or is there still a fundamental misunderstanding about the scale of waste in hosiery?

Our vision from day one has been to change and influence the entire fashion industry. Today, it feels like we're actually on our way there. Over the years we've built real expertise in producing high-quality, more sustainable hosiery, and many brands have approached us for help. That's why we started a production company that now helps other brands produce better tights, fully in line with our original vision of driving change across the industry. Sustainability is no longer a niche topic, it's an expectation. More people are talking about circularity and materials than they ever were ten years ago. But the actual scale of waste in hosiery is still underestimated. Because tights are small and relatively inexpensive, they're often overlooked in the sustainability conversation, yet billions are discarded every year after only a few wears. So I'd say there is still a long way to go.

The new AW26 collection arrives alongside a refreshed brand look. You’ve described this as a shift from viewing legwear as an afterthought to treating it as a central, considered piece of the wardrobe. What prompted this philosophical pivot now, after ten years of building the brand?

The AW26 refresh reflects where the brand is today. Just like a person, a brand evolves over time. When we started, the fight was about proving that sustainable tights could exist and perform just as well as conventional ones. Ten years later, we've earned our place as a fashion accessory rather than a hidden basic. Naturally, the aesthetics have evolved too. Today, the conversation is no longer about whether sustainable tights are possible. It's about treating legwear with the same intention as any other part of your wardrobe. Tights should set the tone for an outfit, not be treated as an afterthought.

Your 2025 sustainability report is remarkably transparent, celebrating a 68% reduction in carbon emissions while openly admitting where targets were missed, particularly with the Recycling Club. Why was it important to you to highlight the shortcomings alongside the successes in this specific report?

Our goals were never set with the expectation that we'd achieve every single one of them. Ambitious goals are meant to stretch you. For us, transparency isn't about celebrating success. It's about honestly showing where we've fallen short and using those gaps to identify the next opportunity, whether that's internally or through collaboration. Take the Recycling Club. We haven't reached the scale we want on our own, but that's the kind of challenge that could accelerate with the right partnership. If we joined forces with a larger brand, for example, we could make a much bigger impact much faster than trying to do it alone.

You mention in the report that there is a "real gap" between customer expectations on sustainability and the current reality of materials like elastane. How do you navigate that tension without losing the trust of the conscious consumer who wants perfection?

Elastane is still a technical necessity for the fit and performance of hosiery, and pretending otherwise would simply be greenwashing. Instead of overselling perfection, we tell customers exactly where we are, what the remaining challenges are, and what we're doing to solve them. I believe that honesty builds far more trust than pretending we've already found all the answers.

Fashion moves at a breakneck speed, yet you’ve resisted the pull toward faster cycles. How do you define "evolution" for Swedish Stockings when the industry equates newness with progress?

We do release new collections, so in that sense we’re not completely different from other fashion brands. But we keep the newness relatively limited, produce in smaller quantities, and treat new collections as the icing on the cake rather than the main focus. Our core collection, especially our black tights, remains the foundation of the business. Instead of constantly chasing novelty, we focus on improving the products people already love.

I think that’s why our bestseller, Olivia, was named the world’s best tights by The New York Times. We invested in perfecting it rather than replacing it with something new.

The report notes that all polyamide used is now recycled, yet elastane remains a hurdle. Can you walk us through the intentionality behind your material choices today, and where you hope to be when technology catches up to your vision?

Our starting point is always the same - what's the most responsible material choice that still delivers the best quality, fit, and durability. That's why we fully transitioned to recycled polyamide once the technology was mature enough to do so without compromising performance. Elastane is our next frontier. Recycled and bio-based alternatives exist, but they're not yet at the performance or scale we need. We're actively testing new innovations, and the moment the technology meets our standards, we'll adopt it. Ultimately, we want to create a fully circular product without compromising quality.

With 8 billion pairs of tights discarded annually, the wear-and-tear nature of the category is undeniable. How does designing for longevity change the way you approach color, fit, and texture in the new collection compared to when you started?

The simple answer is quality. Our core question is always: How do we produce a pair of tights under the most responsible conditions possible that also lasts as long as possible? That starts with our factories. Everything is produced in Italy, where we have the best traceability across the entire supply chain. All the water used is purified and reused, our production operates as zero waste, and we work with seven specialist factories depending on what's needed for the highest quality. We stay very close to all of them so we're first in line when new innovations emerge - we actually have an exciting project in the pipeline right now. That same mindset shapes every design decision. Early on, we just wanted to prove a sustainable tight could exist. Today, every choice, from the yarn and denier to the fit and design is made with longevity in mind.

You’ve built this brand on the conviction that sustainability and design aren’t separate pursuits. In the AW26 collection, where do you see that marriage most clearly? Is there a specific piece that embodies this unity for you?

I like the new sets we've introduced, where the tights and top are knitted on the same machines, and designed to be worn together. I love the idea that one set can be styled in so many different ways. You can wear the tights with a dress, the top with denim, or combine them as a complete look. Instead of creating more products, we're creating more possibilities with the pieces you already own. The goal isn't to encourage more consumption - it's to inspire more creativity.

The new brand look feels like a maturation of your original mission. If the first decade was about proving sustainable hosiery was possible, what is the core message you want the next decade to convey to women wearing your products?

I like to think of Swedish Stockings as a woman who can be dancing on a bar at night and at the same time be a brain surgeon the next morning. I think the most interesting brands - and people - hold those contradictions. They combine intelligence and beauty. If our first decade was about proving sustainable hosiery could exist, the next decade is about proving that responsibility and desirability belong together. I also want women to realise just how much a single pair of tights can transform a wardrobe. You don't need to buy a new dress to create a new look. Simply changing your tights can completely reinvent an outfit. That's a more sustainable way of consuming fashion.

You’ve been candid about the challenges of recycling mixed materials. What does "intention" look like to you in legwear today, specifically when the perfect circular solution doesn’t yet exist?

For me, intention is about acting instead of waiting for the perfect solution. We can't recycle old tights back into new tights at scale. That technology isn't there yet. But instead of allowing them to end up in landfill, where they eventually break down into microplastics, we've found another way - we turn them into furniture. It's not the final solution. But it gives the material a much longer second life while we continue working towards circularity. That's what intention means to me: not perfection, but making the best possible decision with the solutions available today.

As you launch this new chapter, how do you hope the conversation around hosiery shifts? Is it less about the product itself and more about the mindset of the woman wearing it?

I hope the conversation shifts from tights being an afterthought to becoming a powerful styling tool for women. That the conversation shifts from buying more to styling better. We often think we need something new to create a new look, when in reality, changing your tights can completely transform an outfit. The same dress can feel elegant, playful, bold, or understated simply by changing the legwear. There's also an economic perspective. Paying a little more for a pair that lasts means wearing them dozens of times instead of just a handful. In the long run, that's smarter spending. I hope the conversation shifts from tights being a disposable product to a mindset focused on styling smarter, buying less, and choosing quality over quantity.

Looking back at that initial moment of realization regarding planned obsolescence in pantyhose, what is the one thing you wish you knew then that you know now about changing an entire industry from the ground up?

Our ambition has always been bigger than building a successful brand. It’s about changing as many of those eight billion pairs of tights as possible into better ones. Looking back, I think I would have started collaborating with bigger players and perhaps launched our production company even earlier. Helping many brands produce better tights has the potential to change the industry much faster. Another thing I’ve learned is the importance of building a financially healthy business. If you want to change an industry, you need to be around for the long term. That means building a company that’s resilient enough to handle market shifts without constantly chasing short-term revenue growth. Stability gives you the freedom to keep investing, innovating, and staying true to your vision. That’s also what I’ve learned over the past ten years - real change comes through collaboration rather than competition. It’s a long-term commitment, and the more companies move in the same direction, the faster those eight billion pairs can become better ones.

After learning that traditional pantyhose are petroleum products planned for obsolescence, Swedish Stockings started with the mission to change and influence the entire hosiery industry towards sustainable production overall. Founded in 2013, Swedish Stockings’ mission has since the beginning been to drive and implement change in the entire fashion industry by showing others that you can produce sustainably, without sacrificing great quality and design. Their tights are produced by carefully selected suppliers in Italy, from recycled materials and natural fibers.

For more information, visit swedishstockings.com
Follow on instagram @swedishstockings
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Interview published for One Magazine Online

When speaking to Suzie, the CEO of Toast, you can sense her genuine joy and gratitude in working with Toast. And who wouldn’t feel that way, with the brand’s commitment to authenticity and community? Through a community of individuals dedicated to craft and creativity, Toast has developed a devoted following that keeps coming back for this feeling, whether that is to repair a garment, discover crafts, or soak in the slowness of the Toast environment.

Interview Jennie Barck
Images courtesy of TOAST

Let’s begin with how you discovered Toast. You've been a part of the journey since 2015. What made you connect with Toast and its story?

Thank you for that question. Your questions are brilliant, because they really fostered me to engage my brain. When I first joined the brand, I'd left Fit Flop, and I'd had a long career working for some magnificent value-led businesses. I started my career with Timberland but spent most of my career at Levi Strauss. I was purposefully looking for a brand that had authenticity at its core. I had spent my life living in central Europe, in France, Belgium, and a little bit in Germany. When I came to discover Toast, I went and had a look at the stores and had a little dive into the brand, and it had huge authenticity. It had not been launched with anything but a desire to offer up a different way of wearing clothes and navigating the world. You could feel that, and that is exactly what I wanted. I wanted to add value and make a difference in the world in the next journey that I was going to invest my time in. And I thought, this really will enable me to do that and offer something different to the world, which I've been very lucky to be able to do.

