With the days of ostrich bags and fur coats largely behind us, the luxury industry is working hard to stay ahead of the curve before cowhide leather and plastics are next to disappear in the rear-view mirror. Hermès and Stella McCartney (LVMH) are both high-profile pioneers of mushroom leather, while Fendi (LVMH) invests in plastic free-faux fur, and Kering's Innovation Lab works to materialise the group's promises of forward-thinking sustainability. Still other, smaller firms are transforming everything from spider web silk to dairy by-products into fabric, largely in an effort to both reduce plastic use and contribute to a more circular economy.
The luxury industry is rooted as much in history as in creative renewal. These materials challenge the traditional notions of savoir-faire that have driven value in the industry for centuries. Even if sales volume today seems driven by logos, much of House mythos is built on symbolically rich or rare materials, like fur and leather. Material innovation asks us to consider that differentiation and value in luxury isn’t about the materials themselves, but what they represent: how we engage with them and the stories they help us tell.
We often conflate luxury “savoir-faire” (a House’s proprietary skillset in a given craft) with “quality.” For many, the trade value of a luxury piece lies in its long-term usability - a worthwhile investment that can be passed down over time. Hermès’ powerful image as a historic yet endlessly-contemporary House is rooted in the physical properties of leather, which is as ideal for saddle-making as it is for bags and shoes, and which can be dyed bright, seasonal colors, and which looks more beautiful as it ages.
New materials like mushroom leather raise questions about durability, but also the possibility of maintaining a long-term emotional relationship with one’s piece. Would a mushroom leather bag become buttery-soft through decades of use? Would it develop a distinct patina where its owner gripped the handle? The very material properties that afford durability are those that allow for emotional engagement, transforming objects into treasures and making myths of Houses.
Of course, clients can fall in love with an object by brushing one’s fingers across the most delicate beading and the most fragile silks, objects whose beauty is inherently ephemeral and fleeting. Savoir-faire isn’t just about a House’s ability to create long-lasting objects, but meaningful ones. Through materials, luxury Houses make tangible a creative philosophy about clients and their place in the world. The ability to use materials to share these stories successfully - and at scale - drives both difference and value for luxury brands.
For example, latex is stretchy, smooth, and clings to the body, qualities that inspire its use in kink-wear and proudly codifie the queer sensuality of Jean Paul Gaultier’s collections. The story of the Chanel brand is built in part on Mademoiselle’s use of fabrics like jersey and tweed to liberate women from their corsets and allow them freedom of movement. Emerging trends like “gorpcore” and “techwear” position innumerable streetwear brands as the allies of a highly-mobile urban youth, in large part because of the very material qualities of these pieces that withstand harsh late-capitalist environments.
Social function and material property are often indissociable, but this is especially true in the designing of clothes and accessories meant to be worn and used by bodies: material myth-making is, in many ways, an intentional act.
The act of designing an object, such as a dress, a bag, or a pair of shoes, is a sort of conversation between designers, users, and materials themselves (1). Designers set intentions and offer suggestions for how the object should be used and interpreted (for example, by cutting holes into fabric where a human head and arms might go). Users decide how to interpret those suggestions (perhaps by choosing to ignore the holes and tying the fabric around the waist, effectively creating a very different kind of object). Choosing to ignore or reinterpret designer intentions, especially those set by luxury Houses, is often an expression of cultural authority and capital for users. And finally, objects themselves “act back” through their material properties: a yard of silk, for example, will resist being tied around the waist for very long without a fastener. Light silk will drape delicately from the dress form, so a designer looking to create a highly structured, armor-like garment meant to physically - or symbolically - protect the body will choose another material.
This tripartite negotiation is most evident when we consider the “iconic” materials that build luxury brand myths: the choice of silk, tweed, leather, latex, or even digital materials is not anodyne but speaks to fundamental choices about how the user’s body and the designed object are intended to relate to each other and to the world. Leather, for example, resists motion and protects bodies, hence its use in design as a visual codification of toughness and strength. Digital materials, pioneered by Houses like Miu Miu, are intended for de-materialized but very real bodies that must move through cyberspace, not physical space.
Materials become iconic by being used and lived-in: value-driving luxury materials aren’t born in an R & D Lab or even on a designer’s table, but in the hands of luxury clients who wear them on their bodies and encode their own environments and experiences on fabric. (2) The key lies not only in offering the right new materials, but capturing how clients live in them - and relating that storytelling to the creative posture of the House.
