Fola Adeleke *Building Worlds Through Art, Culture and Memory

Fola Adeleke Makes Home Public

interview by SARA DOUEDARI

Fola Adeleke grew up learning early that the things that felt completely normal at home could look very different outside it. In East London, that meant Nigerian food, Yoruba, family functions, matching prints, gold and his mother’s gele existing alongside school, basketball and streetwear. Years later, those worlds meet again in his work. Adeleke builds images from memory, fashion, collage and digital tools, often returning to details he once tried to separate from his public self. What interests him now is the opposite. He wants African identity to occupy space without explanation, apology or adjustment, and to feel as natural in public as it does at home.

Fola Adeleke, Generations

Sara Douedari
How did you grow up in a Nigerian family in East London? What was home like?

Fola Adeleke
Home was, I believe, very cultured. I would say that about 80 per cent of the food in our fridge and cupboards was Nigerian. A fun fact I remember from growing up: I would see an ice cream container in the freezer and get really excited that there was ice cream at home. I’d get myself a plate, open it — and there would be soup inside. That kind of sums up how African the home was.

It was very cultured. The language my mother spoke to me and my siblings was Yoruba. The music was Nigerian. I think the main things that were really English were that we listened to hip-hop from an early age and watched UK television, from EastEnders to Neighbours and Home and Away. I think cereal was probably the most British thing we had. Beyond that, we had African home-cooked meals every single day. Whether it was lunch or dinner, it was always very Nigerian.

What traditions did your family keep alive?

We always ate together and prayed. That was something we always did. We also had our Saturday chores, which we all had to finish before breakfast. Mine was the bathroom. Once we had all collectively finished our chores, my mum would make what I would call an African breakfast — something really heavy — and we would eat together. While we were doing the chores, there was always music playing, usually Nigerian music. Even to this day, I don’t know which artists it was, but I remember it playing in the background.

Leaving the home, there was even more tradition. Saturdays were always a function. There was always someone’s birthday to go to, and there was always an outfit we were all meant to wear. My brother and I would, for some reason, always have the same thing on, even though we were four years apart. My mum always had an outfit that matched a bag — and she had several bags. I think she was a huge inspiration for what I do because she was the first powerful Black woman, or African woman, I saw. We followed her lead. It was a single-parent household, and I watched her just power through everything.

When did you first become aware of your cultural identity?

I think it was as early as school. I had an uncle who lived with us when I was really young, and he used to come and pick me up wearing open-toed brown sandals and a two-piece set of native clothing, always with prints, and a hat — the fila.

I used to be somewhat embarrassed because he was so different from everyone else who was picking up their kids. When he came to pick me up, I didn’t really want him to. I think I was around five at the time. That experience of being embarrassed by that difference made me aware that my culture was different from everyone else’s. Then, around the same time, my mum made me pack lunch for a school trip. It was beans with stew — quite a spicy stew — and plantain, which I loved at home. I never realised how different it was from what everyone else was going to bring. That was another embarrassing moment of being different. That was when I realised that my culture was different. At that time, there weren’t enough of us for that difference to feel positive. It often felt like we were somewhat alone in those spaces.

Fola Adeleke, Rich in Culture, Spirit and Presence

Fola Adeleke, Lagbaja

Did you ever feel caught between two cultures?

I would say I’ve always been caught between two cultures. Or at least I was. At this stage of my life, I blend both because I don’t believe I need to shape-shift to make anyone feel comfortable. I’ve come to understand that I don’t need to lower my tone, make myself smaller or adapt my culture to appease people or make them feel comfortable, because that’s not what the world is doing for anybody.

From a young age, I’ve always felt that anyone from Africa living in the Western world has to have a dual identity. It even shows in people’s names. Growing up, I knew a lot of people who were Oluwatosin or Oluwafemi, but all of a sudden one day their name was James or Peter. To me, that was them adapting and changing. I actually chose to shorten my own name because it was too hard and complicated for people to digest and say. I shortened it twice. Again, that was me being caught up in that, and I think a lot of people were caught up in it too.

I’m glad I never had an English name. I’m glad my mum never gave me one. But I think that can sometimes be an indication of families adapting to their surroundings so they can fit in rather than be seen as different. So, yes, I’ve always felt that way. But over the last few years, I’ve tried to blend both cultures because I should feel comfortable being who I am wherever I am.

What do you think the world still misunderstands about African culture?