I definitely get that sense of authenticity from Toast.

Yes, we spoke to many customers when I first joined, and the brand was questioning our pace of life. It was quite prolific. It was suggesting there was a different pace, and a different opportunity for us. It offered this alternative way of navigating the world, prompting thought through the items we're either wearing or surrounding ourselves with, and that, I believe, is so relevant today. I certainly benefit from it.

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Nestled in a secluded valley, this sanctuary harmonizes agriculture and luxury hospitality, proving that true regeneration extends from soil health to community well-being. We spoke with Caitlin Owens, founder of Fowlescombe, who shares the journey of creating a space where feminine leadership, honest farming, and deep human connection redefine the future of travel. We explore how Fowlescombe challenges the extractive norms of rural tourism, inviting guests not just to stay, but to rethink their relationship with the land and the food they eat.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Fowlescombe

Your journey to Fowlescombe seems to weave together diverse experiences and a deep-seated respect for the natural world; looking back at your own background and the path that led you here, what was the specific moment or feeling on these 450 acres that ultimately convinced you this place needed to become a sanctuary for regenerative farming rather than just another hospitality venture?

We first weren’t thinking of making Fowlescombe into a hospitality venture. My husband Paul, though he wasn’t my husband at the time, and I were immediately struck by the beauty of the site set close to wilds of Dartmoor in Devon. When you are in Fowlescombe, nestled in the valley, you cannot see out, nor can you hear anything from the outside world. The buildings sit at the bottom of this regenerative valley, completely surrounded by birdlife and animal life. There is an unbelievable level of productivity; things grow so well here, creating an amazing energy.

At the same time, we began selling meat to chefs who were preparing at-home meals during lockdown. These chefs visited the farm and were transfixed by the idea that they could see produce being grown in such a productive way and then serve it directly on the table. I realized there was an opportunity to do something special, so I quit my job and never looked back.

With the core vision driven by you, Elly in the kitchen, and Shelley in the gardens, how does this feminine leadership triad influence the daily rhythm of the farm and the way you collectively make decisions about the land and your guests?

There is undeniably a lot of feminine energy here. Two of my three duty managers are female, as is my head housekeeper. However, I don’t think this influences how we run the business in a ‘softly, softly’ manner. We are females who get things done.

That said, the leadership triad is central to our operations. Ellie, our chef, acts as the interplay between myself on the hospitality side and Shelley in the gardens, as well as Rosie, our farm manager who oversees meat production. The kitchen serves as the translation point between these worlds. We make many collective decisions, but ultimately, we all pull in the same direction: creating the best quality produce and guest experience. This starts with what we grow, how we raise and butcher animals, and ends with how Ellie translates it onto the plate.

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Founded by Joanna Masiyiwa, a designer whose journey spans the vibrant landscapes of Zimbabwe and South Africa to the ateliers of London, the house operates on a philosophy of "future-vintage." Here, garments are produced in strictly limited editions, never to be restocked, ensuring that each piece remains a specific artifact of its moment while contributing to a growing, cohesive archive. As AMAYI unveils its Archive II edition on July 22, we sat down with Masiyiwa to discuss the stillness behind the craft, the weight of legacy, and the intimate relationship between a woman and the clothes she chooses to keep forever.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of AMAYI, captured by Alexia Mavroleon, Delali Ayivi, & Tara Duross

The concept of "future-vintage" suggests creating something destined to be cherished long after its moment has passed. How did this philosophy first take root in your mind, and how does it challenge the traditional rhythm of fashion seasons?

I’ve never been especially interested in doing things the established way. Future-vintage began as a creative challenge — to myself as a designer, and to myself as someone trying to build a business — in an industry that is, at its core, about uniqueness. No house has a monopoly on taste, and what feels desirable today rarely survives the season. So the only durable constant, in my mind, became the discipline of making something genuinely new each time, rather than leaning on a hero piece or a signature silhouette. I wanted AMAYI to be defined by a raison d’être rather than a set of house codes.

That changes the rhythm entirely. I’m not designing to a merchandising calendar; I’m designing because I have a conviction that a particular piece needs to exist — because it’s additive. When I think about why there is such a fervent return to vintage right now, I suspect it has little to do with nostalgia and everything to do with fatigue: with the trend cycle, with the quiet pressure to aesthetically assimilate. Wearing something singular announces something about a person. The limited edition is built to protect that — to let a woman define herself outside the logic of consumption. And there’s no way around it: knowing a thing is rare makes it precious. I want AMAYI’s patrons to feel that, always.

You've described AMAYI as a house built on continuity without repetition. In a world obsessed with the new, what is it about preserving proportions and techniques while letting individual garments remain singular that feels so essential to you?

Early in the ideation process I spent a great deal of time with museum objects, thinking about how we decide what is worth keeping. The pieces that held me were never the most ornate ones. They were the ones that said something true about how people lived at the moment of their making — at the moment they were actually used.

That is what I’m reaching for. Each AMAYI garment is meant to be a record of intention: whether that’s in the hand-drawing of a print or the design of an embroidery motif, the work is to honour.

What the piece is saying — through technique, through form, through material. There’s nothing wrong with newness; I’m not romantic about the past for its own sake. What moves me is a return to meditative making. These aren’t conveyor-belt garments. They’re emblematic of a kind of cultural resonance, an addiction to detail, a precision. Continuity, for me, lives in those methods and proportions — the grammar of the house. Singularity lives in each sentence I write with it.

Growing up between Zimbabwe and South Africa, your background is rich with diverse cultural textures. How do those early memories and the landscapes of your childhood subtly weave themselves into the fabrics and silhouettes you create today?

My identity is a tapestry of cultures, and the cultures I’ve moved through inevitably shape how I see. Sometimes the cultural reference in a garment is overt — legible with very little context. More often it’s opaque, sitting somewhere beneath the surface.

Until I was sixteen, every school I attended had a uniform. My first collection, I realised only afterwards, was quietly inverting how I’d understood identity through uniform — both conceptually and quite literally. The plaid pinafore I wore at my primary school in South Africa, the heavy wool blazers of the Catholic girls’ school I joined when I first moved to London — they find their way in. Being a third culture kid — growing up outside the country of your own culture — makes you hyper-aware of how different places and people reach for the same very human ideas. How lineage is passed from one generation to the next, whether through stories, rituals, or objects, has always fascinated me. I’ve experienced being an outsider in each of these cultures not as a deficit, but as a strength. It taught me to pay attention.

There is a profound intimacy in knowing that a garment will never be reissued. What emotion do you hope a woman feels when she realizes she is holding a piece that exists only in this specific moment of making?

I hope she feels a particular kind of stillness — the opposite of urgency. So much of how we’re taught to shop is built on the anxiety that we might miss something, that more is always arriving. A piece that exists only in this moment of making asks nothing of that anxiety. It simply is what it is, finitely.

What I really hope she feels is a sense of authorship over the object — and, quietly, a sense of responsibility to it. When something cannot be remade, the relationship changes. It is no longer a transaction that can be undone or repeated; it becomes a kind of custodianship. I design every edition as part of a growing archive, with the conviction that its life is longer than its first owner’s. So my hope is that, holding it, she understands she isn’t only acquiring a garment. She’s accepting something into a lineage — hers, and the house’s — and agreeing, in some small way, to keep it.

Your journey from childhood creativity to launching a luxury house is often described as moving "from crayons to couture." Is there a specific thread from those early days of drawing and imagining that still guides your hand when you design?

The lore is that I announced I would be a fashion designer at my preschool graduation, which tells you the impulse arrived long before anything resembling skill did. I have no single moment where it clicked. My love of clothes developed alongside my sense of self — sketching dresses, wading through whichever fashion magazines I could find, raiding my mom’s closet, which was my favourite place in the world.

The thread that survives all of it is drawing. Long before I knew what a tech pack was — before I knew anything, really — I was rendering garments on paper, imagining how they’d move and where they’d live. Years later, in a moment of some uncertainty, I wandered into an art supplies shop I’d loved as a child, bought a watercolour palette and an oversized notebook with no plan whatsoever, and within hours had drawn dozens of dresses, skirts, and bags. That was the beginning of AMAYI, though I didn’t know it yet. So the honest answer is that the crayon never really left my hand. I still design the way I did as a child — by seeing the thing fully before I ever try to make it real.

As you prepare to unveil Archive II this month, how does looking back at the first archive inform the way you're shaping the narrative for this next chapter? What story does this new edition tell that the first one could not?

The starting point for Archive II was, simply, a place of greater aesthetic confidence. The thing I kept circling was the iterative experience of womanhood — how aptly our choices in clothing narrate that story across a life. I was paying close attention to form and to fabric manipulation, to the tactility of movement.

We shot the campaign in my family home, which holds an enormous amount of memory and meaning for me, and that wasn’t incidental. My relationship with my mother — the brand’s namesake — is central to how I design. Revisiting her style across the years, and having frank conversations with her about clothing and personal style as something dignifying, gave this collection its emotional architecture. Where the first archive was an arrival, the second is cumulative — it reads as a woman in motion rather than a woman introduced. Curved lines recur throughout. I played a great deal with inversion, letting prints resurface in subtle ways across different textiles, so that the archive begins, quietly, to speak to itself.

The decision to produce in strictly limited quantities is a bold stance against mass production. How do you navigate the balance between the rarity of luxury and the desire to make your vision accessible to those who resonate with it?

I’d gently separate two things that tend to get collapsed: resonance and ownership. My hope is that the work speaks to a great many people — the same way we can all be moved by a painting or a piece of music without needing to possess it. Resonance isn’t tantamount to ownership, and it was never meant to be.