Chanel’s famously corset-less dresses, for example, did little but offer stretch and ease of movement to women who were well already on their way to liberation. The stiff cotton toile de jouy of Dior was originally intended as a wall-dressing for the boutique at 30 avenue Montaigne, and owes its iconic position in the House’s creative lexicon today to once-synonymous notions of “Frenchness” and “Fashion” exported internationally by the New Look. The Row is hardly the first House to use cashmere, but the brand’s understated aesthetic and the soft feel of cashmere on the skin encode intimate, private knowing for a set of women who seek to distinguish themselves with a whisper.
The interactions that create iconic materials occur all throughout the client’s relationship and engagement with their product, from cleaning to storage and even disposal. Leather is such an iconic material for Houses like Hermès precisely because of the way it wears down and forms an attractive patina. Fur, for example, requires a great deal of regular upkeep and experienced handling to truly keep well - and if fur items uphold the status of Fendi as a luxury House today, it’s as much due to the rarity or value of these pieces but because of the ongoing investment they represent. (Conversely, garments in “unnatural” fabrics like polyester and rayon tend to resist wrinkling and wear better, but this is precisely what contributes to their pedestrian image.)
A wonderful illustration of these client interactions can be seen in Clark’s Wallabees, which became the official footwear of the late 1990’s rock scene in the UK, worn by bands like Oasis and Blur and their fans. In a fascinating study, Sherlock (3) explains that the slippery crepe soles of the Wallabees, originally designed for dry desert environments, turned out to be ideal for performing sliding, shuffling dance moves popular at the time. They also collected a lot of dirt and mud, a “feature, not a bug” that effectively served as wearable souvenirs of an emerging festival culture. The shoes were propelled to icon-status thanks to the active interaction between consumers and materials, while “Wallabees and rock culture” became an indissociable part of the Clark's brand story, giving Wallabee’s a cultural cachet that drives value in the streetwear scene today.
Thus, when we consider how material innovation stands to transform the valuable materials of luxury Houses, it’s interesting to consider the entire lifecycle of the product - even hypothetically.
Just imagine, for example, a mushroom-leather Hermès bag that begins to break down after several years of use, or exposure to excess humidity. Rather than crumbling, like hide leather does, these mushroom bags begin to sprout rare mushrooms. Clients, having invested significantly in these bags and grown emotionally attached to them, begin burying them in their yards. A crop of “Hermès Mushrooms” in the garden becomes a sign of status and distinction, and a driver of iconicity for the House (which quickly begins researching how to grow them in orange.)
What if Kering’s Innovation Lab pioneers a synthetic fur that turns out to be highly stain- and water-resistant? Designers might find mimic the traditional aesthetic codes of fur by showing the pieces as après-ski; clients themselves might find these garments washable and breathable enough to wear them on the actual slopes in a muddy, post-snow world - leading to new bodily interactions and social experiences that invite an interesting creative conversation with Gucci’s Milanese roots, just a short train ride from the Italian Alps.
Finally, milk-fiber silk reportedly has a heavier weight and feel than traditional silk. What if milk-fiber base layers (such as camis, t-shirts) became a form of gentle reassurance and protection for wearers, a sort of portable weighted blanket? The House that adopted these fabrics would be able to position itself as an ally of its clients in an anxiety-inducing world, and offer them a form of subtle “armor on the inside” that replaces external bodily-protecting materials that codify toughness, such as leather, to better fit in a gentler, post-toxic-masculinity society.
In sum, there is little doubt that materials “materialize” luxury (4)(5): they are the medium through which we physically interact with Houses and understand nations of authority and difference in an intimate, interactive relationship between body and garment. Without the culturally constructed notions of value and rarity that we associate with fabrics like leather and cashmere, it’s understandable that the symbolic weight enjoyed by Houses stands to be thrown in an industry dominated by materials “anyone” can make in a lab. But as we’ve seen, savoir-faire and technical know-how are, at their heart, a question of storytelling and creative direction for Houses. And the ability to create iconic materials with new technologies lies essentially in the same process that’s given us most luxury icons over the years: a keen sense of who clients are and how they use luxury objects to navigate the world.
