Author name: Saskia Clarke

  Raised in the southwest of France, the French-American designer Roméo Stedman Mouras learned early that nothing is ever truly fixed. Transformation of land, of identity, of material — became both a philosophy and a practice. Working exclusively with discarded textiles and deadstock, his designs move beyond sustainability as a trend, positioning upcycling as a political, emotional, and almost spiritual act of reclamation.   Elsa Chagot: To begin, could you tell us a bit about your background and how your relationship with fashion first developed? Roméo Stedman Mouras: I’m French-American. I grew up in the southwest of France, on a farm, raised by my mother, an American artist, feminist, and someone who never really fit into systems comfortably. I was surrounded by animals, by land, by things that were constantly changing. You see birth, decay, repair, seasons shifting. Nothing is fixed. I think that understanding of transformation came very early for me. Fashion wasn’t something I decided on. It happened naturally. I used to cut into existing clothes, mostly my mother’s, which she didn’t always appreciate. I wasn’t trying to destroy them. I just didn’t see them as finished. I wanted to move things, reshape them, make them feel like mine. Before I knew what design was, I understood alteration. I understood that nothing is sacred in its original form.      EC: Having been raised in a creative and politically aware environment, in what ways has your upbringing shaped the way you view clothing, expression, and the role of a designer? RSM: Growing up in a creative and politically aware environment made it impossible for me to see clothing as neutral or purely a product. Environmental protection is fundamental to the way I work. I was raised in a place that felt protected, full of life — animals, land, ecosystems that felt almost sacred. Being surrounded by that kind of abundance creates a sense of responsibility. Using upcycled materials and deadstock isn’t a trend for me; it’s simply the only way that makes sense. It’s my way of giving something back through the act of creating. At the same time, I grew up aware of inequalities and social imbalances. When you witness injustice early on, it shapes you permanently. It creates a desire for protection, for community, for freedom of expression. As a designer, I don’t see my role as just producing garments. I see it as creating space — space for individuality, and space for those who exist and resist outside-imposed norms.    EC: Can you walk us through your creative process, from the first encounter with a material to the moment a piece is complete? How does work typically begin for you? RSM: I usually begin with research, both conceptual and historical, to build a framework around the narrative of the collection. Once that direction feels clear, I move into sourcing materials. I collect extensively, and the origin of each textile influences how I approach it. If it’s a deadstock roll, I might begin more structurally, work-ing with pattern cutting first.    If it’s a found or donated textile, I often respond more intuitively, letting its existing condition guide the process. Technically, I tend to start with a base pattern, a foundation, and then build onto it through draping and stitching. I work a lot through layering, surface manipulation, and what could be described as a habillage technique, sculpting di-rectly on a body.   EC: When you start a new piece, what usually comes first, the material, an emotion, a memory, or a concept — and how do these elements interfere throughout your process? RSM: It’s all quite spiritual, and I intentionally allow it to remain that way. The only fixed element at the beginning is the narrative — the story I write before starting a collection. That story becomes the spine. From there, I start breaking it down piece by piece, and that’s when memories, historical references, and personal associations begin to surface. The fabric doesn’t usually change the original concept, but it extends it. It adds nuance, texture, sometimes tension. It can deepen the emotional tone of a piece without redirecting it entirely. All of these elements coexist in a kind of melting pot. They don’t operate in isolation — and neither do I. My work is deeply shaped by the people around me, my community, my family. Creation, for me, is never solitary. We are constantly influencing one another. My role is to let that chaos exist, but to anchor it visually, so the garment feels intentional rather than abstract. I try not to control it completely; I try to translate it. EC: “A THEFT OF ESSENCE” could be described as being built from an act of emotional archaeology. What does that phrase mean to you personally? RSM: Indeed, that collection is about what happens when something intrinsic to you is slowly taken, not violently all at once, but through expectation, conformity and normalisation. It wasn’t about inventing something new; it’s about excavating what was always there, but buried under social structures, control, and inherited silence. The characters in the manifesto embody that tension — the stillness of submission, the suffocation of imposed identity, and the moment when something inside begins to resist. Archaeology requires care, patience, and confrontation. You uncover fragments, damaged pieces, scars. You don’t restore them to perfection — you preserve their history. In the collection, repair is not hidden. I wanted it to be ceremonial, visible, almost ritualistic, becoming proof of survival rather than an attempt to erase damage. To me, it is about the process of reclaiming one’s essence through community, art, and expressionism — not by denying what has hurt you, but by transforming it into something visible, something defiant, something shared.   EC: The pieces were created in collaboration with your grandmother. How did this intergenerational exchange influence the work, both aesthetically and emotionally? RSM: The intergenerational exchange was both aesthetic and deeply emotional. The work itself is very political, and I found myself in awe of my grandmother — not only of her technical precision, but of her willingness to involve herself so