There are so many things. I think the obvious one is the depiction of Africa that the Western world has created through adverts like Oxfam, showing areas of extreme poverty. There is extreme poverty in every country in the world. You can build a narrative that looks just as bad in any country where you see poverty. Maybe some places are more extreme, but that depiction of Africa is not the Africa that I know. Of course, there are places of poverty, but there are many more places of beauty, wealth and hardworking people across the whole continent.There is also this understanding that Africa needs help from everyone else. If we strip it back, Africa is extremely wealthy in minerals on its own. If it stood on its own two feet and was left alone by the colonial countries, I think Africa would be thriving amazingly.

On a lower level, people sometimes think we’re loud. I think we need to change that narrative. That loudness is actually confidence — extreme confidence in who we are. Africa is beautiful, and African culture is beautiful. There needs to be more said about the wealth and rich heritage of Africa. All of that is still misunderstood. And to link it back to my work, my biggest mission is to share the beautiful aspects of African culture and make sure they are seen. I actually believe the backbone of African culture is African women, and I need them to be seen in an amazing light. That’s my soul mission with the art I do.

Where does fashion enter that story?

For me, fashion has been around me before I even knew why I identified it as fashion. Every week, my mother, my siblings and I were off to another house party. Every week, my mother had another print, another gele, another outfit, matching shoes and a matching purse. I saw that all the time. But because, at a young age, there was no connection between African culture and coolness, there were these red threads of culture starting to bubble up in me without me really knowing. I created my own identity away from African culture. I played basketball. I travelled, represented England and travelled all over Europe playing basketball. That allowed me to see how different every culture was and made me curious from the age of 13. I travelled to Slovenia, Portugal, France, Italy, and eventually America.

I veered away from African culture through fashion, which is why I entered the realm of streetwear. But I think African culture was always close to my heart. It just took me away before it eventually brought me right back to where it all began, which is where I am now. I believe all of my pieces speak to different realms and practices. I see myself as a designer and a concept creator, and more so now as a composer — with art being the form of composition and storytelling.

I’m able to take one vision and put all of those things together to build a new world. I don’t think it was something I consciously meant to do. I just kept knocking on the door and scratching the surface until something started to form, which is what we see today. Every piece is more than the composition. It is aligned with storytelling that connects to my life, my fashion, my eye and my sense of composition.

When did you move from fashion into art?

That’s a good question. I don’t think I ever moved. By practice, I’m a designer. Art is a realm I’ve stepped into because I’ve created more and more concepts, and through creating those concepts, I started scratching the surface of an ongoing concept that has become a practice. Through that practice, art formed.I still consider myself a designer, an artist, a conceptual creator and a world builder. Sometimes I don’t feel worthy of the title artist because I still feel that I’m creating a world that exists. If I can create enough of that world, it will be seen from every angle, no matter what kind of collaboration it is. It will always be the same world.

I embarked on this journey about a year and a half ago. I had a conversation with a friend who told me, “I don’t know if you fit in the brief. You’ve given the client you were working for too much of who you are.” My thought was: the client came to me because they wanted my vision. That made me question what was better. Is it better to be a designer who can execute a brief, or is it better to be a designer who has refined his own ethos and aesthetic?

That one conversation led me to embark on my own vision wholeheartedly, without worrying about anyone’s opinion or trying to tread lightly to make people feel comfortable. That brought me to where I am today: storytelling from my own point of view through historical things, reference points, nostalgia, a conversational lens and world-building as a whole. So even though I am an artist, I believe there are lots of tiers to it. If anyone asked me what I am, I would say I’m a world builder.

What made you want to tell stories through images?

I think I have a lot to say. I have a lot in my mind. Part of my practice comes from my sporting background. I believe in reps. I believe that if you think something is the best idea, you need to do a hundred of them, and the best idea will come out at the hundredth one. So I’m trying to let out all of my ideas. And within letting those ideas out, I want conversations to happen. I feel like these conversations need to exist.

What I love about building stories through images is that I can show four different people and they can have four different conversations about the same work — about why something is the way it is. I remember creating a piece where one of my good friends said to me, “It doesn’t seem realistic because they look Nigerian but they’re wearing too much gold, and the amount of gold they’re wearing belongs to another culture.” I told him, “That’s fine.” We’re not trying to build a sense of reality. We’re trying to build something that intrinsically sparks conversation with people. There are a lot of conversations that need to happen in the creative space, and I believe I might be someone who can bridge that gap and help those conversations happen.

How would you describe your artistic language?

There are a number of words I would use to describe my artistic language: rich, African, proud and unapologetic. I would like to keep it as rich, loud and unapologetic.I think it’s very important not to be afraid to share your opinion and your point of view and to stand by it. It’s also important for me to share the beautiful aspects of Africa.

Fola Adeleke, Aunty Funke, Ola’s Mum & Uncle Dele

Your work combines photography, texture, graphics and digital composition. How do you build a piece?

