Introduction

I love my clothes. It’s what I say any time someone tells me they don’t want to be seen in the same thing twice. I love my clothes. On a good day they make me feel beautiful. On a bad day, at the very least they help me feel composed.

I love the way a pair of pants can feel empowering. I love the way a mid-length skirt with a split feels when I walk, I love the flash of leg from a certain angle on the street or sitting in a chair. I love the way a well-tailored suit provides balance across the shoulders, through the waist, hips and sleeves. I love styling: the right coat with the right dress. Something sexy with something boyish. Something pretty with something tough. I love the softness of silk layered with the softness of cashmere. The crispness of a good cotton shirt against a pair of jeans. I love throwing an oversized coat over athletic gear, a cocktail dress, pyjamas. I love the theatre of dressing, the play of it. The way an outfit can make a night feel exciting. The way an outfit adds colour to memories, to the energy of a moment, to how it felt on that street corner, in that restaurant, at that hotel bar.

I’m not interested in clothes I can only wear once. I want clothes to carry me through the seasons of a year, of my life. I want clothes that see me through job interviews, the end of relationships that never even began, dinner parties with new friends, birthdays with old friends, weddings, funerals, dancing. Our clothes are some of our most intimate companions: how do you get to know them if you only wear them once?

How do you know that a particular jacket will get too hot if the sun comes out? Or that the rub of that waistline will be uncomfortable through a long dinner? How do you know that a dress will make you feel so wonderful you don’t have to think about it, aside from when you’re receiving compliments? How do you know that putting things in certain pockets will upset the line of the hip, so you do need to carry a bag? Or in that knit dress, you can get away with not taking a jacket. And in that skirt, you can walk fast, but you can’t run. That those shoes hurt when you’re dancing. That those pants will crease if you sit down for too long. That you can rescue your white blouse from red wine because it’s been spilt on before. That while you can zip yourself into the bodysuit, you need a friend to help take it off. How do you know which dresses, shirts and pants are comfortable enough, beautiful enough and resilient enough to see you through an entire day, from meetings to dinner?

A world where you don’t know your clothes sounds awfully risky. It sounds like a recipe for days with itchy necklines, clammy armpits and having to carry your too-warm jacket. And of course, it’s risky for the planet too, although risky is an understatement. A world where we don’t know our clothes, where we wear them a handful of times before we throw them away, is more than risky. It’s disastrous.

Fashion’s carbon footprint and environmental offences have been thoroughly documented by academics, reported on by the biggest management consulting companies in the world and investigated by very talented journalists. The latest reports suggest fashion is responsible for 2 per cent of global greenhouse gas emissions, although some estimates place it as high as 10 per cent, not to mention the pollution of waterways, the harm to workers along its supply chains and the insurmountable levels of textile waste generated every second by clothes we have thrown away or donated to charity. The clothes we never got to know. The clothes we didn’t fall in love with.

For several years now, the fashion industry has been on a mission to become more sustainable – or at least to convince people that it is. The use of the word sustainable and its counterparts – conscious, eco, natural, positive impact, zero waste – have become so ubiquitous, so overused in PR and marketing campaigns, that they have come to lose their meaning. Or in fact, their meaning is so deliberately vague that the truth about a garment’s impact is successfully obscured.

That’s not to say there aren’t innovations. Sustainable ‘solutions’ are arriving hard and fast: biological and technical inventions; recycling; renewable technologies; closed-loop production systems that recycle water and chemicals; waste management and circularity; increased transparency to allow for greater traceability, visibility and accountability. The pace is exciting, but that list is exhausting not least because scratching the surface of most of these solutions can prove extremely unsatisfying. Transparency is no good without standardised language and proper accountability. Closed-loop production can refer to just one part of the production process. Circularity and recycling technology is in its infancy: without large-scale infrastructure to capture, sort and process textile waste, most garments will not be recycled – and by most, I mean 99 per cent, no matter what the PR copy claims.

Aside from this, it is impossible for the fashion industry to reduce its carbon emissions while rates of consumption and production continue to climb, and despite the posturing and the summits, the voluntary codes of conduct and the coalitions, neither show any sign of slowing down. At least not while current systems and thinking remain in place. It’s not just the industry that needs to change. Our understanding of clothes needs to change too. We have lost sight of the origins of these garments and materials that have kept us warm and made us feel beautiful for centuries. We have lost sight of the people who make them, who have the knowledge and skill to pleat, stitch and tailor. Production was outsourced decades ago, prices dropped, marketing infiltrated our lives and the amount of clothes we bought increased – some estimates suggest by double.

