Phoebe Bor, a Fashion Design Knitwear graduate, turned to the bushland of her South African childhood. Through earthy palettes and plant-like silhouettes, she reconstructed the landscape that shaped her early years. Similarly, Rose Seekings looked to the British seaside for comfort. Her work, informed by 1950s and 60s swimwear, presented a crisp, melancholic homage to summers long gone. Timisola Shasanya worked through dual landscapes: London and Lagos. Her garments oscillated between cultural markers, transforming place into touch and memory into material.
Ayham Hassan Musleh told the story of growing up under occupation in Palestine. In his collection, the graduate spoke of the tension between the fashion system and the humanitarian crisis, through what he called “the narrative of visibility in a world that so often turns away.” His material choices spanned from deadstock Palestinian fabrics to newly developed textiles, straddling tradition and resistance.
Like Musleh, many other designers used refined technical skills not merely to display mastery but to give form to deeply personal worlds. Phoebe Bor’s bone-like skirt structures, made from eucalyptus leaves stitched and resin-coated, transformed natural debris into voluminous sculptures. Rose Seekings’ use of papery textures and bulbous knitted forms added volume to nostalgia, making memory physical. These were not just decorative gestures but emotional mechanisms.
While some sought solace in the past, others projected themselves into imagined worlds. Myah Hasbany, this year’s L’Oréal Prize winner, based her collection on what she calls the “real events” of a UFO crash in her home state of Texas. The work subtly referenced the political conservatism of the American South, showing how suppression reshapes both community and identity. Her silhouettes degraded as the show progressed, eventually collapsing into bulbous, amorphous balloon forms. Linus Stueben approached his inner world with absurd tenderness. His runway was populated by anthropomorphic wool creatures, emotional support animals spun into stress victims and escapist fantasies. These beings became both metaphors and materials.
But even as they push their expertise, they know their talent doesn’t necessarily dictate their future. Our conversations with graduates about their next steps were filled with question marks. Most are realistic about what lies ahead: they know fashion is not kind to its newcomers. And yet, they remain undeterred. Many spoke with cautious optimism about their roles within this system, not as passive inheritors but as active problem-solvers.
Hannah Smith, first runner-up to the L’Oréal Prize, spoke about wanting to “celebrate corporeal deviance with pride and reverence” and to continue pushing for more inclusive and adaptive design. Phoebe Bor was more direct: “I have to hustle. The industry needs more women.”
Others don’t seek to reform the system as much as to create their own. Yuura Asano says, “fashion is being shared in new, more personal ways, and I’d love to explore a more intimate model for connecting with people through my work.” Minjoo Jade Kim imagines new infrastructure entirely: “I hope to create a platform or community that supports young designers through collaboration and shared resources.” Others, like Sarah Mikoerey, cut straight to it. When asked what comes next, she answered plainly: “Solutions for today and tomorrow!”
