It’s about longevity, about building something that doesn’t just react to fashion but adds to the conversation in a way that still holds weight years from now. As a content creator that switch wasn’t immediate. I learned that switching between these mediums is about knowing when to slow down, when to let go, and when to be deliberate. The voice stays the same, but the process forces me to see things from angles I wouldn’t have otherwise.
As someone deeply embedded in fashion commentary, how do you foresee the evolution of fashion discourse in the digital age, and what role do you aspire to play in shaping it?
Fashion discourse is evolving at an insane speed. Social media has democratized conversations, but it has also flattened them—everything moves so fast that there’s barely time to process before the next thing takes over. A collection hits the runway, and within hours, it’s dissected, memed, and discarded. But some collections demand more time. Take Prada SS25 as an example—this one took me weeks to digest. I had to rewatch the show over and over, read every interview, and dig into the references. For weeks, I wasn’t sure—was it horror, or was it genius? That process of questioning, observing, and learning is what I love. I think the future of fashion commentary has to push against the instant reaction cycle. There’s a real hunger for deeper analysis—for people who aren’t just reacting but actually thinking, questioning, archiving. I love finding unexpected connections, pulling from history, literature, and subcultures. If I can get even a handful of people to approach fashion with more curiosity and depth, then I know I’m doing my part.
You often discuss the impact of nostalgia on fashion’s future. Could you elaborate on how this sentiment influences contemporary design and consumer behavior?
Nostalgia is one of fashion’s oldest tricks. It sells comfort, familiarity—the illusion that something lost can be found again. And right now? Everything feels unstable. Culturally, politically, digitally—there’s this constant acceleration, this feeling that things are slipping too fast to hold onto. So fashion clings to the past. Designers look backward, not just for aesthetics, but because familiarity is easy to sell. It’s recognition. It’s reassurance. But nostalgia is tricky. When it’s just replication, it’s empty. That’s the difference between a designer who pulls references and a designer who does something with them. The best ones remix, distort, break things apart just to put them back together in ways you don’t expect. Miuccia Prada is a master of this—she takes mid-century silhouettes and warps them just enough to make them feel unfamiliar. The nipped waists, the uniform-like tailoring, the hyper-feminine structures—they’re all there, but something is always off. That tension, that refusal to let nostalgia become sentimental, is what makes her work so powerful. And Raf Simons—especially in his early years—handled nostalgia like a confrontation. He pulled from school uniforms, youth culture, the codes of rebellion, but he never softened them. Instead of romanticizing those references, he injected them with unease. His silhouettes were sharp, severe, always carrying an undercurrent of tension. Nostalgia, but not the kind that comforts you—the kind that challenges you. That’s the kind of nostalgia that excites me. Not the kind that just replays the past, but the kind that interrogates it. The kind that looks back only to push forward.