So I don’t think of limited production as a gesture of distance. I think of it as a question of authorship and responsibility. I want the intentionality that goes into making a garment to extend into how it is owned and kept. AMAYI was built with lineage as its ideological bedrock — the life cycle of a piece is, in principle, infinite. These garments are designed to outlast their first patron and to be passed on. That’s why I’ve been so deliberate with the language: not “collections,” but editions in a growing archive. Accessibility, to me, isn’t really about how many people can buy the thing. It’s about whether the thinking behind it is legible to anyone willing to look.

In an industry often defined by noise and speed, AMAYI feels like a quiet sanctuary. How do you cultivate this sense of stillness and intentionality within your creative process and within the brand itself?

Most of my process happens before anything is drawn. I visualise each garment in almost obsessive detail — how it moves, the details no one will ever see, the rooms and occasions I imagine it living in — long before a pencil touches paper. I was doing this before I’d designed a single garment; visualisation has always been my most meditative practice, and my most creative one.

The other half is research, and it’s rarely pointed at a specific outcome. I read and study widely — textiles, art, history, things with no obvious application — because I want to know and see as much as I possibly can. I’ve come to believe that curiosity breeds creativity, and that paying attention is the most pragmatic expense a maker can take on. The stillness people sense in the brand isn’t a posture. It’s the residue of that process — of work done slowly, on purpose, and at its own pace.

You work with materials and techniques that are carried forward, yet each piece is unique. Can you share a moment where a specific material or technique surprised you, taking a garment in a direction you hadn't initially envisioned?

What surprises me, every single time, is the translation from a digital print to a woven textile. Most of our prints begin life as a fragment — a scrap of found fabric, an object — which we then translate into a digital drawing. And yet the most meticulous rendering on a screen always pales beside the woven cloth it eventually becomes. It’s never a copy-and-paste. Even our most closely related prints have to be adapted, sometimes substantially, to the particular textile they’re destined for.

The clearest example is a print I named the “scratchy tweed,” from the first archive. It started as a fragment of tweed I’d thrifted, which I reimagined as a hand-painting, which was then converted into a digital print on silk, and finally adapted into a woven wool jacquard. By the end it had passed through four entirely different materials and hands, and arrived somewhere I couldn’t have drawn at the outset. That gap — between what I intend and what the material insists on — is, I think, where the work actually becomes interesting.

For the woman who wears AMAYI, what do you hope becomes her relationship with the garment over time? How do you imagine these pieces aging alongside her, becoming part of her own personal history?

I hope the relationship deepens rather than fades — that the piece becomes more hers over time, not less. The phrase I keep returning to is designed to be kept, and keeping is an active thing. A garment that is worn, repaired, lent, remembered, and eventually handed on accrues a history that no amount of making can manufacture. That history belongs to the wearer, not to me.

I think a lot about how our clothing choices narrate a life — how, looking back, you can read whole chapters of a woman in what she chose to wear. My hope is that an AMAYI piece becomes one of those legible chapters. That it ages the way the best objects age: not used up, but inhabited — softened, marked, carrying the evidence of the life it accompanied. If, decades from now, a piece is being worn by someone who didn’t buy it — a daughter, a friend, a stranger who found it and understood it — then it has done exactly what I designed it to do. It will have become someone’s vintage. Which is, after all, the whole point.

Your father, Strive Masiyiwa, has spoken about your launch with immense pride. How has your family’s journey and their emphasis on legacy influenced the way you think about building a brand that is meant to endure?

I grew up in a family for whom legacy was never an abstraction — it was the organising principle. The work my parents have done, particularly through the Higherlife Foundation, was always framed in terms of what endures: not the gesture you make today, but the structure you leave that outlives you. That framing shaped me more than any single piece of advice could.

When I think about building a house meant to endure, I’m drawing directly on that inheritance. It’s why I founded the Legacy Pillar within the Foundation — I think of culture as infrastructure, in the same breath as education or health, something you build deliberately for the people who come after. AMAYI is, in its own way, the same conviction expressed in cloth. My family taught me to think in generations rather than seasons. Whatever pride they take in the launch, I suspect it has less to do with the clothes than with the fact that I finally chose to make something built to last. That, more than anything, is the family language.

Looking beyond Archive II, how do you envision the evolution of AMAYI? What is the ultimate dream for this house as it continues to define what it means to be a future-vintage luxury label?

I’m wary of dreams that are really just bigger versions of the present. My ambition for AMAYI isn’t scale in the conventional sense. It’s permanence. I want the archive to keep accumulating, edition by edition, into a coherent body of work — one that, read end to end, says something honest about how women dressed, and lived, in this particular moment.

If I’m being fully candid, the dream is borrowed from the museum. I think often about accession — about the logic by which an institution decides an object is worth keeping forever. I’d like AMAYI pieces to be held to, and to survive, that standard: to end up in archives and on the next generation’s shoulders rather than in circulation and out of it. The fullest expression of future-vintage is a house whose work is studied and kept long after I’ve stopped making it — clothes that have become heirlooms in fact, not just in intention. I don’t expect to witness most of that. Designing for a horizon I won’t see is, oddly, the part I find most clarifying.

Looking beyond Archive II, how do you envision the evolution of AMAYI? What is the ultimate dream for this house as it continues to define what it means to be a future-vintage luxury label?

I’m wary of dreams that are really just bigger versions of the present. My ambition for AMAYI isn’t scale in the conventional sense. It’s permanence. I want the archive to keep accumulating, edition by edition, into a coherent body of work — one that, read end to end, says something honest about how women dressed, and lived, in this particular moment.

If I’m being fully candid, the dream is borrowed from the museum. I think often about accession — about the logic by which an institution decides an object is worth keeping forever. I’d like AMAYI pieces to be held to, and to survive, that standard: to end up in archives and on the next generation’s shoulders rather than in circulation and out of it. The fullest expression of future-vintage is a house whose work is studied and kept long after I’ve stopped making it — clothes that have become heirlooms in fact, not just in intention. I don’t expect to witness most of that. Designing for a horizon I won’t see is, oddly, the part I find most clarifying.

AMAYI is a London fashion house. It designs and produces womenswear in strictly limited, numbered editions – fabrics conceived by the house, manufactured between Italy and London. Every edition is finite. When it closes, it closes permanently. What accumulates over time is an archive: a body of work with no plans for reissue. The clothes are not made to be replaced. They are made to be kept.

For more information about AMAYI, visit their website.
Follow on instagram @amayilondon
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Interview published for ONE Magazine Online

From a family-owned workshop in Florence to artisan networks in Kenya, every stitch tells a story of transparency and enduring quality. Paulina Liffner von Sydow opens up about the Scandinavian roots that ground her, the personal catalysts that propelled her into entrepreneurship, and her vision for a new kind of luxury; one where ethics and aesthetics are not competing interests, but inseparable companions.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Liffner

Your background is deeply rooted in Scandinavia, a region known for its distinct approach to design and living. How did your upbringing in that environment shape the quiet confidence and intentional restraint that defines Liffner today?

Scandinavian design has always been about distilling things down to one strong idea. That “less but better” mindset is deeply ingrained in me. Whether I’m designing a bag, building a business, or simply navigating everyday life, my instinct is always to ask: how can this be made simpler?

I value straightforwardness and clarity, and those principles are very much at the core of Liffner. The idea of quiet confidence also resonates with me. My mom embodies that quality. Looking back, I realize that approach shaped not only my personal style but also the brand’s aesthetic. It’s less about being able to buy whatever you want, and more about being creative and making considered choices. It goes for both my personal style and my design work.

Before launching your own label, you navigated the fashion industry in various capacities. Was there a specific moment of clarity when you knew it was time to step out on your own and build something entirely yours?

I always had a vision of doing my own thing. I grew up in an entrepreneurial family, so there was encouragement and support.

My mom suddenly got ill, I got engaged, married, started my business all within the same year. In hindsight, those events were obviously connected. It was a reminder that life moves quickly and there is never a perfect moment to take a leap.

That said, entrepreneurship didn’t come effortlessly to me. I’m naturally hardworking, risk-conscious and, like many “good girls,” I appreciated external validation. Starting Liffner required me to push beyond that mindset. There were certainly a few self-help books and motivational clichés involved. But ultimately, it came down to accepting that growth just doesn’t happen without discomfort and risk taking. Building a business is an amazing vehicle for self-actualization and personal growth. It’s both very challenging and very rewarding.

Liffner is often described as a "new kind of luxury," one that moves away from logos and status toward something more personal and enduring. How do you define luxury in this modern context, and how does that definition influence the way you design each season?

There’s a quote I love: “True luxury is knowing quality, and having the time to enjoy it.”

That resonates deeply with me. Today, luxury feels increasingly personal. It’s less about acquiring more and more about understanding what truly adds value to your life. It’s that knowledge that drives luxury.

At this stage, I know exactly what quality means to me, although with young children and a growing business, finding the time to enjoy it is still a work in progress. But I believe real luxury lies in that process of refinement, identifying what matters and letting go of what doesn’t.

Sustainability for Liffner isn't just a checkbox; it seems woven into the very fabric of the brand's ethos. When you began mapping out the company, which ethical pillars felt non-negotiable to you, and which have evolved as you've grown?

From the beginning, I knew I wanted to produce in Europe, where environmental regulations, craftsmanship traditions and labour standards are strong. That decision established a foundation of responsibility from day one.

Longevity in design has always been another non-negotiable pillar. Creating products that are meant to be used and loved for years is, in my view, one of the most meaningful contributions a brand can make. Quality over quantity has always guided our decisions.

