Reduce, Reuse, Rework: How Upcycling Became Fashion’s New Frontier

Young designers and established luxury houses alike are exploring the possibilities of upcycling and deadstock fabrics. But what does it all really mean?

Think back to the spring of 2020, those halcyon days when we thought the pandemic would last a few months, not a few years. When we were still calling it “global warming,” not global boiling. As air travel and nonessential industries ground to a halt, we enjoyed a brief glimpse of a calmer, cleaner world. It prompted countless think pieces about the “silver linings” of our predicament, while designers and brands made lofty statements and vowed to do better. There were a lot of promises, pledges, and petitions . . . calls to “reset the system,” to “slow down,” to “produce less.” It was fashion’s big opportunity to really, finally “be sustainable,” whatever that means.

Suffice to say, that hasn’t happened yet—and designers aren’t entirely at fault, either. Even the most powerful creative directors answer to CEOs and shareholders. But for a few fragmented seasons, we saw fewer, smaller collections, and designers up and down the spectrum had little choice but to work with what they had: piles of leftover fabric—often referred to as deadstock—and racks of samples and unsold inventory. The challenge was to make it feel like new.For many young designers, that sounds like any other day at the studio. Long before lockdown, Conner Ives, Marine Serre, Hillary Taymour of Collina Strada, Priya Ahluwalia, Lou Dallas, Erin Beatty of Rentrayage, Sarah Nsikak of Le Reúnion Studio, and [Emily Adams Bode Aujla] of Bode(https://www.ssense.com/en/women/designers/bode) have worked primarily with existing garments, fabrics, (and quilts and linens, in Bode’s case). Many of them arrived at this make-do-and-mend process as a result of trying the “old way” first: At some point in their formative careers, they got a glimpse of fashion’s waste, excess, and inefficiencies, and decided they wanted no part of it. Instead, they chose the harder path: creating new pieces without creating anything “new” at all.

While their peers are ordering custom silks and synthetics overseas, these designers are scouring warehouses for leftover bolts of fabric, combing flea markets and thrift shops for vintage treasures, and tearing apart garments stitch by stitch before designing a single thing. In theory, their results are as “sustainable” as it gets: low- or zero-waste, with nearly negative carbon footprints, and diverting piles of fabric and clothing from landfills.For all of the various “preferred” materials a designer can use—recycled polyester, FSC-certified viscose, faux leather, organic cotton, humble hemp, and so on—none compare to simply giving new life to an extant garment or fabric.“When you look at clothing’s footprint, the most impact is in the textile mill,” explains Maxine Bédat, author of Unraveled: The Life and Death of a Garment and founder of fashion think tank New Standard Institute. “If you’re using deadstock or upcycling, it really does draw down your emissions.”That an upcycled garment is typically one of a kind—like Bode’s quilted jackets and Collina Strada’s signature T-shirts—is icing on the cake, and collections made with deadstock are often smaller batch by virtue of limited supply. As a result, these terms have become elevating for brands: more granular than “sustainable,” and with the additional, seductive air of specialness and exclusivity.In reality, these terms are just as hazy as “sustainable,” “eco,” or even “vintage.” Much is left unsaid; short of a brand outlining a garment’s entire journey or posting before-and-after photos, a customer doesn’t really know where their new-old jacket came from or what went into making it.More pressing questions come to mind. How old should a fabric be to qualify as “deadstock”? If it’s only a year or two old, is that really moving the needle?Should a designer call a fabric “deadstock” if it’s from their own supply? (It’s certainly a convenient way to tweak the narrative when you’ve ordered too much.)Is it possible that rising demand for deadstock and upcycling could actually make our overproduction problems . . . worse? Would companies feel motivated to produce more materials and more garments, knowing they can eventually pass them off as “sustainable”?

