The Belgian designer who mastered the art of influence without fame

How do you reflect on your days as a student at the Royal Academy of Antwerp?

In one word: fantastic. Those four years were a revelation to me. Coming from a bourgeois household, I entered the academy as a plain Jane to whom a world of art and colour revealed itself. Back then, you paid a yearly tuition fee of merely €250. The selection, however, was still as brutal. Around a hundred out of more than a thousand applicants made it to the first year. By the end, only a handful graduated; there were around seven or eight in my year. The academy’s reputation doesn’t come out of nowhere, of course. Luckily, I always knew how to amaze them when it mattered most.

But honestly, I still do not quite know how I made it through. I have seen so many talented people disappear. It’s an interesting hybrid, this sense of extreme freedom amidst the intense rigour. It makes for a breeding ground of, eventually, strong identities. But you need to have thick skin. One moment, you are praised, and the next, your work is completely torn apart until you simply have had enough and stick with your gut. Which, ultimately, is what they are after: students who full-heartedly pursue their vision, no matter what.

In stories about the academy, emphasis is often placed on competitiveness between students. What was your experience? Was this an issue, or was there a sense of belonging?

Everyone resented one another just as much (laughs). But we were all in it together, so we made it work. You see, the thing is, when there are so many strong personalities within one group, you’re asking for tension. In a way, it’s a recipe for disaster. Disdainful looks and nasty comments about each other’s work were not a rare occurrence. However, this rarely had anything to do with the others’ actual work; it was more a defence mechanism to cope with your inner stress level. At times, we couldn’t stand each other, but that was all we had: each other. So we tried to make the most of it.

Before your career in fashion, you had a brief stint as a medical student. Two completely different worlds: fashion and medicine. What made you decide to switch out the medicinal needle and thread for the sartorial one, so to speak?

Medicine wasn’t something I aspired to. It was expected that I would pursue a traditional career, as I come from a family of doctors and solicitors. But at one point during my studies, we had to do an autopsy. That, to me, was a lightbulb moment. Suddenly, I realised that my life would be one of illness and suffering when, in fact, all I ever wanted was vibrancy and beauty. So, in hindsight, that autopsy was a tipping point. From then on, I aspired to be an artist. Not for the sake of richness or fame, however. Things were different back then. To me, it was about being a personality, an individual.

And so it happened that I applied to the Antwerp Academy. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be admitted. I didn’t know a thing about sketching, let alone having done anything that even slightly resembled fashion design. But I had always been fascinated by all things art-related. That must have shone through, as Linda Loppa saw something in me. Throughout all my years, from my preparatory year to my actual degree at the academy, she was there to guide me.

Your silhouettes were always very sophisticated and elegant. How has this style developed and evolved throughout your education, and how long did it take before you fully formed and embraced this specific DNA?

I have never known otherwise. Designers pour their heart and soul into their collections, specifically those running their own label. And it shows. What you create resembles who you are as a person. My star sign is Aries: energetic but not very patient. Stringing pearls for hours on end is wasted on me. I do not find it to be of this time either, but that aside. A more industrial finish doesn’t bother me as long as values such as ease, comfort, and quality are met. My number one priority is and has always been to create female-friendly silhouettes. Those values have been with me from the start. Of course, it is an ongoing process; elements such as colour were added later on. Generally speaking, Belgians do not particularly excel in terms of colour. I hope that what I’m about to say does not come across as pretentious, but I consider myself among the few who have mastered it, along with Ann Salens, Martin Margiela and Raf Simons.

Your aesthetic might seem at odds with the more experimental looks many may associate with the Royal Academy. Did you ever experience it this way, or wasn’t it something you were all too focused on?

Oh yes. I can still remember the second year. So many of my peers would make copies of Walter [Van Beirendonck]’s work. And then you had me, who had been admiring Christian Lacroix. So, I made a collection with birds and lace coats inspired by Prince, one of the rising pop stars back then. Walter called it the academy’s ugliest collection to date. You can imagine what that must have felt like. But once again, Linda rooted for me.

During those first two years, I was still figuring out who I was. As I said, specific values were part of my work from the start, but only in my third year did all the puzzle pieces fall together. I made this all-white collection with crystals: spacey avant la lettre. To this day, I recall the horror and shock on everyone’s face upon seeing it. This was in July. Only a few months later, in September, the whole fashion world would embrace the first ‘space age’ collection by Rifat Ozbek. Suddenly, my status as a bottom-tier student was changed to that of a trendsetter, the story of my life. Only to show that everything is relative.