I build a piece starting with storytelling. What is it I want to tell? What dots am I trying to bring together? In fashion, I normally come from a place of nostalgia. I think nostalgia is no different from sampling in music. That’s usually where I begin. Then I ask, what is the story I’m trying to tell? Once I can moodboard — which is similar to design, throwing a few images together to storyboard the idea — I build from there. I start collaging, bringing all my images together digitally through Photoshop and Illustrator, grading them, and then moving towards the accessories and prints I need as part of the story. Once I’ve done that, I try to blend everything using AI tools. My hope is that people see the composition and see beyond the image — that they see some of the storytelling. It doesn’t mean I need to scream from a rooftop what the story is about. If five people see the image and see something different, but it moves all of them and sparks a memory, then I’ve achieved something.

I remember creating an art piece about growing up. If you ask people, especially people who grew up in the 90s, where they would get their drink from at an African party, a lot of us would have to think because we couldn’t remember where we got our drinks from. But we actually got them from a bathtub full of ice. I created a piece with that memory in mind, and so many people commented and messaged me personally saying, “Wow, you’ve helped me unlock a memory I never knew existed because it’s been so long.” For me, it’s about sparking that nostalgia and building through all of those digital platforms.

Where does an artwork usually begin — an idea, a memory or something else?

For the most part, it’s a memory. Sometimes it’s a memory I didn’t actually live. Sometimes it’s an idea. I’m working on a piece that I haven’t quite finished yet. It’s taken me a long time to finish because it’s about the era when a lot of Africans moved to the Western world — America, New York, Houston, London — that first wave. What did that look like? That memory doesn’t exist for me because I was born first-generation. I didn’t have to come over and understand the difference.

I have a collection called Unapologetic, where some of the models and figures are wearing Western clothes, like grey-mile tracksuits, alongside head wraps and gold. They are so far removed from each other, but that must have been something that happened when people were merging cultures. They had just come from wearing what they wore in Africa — for me and my family, that would have been Nigeria — but at that point they would naturally have started mixing Western clothing with their native clothing. What did that look like? That comes from a memory I don’t possess. It comes from imagination. Some ideas come from memory, some from a futuristic ideology or a thought about how things could be, and others simply come from deep imagination and dreaming.

You also use AI in your process. Where does AI enter, and where does your own hand take over?

Similar to how I described my process, I build my work through collage and reference points, understanding design and composition. I build the structure and layout of the scene I want in order to strengthen the idea and message I’m putting together. It could be a seat at a table with a family of African royalty. I put that together through collage and research, understanding what kind of lighting I need, what scene needs to take place and what angle needs to be used to make it the strongest possible idea. Once I get to a good place, I use AI to blend the research and make everything more cohesive. Once I’m happy with that, I take it out of AI and go into a photo-grading process. That gives the image an overarching lighting mood and allows me to make sure the gold remains the statement piece — that the gold and the skin tone are married with the pattern, or that they have a significant centre-stage presence within the image. So AI is a secondary tool. After that secondary process, I step away from it again and find the grade that feels intrinsically like me.

Where do art, fashion and culture meet for you?

I think it’s interesting because they’ve always been married. They’ve always existed together, especially when your culture is rich in celebration. My culture is African culture, and African culture in general is so rich in celebration. Every moment of success — whether it’s a marriage, a birthday or a christening — is rich in ceremony and dressing. It’s a marriage. It’s something that is deeply rooted together.

Growing up, I never knew that watching my mother get changed and matching her gold with her outfits was a process. I didn’t think anything of it. But that was fashion. That was culture. And that was art. The fabric was art. The pattern was art. The composition of everything together was beyond art. It was a statement, and it was effortless. It didn’t feel like it was trying too hard. It just felt intrinsically African. I think that intersection has always existed. I’m trying to make people aware that it exists. I want the pieces I’m creating to make more African women want to wear their gele with denim on a regular day. Some of these pieces aren’t only for African functions. Some of them can become part of everyday life. That intersection has always existed. The question is whether we have been ready and confident enough to own it in a Western society. And I think this is the time. They have always been joined at the hip.

What kind of future do you want to help create through your work?

I want an abundance of my work to be displayed everywhere and used as reference points — for music videos, art, films, collaborations, anything — beyond simply being defined by my country or my nationality as a Nigerian. I want my art to make everyone feel comfortable being African. I’ve had messages from people saying, “Thank you. You make me proud to be Nigerian.”

