FRANKA MARLENE FOTH:

I have to dig really deep for that, because I started so early. I’m not loyal to one specific medium and I never had that thought in my head: “I want to become a dancer.” It just happened. It was always a very effortless ambition. I trained incredibly hard from a very young age, simply following my passion, and then quite early on, I got my first jobs as a dancer at 16, alongside school.

FMF: As a background dancer, and I also created shows for live events. That showed me pretty directly that I can do this, I’m already earning money while still in school. It really fueled my desire to pursue it. But it was a gradual process. I just followed what I wanted to do. I was obsessed with training and was sometimes given leave from school to compete. I was completely absorbed in it. When I got my first jobs through my hard work, I realized: Oh, this is actually working. I’ll keep going. And since it was happening alongside school, I lost interest in school entirely. I just wanted to work as a dancer. So I wasn’t following some grand dream; I was following my passion, my desire.

FMF: Exactly. I had no external idea at all. Which many people do have, and with it a false notion of what it means or how you get there. Meanwhile, I was training six hours a day.

FMF: That was during that period, yes. I always dabbled in everything, but I was really deep into those styles then. There have always been phases in my life where I focused on certain styles. I needed variety and got bored quickly. Ideally, I’d master everything perfectly, which obviously isn’tpossible, so I was always jumping around. That actually paid off, because it made me totally versatile. But it was never a deliberate decision; it was more like: this interests me more right now.

FMF: Straight into a dance training program. I always say it was just additional training, since I’dbeen doing it all along anyway. But I wanted a contemporary education, because up until then, I’dmainly focused on urban styles. I thought: Okay, I want to move more into theater, do more contemporary work, immerse myself in that world. So I did the program.

FMF: That one was more conscious. By a certain point, I’d been working as a dancer for a long time, and there was always something that bothered me, something I would have done differently. Then I realized: I can’t keep criticizing others for ideas I don’t think are good. I have to do something different myself. That was the shift. I want to show my own vision, realize my own ideas, and follow my own aesthetic affinities, not execute someone else’s.

FMF: Absolutely. I’d frame it more on a psychological level, the way the dance world operates. Speaking critically from my own experience and that of most dancers: What mattered to me was not wanting to be treated that way anymore, and doing it differently. Many choreographers work together with dancers, but the dancers develop a great deal themselves. I experienced giving everything I had, only for the choreographer to put his name over it at the end. I thought: Wait, that’s not my vibe. What I give, I don’t want to do under someone else’s roof. What really confirmed it was this: I created something, it was immediately taken, and I thought, wait a second, I’m doing this on my own now.

FMF: Totally. It was a process where I realized I want to do this myself, because I’ve already been creating most of the repertoire and my own visual language came through. The artistic ethos and the way of working with other dancers and artists should be different on a human level, precisely because it is a collaboration.

FMF: It’s always different. I have very strong and precise visions and I’m quite specific and perfectionistic about what I want. I know pretty clearly what I want. But the dancers, with what they’re capable of, are of course crucial. Without them, I couldn’t do what I do. It also always depends on who’s involved. If it’s dancers I’ve worked with for a long time, like the people from FMKF, my collective, then by now, it’s a kind of symbiosis, because they know me and I know them. If I say I’d like something a certain way, they’re already moving roughly how I want. And of course it’s a total interplay. I’m very specific in the choreography and instruct my movements concisely; I create the framework and the foundation of the entire piece. But every dancer also brings their own character, and I love that. I don’t want clones. I love synchronicity, but I also love the different characters and the fact that they come onto the stage individually and bring something of their own. It’s a process of give and take.

FMF: Yes, I have a precise idea and I prep. I want everything to be executed with excellence and quality, but I’ve also trained myself not to over-prep. I used to do that, and when something didn’twork out, I’d lose it: bad perfectionism. These days, I try to be more relaxed, because keeping that window open for interpretation and spontaneity is really important. On a day like that, I’m also trying to compress five weeks of work into a single day, which only works with the right dancers. And something else that is really important to me in my work is how people are treated. Especially on set, where it’s always stressful, or in rehearsals, it matters to me that they feel seen, even when I’m telling them very precisely how something should be. I think by now, I manage that quite well, so that they feel valued as artists.

FMF: It was always my trainers who shaped me. There were so many of them, and I switched when something no longer worked for me. But they were truly personal relationships. It wasn’t just someone somewhere in the world I admired from a distance. I also never really thought about dance theoretically or read much about it. It was always physical work. Inspiration came through colleagues, trainers, and dancers I worked with, or through people I met at workshops and training sessions around the world.