That’s all without considering that polyester, a plastic made from fossil fuels, represented 52 per cent of the global fibre market in 2020.¹ And it has somehow received such great publicity that writers of life-cycle assessments are convinced it is one of the most sustainable materials, because they classify it a by-product of fossil fuels. The logic of this is so skewed it’s hard to believe, especially since for the last decade we have been denouncing plastic for clogging up oceans and strangling fish. Polyester sheds microfibres of plastic pollution into waterways every time it’s washed – microfibres that end up in the bellies of sea creatures and in our soils – and the implementation of technology to prevent this is extremely slow. Right now, anything labelled recycled polyester is actually just downcycled plastic, so degraded that its next stop is landfill.

And besides, polyester is uncomfortable. It has a complicated relationship with oil, by which I mean it attracts it, absorbs it and won’t let it go. It also has a complicated relationship with sweat and body odour, for much the same reason – that is to say, polyester smells, and that smell is impossible to wash away. Polyester is a plastic, made from a finite resource; it will never biodegrade. We shouldn’t be wearing it. It doesn’t belong against our skin. But my clothes that are made of natural fibres – cotton, linen, silk or wool – I would take them with me to the ends of the earth.

In April 2018, I was in Milan for a week for work. At the time, I was living in Paris and working for an Italian designer, and our small team had piled onto the train to set up an exhibition and pop-up shop at the Salone del Mobile, a design fair. It was a particularly warm spring. The sky was a faultless blue – perfect weather for the designer’s clothes. Each morning I pulled on one of her shirtdresses or kaftans and slid my feet into leather sandals. Over the course of the day, I felt the light fabric wick moisture from my skin as I ran between our temporary store and various exhibitions or aperitifs on the sprawling terraces Milan is famous for. The dresses had deep pockets and long, wide sleeves that could be rolled up or down, depending on the breeze. They were both utilitarian and sophisticated, which meant they could be worn from breakfast to dinner. They were soft and airy, and so comfortable I felt present, in my body and relaxed, like I was on holiday.

The Italian designer was also a stylist. She worked out of a light-filled atelier in the ninth arrondissement of Paris, and I worked there with her for two years. Together with her partner (a photographer) and her talented protégé, she created clothes made exclusively of natural fibres. She had an intense obsession with savoir faire – and the ability to contextualise the wearer of her clothes within a landscape. The consideration of sun and wind, heat and movement, meant she created clothes that felt alive against the body. They were made in limited runs, a tactic designed to instil in her customers the value of scarcity, to unlearn years of conditioning that encouraged everyone to consume more, to wait for sales, to follow trends.

It is to our detriment that mass production and the abundant supply of cheap clothing has desensitised us to the connection between our clothes and their origins, between our clothes and the land. Take the example of the dresses I was wearing in Milan: they were made of cotton. When you see cotton growing in a field, it is completely mesmerising. It is a fluffy white ball that grows like a flower on a bush, and can be plucked from the plant, bright white, clean and practically ready to be spun into yarn and woven into a garment. The reason the dresses in Milan were so comfortable is because on the body, cotton reacts to temperature. It breathes when are you are hot and provides warmth when you are cold. It is durable and supple. This flexibility makes sense, when you consider the particles a cotton shirt is composed of once belonged to a plant photosynthesising energy from the sun. Another natural fibre, wool, is similarly alive. Its complex molecular structure makes it resistant to wrinkles, stains and water. It is elastic, soft on the skin and breathable. It is warm, comfortable and protective. Linen is lightweight and gets softer and smoother with each wear; the flax plant it is derived from turns fields across France and Belgium pale blue for just a few weeks every year. Silk is drawn from a cocoon; it shimmers like water but a single filament is stronger than steel.