I want this normality of fashion and art being intrinsically African to push people to be themselves outside of their homes. I don’t want people to feel that they have to change the second they leave their house. I would love for African people living in the Western world to feel confident enough to take their food into their corporate offices and warm it up in the microwave. I want to normalise African beauty and richness so that people don’t have to experience this huge difference between who they are inside their home and who they are outside of it. Because, at the end of the day, living like that is crippling. That’s part of the mission and why I want to show the beautiful aspects of Africa — because there are a lot of people who don’t know Africa looks as beautiful as I portray it to.

Fola Adeleke, African Elegance

Fola Adeleke, Husband and Wife

Loose Joints *Editing Photobooks, Materiality and Contemporary Photography

Editing the Language of Images at Loose Joints

written LE MILE

Around the world, photographers continue to return to the book as a place where images can gather, unfold and remain in conversation with one another over time. Within that landscape, Loose Joints has become one of the most attentive independent publishers shaping how contemporary photographic work enters the world as a physical object.

You Are What You Do by Daniel Arnold
Published by Loose Joints
© Daniel Arnold, 2025. Courtesy of Loose Joints

Founded in 2014 by Lewis Chaplin and Sarah Piegay Espenon, Loose Joints emerged during a moment of renewed energy around independent publishing, when new forms of self-publishing, book fairs and specialist bookshops began creating momentum around the photobook again. Rather than responding to a defined gap, the project grew organically from that atmosphere. The ambition was simple and precise, to publish the kinds of books the founders themselves wanted to see in the world and to work closely with artists whose practices demanded a carefully considered editorial form.

At the centre of Loose Joints lies a sustained conversation with artists, with each publication developing through an extended process that moves from editing and sequencing to design, production and distribution, all handled within the publishing house itself. This continuity allows the structure of the book to emerge slowly, with the pacing of images, the scale of the format and the tactile qualities of paper and binding becoming part of the work’s meaning.

The photobook becomes a space where visual thinking takes shape across pages. The rhythm of the sequence carries the reader through a field of images that gradually reveals its internal logic. Chaplin and Espenon reflect on that editorial process through a selection of recent titles: Roe Ethridge’s Rude in the Good Way, Hicham Benohoud’s The Classroom, Daniel Arnold’s You Are What You Do and Tealia Ellis Ritter’s The Model Family. Each project approaches identity, memory and authorship from a different angle while revealing the quiet intensity with which Loose Joints continues to shape contemporary photographic publishing.

The Model Family by Tealia Ellis Ritter
Published by Loose Joints
© Tealia Ellis Ritter, 2021. Courtesy of Loose Joints

LE MILE
Loose Joints was founded in 2014, at a moment when photography books were already abundant but attention was fragmenting. Looking back, what gap did you feel urgently needed to exist then, and how has that original intuition shifted over time?

Loose Joints
I wouldn’t describe 2014 as a moment of fragmentation in a negative sense. If anything, it was a moment of expansion. From around 2010 onwards, there was a significant resurgence of interest in independent photographic publishing — driven by new models of self-publishing, greater online accessibility, and a network of bookfairs and bookshops that created momentum around the format. Loose Joints emerged organically from that context. We didn’t start with a mission to fill a gap, but rather to make the kinds of books we wanted to see in the world by artists whose work wasn’t always finding a home in mainstream publishing. That early experimental impulse has remained central, but the scale and depth of what we do has grown with time.

What does independence actually mean on an editorial level, in the day-to-day decisions around selection, sequencing, scale, and pacing?


For us, editorial independence means being closely involved at every stage of the process. We rarely work with external editors or designers. Every book is the result of a direct and sustained conversation with the artist. Beyond the editorial side, we also handle our own production, distribution, fulfilment and press, which allows us to remain flexible and responsive. Independence isn’t just about content. It’s about being able to adapt and make decisions quickly and thoughtfully, from concept through to delivery.

The Classroom by Hicham Benohoud
Published by Loose Joints
© Hicham Benohoud. Courtesy of Loose Joints

The Classroom by Hicham Benohoud
Published by Loose Joints
© Hicham Benohoud. Courtesy of Loose Joints

What signals tell you that a body of work is ready to become a book rather than remain an exhibition, an archive, or a loose constellation of images?

We rarely approach books as translations of exhibitions. Most of what we publish has never been shown in a gallery context, and if it has, the book tends to take a different form entirely. We’re interested in work that feels like it belongs on the page, where the rhythm of the book adds something to the experience of the images. That often means the project has a certain internal coherence or narrative potential, but we also respond to a sense of urgency or necessity in the artist’s voice.

How do you balance editorial authorship with restraint, especially when the work touches on identity, politics, or intimacy?

It’s about building trust. Some projects require more input from us, others are already quite fully formed. But we always take time to understand the artist’s perspective and what they’re trying to communicate. When the subject matter is personal or political, our role is often to help create space for the work to speak clearly and with intention, without over-framing or reducing its complexity. That balance comes from knowing when to support and when to step back.

