1. What specific properties of citrus peels and savoy cabbage leaves made them suitable for your mummification process, and how do these materials influence the structural integrity of the final garments?
For me, the narrative embedded within the material is just as important as its physical properties. Citrus peels and savoy cabbage leaves aren’t just organic matter—they're metaphors, rich in symbolism. The concept of skin fascinates me endlessly: it is resilient yet delicate, protective yet expressive, and it constantly regenerates. This interplay between vulnerability and strength deeply resonates with my work.
My exploration with orange peel began with a playful nod to a societal “imperfection”—cellulite—which in Dutch we literally call orange skin. I wanted to reclaim this perceived flaw, using it as a medium to confront beauty standards with humour and body positivity. The natural texture and vibrant colour of citrus peels make them visually captivating, and their structural consistency across all citrus types allows for flexibility in design.
Savoy cabbage leaves, on the other hand, offer a different kind of intimacy. Their veined, fleshy structure bears a striking resemblance to human tissue, making them incredibly evocative in sculptural garment work. Their form lends itself well to manipulation, layering, and preservation, all of which are essential in my mummification technique.
2. Could you detail the technical steps involved in your toxin-free mummification technique for bio-waste, and how this process ensures the longevity and wearability of the materials?
My mummification technique is a careful fusion of experimentation and tradition. While the word “mummification” might evoke ancient rituals, my approach is rooted in sustainable, toxin-free preservation of organic materials. I use a combination of water and plant-based glycerol, a natural humectant that helps maintain the suppleness of the materials over time.
Each preparation is tailored to the type of bio-waste I’m working with, and the ratios of water to glycerol are crucial. It’s a delicate balance: too much glycerol, and the material becomes sticky; too little, and it loses flexibility. These ratios vary depending on the texture, density, and final purpose of the piece—whether it’s for catwalk, performance art, or film installations.
Though my creations aren’t designed for everyday wear, they can endure for years if stored properly. My oldest preserved piece is now a decade old, still soft and intact. Ultimately, this method gives ephemeral organic matter a second life, transforming it into something both fragile and enduring.
3. In working with seaweed, what challenges did the material's natural salt content present, and what methods did you employ to prepare it for integration into your designs?
Seaweed is a fascinating yet challenging material. Its natural salt content makes it highly hygroscopic, meaning it attracts and retains moisture from the air. This characteristic, while poetic in a way, complicates its use in wearable art because it compromises material stability over time.
To work around this, I developed a process that begins with thorough rinsing to reduce the salt content. Sometimes I also allow the seaweed to partially dry before treatment, which helps prevent it from becoming too soft or disintegrating later. The key is finding the right window between flexibility and brittleness—enough to shape, but not enough to decay.
Seaweed’s marine origin, its texture, and its ephemeral quality add a layer of storytelling to my work—especially when used in garments that evoke transformation and transience.
4. How does the incorporation of liquid latex as a base material contribute to the moisture resistance and skin-friendliness of your creations?
Liquid latex serves as both a functional foundation and an aesthetic bridge between the organic and the artificial. Its properties—flexibility, strength, and skin-friendliness—make it ideal as a substructure for my work with fragile bio-waste materials. It acts almost like a second skin, adapting to movement while offering a protective layer that enhances moisture resistance.
Latex also plays a textural role in my designs. It can create a visual contrast with more irregular, decomposing materials like leaves or peels, while simultaneously reinforcing them. Its pliability makes it easier to layer and shape organic elements without compromising their integrity.
Although it's not biodegradable, I use latex sparingly and strategically, always in service of preserving the natural materials and extending their lifecycle. In this way, it supports the sustainability of the overall piece—not just functionally, but conceptually.
5. Can you explain how the substructure of your designs accommodates the body's movements and what materials or techniques are used to achieve this flexibility?
The substructure is where design meets engineering. It's the invisible architecture that determines how the garment will move with—or against—the body. I work with a variety of substructure materials including liquid latex, textiles, and sometimes even baleen, an organic material historically used in corsetry. Each offers different degrees of flexibility and support.
My approach is to minimize stress on the fragile organic layers while allowing enough movement to preserve wearability. I use attachment techniques that disperse pressure evenly or allow small shifts in alignment, similar to how a joint or hinge might work.
That said, I’m not always aiming for full functionality. In some cases, image and concept take precedence. If the design demands rigidity or constraint—if the piece is meant to feel like a second exoskeleton or a visual metaphor for restriction—I embrace that limitation as part of the storytelling.
6. What criteria do you use when selecting bio-waste materials for your projects, and how do you assess their suitability for transformation into wearable art?
The materials I work with must speak to my personal fascinations—especially with skin, transformation, and the cycles of nature. I don’t just look at form or texture; I’m looking for a deeper resonance. Does the material tell a story? Can it evoke something visceral or emotional?
I’ve worked with everything from citrus peel to cabbage leaves to seaweed, and each time, the challenge is part of the intrigue. Even if a material appears impossible to work with, I’m driven to find ways to intervene, preserve, and elevate it. My process is less about seeking perfection and more about embracing impermanence and transformation.
Ultimately, my selection criteria are more conceptual than practical. The question isn’t “Is this easy to use?” but “Does this amplify the message I’m trying to express?”
7. How does your work with mummified bio-waste challenge conventional perceptions of beauty and decay in the fashion industry?
At the heart of my work is a desire to question how we define beauty, especially within the fashion world, which often idealizes youth, perfection, and mass production. By using materials that are in various stages of decay—wilted leaves, dried peels, fading seaweed—I am making a case for ephemeral beauty and natural cycles.
I explore themes like the impermanence of the body and the human urge to alter our physical form, across cultures and history. These garments become artifacts of a fictional ritual—mummified not to preserve youth, but to honor the passage of time.
In contrast to fast fashion, which feeds a culture of disposability and greed, my pieces are designed to slow the viewer down, to make them contemplate mortality, preservation, and regeneration. I believe that nature’s ingenuity always exceeds human innovation, and my role as an artist is to spotlight that truth.
8. Could you discuss the restoration process for your garments and how the materials' properties facilitate maintenance and longevity?
One of the strengths of my preparation technique is that it maintains the flexibility and softness of the material over time, provided it’s kept away from moisture and direct sunlight. While fading can occur—which I don’t necessarily see as a flaw but part of the garment’s evolution—the core structure remains intact.
Restoration is generally non-invasive. It’s a matter of identifying areas that have become brittle or cracked and replacing or reinforcing them. Because I often work in layers, I can remove individual sections without compromising the overall design.
I like to think of my pieces as living artifacts—not static museum pieces, but objects that continue to change. That perspective also shifts how we think about fashion maintenance: not as an attempt to freeze time, but as an ongoing relationship between garment and maker.
9. Looking ahead, how do you envision the scalability of your mummification technique for broader application in sustainable fashion design?
To be honest, scalability isn’t a priority for me. The word itself often implies a kind of commercial ambition that doesn’t align with the values behind my work. My process is intentionally intimate and experimental—it’s not designed for mass production or profit.
That said, I do believe there’s value in sharing the methodology. If elements of my technique inspire others to rethink waste, embrace slowness, or prioritize conceptual depth over output, that feels like a form of impact that doesn’t require commercialization.
Perhaps the bigger question is: Can we imagine a future where creative value isn't always tied to scalability? Where fashion exists as an exploratory practice, not just a market-driven one? That’s the space I want to be part of cultivating.