With the days of ostrich bags and fur coats largely behind us, the luxury industry is working hard to stay ahead of the curve before cowhide leather and plastics are next to disappear in the rear-view mirror. Hermès and Stella McCartney (LVMH) are both high-profile pioneers of mushroom leather, while Fendi (LVMH) invests in plastic free-faux fur, and Kering's Innovation Lab works to materialise the group's promises of forward-thinking sustainability. Still other, smaller firms are transforming everything from spider web silk to dairy by-products into fabric, largely in an effort to both reduce plastic use and contribute to a more circular economy.
The luxury industry is rooted as much in history as in creative renewal. These materials challenge the traditional notions of savoir-faire that have driven value in the industry for centuries. Even if sales volume today seems driven by logos, much of House mythos is built on symbolically rich or rare materials, like fur and leather. Material innovation asks us to consider that differentiation and value in luxury isn’t about the materials themselves, but what they represent: how we engage with them and the stories they help us tell.
We often conflate luxury “savoir-faire” (a House’s proprietary skillset in a given craft) with “quality.” For many, the trade value of a luxury piece lies in its long-term usability - a worthwhile investment that can be passed down over time. Hermès’ powerful image as a historic yet endlessly-contemporary House is rooted in the physical properties of leather, which is as ideal for saddle-making as it is for bags and shoes, and which can be dyed bright, seasonal colors, and which looks more beautiful as it ages.
New materials like mushroom leather raise questions about durability, but also the possibility of maintaining a long-term emotional relationship with one’s piece. Would a mushroom leather bag become buttery-soft through decades of use? Would it develop a distinct patina where its owner gripped the handle? The very material properties that afford durability are those that allow for emotional engagement, transforming objects into treasures and making myths of Houses.
Of course, clients can fall in love with an object by brushing one’s fingers across the most delicate beading and the most fragile silks, objects whose beauty is inherently ephemeral and fleeting. Savoir-faire isn’t just about a House’s ability to create long-lasting objects, but meaningful ones. Through materials, luxury Houses make tangible a creative philosophy about clients and their place in the world. The ability to use materials to share these stories successfully - and at scale - drives both difference and value for luxury brands.
For example, latex is stretchy, smooth, and clings to the body, qualities that inspire its use in kink-wear and proudly codifie the queer sensuality of Jean Paul Gaultier’s collections. The story of the Chanel brand is built in part on Mademoiselle’s use of fabrics like jersey and tweed to liberate women from their corsets and allow them freedom of movement. Emerging trends like “gorpcore” and “techwear” position innumerable streetwear brands as the allies of a highly-mobile urban youth, in large part because of the very material qualities of these pieces that withstand harsh late-capitalist environments.
Social function and material property are often indissociable, but this is especially true in the designing of clothes and accessories meant to be worn and used by bodies: material myth-making is, in many ways, an intentional act.
The act of designing an object, such as a dress, a bag, or a pair of shoes, is a sort of conversation between designers, users, and materials themselves (1). Designers set intentions and offer suggestions for how the object should be used and interpreted (for example, by cutting holes into fabric where a human head and arms might go). Users decide how to interpret those suggestions (perhaps by choosing to ignore the holes and tying the fabric around the waist, effectively creating a very different kind of object). Choosing to ignore or reinterpret designer intentions, especially those set by luxury Houses, is often an expression of cultural authority and capital for users. And finally, objects themselves “act back” through their material properties: a yard of silk, for example, will resist being tied around the waist for very long without a fastener. Light silk will drape delicately from the dress form, so a designer looking to create a highly structured, armor-like garment meant to physically - or symbolically - protect the body will choose another material.
This tripartite negotiation is most evident when we consider the “iconic” materials that build luxury brand myths: the choice of silk, tweed, leather, latex, or even digital materials is not anodyne but speaks to fundamental choices about how the user’s body and the designed object are intended to relate to each other and to the world. Leather, for example, resists motion and protects bodies, hence its use in design as a visual codification of toughness and strength. Digital materials, pioneered by Houses like Miu Miu, are intended for de-materialized but very real bodies that must move through cyberspace, not physical space.
Materials become iconic by being used and lived-in: value-driving luxury materials aren’t born in an R & D Lab or even on a designer’s table, but in the hands of luxury clients who wear them on their bodies and encode their own environments and experiences on fabric. (2) The key lies not only in offering the right new materials, but capturing how clients live in them - and relating that storytelling to the creative posture of the House.