What does the book still offer that digital circulation cannot, particularly in relation to memory and authorship?

Books and digital platforms serve different purposes, and we see them as complementary rather than oppositional. We invest heavily in how our books are communicated online, through press materials, photography, video, and digital previews, because the majority of people will encounter the work that way. But the book remains a unique medium. It offers a structure, a rhythm, and a physical experience that can’t be replicated digitally. It allows for a sustained engagement with the work, and for many photographers, it remains the most meaningful and durable way of presenting their ideas.

The Classroom by Hicham Benohoud revisits work made decades ago but reads as sharply contemporary. What drew you to this project now, and how do you approach reactivating historical material without flattening its original context?

We had seen a small selection from The Classroom years earlier and were immediately struck by its visual language, a bold use of performance, politics and the body that felt surprisingly current. The work was created in the 1990s in Morocco by a self-taught photographer working with his students, using a darkroom he built next to the classroom. It was ahead of its time in many ways. For this new edition, we worked closely with Hicham to access the full archive of negatives, many of which had never been printed. Sarah Chaplin Espenon edited directly from the contact sheets, allowing us to revisit the material at its source and present a fuller, more nuanced reading of the work.

You Are What You Do by Daniel Arnold
Published by Loose Joints
© Daniel Arnold, 2025. Courtesy of Loose Joints

Daniel Arnold’s You Are What You Do draws from an immense archive of street photography. When editing a body of work drawn from such an immense archive, how do you decide what ultimately shapes the book?

Daniel’s working method is compulsive and nonlinear — he doesn’t build in series, so it was important to establish an internal logic that felt true to the work. Sarah and Daniel went through thousands of images, looking for visual threads and emotional contrasts that could shape the structure of the book. The aim was to reflect the depth and spontaneity of Daniel’s photography, while creating a form that gave the reader room to breathe. Compared to his earlier work, this book feels more reflective. it shows the full range of his practice, from the loud and absurd to the quiet and intimate.

How do you think about taste, desire, and discomfort when editing Rude in the Good Way by Roe Ethridge, where commercial, personal, and art photography intersect?

Rude in the Good Way began as a small idea — a fourth book to sit alongside Roe’s three earliest self-published titles, which we were reissuing as a set (In the Beginning). But over time it expanded into a standalone project, as Roe began exploring themes of sexuality and desire and we encouraged him to take this further. The editing process was about embracing the friction in his work — between polished and lo-fi, humour and vulnerability, image and intent. Roe’s practice is inherently layered, and this book allowed us to surface a different register within it.

The Model Family by Tealia Ellis Ritter deals with proximity, family, and long-term looking. How does editing change when the photographer is so deeply entangled with their subject, and when time itself becomes the main material?

Tealia’s work is emotionally complex: it’s about family, but it doesn’t romanticise. The photographs span decades and blend personal material with more inscrutable images, so part of the challenge was finding a structure that could reflect that fluidity. We deliberately avoided a chronological approach. The captions, placed along the bottom edge of the pages, create a kind of fractured timeline that shifts across generations. The aim was to build a book that reflects the instability and ambiguity of memory without simplifying the work’s emotional landscape.

The Model Family by Tealia Ellis Ritter
Published by Loose Joints
© Tealia Ellis Ritter, 2021. Courtesy of Loose Joints

Across these four books, identity appears as something unstable, negotiated, and often unresolved. How do you approach projects where identity is central but resists clear definition?

The projects we respond to tend to hold tension, or ambiguity, or complexity. In those cases, our role is to ensure the book holds space for those qualities without flattening them. That requires time and sensitivity — and often means spending extended periods with the artist to understand how the work relates to their broader practice and background.

Your books are immediately recognisable as objects, so how early do material decisions such as format, binding, or paper enter your process, and how closely are they tied to the psychological register of the work?

Those decisions are made early, often in parallel with the edit. We begin each project by thinking through its material and tactile qualities, as well as practical questions like scale, pricing, and durability. We design all our books ourselves, and for us, production is never a decorative layer, it’s an extension of the concept. The format, binding, and finish should all deepen the reader’s experience and reflect something essential about the work.

Many younger photographers look to independent publishers as cultural gatekeepers, so how do you remain open to new voices without reproducing a fixed aesthetic or house style?

We keep our submissions open, and over half our projects each year are initiated by us reaching out to artists whose work we’ve discovered or admired. We’re not interested in cultivating a house aesthetic. Our list is diverse by design, and what links the books we publish is a sense of urgency, clarity, and commitment. We look for work that feels essential to the artist, and for artists who see the book as a meaningful stage in the life of the work, not just a credential or endpoint.

