Led by programme director Ragna Sigríður Bjarnadóttir, who studied there herself 15 years ago, the degree takes a conscientious approach to design, less defined by the whims of Paris and other fashion capitals and guided more by the emotions a garment can conjure and why someone will wear something again and again. “We’re a really small programme,” Ragna says. “It’s only me and one other full-time teacher, one part-time, and then we have guest teachers.”
The other full-time teacher is Katrín María Káradóttir. “Katrín was my teacher 11 years ago,” Ragna adds, “She’s really spearheaded changes and streamlined everything. She’d never take the interview herself, but she deserves a special mention!” Then Arnar Már Jónsson is the part-time teacher, for first years and third years doing their final projects. “He’s a great value for the department!”
Much like with Aalto in Finland and other smaller (and often free) institutions that are only really accessible to natives who speak the local language, there has to be a different approach taken to the bigger design schools – breeding an environment like what fashion education once was 20, 30 years ago. Here, Ragna tells us about the course, the meaningful camaraderie between students, and the department’s future.
You took this course that you now teach. Has it changed much from your time as a student?
Yes, definitely. A lot has changed. The first thing is what’s changed everywhere – or I hope everywhere – there’s a different focus on how you look at resources, how you use them, what kind of product you’re making and why. When I was there it was more the typical way of thinking about design: you make a mood board, select fabrics, do sketches, then have a collection. Now it’s much more focused on working with a concept, finding a thread through your design process, and having clear reasons for your decisions.
Why is that?
I don’t know the exact reason, but it makes sense that design has become more personal. If you think about storytelling, when you have a garment and you know what went into it, it becomes more valuable and interesting. The more time you spend on it, whether in the textile, the fit, or the idea, or if it has a specific purpose or person in mind, then it’s more valuable.
So, if you’re young and Icelandic and want to work in fashion, what are your options?
Well, we’re the only institution that has a BA programme. There’s no master’s currently in fashion in Iceland, so if students want that they need to go abroad. Job-wise, it’s not like other cities where you go straight into an industry, because we don’t really have one. We have good designers and some brands, but maybe two or three that actually hire designers or have design systems. Those jobs aren’t really available, so graduates have to figure out their own way – start their own brand, go abroad, or work part-time while doing their own projects. A lot of people do that. We feel we need to make them self-sufficient – to learn the full design process but also how to transfer those skills elsewhere. And if they’re interested in technique or craft, they should have the opportunity to focus on that and be good at it, because they can’t just order samples; it’s expensive. So it makes sense for them to be able to make garments themselves. They’re interested in that and quite good at it too.
So they have to use what’s available locally and be more open to different materials and production.
Yes, definitely. It’s also hard teaching about material quality because we have two fabric shops that are pretty bad, so we have to find other ways. Many of them, in third year, go to London or somewhere else to buy fabrics. It’s hard to talk about good fabrics when you don’t really have them available.
Other than making you more resourceful, what are the advantages of being so far from the industry?
I hope it makes them more appreciative when they do get access. For example, when I did my BA there were no industrial sewing machines, only household ones. I made my whole BA collection on one of those. We have nice machines now, but back then we didn’t. Later I went to Copenhagen for my MA – they had so many machines, and I felt like a kid in a candy store. I wanted to try them all because I’d never had that before. But when I no longer had access to them, I still knew how to work with my home sewing machine.
I was speaking to Elina Peltonen from Aalto in Finland recently and she was saying students there don’t have the same intense competition for internships compared with schools in London and Paris, which can actually be healthy.
Yes, I’ve never heard of something like that here. There are some competitions, but students are used to working together. They know everyone gets the same chance if they work hard. There’s really good morale, so they’re helpful to each other, between classes and across years. All three years work together, so third-years help first-years, and it creates good morale. They share space and machines, so they have to coordinate – “I’ll use it now, then you can use it” – and they respect that. Because the classes are small, they’re involved in each other’s process, not afraid to pitch in, share ideas, and give feedback.
What do most aspire to do after graduation?
There isn’t one main aspiration. Some really want to go abroad and do an internship or a master’s, and some just want to stay here and make their own work. There’s not one type, but they’re realistic – they wouldn’t do whatever it takes just to get there.
Smaller courses like yours seem more like what fashion education used to be, before it became this huge industrial complex.
Yes, definitely. I don’t have personal experience in the big schools, but every time I hear about them, I don’t understand how that works – for either students or teachers. I wouldn’t say I have a personal relationship with every student, but almost. I want to be available if they need anything, and they know they can talk to me or any of the teachers. One-on-one work is really important, and from what I hear, that’s not so common anymore in those big courses.