As we’ve grown, we’ve become increasingly focused on the broader environmental footprint of the business, including packaging, logistics and shipping. These are areas where we’re continuously learning and improving. Sustainability is not a static achievement; it’s an ongoing process of asking better questions and making better decisions.

You've maintained a twelve-year relationship with a family-owned factory in Pontassieve, outside Florence. In an industry often characterized by transient partnerships, what has allowed this collaboration to deepen over time, and how does that stability influence the quality of your leather goods?

Relationships are incredibly important to me. One of the privileges of building your own company is being able to choose who you work with and who you spend your time with.

Many of our key collaborators have been with us for years, and trust, mutual respect and shared standards develop over time, and that continuity translates directly into the product. The people making our bags understand the brand deeply and care about the outcome as much as we do.

This year we’ve also added two additional Italian manufacturing partners to support growth. It’s an exciting step that brings new expertise while allowing us to remain committed to the same standards of craftsmanship and quality.

Transparency is a rare gift in fashion. You've mentioned having full visibility into your second and third-tier suppliers. Why was it important for you to look that far down the chain, and what has that visibility taught you about the true cost of production?

I’m often surprised by how little some big brands seem to know -or want to know, about their own supply chains. Transparency doesn’t happen automatically. You have to keep asking questions even when the answers aren’t immediately available.

Understanding where materials come from and how they’re produced allows you to make better decisions, but it also gives you a much deeper appreciation for the complexity behind every product.

At the same time, I think we are seeing some consumer fatigue around sustainability in recent years. Economic uncertainty often shifts attention elsewhere. I find that disappointing because the environmental and social challenges facing our industry haven’t disappeared. If consumers stop asking questions, many businesses will stop prioritizing the answers.

Can you walk us through the feeling of holding a new material for the first time and knowing it aligns with both your aesthetic and your ethical standards?

One of the most encouraging developments I’ve witnessed over the past twelve years is how much progress the leather industry has made in terms of transparency and traceability.

When I started Liffner, it could be surprisingly difficult to obtain detailed information about where hides originated or how specific leathers were processed. Today, many of those conversations are standard practice, which is a significant step forward.

When evaluating a new material, aesthetics and responsibility have to work together. It needs to feel beautiful, perform well over time and come with a level of transparency that aligns with our values. When those elements come together, there's a real sense of confidence in moving forward.

Your woven leather baskets are crafted in India by a factory audited under SA8000, while your sisal baskets come from the Ethical Fashion Initiative in Kenya. How do you navigate the cultural and logistical nuances of maintaining such distinct, values-driven relationships across different continents?

Working across different cultures is always a learning process, and that's something I genuinely enjoy. Every partnership teaches you something new about craftsmanship, communication and ways of working. One advantage of remaining relatively small is that we're able to choose partners whose values align closely with our own. Whether we're working with artisans in Kenya or manufacturers in India, we look for a shared commitment to quality, integrity and long-term collaboration.

Design often requires making hard choices between what is possible and what is right. Have you ever had to abandon a design idea or a material because it didn't meet your sustainability criteria, and what did that sacrifice teach you about the brand's direction?

Some of the most nuanced decisions we make involve leather itself. In theory, the least processed leather is often the most natural expression of the material. It develops character, patina and individuality over time. However, consumer expectations don’t always align with that reality. Many customers today expect products to look almost unchanged after years of use, which often requires more finishing and processing.

The challenge is balancing authenticity, longevity and customer satisfaction. A leather that ages beautifully but isn’t appreciated may ultimately be less sustainable than one that retains its appearance and is used regularly for many years. These decisions have taught us that sustainability is rarely black and white; it’s often about finding the most responsible balance between craftsmanship, durability and real-world use.

As Liffner evolves, you're balancing growth with the intimate, boutique feel that attracted your early community. How do you protect that sense of closeness and intentionality as more people discover the brand?

For me, it starts with staying true to an aesthetic and only creating products that genuinely excite me. Growth inevitably brings more opinions and noise, but it’s important not to let that cloud the vision.

At the same time, I don’t believe intimacy is exclusive to small brands. Some of the world’s most successful companies create a strong emotional connection with their customers. Ultimately, it’s about consistency and how the product makes people feel.

I started Liffner to create handbags that have the ability to make women feel chic and confident, while also feeling like a smart shopper getting true value. As the business grows, we want to continue to deliver those exact same feelings, just at a larger scale.

The fashion landscape is shifting rapidly, with consumers increasingly demanding accountability. Where do you see the conversation around ethical luxury heading in the next five years, and how is Liffner preparing to lead rather than follow?

I’m not entirely convinced that consumers are demanding more accountability today than they were a few years ago. In fact, in some markets we’ve seen sustainability move down the priority list as economic pressures increase. What I hope to see over the next five years is a renewed engagement with the topic.

We’re realistic about our role. We don’t position ourselves as a pioneering sustainability company, nor do we have the resources of the industry’s large players. What we can do is approach every product with integrity: sourcing responsibly, producing thoughtfully, focusing on quality and longevity, and offering exceptional craftsmanship at a price point that remains accessible to real women.

Looking ahead, what is the next chapter for Liffner? Is there a dream project, a new material, or an untold story you're quietly working toward bringing to life?

I’ve been contemplating shoes for a while. It’s a category I’m deeply passionate about, which is precisely why I’ve been cautious about entering it.

We’re still in the very early stages of exploring and the challenge is finding the same sweet spot we strive to hit with our bags: strong design, responsible production, exceptional quality and a price point that feels fair. If we find that spot, it would be a dream!

Liffner is a Scandinavian leather goods brand grounded in expressive minimalism, time-honored Italian craftsmanship and the quiet strength of purposeful design.

Founded in Stockholm in 2012 by Paulina Liffner von Sydow, thy design versatile leather goods meant to accompany you through seasons and years. All Liffner handbags are handcrafted in small batches at a family-run atelier outside Florence, where generations of artisans continue to work with unmatched care and precision.

For more information about Liffner, visit their website.
Follow on instagram @littleliffner
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Interview published for ONE Magazine Online

For years, I told myself Amazon Prime was just a convenient utility for a busy life living in New York City. For people today, it often functions as a slow-acting sedative for our collective intentions. It numbs the impulse to care, replacing the thoughtful act of acquiring things with the dopamine hit of instant delivery. As a society, we have traded patience for convenience, and the true cost is far higher than the price of shipping.
  It is estimated that, in Western households, consumers spend approximately USD $5,400 per year on impulse purchases of retail items including fashion, food and household products.1 We buy items we don’t need, often discarding them within months because they weren’t invested in with care or forgotten. The convenience model encourages a disposability mindset; when an item arrives tomorrow with no friction, it holds less value. We stopped asking, “Will this last?” and started asking, “How fast can I get it?”
  And when we look beyond our own habits, the reality becomes even starker. Accounts like @thetrashwalker have exposed the shocking practices of major chain department stores, revealing mountains of brand-new clothing, home goods, and food destined for landfills simply to protect profit margins to students at Universities trashing perfectly good items because it was the end of a school year. Witnessing this systemic waste makes it impossible to ignore the dark side of the “always more, always faster” model, clarifying that our pursuit of convenience often comes at the direct expense of our shared environment and human dignity.
  My own breaking point with Amazon wasn’t a single dramatic event, but a gradual awakening to the realization that I didn’t need to rely on it at all. Year after year, my reliance on the platform quietly faded until, last year, I finally tore off the bandage and canceled my prime subscription.
  What surprised me most wasn’t what I lost, but what I regained. I’ve always enjoyed performing my errands, even when I had Amazon. I enjoyed traveling across the city or walking through Brooklyn neighborhoods to visit a small business to refill my rolled oats container or dish soap. Dropping off my compost at the local garden isn’t a chore for me; it’s a connection. These tasks fuel my spirit in a way that tracking a delivery truck never could. Amazon sells us the idea of “optimizing” our life that didn’t need optimizing…it needed experiencing.
  I‘ve always loved supporting local businesses and investing in items that last…and I didn’t miss Amazon at all. I already had alternatives that were either accessible locally or available through small businesses online.
  Now, when a sale or an ad pops up, I pause. We don’t need the things they push in front of us. If I feel the urge to buy an item, I write it down on a list and ask: What is its purpose? How will it help me? Then, I leave it there for a few weeks. If I still think about it constantly, only then do I begin the research. I start by searching for small business websites or on Etsy. and ask myself: Can I obtain this plastic-free? Is there a kit I can buy to make it myself? Can I learn to build it?
  I apply this same intentionality to my wardrobe. I rarely buy clothes, and when I do, it is only to fill a specific gap by seeking a piece that marries well with what I already own to unlock new outfit possibilities rather than chasing trends. If I feel the pull to add something new, I always first seek out small, ethical brands or visit my local shops by sifting through the vintage and secondhand racks, ensuring every addition has a story and a lasting place in my life.
  These questions transform shopping from a reflex into a practice. It slows us down. It forces us to value the object and the hands that made it. You don’t need it right away. And when you finally do bring something into your home, you’ll find that it stays there, cherished and used, because you didn’t just buy it, you chose it.
  You can quit too. It starts with one less click and one more reflection on living with what we have, what we can make on our own, or what we don’t need in the first place.

Words Nicole Gavrilles

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Published for One Magazine’s One | In Thought Series

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Yoshita 1967 is a Paris Nairobi based label defined by handwork, precision and a commitment to craft. Founded by Anil Padia, the brand brings together memory, lineage and technique to create garments that feel both intimate and expansive. Rooted in the designer’s Kenyan Indian upbringing and shaped by years of working between cultures, Yoshita 1967 treats fashion as an evolving archive, a way of carrying forward stories while reimagining what luxury can look like today.