Finally, when you imagine Loose Joints ten years from now, what do you hope will feel continuous, and what do you actively hope will have changed?

What I hope remains is the focus: a number of carefully developed projects each year, produced with care and rigour. We do not believe that growth is a sustainable model for both the world and for a publisher. What I’d like to see change is the level of structural support available to publishers. Production costs have risen dramatically in recent years — we’ve seen increases of over 40% since 2019 — and these increases create more reliance on outside funding to make books happen at the level and scope we set for our releases. Meanwhile, the wider photography ecosystem continues to lean heavily on independent publishers to support emerging voices and take creative risks and reveal the artists of tomorrow, often without commensurate funding. If that doesn’t shift, we’ll start losing the very publishers that play crucial roles in making the contemporary photography landscape as rich as it is.

Rude in the Good Way by Roe Ethridge
LuLu With Pink Bow Panties
Published by Loose Joints
© Roe Ethridge. Courtesy of Loose Joints

Rude in the Good Way by Roe Ethridge
Lindesey Lohan at a Gas Station in Miami for Interview Magazine
Published by Loose Joints
© Roe Ethridge. Courtesy of Loose Joints

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credits
header image: Rude in the Good Way by Roe Ethridge, Published by Loose Joints, ©Roe Ethridge, 2025. Courtesy of Loose Joints

Dora Abodi *ABODI Transylvania and The Chronicles

As It Stands
The Chronicles of Dora Abodi

interview with DORA ABODI
story by HANNAH ROSE PRENDERGAST

ABODI Transylvania Wearable Art Collection: Chronicles 1

At the core of ABODI Transylvania is a world of stories.
Forms evolve, but the narratives endure.

My work has a literary dimension.
I create characters that inhabit each silhouette.

The Chronicles mirror the present.
Dracula embodies fear of the outsider and the cost of eternal youth.
Ancient gods represent natural forces we have lost touch with.

Antique hemp, handwoven fabrics, and vintage lace carry the passage of time.

ABODI Transylvania Wearable Art Collection: Chronicles 1

ABODI Transylvania Wearable Art Collection: Chronicles 1

The collection took a year and a half.
Two principal seamstresses and one pattern maker.
I sculpt the ceramic elements.

Wearable art is an autonomous object.
On the body, it transforms.

Elisabeth Báthory fascinates me.
She managed her own estates and was labelled a bloodthirsty monster.

When an idea feels right, I follow it, even if opinions differ.
I release only what I consider excellent, refusing to compromise on integrity.

Even the simplest garment, like a T-shirt, should be passed down through generations.

ABODI Transylvania Wearable Art Collection: Chronicles 1

ABODI Transylvania Wearable Art Collection: Chronicles 1

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ABODI Transylvania Wearble art collection Chronicles 1
creative director at ABODI Transylvania Dora Abodi
photograper Szilveszter Makó
talent Ursula Wångander

set design + illustrations Obsidian Lune
executive producer Siyan Chen
grooming Chiara Giangrossi
strategic consultant Peter Szurszabo

Tom Ducarouge *Industrial Design and Craftsmanship

Shaping the Future of Industrial Design with Tom Ducarouge

written + interview MELANIA MUSCI

Tom Ducarouge has shaped his creative identity between London and Paris. In the former, he began his studies and first approached the world of industrial design; in the latter, his birthplace, he returned to establish his own creative studio. Although several collaborations brought him back to London after his time at Central Saint Martins, Ducarouge found himself missing Paris’s decorative heritage. Those influences, combined with the professional network he had begun building in France before moving to London, became the springboard for a series of collaborations that positioned his name among the most notable in today’s international industrial design landscape.

stool design for GUCCI
/created by Tom Ducarouge

One of the defining traits of his work is the synergy between digital processes and craftsmanship. The world of craft and the stories it carries fascinates him more and more each day, pushing him to learn traditional techniques and explore how they can evolve to enhance the functionality of each object. Rimowa, On Running, New Balance, and many others are among the brands he has collaborated with so far, always managing to express his vision within each project. In a landscape where creating pieces for brand activations has become an increasingly compelling niche, Tom Ducarouge navigates it while remaining true to himself, designing pieces built to last.

portrait of Tom Ducarouge
/ photographed by Alfie Whiteman

Melania Musci
What sparked your initial interest in design, and what convinced you that this was the direction you wanted to pursue?