Design matters, too. If a brand is using deadstock to create trendy, disposable items with poor quality, that’s just missing the point.The proliferation of “deadstock” fashion in particular suggests there is a fair bit of fudging at play. It also creates the illusion that deadstock fabric is abundant and readily available. On one hand, we know the industry is producing way too much fabric—enough to wrap around the earth 1,219 times, as Bédat discovered in her research for Unraveled. That’s more than we need, hence the burgeoning deadstock market. (Even LVMH offloads its deadstock to Nona Source, the destination for leftover fabrics from Givenchy, Dior, and other houses within the conglomerate.)But the process of sourcing deadstock fabric—or sourcing enough of it to produce a full collection—remains imperfect and irregular, even for a designer as meticulous as Ahluwalia. In 2021, as her business grew, it became increasingly stressful to fulfill her orders with 100% existing fabrics and garments. “It’s a good problem to have,” she told me at the time, “but with deadstock and vintage, there’s an access problem. Fashion brands aren’t used to working this way—it isn’t as simple as ordering more fabric from a mill.”Technology is one solution: Ahluwalia worked with Microsoft to launch Circulate, a digital platform for crowdsourcing clothing from her community, which she then stockpiles to use in future collections.Ahluwalia is also filling the gaps in her production with key styles in “preferred” materials—i.e. new or recycled materials with a better-than-average footprint, like organic cotton or recycled cashmere. Many of her peers are making similar compromises in order to scale: Taymour incorporates recycled cotton and “rose sylk”, an organic fiber made from plant waste; Ives uses recycled spandex and polyester; Serre’s collections rely heavily on recycled nylon; and Bode’s upcycled jackets are accompanied by small runs of silk shirts and organic cotton knits.

Maria McManus’s experience helps explain why so many of these designers share a love of patchworking, collage, and artful juxtaposition. While there is a seemingly infinite supply of existing clothes to take apart and piece together in endless combinations, deadstock is less reliable, particularly when you’re trying to produce clean, timeless silhouettes at scale. McManus’s aesthetic couples “quiet luxury” with a rigorous commitment to recycled and responsibly sourced materials. She has rarely been able to source enough deadstock to produce full runs of her minimalist button-downs, sleek tailoring, and luxurious knits. (That said, her forthcoming Spring/Summer 2024 collection will include some deadstock materials.)Upcycling has caveats of its own, with designers and retailers quick to use the term, even if a garment is only partially upcycled. The meteoric rise of Bode and its many copycats has also sounded alarms in the quilting community, with accusations of appropriation and concerns over “ripping up” heirlooms. Are designers getting the full story before they break out the seam ripper?Quilts in particular can have cultural and historical significance, even if they’re damaged; the same could be said for a vintage dress, or a blanket, or any textile with a potential story. Maurizio Donadi, the founder of LA upcycling studio Atelier & Repairs, refuses to touch vintage and only upcycles clothing that is beyond repair.This kind of due diligence is yet another piece of the puzzle designers have to account for in the hazy world of upcycling, deadstock, vintage, and sustainability en masse. It’s also our responsibility as consumers to think critically about what we’re buying, to ask questions, and to support designers who are open and honest about their work.If that sounds aggressive, here’s the thing: These designers want you to ask questions, because they have the answers. (At least, the designers we’re highlighting here do.) The entire reason they’re doing any of this is in the hopes that people care enough to dig deeper, to ask the tough questions, to understand where their clothes came from.“It would definitely be easier to just produce new stuff,” says Taymour. “Sometimes it takes me triple the production time. You can’t make this easier; it’s hard work, but you’re doing it to make a difference.”She views Collina Strada as not just a brand, but as “a platform for climate awareness, social awareness, change, and self-expression.” Her collections are made primarily with deadstock fabrics she sources from a reseller in New Jersey—everything from crushed velvet to cotton fleece, designed into simple base layers or exuberant pannier dresses.Ives, the London-based designer known for his “reconstituted” vintage T-shirt dresses, describes his work as “extremely challenging, and often surprising . . . but I try to see the process as a means to an end. From the beginning, I was told I would never be successful in selling products that vary item-to-item, that stores would struggle with this, that customers would struggle with this. While it is in no way perfect yet, I am proud of how much we have committed to the vision.”For climate-conscious customers who want to express their values, it’s a bonus that these collections “look” upcycled in the best way: off-kilter and spontaneous, emphasizing the human hand. It’s one of the rare instances where clothing can send an immediate message, at least to onlookers who are tuned to the right frequency.That was part of the draw for Rentrayage’s designer Beatty: Once a designer for prominent New York labels—including her own, Suno—she grew disillusioned by the industry’s waste and inability to evolve. In 2019, she launched Rentrayage with one goal: to “reanimate” garments that already exist. Her collections have a charmingly Frankensteinian quality—kilts spliced with denim skirts, blazers inset with army liners, 50/50 tees—and serve as a visual rejection of fashion’s soulless, growth-obsessed narrative.It’s worth pointing out that the joyful, perfectly imperfect look of these clothes often requires an inverse degree of technical prowess and ingenuity. Beatty was classically trained, with an eye for impeccable fit and drape. Look closer at the zigzagging surface of a Conner Ives dress, and you’ll find couture stitching and clever solutions. Serre documents the arduous making of her “regenerated” garments through her brilliant Core series, and Taymour approaches zero-waste with mathematical precision, saving even the smallest of scraps for patches, reinforcements, and jewelry.Still, none of these designers claim to have it all figured out. They are constantly examining their impact and striving to do better—and lately, it feels like they’re the only ones paying attention. We just experienced the hottest month on record, a sign that climate change is no longer a threat—it’s here.Wildfires, heatwaves, droughts, and more “natural” disasters are imminent, yet the industry is still on track to produce upwards of 100 billion new garments this year. In a bizarre and inexplicable about-face, the same designers and brands who were shouting about sustainability in 2020 have gone mysteriously quiet in the wake of Hawaii’s devastating fires and the UN’s grave warnings.