We spoke with Anil Padia about growing up in Nyeri, about the point where he chose instinct over external expectation, and about how working with crochet and film has become a way to honor women, craft and cultural inheritance.

Interview One Magazine
Images courtesy of Yoshita 1967

You grew up in Kenya, where your family migrated over a century ago. Can you paint a picture of that upbringing that laid the foundation for your creativity?

I grew up in Nyeri in central Kenya, where my family had settled after migrating from Gujarat over a century ago. Life at home was steeped in Gujarati customs and traditions, while life outside the house was shaped by Kenya’s environment and culture. That mix, moving between two worlds, shaped how I see things and gave me a sensitivity to difference that continues to inform my work.
Being sent to boarding school at a young age made that pull even stronger. The Christian education I received there often stood in sharp contrast to the traditions of my family, and I struggled with that divide. It was difficult, and at times disorienting, but it also made me attentive to detail and alert to the subtleties of culture and identity, things that later found their way into my work.

You’ve said your mother’s style and a Bollywood film changed your life. Can you take us back to that moment when your love for fashion began?

My earliest sense of style came from my mother and the women in my family. I grew up in an extended household where several generations lived together. As a child I would watch intently as my grandmother, my mother and my aunts prepared themselves. I remember them opening jewellery boxes, laying out silver pieces, carefully choosing the colours of the bangles they would wear. Adornment was not superficial, it carried care, presence and meaning. Those moments of watching the women in my family get ready shaped how I began to understand beauty and dress.

You’ve spoken about carrying a hidden inner feeling from a young age. How did your family’s acceptance influence your identity and creative expression?

My family has always amazed me. They never allowed themselves to get stuck in time, even when everything around them seemed fixed. They grew, adapted and pushed past their limits. For that I am deeply grateful, for their ability to love beyond what they did not always fully understand. And by family I do not just mean the nuclear one as it is described in the West, but the wider circle who all shaped me in different ways.
Even when I could not fully name what I was feeling as a child, especially around being queer and different, I found expression through art, movement and costume. My family did not close the door on that. They gave me the space to explore, even if it was not always easy. That early acceptance became the foundation I return to whenever I question myself or step away from what others expect.

You went to Central Saint Martins—what led you there? Were you already designing at that point?

I was sketching long before I called it designing. Clothes and silhouettes, drawn secretly behind schoolbooks. I went to London to do a foundation course at Central Saint Martins partly to test whether fashion was a path I could walk. It was intense, emotionally, culturally and financially overwhelming, and I did not complete it. After that I then came back to Kenya where I did my first internship with a local brand called Kooroo. Each step felt crooked, but each one taught me something technical or emotional that I later used in Yoshita.

You went to Paris to study and worked with high fashion houses. What technical skills or philosophies from those chapters have stayed with you?

Later I moved to Paris to study fashion and spent time with houses like Paco Rabanne, Y Project and Jacquemus. There I learned and explored my draping and pattern making skills, how a garment moves, how finishes matter. Those standards of discipline and craft stay with me always. It helped me develop an acute sense of detail, every hem, every thread, every technique is subject to enormous scrutiny before it is approved. That level of precision is something I now carry into Yoshita.

During Covid, you experienced a turning point, rejecting trends and traditional taste. What was the first thing you did after that shift?

The real turning point came during the pandemic. I stopped paying attention to what I thought the world was saying and tried instead to listen to myself. In my journey from London to Paris I had lost confidence and with it my inner voice. This was the moment I chose to reclaim it. I decided to be bold and walk into fabric stores in Nairobi, picking whatever drew my attention without questioning whether it was chic or cheap, cool or tacky. I just knew I liked it, and that was enough. That voice is what I am still training myself to hear, even if it is not always easy to find beneath the noise.

Was there a specific moment or object that crystallized the idea for the brand?

I first met Catherine during my first internship in Kenya. When lockdown came, we began working together again. At first it was simply about experimenting, making small pieces, testing ideas, exploring crochet and what might be possible. But in that process something larger began to take shape.
The beginning of Yoshita 1967 came from the meeting point of two needs: on my side, a need for creative expression, and on Catherine’s side, the chance to continue and grow her craft. It was not about one of us giving to the other, but about what we built together. That balance became the foundation of Yoshita.
One of the first pieces we made was a baby blue polo shirt in crochet, embroidered with small glass mirrors. At the time it felt like an experiment, but it became a turning point, since the technique of crocheting with mirrors has now become a staple in my work.

The name Yoshita honors your aunt and your grandfather’s business. How are you weaving your family legacy into the brand?

The name Yoshita honours both my late aunt, who was born in 1967, and my grandfather’s business, Yoshita Industries. In Sanskrit, the word yoshita means woman. For me, carrying that name is a way of remembering my aunt while also grounding the brand in a lineage of women. My aunt lived with disability and mental health challenges in a society that not only stayed silent about such things, but often failed to understand and rejected them. Family and societal taboo are central themes in my work. Through Yoshita I try to bring to the surface the whispers of unspoken truths, giving voice to stories that were never fully heard, including my own.

Local craftsmanship played a central role in the beginnings of Yoshita 1967. Why was this important to you?

From the beginning, craftsmanship was at the heart of Yoshita 1967. Crochet and other forms of handwork have long existed within the community, but they were rarely given the visibility or respect they deserved. I wanted to centre those overlooked skills and the women who hold them, not as decoration or hobby, but as the foundation of the work. Every piece was made by hand, using cotton threads, crochet and detailed embellishment, and treated with the same level of precision and technique as any fashion house in Paris. What mattered to me was that the women behind the work were recognised, valued, and that the craft itself was seen as equal to any standard of luxury.

Temple Road, your debut collection at SS25 Paris Fashion Week, was the result of a long incubation period. How did time shape the final pieces, and what did that launch mean to you?

My debut collection in Paris was the result of two years of preparation. It meant training with artisans, refining techniques and holding the work to the same standards of precision I had learned in Paris. Too often, craft from our region is seen as peripheral, decorative or less rigorous. For me it was the opposite. Every seam and every detail had to be exact. Showing the collection in Paris was not about proving ourselves but about affirming that this level of excellence can emerge from our context. The launch was a dream come true, but also one I had shied away from for far too long.

You debuted the collection alongside a film of the same name. What inspired this cinematic pairing?

The film is an extension of the universe I am building with Yoshita. Clothes can hold memory, but film allows me to show what cannot be seen on the surface, sound, movement, atmosphere. It ties together the larger themes that form the poetic and deeper layers of my work. The result has a dreamlike quality, evoking a place and a ceremony that at once exists and does not, where things that belong and things that do not are merged, yet held in one space. That space is the Yoshita universe.

Silver bells echo throughout the collection. What do they signify?

Silver bells are at the heart of Yoshita. They are my obsession, because they hold so many layers at once: culture, dance, heritage, family memory. I even scanned my mother’s anklets with their silver bells, and they became the starting point of creation. Through them, sound becomes craft. The bells are a universe within themselves, an invocation I return to again and again.

You lead by intuition rather than trend. What does trusting that process feel like?

Trusting intuition has meant stepping away from outside validation. It meant feeling unsafe sometimes, doing things that feel raw or imperfect by conventional metrics. I had doubts: “Am I too ornate? Is this too slow?” But over time, letting what feels true guide me has brought the work that resonates most deeply. Listening to oneself is no easy feat. We lose our voice so often, and much of the journey is about trying to unravel and return to that voice again and again. It is uncomfortable at times, but it is also where the core of Yoshita lives.

What is the process like working with your artisans? How long does a piece typically take?

Our process is very much technique driven. We begin with exploring techniques, then move into embellishment, then colour, and finally shape. All our pieces are 100% handlade, and each one can take weeks to complete. Crochet is extremely labour intensive. Sometimes you wait weeks for a sample only to realise it does not work, and then you wait again for the next attempt. The work is slow, very slow, but that patience and rigour are part of the integrity of Yoshita.

You’ve spoken about reclaiming lineage through craftsmanship and sustainable design. How do these principles guide your processes?

Sustainability and lineage are not separate concerns for me, they are the way decisions are made. Reclaiming lineage means centering techniques that were always there but often overlooked, and carrying them forward with value and visibility. We only work with materials and processes where there is the right capacity, fair compensation and cultural meaning. I am not interested in fast cycles or trends. Every choice, whether it is thread, embellishment or labour, has to respect heritage, the environment and the people behind the work. That is what gives me clarity and direction.

Your production unit is made up of 26 women. Who are they?

We work with two groups of women. Our development studio, now six women, is made up of people from the community around us, many of them single mothers we reached through word of mouth. The aim was to create stability and autonomy through craft. We also work with a group of missionary nuns who came from Zimbabwe to Kenya in the 1960s. They are highly skilled and form part of our production line.

Your visual identity is stunning. How do you collaborate with creative partners to bring it to life so intentionally?

I am very precise about the visual identity I want to create, but it is always a collaborative process. So far the identity has drawn strongly from my family’s migrational history, and that universe has been enough to hold the work. I have been fortunate to find creative partners in Nairobi, photographers, directors and producers, who understand this language and have helped bring it to life. Now I feel ready to move on from that foundation and explore more subtle layers. The next collections will open a new chapter in the Yoshita visual world.

You launched the brand’s website – exciting! What was your vision for its digital presence?