Tom Ducarouge
I trace my first real encounter with design back to the 2012 World Expo in Shanghai. It was the first time I understood how design could take shape within society. I remember being struck by the UK Pavilion designed by Thomas Heatherwick, a structure that combined thousands of seeds collected from around the world, each encased in optical fibers so that light passing through the building revealed them from within. It was an extraordinary fusion of architecture and design, and it remains one of my strongest memories of what creativity can achieve when supported by true technical mastery.

After that experience, I pursued a BA and then an MA in product and industrial design, which allowed me to explore the full spectrum of the discipline. Over time, I began to understand which direction within this world resonated most with me. Quite early, at the very beginning of my studies, I found myself naturally drawn toward design direction. Step by step, through specific installations and projects I encountered along the way, I reached the moment of clarity where I thought: this is exactly what I want to do.

After completing your studies in London, what ultimately drew you back to France? Was it a personal impulse, a professional opportunity, or something rooted in your creative identity?

Returning to France was, above all, a matter of identity. I grew up in Paris, and the city’s decorative heritage, its mouldings, parquet floors, and the way these classical elements can be reinterpreted through contemporary materials, has always been a strong source of inspiration for me. I’ve always felt a deeper connection to French decorative codes than to the British ones.
Paris was also where my personal and professional network was rooted. Even though our field increasingly operates across borders and new connections emerge in many cities, the community I felt most confident building my studio with was the one I already knew in France. Starting my practice in a place where I understood the ecosystem, and where people understood me, made the transition natural.
When I left London, I continued collaborating with the city for another year and a half through a project with Alexander McQueen, designing textile textures intended to support relaxation through breathing exercises. So I remained closely linked to London, and I still travel there often. I feel very connected to the city but my heart belongs to Paris.

What was the very first material you experimented with when you began designing? Do you still work with it today, or has your practice gradually shifted toward different material territories?

The first material I ever worked with was wood. It’s the most accessible starting point for any designer, because most workshops are equipped for woodworking, and it teaches the fundamentals: how to assemble and how to understand structure. At Central Saint Martins I spent a great deal of time in the wood workshop, learning those basics.
When I began working professionally, however, I shifted toward metal. It offered greater efficiency, shorter production times, and a level of strength and precision that allowed me to deliver projects within budget and with the clean finish I wanted. Wood is beautiful, but it’s more expensive and requires more time to handle properly. Metal became the practical solution, especially once I found an excellent workshop in France that I still collaborate with today.

Metal remains central to my practice, but over time our material palette has expanded. At my studio we now work with stone, glass, coloured glass, mirrors, and of course wood as well. Different materials coexist in our practice, each chosen for what it can express within a given project.

Amel Bench
/created by Tom Ducarouge + photographed by Charles Michalet

Amel Bench
/created by Tom Ducarouge + photographed by Charles Michalet

Your practice blends digital tools and handcraft in a remarkably fluid way. Digital processes come naturally to someone of your generation, but what about craftsmanship? Was it something passed down to you by someone, or did you seek it out independently?

For me, craftsmanship has always been tied to a love of learning. When I was a child, my favorite subject at school was history, because every day brought a new story. Working with craftsmen feels very similar: each encounter reveals a new story about a material or a technique that discovery process is what I enjoy most.

Industrial manufacturing is efficient, rational, and fast, and as professionals we rely on that. But I’ve always valued maintaining a balance between industry and craft. Taking the time to understand how things are made, meeting the people behind the techniques, and learning from them is a fundamental part of my practice.
Over the years I’ve built a kind of internal toolbox: the machines I like to use, the materials I know well, and others I’m still discovering. Working with recurring materials and techniques naturally creates a continuity in my design language. Whether I’m designing a small ring, a piece of packaging, or a large-scale installation for Louis Vuitton or New Balance, there are shared codes, finishes, shapes, gestures that come from that toolbox. In a way, that’s where my identity as a designer truly lies.

And which material from your toolbox do you find yourself returning to most often?

prefer not to single out one material, because every project has its own logic and its own constraints. Sometimes stone is the right answer: it’s heavy, stable, and ideal for outdoor pieces that need to remain in place and withstand time and weather. In other cases, aluminium becomes the most efficient solution, especially when a project requires a metal finish but must remain extremely lightweight, for example when it needs to be shipped by air or carried in a bag. In those situations, steel wouldn’t make sense, but aluminium would. So the choice always depends on the brief and on the final function of the object.

For your project with On Running, you created a heat‑sensitive table that shifts in tone upon touch, while your Jagged Chair was shaped through sand‑casting and surely you’ve explored many other techniques. Which process or method has been the most eye‑opening for you, the one that opened doors to new worlds?

There are many, but one of the first processes that truly struck me was hand‑riveting. It allowed me to assemble metal components without heavy machinery, just a simple rivet gun, which gave me a lot of freedom in the studio.