FMF: A lot came through conversations among dancers, of course, but I was physically far too busy to be reading much about it. It’s competitive sport; I was focused on becoming a better athlete and just getting better in training.

FMF: It depends. You can apply that to anything. First and foremost, I prioritize substance overhype. I wouldn’t ever say that engaging with dance is a problem; it’s much better than engaging with plenty of other things online. But these trends exist, absolutely, and that’s also down to online culture and social media, which is why I keep trying to do a complete detox. While I appreciate other people’s dance, of course my creative inspiration is shaped far more by influences beyond it.

These trends get boring fast. Something goes viral and everyone rushes toward it. I prefer authenticity over trends. I always think: This didn’t just appear now, I see the reference and there are a thousand other versions of it everywhere. But now, everyone piles onto this one piece, even though there are ten other great ones out there. What bothers me more is that the hype is rarely questioned. The visuals circulating online are barely analyzed or critically examined. Where does this come from, what references were used? I immediately see: Oh, this aesthetic comes from this or that context, and I think, people, do your research. That’s just the curse of social networks. I’m also not even sure if more is actually happening, or if we’re just seeing it more often. Because it’s constantly being shown, you get the impression it’s everywhere.

FMF: These days, I’m guided more by desires than by fixed ideas. These wishes and desires are very intuitive, influenced by life, by personal experiences, immediate observations and events, and sometimes by things that aren’t personal at all. Ideas can be spontaneous, irrational, but still precisely structured. Music and sound are a primary part in my creative practice and stimulate me above everything else. That’s the key mood for everything I do, creatively and especially with dance. I am more engaged with film, surrealism in all its forms, scents, poetry, surrealist poetry, psychology; all of these things influence what I want to create, not visual things I see from others.

The inner processes are shaped by all of that, which leads to new things emerging, or to me feeling stimulated. In dance, I’ve already seen so much. I understand most things immediately. But I’m also making it myself, so it became more an observation of something that exists. I’m always curious, and enjoy being in circles where people are more used to avant-garde ideas, and even though everything has existed in some form before, new impulses still emerge. At some point, inspiration shifts toward other fields. You develop other interests or a different understanding of what you’redoing. I haven’t been doing just “the one thing” for a long time now. I am operating in many fields such as directing, photography and design. I think it’s just a process you go through that can’t really be defined precisely.

FMF: For me, it goes like this: When I’m told to create something, there’s first a storm up here. A thousand ideas in my mind, then I have to limit myself.

Inspiration came initially from the Chanel New York collection. I looked at what the aesthetic was and quickly realized I wanted to create a contrast, because the collection already implies something. You can go along with the aesthetic or set a contrast; I usually find the contrast more interesting than what’s already expected. Through that, I then realized what I actually wanted to create: an emotional atmosphere, something extreme, with a lot of expression, with wind, storm, effort, heaviness. Those were my keywords. You also shared the editorial direction for the issue, and it was quickly clear: women, strong, untamed women. I don’t need to go searching for that; all the dancers I work with already embody it. Then came the question of who to bring on, and from there, the characters I want to create emerge immediately. In parallel, I developed musical ideas, also in contrast to the collection. Everything happens first in my head before I go into the studio. I have an understanding of how things go together that’s purely sensory based, so the music I create in turn influences the visual images I want to realize. And I play with sounds and images until the two ignite each other.

FMF: Naturally, I have musical references that come to mind immediately, and those shape the key mood.

FMF: I actually played the snippets, I think. Those were references for the various emotions I wanted to bring in. I had a fairly broad spectrum of playlists, because each emotion I wanted to convey is carried by different tracks and genres.

Every genre has its own mood, which influences what’s being portrayed. Since I wanted to show a variety of emotions, I played many different pieces, which I then bring together in the final version. I experimented a little along the way: What happens here? Oh no, that doesn’t work anymore, that goes out. Or suddenly, something different is happening than I expected. I deliberately leave that window open for spontaneity and interpretation, and if necessary, I rewrite sections afterward.

FMF: They can be quite varied, to generate different qualities and characters. I write down keywords I give to the dancers. Unapologetic, chaos, dreamlike, self-possession were a few in this case. In group work, which I love to do, I can use that to create compelling images with the bodies. When the dancers bring a variety of emotions into it, I find that especially interesting. So I give everyone different keywords on the day, exactly as I did this time.