I must admit it wasn’t always easy. But I simply couldn’t bring myself to make something that didn’t align with me. And I still live by this motto. Of course, a 17th-century hand-embroidered garment is dazzling. However, I don’t believe in effort, in the sense of endless hours spent on a heavy silhouette. I prefer clothes to seem effortless, as if they come out of thin air.

All my life, I have been on the heavier side, so I know how it feels to walk around with a pinching waistband, horrible. Hence, I have always gravitated toward flowy silhouettes that graciously fall over the body. It’s why I adore Madeleine Vionnet. She emancipated women by enabling them to dress themselves instead of needing a maid. And her designs were never restrictive, allowing the body to move freely. A design of mine might require five or six fittings to get right, but you should never be able to tell.

People often speak in terms of good and bad taste. However, I don’t believe in such a thing. When someone compliments you on your good taste, it simply means you have encountered someone who shares a similar taste in things to you. Nothing more, nothing less.

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You gained lots of experience at different houses before launching your brand. Balenciaga, Jean Paul Gaultier… it would be couturière Adeline André who immersed you into the world of colour and showed you its eloquent power ‒ would you say this is an accurate picture?

Working for Adeline was like rediscovering the world of tailoring through the lens of colour. Of my four collections, three burst with colour. It became one of my trademarks. From the moment Adeline broadened my horizon colour-wise, I was hooked and knew I could never go back to the days of black and white with the occasional pop of red or blue.

Colour is innate to Adeline’s being. I would always find her surrounded by thousands of pots of ecoline, a type of aquarelle, creating the most stunning drawings in an array of intuitively chosen shades. Adeline is an eccentric personality and a stubborn designer. Although sometimes a bit too stubborn if you’d ask me. Then again, that only adds to her allure.

Once, a spokesperson for LECLAIREUR [the Parisian department store] came in requesting to buy the entire collection, but in all-black, to which Adeline turned to me and said: “Come on, let’s go and have a coffee.” If it had been me, I would at least have run some options past them of darker shades bordering on black, like a deep green or navy. But for Adeline, that was out of the question. In that respect, she knew no nuance.

My years with her are among my happiest. The atmosphere was unrivalled. Unfortunately, after those two years, she could no longer afford to hire me, and I had to be honest with myself: if I wanted to make a living out of fashion, I had to move on. But her legacy is one I hold dear.

In 1999, right before the turn of the century and after almost a decade of experience in the industry, you launched your womenswear collection in Paris, for which you were awarded the prestigious ANDAM award shortly after. This resulted in a second collection shown at Centre Pompidou. Has your approach to fashion shows changed over the years, from a small Parisian gallery to an institute such as Centre Pompidou and then to houses like Jil Sander and Ann Demeulemeester?

I never was in it for the show element. That was part of the reason I left Jean Paul Gaultier. I found it too ‘fashion’, too focused on show and drama. Don’t get me wrong, I adore fashion; I just don’t like the spectacle of it all. And working at Jean Paul Gaultier was precisely that: spectacle at its best. My love for fashion stems from a fascination for the craftsmanship and artistry of clothesmaking. The clothes and how they are worn are what matter most to me. Of course, I did notice the power of a good show. A magnificent setting could, for example, add a whole other dimension to a collection.

The fourth collection, which I knew would be my last, is by far my most memorable. I purposely discarded any sense of inspiration and merely focused on shapes and colours. Everything about the show just felt so right. By this point, I had gotten acquainted with many models, as most girls would recur each season. They walked up and down the runway barefoot, and whenever they turned and the light caught their cheeks, the most subtle shimmer of a tear revealed itself, courtesy of Inge Grognard.

So, you would have this gorgeous line-up of models, and then the ultimate Parisian backdrop with cars driving by. What I loved so much about this location was the democratic element. Because of the big bay windows, people from the outside could look in and equally enjoy the show. That’s a generational thing, I guess, lowering the threshold and opening up your shows to a broader audience.

What did the retail landscape look like back then? Did you notice a direct impact of your collections being sold at STIJL?

It sure was of meaning to be represented in and by the right kind of shops. To have a vision of what your ideal clientele looks like is one thing, but who will eventually wear your designs is another ball game.

