Stefano Gallici on Leading Ann Demeulemeester Into a New Era

This interview took place as part of a broader collaboration with MFA Fashion Design students at Parsons Paris, who were invited to explore the Ann Demeulemeester archive and respond to the house’s codes through their own creative lens. The discussion offers insight into Gallici’s approach to authorship, legacy, and design as emotional storytelling — themes that also shaped his interactions with the students and their work.

Jorinde Croese: When you first encountered the world of Ann Demeulemeester, which elements of its identity struck a chord with you most strongly – even unexpectedly? And how has your relationship to those house codes evolved with each collection?

Stefano Gallici: My first encounter with the world of Ann Demeulemeester happened through sound. I was listening to “Horses” by Patti Smith – that record changed something in me. On the cover, that Robert Mapplethorpe shoot, Patti wears a white shirt. I later discovered it was Ann. That moment stayed with me somehow.

What fascinated me was the way that single image, music, clothing, attitude contained a whole universe. There was a kind of emotional clarity in it. I realized that Ann’s work wasn’t just about clothes. It was about a way of being in the world.

What surprised me most was the tenderness woven into what many perceived as darkness. The house’s codes revealed themselves slowly, not as rules, but as emotional atmospheres – moods that shift and evolve.

Over time, my relationship with these codes has grown from reverence into dialogue. Each collection is part of an ongoing conversation. In the beginning, I observed. Now I respond – with care, with respect, and with the desire to make that legacy personal, to let it speak through my own lens.

We often hear about creative directors “reinterpreting the codes” of a house – it’s a phrase that’s become almost hollow through overuse. In practice, what does that process really involve for you?

The idea of “reinterpreting the codes” never felt quite right to me, maybe because I don’t approach them as something to be decoded or replicated. What has always fascinated me about Ann’s work was the storytelling – the way the clothes didn’t just exist, they spoke. There was a whole world behind them, and that world came alive not only in the garments, but in how they walked, how they breathed on the runway.

The idea of building a world, of creating an atmosphere, is still at the center of my process. In the studio, I always start from a story. I construct moodboards, yes, but they’re more like emotional landscapes than visual archives. They help shape a tone, a rhythm – something that can guide the collection from the inside.

The worlds I create are not her worlds. They are my own. But there’s a kind of silent dialogue between them. A mutual respect. I don’t think of it as reinterpretation – it’s more like a continuation. Not of form, but of feeling. Not of symbols, but of spirit.

Do you think a great designer can step into any brand and make it work, or does there need to be a natural alignment between personal taste and the house’s DNA? How much flexibility do you feel there really is?

I don’t believe technical skill alone is enough. A great designer might be able to execute something anywhere, but that’s very different from belonging to a house. There has to be an emotional resonance – a shared way of seeing the world. Not necessarily the same aesthetic, but a similar sensitivity, a common silence.

For me, it’s not about stepping into a brand and performing its codes like costume. That becomes hollow very quickly. It has to feel natural, lived-in. There has to be integrity in the relationship between the designer’s soul and that of the house.

There is a kind of flexibility, of course. But only within honesty. If there’s no alignment at that deeper level, the clothes may still look right – but they won’t feel right. And in the end, that’s what people respond to. Not just design, but feeling.

If you were to define your own design identity – say, the five core principles that would make up the house of Stefano Gallici – what would they be? And how much of that is shaped by your current role at Ann? In other words, how do you think a brand leaves its imprint on the designer, not just the other way around?

I don’t think I could define five fixed principles that would make up a “Maison of Stefano Gallici.” My identity as a designer is not something static or systematised – it’s the process itself. It’s made of all the references I’ve collected over time – my fascinations, my obsessions. It grows with me. And in a way, that’s what made my relationship with Ann Demeulemeester feel so natural: the house itself was born from a similar curiosity, a similar hunger for art in all its forms – music, literature, painting, poetry.

I never thought of creating a brand with my name, for now. That was never the point. My strength, and more importantly, my passion, has always been in reading and understanding a house’s codes. To dive in completely. To study the archive not just visually, but almost anthropologically – to break it down into phases, to understand how and why it evolved.

For me, stepping into this role meant offering myself in service to the brand – not erasing who I am, but allowing my own values and references to shape-shift, to respond. Like a sculptor facing a block of marble: you don’t impose your will. You listen. You look. And slowly, something reveals itself. In that sense, I don’t shape the house more than it shapes me. It’s a conversation.

You’ve said before that challenging norms has always been central to Ann’s philosophy. In today’s uncertain moment in fashion, what norms are you most interested in challenging yourself?

Ann’s work always challenged norms – never in an aggressive or theatrical way. It was quiet, intentional, and that’s where its power came from. Today, in a moment where fashion often feels trapped in a cycle of constant output and noise, I think the most radical thing we can do is slow down.

I’m not interested in feeding the rhythm of endless novelty – collection after collection, moment after moment. Creativity needs rest. It needs silence. And I believe there is strength in choosing reflection over reaction.

I want to challenge the idea that fashion must always be loud to be relevant. There is a different kind of power in consistency, in subtlety, in building something that doesn’t scream but stays with you – that lingers.

To me, fashion can still be a space for resistance. Not just political or cultural – but emotional resistance. The refusal to numb ourselves, to rush, to forget. And in that sense, making something quietly honest is, perhaps, the most radical act of all.

What do you look for in student approaches towards working with a brand’s existing codes?

What I look for in students is curiosity, not cleverness. It’s easy to replicate a silhouette or mimic a mood. But I’m more interested in someone who asks why a certain code exists. What did it mean at the time? What could it mean now? That kind of questioning shows depth and respect.

The students who really stand out are those who don’t just quote the brand’s past, but challenge it – who bring their own contradictions into the conversation. Fashion evolves through tension – through the friction between tradition and invention.

I admire those who approach a house with reverence, but not with fear – who understand its language but choose to write their own sentence in it. In the end, it’s about balance: holding the past with care, while having the courage to reshape it through a personal lens. That’s when something meaningful happens – when the work isn’t just homage, but transformation.