Gardouch

Gardouch is about the banality of life becoming the occasion to tell a story, an autofiction shaped by nostalgia and structured like chapters, unfolding chronologically through memory. It’s like an archaeologist digging through layers of forgotten archives, trying to reconstruct a blurred but essential past. The performative aspect of clothing makes it the ideal medium, allowing compositions with multiple elements. It reflects identity and movement, existing between the personal and the collective.

My latest collection is built around the moment of bedtime, drawing both from children's literature, wolves lurking in the dark, dresses transforming from 2D to 3D, knights and fairies, and from real, past elements of nightwear.
Some pieces are direct translations of memory: an exact replica of my mother’s pajamas, with its motif hand-painted. Another pajama set mirroring the wallpaper of my grandparents’ house. A quilted dress featuring an illustration my mother once made for me, which hung framed above my bed. It’s not just one specific memory that inspired the collection, but a combination of multiple micro-archives and elements that together evoke that sense of comfort, fantasy, and transition from the waking world to dreams.

For me, it’s about trying to save what I can from the past. There’s an almost obsessive drive to preserve whatever fragments I can, driven by the rational fear that one day everything will be forgotten. But beyond that, I appreciate the ambiguity, having gaps, missing pieces in the puzzle. Gardouch is rooted in the present, with the past as a primary source of inspiration, but always highlighting its absences and ruins. I also keep in mind that it’s a wardrobe for adults. When presenting these clothes, I aim to evoke nostalgia while ensuring they remain anchored in a space between then and now, a liminal zone where the past lingers but is not confined to it. The design has to speak to this tension and live in that in-between.

At my grandparents’ house, my room was at the very end of a long, dark hallway, far from the living room and the bustle of the house. I remember being scared that the Wolf was waiting for me down that hall. Every night, I’d run to my room with a mix of excitement and fear, knowing deep down that the Wolf wasn’t really there, but needing the thrill of the possibility. It was that tension between fear and excitement, that invisible, unspoken presence, that shaped the feeling of the title.

I’m fortunate to have a very clear and complete memory of my childhood, which allows me to translate certain elements and sensations into my designs. This clarity gives me a wide range of references to draw from, which is further enriched by the material archives I have access to. I keep numerous boxes of childhood mementos, which serve as a direct link to those formative years. Additionally, I’m lucky to have my family close by, always supporting me in my archival process and helping me answer questions about the past.

I tend to heavily pad many of my pieces, transforming them into objects as much as garments. This gives them weight and structure, allowing them to stand out on their own. At times, these pieces don’t even need to be worn on a body to convey their meaning.
Material-wise, I don’t believe in the hierarchy of materials or techniques. For me, even those linked to creative hobbies, like polymer clay for example, are valuable. I have a large collection of books on these techniques, which inspire me often. When I use this material to craft the wolf’s claws for gloves or boots, it’s because it fits the narrative and intent of the piece. It’s also crucial for me to work with deadstock fabrics whenever possible. This choice adds a certain patina, connecting the garments to a history they seek to tell.

Using codes that are more or less familiar to my generation and my circle, many reactions I get are along the lines of ‘Oh, I remember this!’ — this is something I find really interesting. Being able to evoke that feeling in others highlights how, sometimes, our memories aren't so unique. Some people are sharing a collective memory, one shaped by similar images and experiences, and it's fascinating to see how these designs can trigger those moments.

I’d say I see myself as a bit of all three. As a designer, I create pieces that reflect the essence of memories. As a storyteller, I weave those elements into a narrative that speaks to both the personal and collective. And as an archivist, I collect fragments of the past, preserving them through design. It's about capturing what might otherwise fade away and making it tangible again.

The intimacy in my work comes from literally highlighting personal archival pieces. These are not hidden and totally exposed. As for the idea of universality, shared memory is not a homogenous entity. It’s a constellation of narratives, sensations, and symbols shaped by individual, social, and cultural experiences. Collective memory isn’t a single truth but a collection of fragments, sometimes clashing, often evolving, shaped by external forces. Gardouch explores these intersections, questioning how memories are built and how they transform over time. Ultimately, whether or not these fragments resonate with others is subjective. It’s not about creating universal echoes, but about sparking personal connections, however fleeting or specific they may be.

At the start, Gardouch wasn’t meant to become a brand. It was an art school project that I had in mind and had been working on since 2018. I initially viewed the garments I was making not as pieces to wear but as objects within an installation. The technical quality of the sewing didn’t matter much to me at first. I taught myself how to sew, and this naive discovery process led to some interesting, unexpected results in the final pieces. Over time, as I decided to turn Gardouch into a business, I began to focus more on refining my sewing skills. However, I still cherish that initial naive approach because it brings a unique texture to the project.

I see it unfolding like chapters in a book, each one building on the last. The journey starts with childhood, and from there, it grows. I have a clear sense of where each chapter is headed, and that gives me a certain ease when I look to the future. It helps me organise my thoughts, deciding, for instance, ‘this look fits better in this collection’ or ‘this scenography is more suited here.’
Right now, I’m deep into the second collection, which I first sketched out three years ago, while I’m also starting to work on the the first drawings and universe of the third collection. Having a bit of distance from the process allows me to stay ahead and approach each creative step with confidence.

I’d be curious to collaborate with artists, designers, filmmakers, or stage directors whose work either complements or contrasts with mine. What matters most is a shared interest in translating the past into the present.

I hope the garment creates a connection to something deeply personal, a forgotten memory or sensation. It’s like finding an old object in a box, slightly distorted by time. As the collections evolve, the focus will shift away from childhood and explore new stages of life, allowing the designs to reflect this progression and the changing nature of memory.