A big part of it is a curious twist of fate. My first collection, with words such as dignity and harmony, could have ended up appealing mainly to older ladies. Luckily, as fate would have it, the very first photo series was featured in Purple magazine. You can’t imagine the relief I felt, to be reckoned among the avant-garde, how I’d envisioned it. Of course, I’m grateful for every type of client choosing to wear my designs, but there’s always a particular preference. I was fortunate to see my silhouettes represented by some of the most stylish boutiques.

To this day, I’m more or less a cult designer. Barely anyone knows of me or my work. But the in-crowd always knew, those in the know of avant-garde fashion, which was all that mattered to me. Despite how niche some of these boutiques might seem to a broader audience, they opened doors I never deemed possible, like being on Japanese television. I’d say the role of a store like STIJL remains priceless for designers, primarily to reach a specific audience.

For your debut collection, you found inspiration in the Flemish Primitive artist Hans Memling. How important would you say your Flemish roots are when designing? Was it something you only tapped into for your collections, or did you also bring an element of it to other houses?

I debuted in 1999, the heyday of the so-called ‘heroin chic’ aesthetic: burning cars, models that seemed half-dead, vulgarity. We all recall the Tom Ford for Gucci ad featuring a model’s pubic hair shaved into the letter ‘G’. That was around 2002-2003, but it paints a picture of that time.

My sisters never wore corsets, high heels, or any of these torture devices. Imposing shapes and sizes onto females, as some designers do, I find degrading to women and in no way modern. So, I questioned my values and motives, which brought me back to where I come from, Flanders. And so, the concept of ‘Dignity’ was born: an utterly female-friendly collection without a trace of aggression. Back then, this came as a shock to the system. That is probably why I won the ANDAM prize, because it was so groundbreaking at the time.

You must remember this was around the turn of the century, when fashion was highly experimental. The weirder, the better. People in my entourage advised me against a softness and harmony like mine. But I followed my gut, and, in the end, I was lauded for that.

And the same values I’ve scoured for in other houses ever since, another reason I felt so miserable at Jean Paul Gaultier. The designs were just too loud for my liking. Right before, I had worked as an assistant for Josephus Thimister at Balenciaga. I was used to working with the most exquisite of materials. When suddenly, at Gaultier, I had to go and fetch fabrics under ten euros. I was astounded that such a thing even existed.

Some words that recur when reading up on your work are minimalism and monochromatic. For many people, this corresponds to a limited palette of mainly black and white, whereas yours – apart from AW2000-01 – is on the opposite end of the spectrum. Your silhouettes redefine minimalism, monochrome, and colour blocking. Do you then identify with those words used to describe your work, or do you find it an oversimplified interpretation?

Minimalism equates to stripping things back to the bare essentials, how it was first conceived in the 60s in the minimalist art movement: reduction as a noble act. Minimalism, in how it is seized today, has very little to do with this. The word has been used to the point that it has lost its true meaning.

What Martin [Margiela] did at Hermès comes close to minimalist perfection. Perhaps a bold statement, but I think I might even prefer it over his own collections. It was pure: the perfect seamless sweater, an impeccable cashmere scarf. A friend of mine, Joan, owns this leather coat that comes with a similar-shaped muslin cover that is rainproof. I find this so fascinating, to consider functionality and practicality by adding a protective layer without weighing the silhouette down. There’s a reason they say minimalism is among the hardest to get right. Its potential lies in the delicate balance between sufficiently purifying and perfecting a garment whilst maintaining the spirit of said garment.

Despite the limited number of collections under your name, you left quite a significant mark on fashion. Also, in positions further down the line, where you would, for example, introduce a sense of flou to couture design, countering the rigid tailleur that was generally expected and assumed. Can you reframe just how groundbreaking this was back then?

Jil Sander was and is the absolute queen of tailoring. Back in the 80s, when the brand started to pick up, women wanted suits with strong shoulders. It granted them this feeling of being equal to men. At the same time, these women also experienced the comfort of wearing a great pair of tailored trousers. Jil, a powerhouse of female strength, fully embraced this masculine element, but she stripped it of its harshness. In her hands, it no longer had this sense of playing dress-up. She turned the suit into a women’s wardrobe staple, a powerful and comfortable two-piece without the risk of looking ridiculous.