There are a lot of challenges mounted against young people right now – economically, politically, technologically – do you see any of this manifest in your students’ work?
I’m not sure it influences their work directly. Maybe we’re a bit removed from it and not directly affected. Of course everything costs more, so they have to be more resourceful. But lately we’ve seen them gravitating toward making things by hand, their own textiles, focusing on pattern making, being able to do things themselves. Maybe because they know they can’t count on getting a job easily. We’re so oversaturated with information and visual input that they want to slow down, sit with their work, and value the time of creating.
A greater emphasis on physicality because everything’s so online?
Yes. Being physically involved, draping, making something with your hands, learning a technique. They use their own bodies in sketching, trying on clothes, draping on themselves or on friends. We try to harness that embodied thinking: making with your hands and for bodies. I ask them to bring in their favourite garments – the ones they wear most – and we talk about them. There’s a reason you always wear a certain sweater. Is it emotional? The fit? The fabric? We discuss how that knowledge can feed into their own design process. We have a course that’s been running for 11 years with the Icelandic Red Cross. Students make three outfits only from discarded garments – they’re not allowed to buy anything new. At the start they visit the sorting facility and see how much comes in. It’s confronting, and then they design from what they find. We have another course with the Balenciaga Museum in Getaria. Students visit, study archival garments and craftsmanship, then use the online archive of garments and construction details to create one outfit. It’s about focusing all your energy on one look and making it as good as possible in finish, fabric, and thought. We also do natural dyeing: they go out, pick plants, bring them in, and see what colours they produce. When the colour comes from something you gathered yourself, it means more than if it came from a colour card.
So you take a slower, more thoughtful approach to fashion that sits outside the churn of mass production…
Yes. They learn about the bad sides, too. We have one course where we talk about the “bad stuff.” It’s horrible, but we don’t want them to be discouraged. We tell them it hasn’t always been like this and won’t always be. We want them aware, but not cynical. We’re not preaching; we show them good examples – better fabrics, better quality – and they can feel it themselves. Then they choose the better materials. We teach quality for quality’s sake – because it’s better. I don’t like the word sustainability; it doesn’t really work anymore.
Because the word doesn’t describe the problem accurately, or because it’s been tainted?
Both. So we frame it as better practice – just making better things.
Even outside fast fashion, the luxury sector feels over-exploited – constant newness, constant creative director changes. It’s so far removed from what you’re teaching: personal, about how a garment makes you feel.
Yes. I was having a discussion with some students about that – about a guy who bought something from Miu Miu, and it broke as soon as he opened it. It went viral, they sent him another, and it broke again. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe that’s because in Iceland, not that many years ago, people really had to take care of their things because there weren’t many nice things here. We need to get back to that. Garments have to work, particularly at the prices they’re charging.
Are there other ways Icelandic culture or psychology feeds into the course or the way students design?
Yes. A stylist we work with, Anna Clausen – she’s Danish but has lived here many years – once said something that stuck with me. She said Icelandic fashion is interesting because there’s no class hierarchy. Everyone has equal opportunity if they’re willing to work for it. You can’t buy your way into anything better. People are self-sufficient and not afraid to try something different. Maybe it’s because it’s dark here in winter, so we have to stand out. People are used to using what they have and not afraid to experiment.
That’s interesting. I’m sure it’s hard to recognise lots of unique cultural traits when you’re from there.
Definitely. And I know we could be better at embracing that. For example, we have amazing nature, but we don’t want to use it to promote ourselves because it feels tacky because we see it everywhere. When I was in my MA, there was a Danish guy who filmed his whole collection here, in the black sands, and everyone thought it was amazing – so alien, like a moon landscape – and I was like, “Oh.”
If you’re from a small place, you’re going to be protective of it and sensitive to how it’s depicted.
Yes, definitely. We’re used to seeing it presented in a touristy way, not simply as a backdrop for someone’s work. But there’s growing respect and focus on what’s truly Icelandic. People didn’t want to wear knitted sweaters for years because they were seen as tacky, but now we’re getting back to appreciating them. We tried to be more European or American, but people are realising that’s not necessarily the best way. We have this cultural and textile heritage that we need to look into more.
So, final question: do you see changes coming to the course – maybe launching an MA?
I really hope so. It’s slowly coming along. We’re a small institution, so we can’t expand everywhere at once. There’s an MA in design, but it’s not fashion. There’s talk of a graphic-design MA coming first. Personally I’d love to bring back textile design. Many institutions are dropping it because they don’t see the value, but I think it’s essential. I’d also like a programme more focused on the garment itself – or accessories – something more craft-focused but with a design perspective.