Where do we go from here? As critical as it is to shop responsibly and support designers who are aligned with our values, it’s also true that we will never shop our way to a healthy planet. Instead, Bédat is encouraging climate-conscious designers and consumers to recognize the enormous potential of legislation.“The rise of hyperfast fashion is actually undercutting the great work these designers are doing,” Bédat explains. Consider the 75 million people who shopped at SHEIN in 2022, generating $30 billion in revenue. “If one part of the market is speeding up, and another part is being really mindful, on net, the industry is still growing.”Bédat is leading the charge on New York’s Fashion Act, which, if passed, will require any apparel or footwear brand that sells in New York with revenues of at least $100 million (read: essentially all of the major players) to reduce its emissions in line with the Paris Agreement; to map at least half of its supply chain; and to perform mandatory due diligence to avoid labor abuses.In short: The bill would help slow fashion’s race to the bottom, and it would effectively cap how much clothing a global brand can produce. “There is only so much reduction that can happen through mill efficiencies,” Bédat adds—i.e., using renewable energy or recycled materials. “Fast fashion companies will not be able to comply without addressing the units they’re producing.”Supporting the bill is any independent designer’s best interest, Bédat insists, and not just for the moral imperative. By requiring the industry’s most powerful brands to operate within planetary bounds, the Fashion Act would level the playing field and help emerging, climate-conscious designers stay competitive.“When the industry isn’t just competing on the lowest prices, we can be competitive on the most beautiful, creative products,” she explains. In contrast, larger brands would need to find additional ways to generate revenue without producing new garments, like through repair and mending services. (Perhaps they can take a cue from Bode, which opened its tailoring and mending shop in 2021.)Therein lies the real takeaway: Ultimately, the best thing we can do for the planet is buy less, buy better, and cherish our clothes. “I always say the most sustainable thing a customer can do is wear something they love until it falls apart,” Ives says. “Then they can mend it or turn it into something else.” And thus, the process begins again.

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