FMF: Sometimes I also do it contrarily. If I see that something is happening on the left, I need exactly that from her at the top right. I react spontaneously on set, adjust things quickly, and change instructions at short notice. That’s why I need ultra-professional dancers who can respond immediately. I can say: “Forget what I told you two days ago, I need exactly this now.” Or I switch roles: “You’re playing this role now.” It’s very dynamic.

FMF: I work with poetic narratives rather than with classic stories because for me, it’s primarily about expression. I’m reluctant to prescribe a fixed meaning because that often limits the viewer’simagination. Even I sometimes see something different depending on my mood on a given day. That’s why it’s important to me not to give concrete guidelines, and even when I have them, I’m hesitant to voice them.

FMF: I agree. When it comes to dance though, I’m here for it all. Everything has its place. It’sexpression, and it should also be fun. If you want to let yourself go and throw yourself onto the floor, naked or half-naked, and perform classic forms of sexy-coded movement, go for it. But this alone does not do it for me. It, again, is more about finding interesting contrasts. I, for example, always wanted to move like my male colleagues, also in a sexual way. In the end, it’s all about poise, charisma, and remaining authentic.

FMF: The women I work with are sexy just by being themselves; they don’t even need to express it. When they then consciously do so, it’s often a tick too much, because sexiness for me doesn’tautomatically mean moving in a certain expected way. It’s not about delivering what people already associate with sexiness, but creating a contrast instead. And that’s exactly what I find especially compelling. A rupture. I also like the word “attractiveness” better than “sexy,” and I think it’s much more powerful. Attractiveness is presence: charm, facial expression, body language, walking upright. That alone is enough to seem sexy, and you can go into a lot of detail there. In dance,especially, I pay close attention to moving away from clichés. Even though I find classically clichéd dances totally admirable, in my own work, I always try to set a contrast, to move away from the first association. That’s really my main creative process: thinking about what the obvious association would be, and doing exactly the opposite.

Fabian Kluth: It really began during Covid. We were all sitting at home, locked in, and at some point you just get bored. I never really had much homework from school, so by Monday I already felt like I had finished everything I was supposed to do. Then there were still six days left in the week that somehow needed to be filled. 

So I started getting into all kinds of things. I was reading a lot – Goethe, philosophy, mathematics, physics – and I started asking myself: what do I actually want to do after this pandemic?

At some point school announced that we all had to do internships. So I randomly applied to an architecture office in Cologne. I realized very quickly that I would never become an architect because I was catastrophically bad at the artistic side of it. But I became fascinated by the question of what drives people creatively. And once you start dealing with architecture, you automatically end up dealing with fashion and art too. It’s all connected somehow.

FK: I could never produce art myself. I’m completely incapable of that. I got terrible grades in art at school too. But I love to own my own pieces.

FK:I discovered artists on social media, especially in Leipzig. One of them was Rosa Loy, the wife of Neo Rauch. I became obsessed with her work. So I tagged her on Instagram and emailed her asking for previews. Everything was far too expensive for me, obviously, but eventually I found one piece hidden at the very end of a PDF that somehow seemed possible.

I realized that if I worked gastronomy jobs all summer long, I could maybe afford it. So at the end of summer vacation, in 35-degree heat, I took a bus to Leipzig with a huge tote bag and picked up my first artwork.

FK:Things that create friction. That’s still true today. It’s much more about themes.

And I don’t only collect paintings either. The exhibitions are very broad in terms of medium.

FK: The exhibitions are always about creating a reflection of our time. I think art should function as a mirror. It should confront us with ourselves.

I’m very interested in gender issues, environmental topics, consumer culture. Harry Nuriev, for example, is incredible. He did this exhibition with Dietrich & Schlechtriem where he created soaps with Balenciaga labels trapped inside them. I think that kind of critique of consumerism is brilliant.

Most of the artists in the collection are born in the 1990s or later. Some of them literally just graduated from art school or are still studying. I simply found them online, visited their studios and bought works directly.

FK:Not at all. Nothing is for sale.

At the exhibitions a lot of people immediately wanted to buy works. Which was actually great for the artists. One artist sold several pieces directly from his studio that evening because of the exposure.

But I don’t take commissions and I don’t want to. That’s not the point.

FK: Absolutely not. But art isn’t necessarily as expensive as people think.