The website is not only about retail, it is about building a universe. I want it to feel like a space of discovery, where people can enter the world of Yoshita through film, archive and stories as much as through the clothes themselves. It should hold the same sense of depth and resonance as the physical work, allowing visitors to see that every piece belongs to a wider context of culture, collaboration and imagination.

How do you envision someone wearing Yoshita pieces in the future?

I imagine Yoshita being worn in daily life and in special moments. I want women to feel beautiful and adorned, and to use the clothes as a way of reconnecting with their sensuality. For me it is about creating pieces that celebrate women, and if my work can play even a small part in helping them feel more connected to themselves, then it has done its work.

Togetherness and community were values you were raised with. How do you hope to carry those forward in the next chapter of the brand?

I hope to grow with the community we have built so far, the women we work with and the creative partners too. My vision is to create a women’s community centre where the artisans we collaborate with can access holistic care, financial literacy, education and other essential resources including health and food support. Yoshita can only grow if the community around it is nourished. We are linked to each other, and no one should be left behind. In the end, Yoshita is a community, and its strength is measured not by what we create alone but by what we hold together.

Yoshita 1967 is a Paris Nairobi based brand founded by designer and artist Anil Padia. The brand is defined by a dedication to craftsmanship, a precise design language, and a commitment to creating garments that feel both timeless and modern.

For more information, visit yoshita1967.com
Images courtesy of Yoshita 1967
Follow on instagram @yoshita1967
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Interview published for One Magazine Online

We explore how her architectural roots shape her moodboards, how she translates the rigid brick bonds of Copenhagen into fluid, wearable art, and why the story of the land beneath a stone is as vital to her as the stone itself, all while maintaining a commitment to creating heirlooms that endure beyond fleeting trends.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of KINRADEN

Your journey began in architecture, eventually leading you to Global Head of Design at Henning Larsen Architects before founding KINRADEN; could you take us back to the early days and describe what first drew you to the precision of architecture, and when did you realize that jewelry was the natural evolution of that architectural language?

I was drawn to architecture because it sits at the intersection of art, function, and human experience. What fascinated me most was the idea that a carefully considered detail could completely shape how a person feels in a space. Architecture taught me discipline - the importance of proportion, materiality, light, and the relationship between an object and its surroundings.

Over time, I became increasingly interested in scale. I found myself asking what happens when you take the same considerations we apply to a building and bring them down to something intimate enough to be worn on the body. Jewelry became a way to explore those questions. It offered the possibility of creating architecture on a human scale - pieces that carry the same emotional and spatial qualities as a building, but that become part of someone’s personal story. Looking back, it feels less like a career change and more like a continuation of the same design language.

I was truly moved seeing your moodboards in person and witnessing the beauty of how you weave architecture, poetry, and art together; could you walk us through how that collection of images evolves into a tangible piece of jewelry.

Thank you - that means a lot, because the moodboards are really where every collection begins.

I don’t approach design with a predetermined shape in mind. Instead, I collect fragments of ideas: a detail from a building, a line from a poem, a shadow cast by afternoon light, a sculpture, a material surface. At first, they seem unrelated, but over time patterns begin to emerge.

The process is very intuitive in the beginning and then becomes increasingly analytical. Once I identify a common thread, I start translating those emotions and observations into form, proportion, and material. The question is always: how do I distill the essence of an idea rather than literally reproduce it? I want the final piece to carry the feeling of the inspiration, not simply reference it. The jewelry becomes a condensed expression of many layers of thought, culture, and craftsmanship.

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Rheanna Henney founded In House not to chase trends, but to fill a void she couldn't wait any longer to see filled. Bridging an analytical background in mathematics and sustainability with an intuitive design sense, Henney has built a studio where ethics are woven into the very DNA of every garment. In this conversation, Henney shares how she balances innovation with regenerative practices to create pieces that offer women not just style, but a sense of quiet confidence and ease.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of IN HOUSE

Could you walk us through the moment you realized it was time to transition from your previous path and establish In House as your own studio? What was the catalyst that made you decide to build a brand from the ground up?

When you work in the climate space, it can be incredibly disheartening to watch how solutions are implemented, and how many industries continue to move away from more basic sustainable practices. I honestly reached a point where I kept waiting for someone to start something like In House, and it simply wasn’t happening, so I decided to try it myself. I wanted women to have access to both exciting materials and a reliable source for pieces made from natural fibers.

At the same time, we cannot innovate our way out of overconsumption alone. No material innovation or technological advancement can fully address the issue if we continue to consume clothing at the current pace. So much of this challenge lives in a more nuanced, emotional space — how women dress, what they reach for repeatedly, and how they feel in what they wear. In House is ultimately grounded in the belief that a well-fitting, well-made garment can become indelible to the wearer.

It also became clear to me that there are very strong tailwinds, both within fashion and outside of it, that make sustainability an increasingly difficult proposition for brands. Without broader structural or policy changes, it’s unrealistic to expect incumbents to materially shift course, particularly when they are beholden to certain margin expectations. Building In House felt like an opportunity to approach things differently fromthe ground up.

Your work feels deeply personal and rooted in a specific history. How has your own background and personal journey shaped the visual language and philosophy that you’ve come to define as In House?

Thank you. It is. I don’t think In House could exist in any form other than the one it exists in today. I don’t come from a traditional design background — my academic background is in mathematics and sustainability, and I later worked in venture capital with sustainable material and recycling companies. I can see all of those experiences woven into the brand’s identity.

For example, the interplay between femininity and masculinity within In House, and the way femininity often slightly wins out, reflects my own navigation of more feminine and masculine spaces, and my evolving relationship to femininity. The sense of ease within

these more traditional, sometimes obligation-oriented pieces is similarly reflective of a desire to feel more relaxed and less intense. My intensity is something I often struggle with internally and don’t necessarily identify with, even though it is very innate to me, which I think people can sense through how intentional the brand is.

What has surprised me most is how intuitive the design process feels. I come from a very analytical world and still sometimes struggle to articulate ideas through the kind of eloquent language that exists throughout fashion. But the actual process of designing feels incredibly instinctive to me — almost similar to the feeling of studying mathematics or writing proofs in college. There’s the same search for clarity, ease, balance, and inevitability. When something is working, it feels almost obvious in retrospect. I think our pieces are ultimately trying to arrive at that same feeling.

Sustainability is often discussed in broad terms, but for In House, it seems woven into the very DNA of the brand. What specific ethical principles guide your decision-making process, and how do you ensure those values remain intact as the brand grows?

Sustainability informs every decision we make at In House. I would not be making clothing if sustainability were not central to the brand. It shapes the materials we use, the partners we work with, and the pace at which we grow.

We work with both innovative and natural materials, use recycled packaging wherever possible, and partner with manufacturers who have been vetted by people within the industry with very high standards around human welfare and responsible production. We also primarily operate through micro-runs and made-to-order production, which allows us to limit overproduction and be more intentional about what we put into the world.

As the brand grows, production quantities will naturally evolve alongside demand, but sustainability is not something I view as separate from the business. It is foundational to why In House exists at all.

You speak often of your thoughtful material sourcing. Can you share a story about a specific material you’ve discovered or a supplier relationship that has deeply influenced a collection? How do you balance the desire for innovation with the commitment to regenerative practices?

I think innovation only feels meaningful if it can exist within a system that is thoughtful more broadly. We spend a great deal of time looking into the supply chains behind our fabrics — where they come from, how they are produced, who is involved in making them, and whether they can genuinely support the kind of longevity we want from a garment. I’m interested in newness, but not novelty for novelty’s sake. The goal is always to find materials that feel both forward-thinking and deeply wearable.

I don’t really view it as choosing between innovation and more historical regenerative practices. At In House, the two exist in conversation with one another. Some of our fabrics come from centuries-old systems of craftsmanship and agriculture, while others are the result of newer material innovation. What matters to me is whether the material feels aligned with the broader philosophy of the brand — quality, longevity, intentionality, and a respect for the environments and people involved in making it.

Honestly, there is rarely a glamorous story behind how we find our fabrics. A lot of it comes from previous relationships within the sustainability world, spending hours moving between vendors in the garment district, following obscure leads, asking too many questions, and being fairly persistent. I actually really enjoy that part of the process. There is something investigative about tracing a fabric back through its supply chain and understanding how it came to exist in the first place. That curiosity has probably influenced the collections as much as the materials themselves.

In an industry driven by speed and volume, In House embraces a made-to-order and bespoke model. How does this approach fundamentally change the relationship between you, the maker, and the wearer? What does it allow you to achieve that mass production cannot?

In House operates on small manufacturing runs — very small, in some cases — alongside a made-to-order model. At this stage, it allows us to work with higher quality materials and produce more intentionally, responding to actual demand rather than forecasting volume far in advance. We have sold through our wool multiple times and are now on our third or fourth shipment, which, while imperfect at times, feels preferable to overproducing.

I also think it creates a different relationship between the garment and the wearer. Someone is often willing to wait because they have decided they truly want the piece, not because it simply happened to be available that day. That feels especially meaningful in categories like suiting, where fit, fabrication, and longevity matter so much. Some customers do not want to wait, and we understand that, but building more slowly and with greater restraint feels aligned with how we want the brand to grow.

Your use of high-quality, innovative, and sustainable materials is striking. Could you describe a moment where you encountered a new material or technology that surprised you, and how you decided to integrate it into your design process?

Part of our work, largely because of our material constraints, involves getting creative with how fabrics are used. I think we captured that most clearly with Bananatex. The handfeel of it really surprises people. It comes from the abacá plant, a relative of the banana plant, and exists somewhere between a linen and a cotton. It is light, softens beautifully over time, and still holds a certain structure and durability that makes it incredibly versatile. I’ve had a lot of fun pushing the boundaries of what this linen alternative can be used for within the collection, from floor-length skirts to tanks.