These fabrics are some of nature’s most incredible creations. But in our highly convenient world, where we have optimised our lives for next-day delivery to benefit from global trade and created a hierarchy that ranks working at a desk above working on the land, we’ve completely lost sight of the fact that our clothes come from the soil. They are the product of the natural world and we’re lucky to get to wear them. Unfortunately, like most parts of fashion’s production, farming natural fibres on an industrial scale can be harmful to the environment. But there is another way. These fibres, these precious materials that can make you fall in love with your clothes, can be farmed in ways that heal and regenerate the earth.

This type of fibre farming is often referred to as regenerative agriculture. Broadly speaking, regenerative agriculture is derived from Indigenous land management practices and can be thought of as a kind of ‘beyond organic’ farming. It eschews the use of synthetic pesticides and fertilisers and goes further, aiming to improve ecosystems, soil health and water cycles. A variety of techniques can be implemented, like multi-species planting and integration of livestock, and the soil is never tilled. The farm is not simply a group of paddocks with an output of crops; it is part of the natural world and managed using principles of holistic stewardship, so the health of the landscape is always actively improving. Some of the obvious metrics include the return of native trees, grasses, insects and animals and an increase in the organic matter of the soil so that it is soft, fluffy and dark brown, like chocolate cake. This indicates that the soil has a healthy biological life with micro-organisms exchanging nutrients, including nitrogen and carbon, through photosynthesis, and building mycorrhizal fungi – which are important for substantial crop yields. Another metric is improved water cycles so that the soil retains more moisture, meaning the farm is less vulnerable to droughts. Extensive research shows that restoring soil health through this type of agriculture is an efficient way of pulling carbon out of the atmosphere and returning it to the ground. This is exciting because, of the earth’s natural carbon sinks – plants, sea, soil and sky – soil is one of the safest places to store carbon.

For the imperilled fashion industry, regenerative agriculture presents an intriguing solution. Integrating its principles along fashion’s supply chains – by using it to farm cotton, flax (linen), silk, wool, cashmere and hemp – the industry could theoretically transition beyond ‘sustainable’ solutions that merely mitigate harm towards solutions that promote healthy landscape function and improved biodiversity, soil health and water cycles in regions the industry has typically used and abused. Farmers who have switched to these techniques say they are happier and more relaxed, that they have a sense their land is coming back to life. What’s more, some of the biggest players in the fashion industry are early adopters. Patagonia and Kering (whose brand empire includes Gucci, Bottega Veneta and Saint Laurent) are already training cotton farmers across their supply chains in the principles of regenerative farming.

Of course, the issues within the fashion industry are too complex to be solved by simply changing the way its raw materials are farmed. There also needs to be a return to localised production; more investment in renewable energies to run the factories that convert raw materials from fleece to yarn to textile; and significant analysis of the chemicals used along the supply chain to dye, smooth and make our clothes shine. But starting with the source, with a sheep’s fleece or a cotton boll, can enhance our connection to and appreciation of our clothes. Which is important if we are to subvert the cycle of buy-and-dispose and transform our relationship with them – while still getting to wear beautiful things. Importantly, it means we can wear clothes that have played a role in improving the ecosystem functionality of landscapes, the health of their soil and the lives of the animals and people that live on them.

In the following pages, we’ll look at both the way fibres are farmed and the way they are transformed into garments. We’ll visit rangelands in Mongolia where cashmere goats are herded from highlands to desert, American fields where collectives of farmers are growing cotton beneath the heat of the Californian sun, and small villages in China where mothers and daughters weave buttons by hand. We’ll uncover the layers of ingenuity and resources embedded in each t-shirt, coat or dress. We’ll see how farmers are applying new methods and techniques to improve the land they are growing these fibres on. Through this exploration we can reorient our understanding of each garment we buy, each garment we wear, around the valuable resources it contains, and wonder at the ability of a flower on a plant to become a shirt, or the fluffy fleece on a sheep to be cleaned and spun into a turtleneck. Hopefully this shift in understanding will mean we take better care of our clothes and enjoy wearing them for longer so we can reduce our appetite for newness.

It’s a seductive proposition, one with the potential to resolve the tensions that exist between our desire to wear beautiful clothes and our desire to have a truly sustainable fashion industry. It’s a vision for a hopeful future, one that promises rewilding of fields, pastures, rangelands and meadows while offering farmers and communities more sustainable livelihoods. A future where we understand the value of our clothes, wear them for longer and get to know them so that we can confidently say, I love my clothes.