And honestly, Covid helped in that way too. I started learning about stocks and crypto – this was before the big AI boom. I invested in NVIDIA, Apple, Microsoft, Meta. It all developed relatively quickly. Today I make a lot of money through stocks and crypto.

FK:I actually hate the term collector. That’s why my project is called Platform and Vision and not “collection.” 

Of course the stereotypes exist. But I’m not interested in profiling myself through art. I don’t need a Gerhard Richter hanging in my hallway just so visitors understand I can afford one.

FK: In the beginning nobody took me seriously. They imagined some rich kid in Louboutins with daddy’s money. 

But that was never me. I wear the same thing every day. Black shirt, same trousers, different shoes depending on the season. That’s it.

FK: Exactly. Like Steve Jobs with his Issey Miyake sweaters. I don’t want to stand in front of my closet every morning thinking about clothes. I want my energy elsewhere.

FK: Especially now with social media, yes. But honestly, I also want the project to exist independently of me eventually. The interesting thing isn’t Fabian Kluth as a person. The interesting thing is the discussion around the work.

FK: I don’t really care about conventions or norms. I do my own thing.

And honestly, criticism interests me more than praise. I need friction. I need tension.

FK: If I want something, I go after it relentlessly.

There’s an artist I wanted work from for over a year. I called every Monday asking if there was something available. Every single Monday. At a certain point, he agreed. It’s persistence.

FK: That’s difficult to answer.

My parents never pressured me. Quite the opposite actually – very laissez-faire. But for me it feels natural. If I do something, I want it to work properly.

FK: Of course there are things you have to do. But generally I try to only do things I genuinely care about.

Look at today for example. I came to Berlin last night, didn’t sleep at all, tomorrow I’ll drive back at four in the morning, then I have appointments again immediately. But I just do it because I love it. Doing nothing stresses me more. I can’t lie on a couch for two hours. Impossible.

FK: I have a horse. Laughs. Once a week I go there, clean the stable, put on rubber boots and walk around for two hours. That’s probably the calmest part of my week.

FK: I’ve always loved misfits.

I felt like all the existing art podcasts always invited the exact same people. I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted people with friction. Naturally I already had close contact to many artists because I collect their work.

FK: In a club I’d probably sit at the bar watching people instead of dancing.

But eventually I’d still walk over and talk to them.

FK: Definitely not repeating the same exhibition format for the next forty years. The vision is much bigger than that. I want to bring people together. That’s really the core idea behind everything.

And honestly, if tomorrow I wake up and decide I want to make a magazine instead, or open a clothing store, then I’ll do that.

FK: Exactly. Whenever I get excited about something, I start immediately. Perfectionism is basically fear in disguise. I don’t really care about perfection at first. I’ll just ask ChatGPT how to solve things.

FK: Honestly? You just have to fall on your face again and again. Fail repeatedly. Get up again. Continue.

You just have to analyze what you’re doing and how you can improve it. Not everything has to be radically disruptive immediately. Sometimes it’s enough to question existing systems and optimize them differently.

Germany especially has this fear of failure. But life is too short to spend it doing things you don’t care about. I don’t want to wake up every morning working on topics I feel nothing for. That’s the real nightmare to me.

CHRISTINE WÜRFEL-STAUSS: It does not feel like a transition between two separate worlds to me. I would rather describe it as a continuous dialogue that unfolds differently depending on the context. Art and fashion essentially address very similar questions, even if they both operate under different circumstances. Both explore how people relate to the world they live in, how individuals express their place within our era and how creative design reacts to its time. What differs, however, are the conditions under which they operate – and with them the range of what they can do.

It must also function within everyday life and social contexts while remaining bound to economic factors. So they are not two separate worlds, but art is far less constrained than fashion.

CWS: For me, fashion is all of this at once. Fashion is foremost a form of personal expression, how to dress is a decision that is part of your own identity. It can align with your own values and references, it can also function as powerful tool to take on different roles. Ideally, it can give the wearer the feeling of facing the world in the best possible way within a given context. This is particularly interesting because fashion is one aspect of who you are that always remains visible to others in social spaces. 

Fashion is also significant as a source of inspiration, since during its creation a variety of design principles such as color, proportions, rhythm, and materiality are being applied. These are often elements that have their origins in artistic or architectural ways of thinking. When you recognize aspects of those visual structures in fashion, it often brings their origins back to mind. And also each day, everyone subconsciously makes so many decisions that have a creative component which mirror the sartorial trends around us. Observing the current developments in fashion from runway collections to the way individuals dress in certain contexts influences your own approach and the ability to interpret situations in a certain way through observing sartorial choices. 