My work with heat‑sensitive materials also opened an entirely new field. Before the On Running table, I had already experimented with thermoreactive pigments for two commissions in London, creating cushions and seating pieces that changed tone upon touch. Translating that effect from fabric to metal, however, was a real challenge: fabric absorbs pigment, while metal doesn’t, so we had to develop a surface treatment that was durable, non‑scratch, and responsive despite the material’s natural temperature shifts. The On Table pushed the technique further than ever, and although it was demanding, the outcome and the feedback made the entire process incredibly rewarding.

You’ve already collaborated with major brands such as Gucci, Rimowa, New Balance, and Arc’teryx. These projects that exposed you to audiences and contexts far beyond traditional industrial design. Is there a field or world you haven’t explored yet that you would like to engage with in the future?

Absolutely. My long‑term goal has always been to work with proper furniture companies. Designing furniture is what I studied, and it’s what I still do every day in the studio. But when I entered the professional world, I quickly realised that the market for independent furniture designers is extremely small. Many brands rely on their existing catalogues, re‑editions, or simple colour updates, and they rarely take risks on new voices.

For a while, this was frustrating since I had imagined a different path after my studies. Then I found a niche that allowed me to keep designing furniture, but in a different context: creating pieces for brand activations. The stools we made for Gucci, the table for Louis Vuitton, the furniture for New Balance; these pieces are all kept, used, and circulated, which is incredibly rewarding, even if it’s not traditional retail design.
Still, my ambition remains the same: to collaborate with a furniture company like Vitra or Knoll and develop a line that enters production and stays in the world. That’s a life goal for me, and it’s the direction I’m actively working toward.

LVMH prize 2025 tables design
/ created by Tom Ducarouge

Louis Vuitton tables for a cocktail event in Palma
/ created by Tom Ducarouge

This issue of LE MILE revolves around the theme of identity. When working with global brands - projects that inevitably involve broader commercial frameworks - how do you preserve your own design identity? How do you balance your personal signature with the narrative of a large‑scale client?

In the beginning it was more challenging, because I still had to prove that I could deliver something aligned with what these brands were looking for. But today the dynamic is very different. Clients come to my studio because they trust my team’s vision and mine. They want our creative input, and that’s the core of the collaboration. We handle the manufacturing, of course, but the creative direction is the main reason they reach out.

What matters most is understanding the brief with absolute clarity. We need to meet the functional expectations of the project, but creatively there is no real struggle. That part is actually the most enjoyable moment of the process: we receive the brief, we respond with several creative options, and the dialogue begins. The real challenge usually lies in producing the piece at the highest quality within very tight timelines.

In what ways does sustainability shape the identity of your projects? Do you have practical examples of how this dimension influences your design decisions?

Sustainability is part of our process, but we don’t present ourselves as a “sustainable studio”. If we were truly sustainable, we wouldn’t produce anything new at all. What we do instead is make conscious decisions at every stage. For events, for example, we often combine what we manufacture with vintage or rental pieces. Over time we’ve built a strong network of galleries across Europe, which allows us to avoid remaking furniture for every project.
As our studio grows, we also work with more recurring clients, which means we can design pieces to be dismantled, stored, and reused. A good example is the furniture we created for ROA Hiking, an Italian brand part of Slam Jam. It was first used in Paris, then reused in Munich, and it will be adapted again for their next showroom. Around 90% of that collection is reusable, and we can keep modifying elements as needed. We apply the same logic with New Balance, designing pieces that can travel from one activation to another.

Material choices follow the same mindset. We often use raw aluminium or untreated wood so that components can be easily recycled or repurposed after an event. For me, this isn’t a separate “sustainability strategy”; it’s simply part of designing responsibly and avoiding unnecessary production whenever possible.

How do you imagine the evolution of your design identity in the coming years?

In the next few years, I’d love to develop more retail projects. We already have a few in progress, and it’s a direction that feels very natural for us; designing pieces that are meant to stay, not just serve a temporary activation. At the same time, as the studio grows, it becomes harder to carve out time for our own experiments, but keeping that space alive is essential. I want us to continue developing our own objects every year, not only client work. Another important direction is working abroad. Designing only for France feels too limited. What I learned at Central Saint Martins, being surrounded by dozens of nationalities, showed me how much richer design becomes when it’s shaped by different cultures and perspectives. That’s something I want to keep applying to the way we build the studio.

So the evolution I imagine is this: more retail, more international collaborations, more local manufacturing close to each project, and always the possibility to experiment. That balance is what will keep our identity growing.

Side table created for New Balance in Valencia as part of a custom furniture
/ created by Tom Ducarouge