Expert craftsmanship is clearly the heartbeat of your brand. How do you cultivate and maintain this level of skill within your practice, and what role does the human hand play in your definition of true luxury?

Best-in class craftsmanship is fundamental to In House, and a large part of that comes down to choosing the right manufacturing partners and building strong relationships with them over time. While it is of course a business relationship, we think about our manufacturers with the same level of care and respect that we think about the women who wear our clothing. The work is deeply collaborative. It involves trust, problem solving, open communication, and a shared commitment to quality. It often takes more time and effort, but to me, that is part of the job. I think true luxury is felt in those human layers of a garment — the care, skill, and consideration that shape it long before it reaches the wearer.

Every piece seems to carry a sense of quiet intention. How do you approach the design phase? Is it driven by a specific emotion, a memory, or perhaps a response to the material itself?

Every garment begins with the fabric. We spend a lot of time understanding where it comes from, how it was made, and the history behind it. The material itself actually often guides the emotional direction of the piece. From there, the design process becomes a response to that story translating texture, origin, and feeling into something wearable!

As the conversation around slow fashion continues to evolve, where do you see In House fitting in the broader landscape in the next few years? Are there new horizons you’re hoping to explore?

I think the conversation around slow fashion is becoming far more nuanced, which is exciting to us. We don’t see In House as a brand that has all the answers yet, but rather one that wants to actively participate in shaping what the future of thoughtful consumption can look like.

Over the next few years, I hope to deepen our presence within that space through continued research, collaboration, and listening – both to the people making the materials and to the community wearing the clothes. We’re interested in connecting with innovators across design, craft, and sustainability, and continuing to explore how clothing can feel emotionally lasting as much as physically lasting.

For us, growth isn’t really necessarily about scale alone, but about building something with integrity that can evolve alongside the conversation itself.

Finally, as you look toward what’s next for In House, what is the one thing you hope people feel or take away from your work that goes beyond the physical garment itself?

We hope women feel a better sense of ease in their everyday lives. We want getting dressed to feel expressive, but never overwhelming or performative.

Beyond the physical garment itself, we hope In House gives women a feeling of quiet confidence! I want our pieces to move with them, adapt to their lives, and become part of their personal rhythm over time. Every woman has her own perspective and sense of style, and we want the clothing to support that individuality rather than define it for her.

In House offers limited runs and made-to-order from the highest quality innovative, sustainable, and regenerative materials.

For more information about In House, visit their website.
Follow on instagram @inhousestudio_
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Interview published for ONE Magazine Online

We are honored to speak with Nicole Boekhoorn and Fleur Huijskens, the founders behind Sterrekopje. Their journey began not with a business plan, but with a profound personal gap in the wellness landscape: the inability to find a space that felt simultaneously sacred, comfortable, and deeply human. What started as Nicole’s longing for a “home” evolved into a collaborative creation with Fleur, birthing a place that defies the clinical coldness of traditional wellness hotels and the spartan isolation of standard retreats.

At Sterrekopje, the philosophy is rooted in regeneration rather than mere sustainability. This is a commitment to leaving the land, and the people upon it, better than they were found. From the moment guests pass through the gates, they enter a 360-degree embrace of the mountains, a “cradle” designed to help the nervous system settle. Here, the concept of “healing” is reframed not as fixing what is broken, but as remembering one’s inherent wholeness.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Sterrekopje Farm

It’s so lovely to meet you both, Nicole and Fleur. Could you take us back to the moment you first envisioned creating a sanctuary specifically for women, by women? What was the personal catalyst that transformed a longing for a retreat into the concrete reality of Sterrekopje Farm?

Sterrekopje was created as a sanctuary specifically for women, by women. This vision stems from a need for a safe, supportive environment where individuals can return to themselves within a warm, loving setting. This concept was originally Nicole’s, and bringing two women together to build it infused the space with a strong female energy. The motivation arose because Nicole could not find a place that met these needs. While many wellness-focused hotels exist, they often feel clinical, cold in their aesthetics, heavily programmed, and impersonal. Conversely, the retreats we have visited throughout our lives, while rich in content, frequently lack comfort in their accommodation. Sterrekopje aims to bridge this gap. It is a place where one can be deeply held by the space, the people, and the offerings in a way that allows the body to settle and the nervous system to regulate. This environment supports the process of returning to oneself or reclaiming wholeness.

Healing is not about fixing something broken; its root word is “hael,” meaning “whole.” The goal is to reconnect with that wholeness, shifting from a state of cognitive overload, anxiety, and rushing back to being fully present in the body, which is our natural state.

While creating Sterrekopje for everyone was the first expression of this vision, the realization grew that a dedicated women’s retreat was also necessary. This retreat avoids being super-packed or heavily programmed. Instead, it focuses on deep rest and regeneration, which is vital for women who carry significant responsibilities in family, full-time careers, and a fast-paced world.

Given the female hormonal system and the importance of the menstrual cycle, rest and nourishment are essential. This women’s retreat offers a safe, supportive setting where women can return to their feminine sovereignty and reconnect with sisterhood. The focus is on community and co-creation rather than comparison or competition.

You often speak about wanting to create a place "rooted in nature; a place with a soul." How did you and Nicole define that "soul" during the early planning stages, and what qualities were you hoping to embed into the very fabric of the land?

Sterrekopje is rooted in nature and possesses a distinct soul, reflecting what already exists on the land rather than something artificially created. As a working farm, it maintains a deep connection to the earth. The concept of a “soul” permeates every aspect of the property, from its name to its curation. Every element has been created, curated, or co-created as a labor of love, ensuring genuine authenticity.

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We spoke with Tracy Knauer, New Balance’s Senior Vice President of North America, about Reconsidered and how the program evolved from a grassroots idea to a network of 100+ stores, covering logistics, cleaning technology, and the shift toward a circular economy. We explore how Reconsidered is not only reducing waste but also redefining the brand’s relationship with its customers in a more sustainable future.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of New Balance

Congratulations on the two-year anniversary of Reconsidered. Hitting the milestone of 100,000 recirculated pairs is a significant validation of the program. How did the concept for “Reconsidered” evolve internally? Was this a top-down initiative from leadership, or did it evolve from associates looking for ways to tackle waste or rewear?

Reconsidered came to life through New Balance’s efforts to build a better, more sustainable future – an approach to doing business that we call Responsible Leadership. With partnership between associates who drive the company’s Responsible Leadership strategy, and our Ecommerce team, Reconsidered debuted in 2024. Putting the consumer at the center, we launched Reconsidered to provide access to popular like-new or gently worn styles with the goal of helping to extend the life of our footwear.

“Reconsidered” accepts both customer trade-ins and “cosmetically imperfect” inventory. Can you walk us through the journey of a returned shoe?

Reconsidered offers customers pre-owned New Balance footwear, along with footwear and apparel from consumer returns that have cosmetic imperfections and can’t be sold as new – all of which are inspected, cleaned as needed, and condition graded. Customers can trade in gently worn New Balance shoes by mail or at more than 100 retail locations and receive a voucher for accepted items toward their next purchase on newbalance.com or at participating U.S. New Balance retail locations. Cleaning, fulfillment, and warehousing are made possible by Tersus Solutions, which operates an innovative waterless cleaning technology alongside a suite of textile reclamation solutions for apparel and footwear. Items that are not eligible for resale are donated to a local non-profit organization called Soles4Souls. The Reconsidered resale experience is also powered by Archive, which manages the technology platform behind the program. Please note that clothing and accessories are not currently available for trade in.

Use our online tool to estimate how much you could earn by trading in your item.

Currently, apparel is available for purchase but not for trade-in, whereas footwear has a fully active trade-in component. Given the success of the shoe program, are you considering evolving into a closed-loop system for clothing similar to what you’ve already solved for footwear? What would need to happen operationally to make garment trade-ins a reality?

Building on strong customer response and momentum for Reconsidered, we are continuously looking for opportunities to expand the program. This includes broadening our selection of items for resale, introducing new approaches to help keep additional products in circulation, and exploring innovative business models for how and where our customers can purchase items from Reconsidered. The learnings from this initial launch of apparel will help inform how we continue to evolve our approach moving forward.

It’s exciting to hear customers’ excitement coming to New Balance specifically through Reconsidered. In an industry often obsessed with “newness,” how are you seeing this platform shift the brand’s relationship with consumers?

Since launching, Reconsidered has helped to recirculate more than 100,000 pairs of New Balance shoes. Whether it is a first New Balance purchase and an opportunity for consumers to experience the quality and craftsmanship of our products, or a platform for repeat customers to discover unique finds and re-discover past favorites, Reconsidered offers many unique options for consumers to connect with our brand. We’re excited about how our customers are responding, as the program has continued to grow tremendously over the past two years.

With 100+ retail locations now accepting trade-ins, how critical is the physical store experience to this vision? Is New Balance learning from the trade-ins to inform future designs that are easier to recycle?

New Balance stores are designed to inspire, connect, and serve a broad community, from dedicated athletes to those passionate about style and culture. Accepting trade-in at participating U.S. retail locations is one way we offer choice and convenience to our customers. What started as a pilot at eight retail locations when we launched Reconsidered, has scaled to over 100+ retail locations to drop off New Balance shoes. In addition to visiting us in-store, consumers can also mail items to us from anywhere in the U.S.