Chanel’s famously corset-less dresses, for example, did little but offer stretch and ease of movement to women who were well already on their way to liberation. The stiff cotton toile de jouy of Dior was originally intended as a wall-dressing for the boutique at 30 avenue Montaigne, and owes its iconic position in the House’s creative lexicon today to once-synonymous notions of “Frenchness” and “Fashion” exported internationally by the New Look. The Row is hardly the first House to use cashmere, but the brand’s understated aesthetic and the soft feel of cashmere on the skin encode intimate, private knowing for a set of women who seek to distinguish themselves with a whisper.
The interactions that create iconic materials occur all throughout the client’s relationship and engagement with their product, from cleaning to storage and even disposal. Leather is such an iconic material for Houses like Hermès precisely because of the way it wears down and forms an attractive patina. Fur, for example, requires a great deal of regular upkeep and experienced handling to truly keep well - and if fur items uphold the status of Fendi as a luxury House today, it’s as much due to the rarity or value of these pieces but because of the ongoing investment they represent. (Conversely, garments in “unnatural” fabrics like polyester and rayon tend to resist wrinkling and wear better, but this is precisely what contributes to their pedestrian image.)
A wonderful illustration of these client interactions can be seen in Clark’s Wallabees, which became the official footwear of the late 1990’s rock scene in the UK, worn by bands like Oasis and Blur and their fans. In a fascinating study, Sherlock (3) explains that the slippery crepe soles of the Wallabees, originally designed for dry desert environments, turned out to be ideal for performing sliding, shuffling dance moves popular at the time. They also collected a lot of dirt and mud, a “feature, not a bug” that effectively served as wearable souvenirs of an emerging festival culture. The shoes were propelled to icon-status thanks to the active interaction between consumers and materials, while “Wallabees and rock culture” became an indissociable part of the Clark's brand story, giving Wallabee’s a cultural cachet that drives value in the streetwear scene today.
Thus, when we consider how material innovation stands to transform the valuable materials of luxury Houses, it’s interesting to consider the entire lifecycle of the product - even hypothetically.
Just imagine, for example, a mushroom-leather Hermès bag that begins to break down after several years of use, or exposure to excess humidity. Rather than crumbling, like hide leather does, these mushroom bags begin to sprout rare mushrooms. Clients, having invested significantly in these bags and grown emotionally attached to them, begin burying them in their yards. A crop of “Hermès Mushrooms” in the garden becomes a sign of status and distinction, and a driver of iconicity for the House (which quickly begins researching how to grow them in orange.)
What if Kering’s Innovation Lab pioneers a synthetic fur that turns out to be highly stain- and water-resistant? Designers might find mimic the traditional aesthetic codes of fur by showing the pieces as après-ski; clients themselves might find these garments washable and breathable enough to wear them on the actual slopes in a muddy, post-snow world - leading to new bodily interactions and social experiences that invite an interesting creative conversation with Gucci’s Milanese roots, just a short train ride from the Italian Alps.
Finally, milk-fiber silk reportedly has a heavier weight and feel than traditional silk. What if milk-fiber base layers (such as camis, t-shirts) became a form of gentle reassurance and protection for wearers, a sort of portable weighted blanket? The House that adopted these fabrics would be able to position itself as an ally of its clients in an anxiety-inducing world, and offer them a form of subtle “armor on the inside” that replaces external bodily-protecting materials that codify toughness, such as leather, to better fit in a gentler, post-toxic-masculinity society.
In sum, there is little doubt that materials “materialize” luxury (4)(5): they are the medium through which we physically interact with Houses and understand nations of authority and difference in an intimate, interactive relationship between body and garment. Without the culturally constructed notions of value and rarity that we associate with fabrics like leather and cashmere, it’s understandable that the symbolic weight enjoyed by Houses stands to be thrown in an industry dominated by materials “anyone” can make in a lab. But as we’ve seen, savoir-faire and technical know-how are, at their heart, a question of storytelling and creative direction for Houses. And the ability to create iconic materials with new technologies lies essentially in the same process that’s given us most luxury icons over the years: a keen sense of who clients are and how they use luxury objects to navigate the world.