I entered the house as Raf Simons’ right-hand during his creative directorship. At this point, the sale of dresses was estimated at around €50.000. Jil was never quite fond of dresses, not to say she hated them. By the time I left, the dresses were a lucrative business in and of themselves, with sales numbers in the millions. Even when you are a businesswoman, I believe you can still wear a dress, but it’s a matter of finding the right one. I would even go as far as to say my day dresses exceed my evening gowns.

Few people realise how tricky it is to get a daytime dress right without it looking carnival-esque. You could say that is my legacy at Jil Sander. However, Raf and I didn’t come in as a whirlwind wanting to impose our artistic vision. Far from it. Our strength was our gradualism. We showed respect for the Jil Sander client. Slowly but surely, however, we expanded the brand’s horizon. But always in line with Jil’s vision.

During this period working with Raf at Jil Sander, did you ever notice such a thing as a ‘Belgian touch’? A shared design sensitivity despite both your individual aesthetic and approach?

When I first met Raf, I didn’t know the first thing about his work. We were introduced by a mutual friend, Peter De Potter, who used to take care of all of Raf’s graphic design. Through him, Raf got acquainted with my work. Peter suggested it would be good for Raf to take me on board as he had never done womenswear or worked for such a big house before, whereas I had done nothing but that. And what I did indeed notice was the smooth process of working with another Belgian.

However, I don’t believe in such a thing as a ‘Belgian touch’. I think it has more to do with a certain mentality. The strength and perseverance of a vision of someone with a strong sense of self and individuality.

What is the major difference between designing for yourself and under another label?

Despite what you might expect, I loved working for these big houses. Running your own brand can be lonesome at times. Aside from maybe a seamstress, it is mainly you working towards the momentum of a show. But these houses are in a different league. What starts as an idea for a dress unravels into an array of possibilities in more fabrics than you can think of. As an independent designer, it is virtually impossible to execute every single idea that pops into your mind. However, the financial resilience of bigger houses allows their designers and creatives to dream big.

I would say I’m not your average designer who sketches out a whole collection in one setting and then, six months later, sees it lined up as it did on paper. Designing, to me, is an ongoing process in which the final result might completely diverge from the initial sketch. So, having the opportunity to explore all possibilities is a dream come true for a designer like me. You don’t need to get it spot on right away; there’s some leeway for trial and error.

Something I have come to learn is to let go of things. I’ve made countless pieces that were stunning in my eyes, yet never saw the light of day. It’s a shame, of course. But so be it; I won’t shed a tear.

On the threshold of your final collection and what was presumably a time of great financial instability, you made the rational decision to stop your label prematurely. This must have been a tough call, but it allowed you to make the decision yourself while you still could.

I’m glad you brought this up, as I would like to straighten things out once and for all. All I ever read in the press is that I was pressured to stop. When, in fact, it was a conscious decision not to continue my label.

Fashion has always been a form of expression for me, not a money scheme. Call me naive, but I can’t help being an artist through and through. Although those first four collections were well received, I was still a relatively small name. And so, when I was approached by stockists such as STIJL, Bergdorf Goodman in New York, and Blake in Chicago, I hardly knew how to cope. I hadn’t anticipated this sudden growth. As I said, I was a bit naive and maybe somewhat unprofessional in my approach. With how fast everything was moving at that point, I would have had to invest millions. But I immediately felt that wasn’t the route I wanted to go down. And so I decided to leave it at four collections, on a high note.

In hindsight, this turned out to be the right decision. Not long after, in the aftermath of 9/11, America closed its borders. Being one of my main sales markets, it probably would have meant great financial calamities for my brand had I continued. I’ve seen it happen to designers Jurgi Persoons and Veronique Branquinho.

If you had followed through, could it have meant the end of your entire career in fashion?

My ego not being so big ultimately permitted me to have such a long and successful career. Time and time again, I took on the role of crown prince simply because I didn’t want it quite enough. Many names would turn down the offer to work alongside someone like Raf or Jonathan Anderson because, to them, it would feel like taking a step back. I never had a problem with the idea of being someone’s assistant and not taking all the credit. As long as I get to create, I’m satisfied. I simply cannot imagine what life would look like without it. Fashion design is one of the most profound professions. I might not be building bridges that are vital in any way. But as a fashion designer, you make life more enjoyable. There is no doubt about that.