To trade in by mail, create a New Balance Reconsidered Account through our website. Once you have confirmed your trade-in online, you will receive a pre-paid, pre-addressed shipping label via email. Pack your item(s) and attach the label to your package. Bring the package to the nearest UPS location or drop it in your mailbox. Alternatively, you can schedule a free UPS package pickup if available in your area.

How are you ensuring transparency for the customer buying shoes or apparel from “Reconsidered”? How do you communicate the condition grading and the specific environmental impact of choosing pre-owned to the consumer?

Our company culture, which we call “One NB,” is centered around our core values of integrity, teamwork, and total customer satisfaction. As with everything we do, we aim to live those values on Reconsidered. This begins with our standards for products we accept as trade-in and those we offer for resale: functional, clean, and still in wearable condition. Also, our website is designed to communicate where products come from, how we assess and clean them, and what consumers should expect from their purchase. For example, our online shopping experience shows which condition grades are available for purchase and includes a guide to help consumers understand each condition. Shoppers are also able to filter product listings by condition to help create an intuitive user experience. Additionally, Reconsidered has a 45-day return policy, and if items arrive damaged or in a different condition to how it was described in the listing, consumers can request a refund.

The fashion industry often struggles with the logistics of reverse supply chains. What were the biggest operational hurdles in launching “Reconsidered” across 100+ participating stores, and how did you solve the challenge of logistics without creating a new carbon footprint through shipping?

Our relationships with Archive and Tersus Solutions have helped us address many of the operational challenges with reverse logistics. Similar to our goal of making trade-in simple for consumers, it’s also critical that the operational aspects of reverse logistics are easy for our store associates for the program to be scalable across our store network.

Looking beyond the two-year mark, Reconsidered is the natural next step toward keeping products in circulation at scale. If we fast-forward to 2030, what role do you hope Reconsidered plays?

We are constantly exploring ways to keep products and materials in circulation as long as possible and believe Reconsidered is one piece of the puzzle with a program objective to help extend product life for some of our product and get the most from what is already made. Looking to the future, we hope to continue accelerating the momentum we’ve seen from the first two years of the program. As we further engrain Reconsidered’s value into our engagement with consumers, we strive to make it a key component in what continues building loyalty, consideration, and interest with our customers.

For more information about New Balance Reconsidered how to recycle or purchase items, visit their website.
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Interview published for One Magazine Online

By guiding guests into the workshops and homes of master artisans (from the block printers of Jaipur to the purple snail dyers of Oaxaca), Thread Caravan does more than teach craft; it rebuilds the severed ties between maker, material, and place. We spoke with Caitlin as she reflects on Thread Caravan’s evolution, the sacred responsibility of stewarding endangered traditions, and the joyful realization that when we create together, we discover a shared human inheritance that transcends borders. What follows is a celebration of the artisans who keep these ancient flames alive and the global community rising to protect them.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of Thread Caravan

Great movements often start with a simple, powerful vision. Could you take us back to the very beginning and share the story of how Thread Caravan came to be? What was the specific moment or inspiration that sparked the idea to blend travel with hands-on craft learning, and how did that initial vision grow into the global community you celebrate today?

Prior to starting Thread Caravan, I worked with fairtrade brands partnering with artisans.Through this work, I saw how disconnected most consumers were from the origin. Craft was often reduced to a souvenir, stripped of its context. The spark of clarity came when I realized that travel could be a bridge, not just to observe culture, but to participate in it with humility and care? This idea, to bring people into direct, hands-on learning with master artisans became the seed. Over time, it grew organically into a global community rooted in shared experience, respect, and the joy of making.

Since those early days in 2014, Thread Caravan has facilitated countless retreats across continents. Looking back at this beautiful journey, what has been the most heartwarming evolution in how travelers and artisans connect, and what core truth about human creativity continues to inspire you most?

Looking back, the most heartwarming evolution has been witnessing how quickly barriers dissolve when people create together. In the beginning, there can be hesitation because of language differences or cultural differences. But once hands are moving, something universal takes over… a curiosity, and a creative instinct. A new language is formed through craft.

One core truth that continues to inspire me is that creativity is a shared human inheritance. It doesn’t belong to one place or one person; it lives in all of us. When we honor this shared inheritance, we’re able to build inter-cultural bridges and understand one another on a deeper level.

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In a world dominated by the relentless pace of "fast media" and daily digital noise, there is a profound power in slowing down. At One, we are often asked why we don’t release a new issue every year. The answer is simple: we refuse to follow the status quo when it comes to the fashion industry and its fashion calendar.
  Our mission is rooted in intentionality. We believe that for content to be truly impactful, it must be crafted with care, depth, and purpose. We don’t just fill pages; we build a narrative world grounded in the true meaning of regenerative fashion. By stepping away from a traditional annual publishing model, we give ourselves the breathing room to ensure that every story told and every image captured aligns with our highest standards.
  This intentionality extends to the brands we feature. We view our collaborators not just as features, but as partners with a shared mission. We mindfully curate brands, highlighting those who prioritize ethical transparency, traditional craftsmanship, and eco-innovation. By taking more time between issues, we can vet and build authentic relationships with brands who are truly moving the needle in their respective industries.
  Every issue and piece of content for One is anchored by a specific theme that maps directly to our sustainability initiatives. We believe storytelling is a vehicle for change. Whether exploring circularity, heritage craftsmanship, or environmental stewardship, our themes are designed to provoke thought and inspire a more conscious lifestyle. We don’t just report on beautiful items in this world; we advocate for a cleaner, greener, and more inclusive version of it.
  Our slow approach is a direct reflection of our mission statement committed to ethical production. Producing a physical magazine has an environmental footprint, and we take that responsibility seriously. From the paper we source to the printers we partner with, every element of our production process is handled with care. We would rather produce one ethically sound, timeless issue you cherish than multiple issues that contribute to the culture of disposability.
  At One, we aren't interested in being the loudest voice in the room—we want to be the most meaningful. Thank you for being part of this journey toward a more intentional and ethical future.

Words Nicole Gavrilles
Learn more about our ethos on onemag.us

Founded by Jonas Clason and Lena Patriksson Keller, the brand emerged from a shared frustration with the commoditization of denim and a vision to elevate it to the status of a true fashion discipline. By weaving together artisanal knowledge from across Europe and championing an agile, responsible production model, Jeanerica invites wearers to slow down and co-author the life of their garments.

Interview Nicole Gavrilles
Images courtesy of JEANERICA

JEANERICA is described as a ‘premium European Denim House,’ yet your roots feel deeply connected to a global network of artisans. Can you take us back to the very beginning and a little bit about your background?

JEANERICA was founded on a shared fascination with denim and the craft behind it. The idea was to approach denim with the same discipline and attention to detail usually associated with a European fashion house, placing the material at the center rather than treating it as a supporting category within a collection.

Jonas Clason, Creative Director and Co-Founder:

“My background has always been closely connected to design, denim and product development. Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time working with mills, laundries and factories across Europe.

What fascinated me early on wasn’t only how a garment looked, but how it was actually made. The fabric itself, the wash process, the construction. Spending time with the people behind those processes teaches you a lot. For me that knowledge is essential if you want to create something that really works and lasts.

Denim of course has very strong roots in the United States and there is a certain mythology around those classic brands. We’ve always admired that history, but wanted to interpret it through a European perspective. That tension has become part of JEANERICA’S identity.”

JEANERICA grew out of a long friendship and creative collaboration between Jonas Clason and Lena Patriksson Keller, bringing together complementary perspectives on product development and brand building.

Lena Patriksson Keller, Chief Brand Officer and Co-Founder:

“My background is in product development and brand building, and over the years I’ve had the opportunity to work with brands across very different worlds, everything from Hermès, Cartier and Dior to H&M. This has given me a broad perspective on how companies are built, but also on how a brand connects emotionally with people.

For Jonas and me, starting JEANERICA was really about specializing and deep diving into something we genuinely love. Denim is such a beautiful material with a rich cultural history.

In a crowded fashion landscape, denim is often treated almost as a byproduct within a collection. What excited us was the idea of giving it the main stage and building a universe around it. Taking something that can easily become a commodity product and placing it in a more elevated context, where craftsmanship, design and storytelling are allowed to take space.”

What was the specific moment or frustration that led to the creation of JEANERICA, and how has that original spark evolved into the identity you hold today?

The original frustration was that denim in the market often felt either overly trend-driven or completely commoditized. It seemed like products were either chasing the next trend or treated as basic commodities, and we felt there was space for something more considered.

Our idea was to build a modern denim wardrobe with the same discipline you would expect from a fashion house. The starting point was quite simple: a few well-developed fits, strong fabrics, and a clear point of view. From the beginning we were interested in the meeting point between artisan knowledge and industrial production. Working closely with mills, laundries and manufacturers allowed us to explore that balance between craft and modern manufacturing.

Over time that initial idea has evolved into something broader. Today JEANERICA is really about longevity, European craftsmanship, and thoughtful production. Sustainability was never something we wanted to add afterwards. It had to be part of the foundation from the start.

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Welcome to our Substack – A new space for you to read sustainable perspectives within fashion, beauty, lifestyle, and more. We’ll bring a flavor of what you’ve read from our newsletter now onto this platform. We’re expanding our writings to include guest writers, more Q&As with influential women within fashion & creative backgrounds, highlight the importance of natural fibers and the tradition of craft, thoughtfully recommended brands & products, sustainable/responsible travel recommendations, and more.

Plus we want to hear from you! This is our way of connecting with our readers and we want to hear what you would like to learn more about, read or see more of.

We have some exciting projects in the works and we hope you’ll enjoy :)

x Nicole Gavrilles
Founder, EIC, Creative Director

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