And collectability – yes, but only in specific cases. It certainly applies to couture, which often can be considered a work of art. This is partly because it is unique and created only once, and partly because of the technical precision and the immense effort involved. Furthermore, it is rooted in clear conceptual thinking, which brings fashion and art very close together. Another aspect to think of in terms of collectability is your own personal wardrobe. It is one of the most precious collections of our memories. An archive of lived moments of our life that embodies time as almost no other personal collection does. Our clothes contributed to how we felt and how we were perceived by others in certain moments. They can be a diary of happy moments or special situations. I often still know exactly what I was wearing when something significant happened and I cherish those pieces.

CWS: Yes, sometimes I can not recall who was there or exactly where it was, but I still remember exactly what I was wearing. Preserving these garments is part of keeping these memories alive. These pieces are irreplaceable, not even by an identical item. They are a collection of personal treasures, invaluable, at least that is what I think. 

Something else that needs to be mentioned in the context of collectability are key pieces of vintage fashion that serve as a sentinel of the sartorial culture of their time. Collecting such pieces preserves the design languages and the cultural attitudes of specific eras. It tells of social ideals and also of technical possibilities. I cherish that because it is a cultural memory in the form of a garment. A beautiful example was the exhibition Gabrielle Chanel – Fashion Manifesto which was first shown at the Palais Galliera in Paris till 2021 and then traveled to Melbourne and London till recently. It traced, through garments such as swimwear and daywear, how shifts in silhouettes and material reflected a broader change in the perception of women and showed how fashion can articulate changing roles within a cultural context.

CWS: When it comes to couture, I think less about practicability than the incredible skill set and abundance of hours of elaborate work that went into the creation. I am always in awe at the highly specialized craftsmanship that is required and that only very few artisans still master today. The level of skill going into the creation of those collections is beyond impressive. I just recently came across a piece in The New Yorker about an atelier in Paris that creates just the featherwork for couture pieces. The techniques involved are so specific and complicated that they are the only atelier remaining that can process these feathers in these ways using techniques refined over decades. When hundreds of hours of work go into the smallest piece of embroidery, it is simply magnificent. But couture collections and their presentations are usually very special cultural moments for several reasons. A few weeks back, I attended the first couture defile by Matthieu Blazy for Chanel at the Grand Palais, which I found absolutely spectacular. As soon as you arrived you walked into a world of its own, a surreal, pink fantasy forest. It resembled an immersive artwork in many ways. The entire Grand Palais was covered in a light pink, fluffy carpet: a very delicate, powdery pink. Even the seating was all covered in it. And then there were giant mushrooms, up to five meters high. Added to that were weeping willows hanging down, all in orange, pink, and yellow. It was massive, and on top of that, there was birdsong; it was breathtaking to me. An immersive, ephemeral world that was intriguingly beautiful. Just the week before, I had been in Milan at the Fondazione Prada and had seen Carsten Höller’s permanent installation there – an entire room where giant fly agarics hung upside down from the ceiling and rotated. The show in Paris came very close to this work. You experienced a real shift in perception because suddenly everything which usually is of a small size appeared giant; you walk through it and wondered if Alice in Wonderland had felt that way. I had the sensation of suddenly being inside a form of ‘Gesamtkunstwerk’. When the show began and the collection was presented within this setting while the audience sat right in the middle of it, each guest became part of the whole. For me, the presentation with all its different components clearly belonged in the realm of art.

CWS: For me, fashion approaches art when it moves beyond pure utility and is shaped by a clearly articulated design concept. When fashion is limited to covering or protecting the body, it fulfills its central purpose, but it operates in a different category. Art begins where it becomes apparent that every design decision, such as color, cut, and material, is part of a larger conceptual structure. So what matters to me in this context is not only the complexity of a creation or the craftsmanship that went into it, but whether a collection or a certain garment is based on a meaningful idea that extends beyond the pieces themselves.

This can even be seen, for example, in pre-modern painting:  clothing functioned as a system of signification. One could often situate the depicted figures within their social and cultural context just through the reading of their attire. Clothing conveyed social position, moral values, and affiliation. This way of reading clothing is still present today, though less clearly defined than in earlier periods.

This distinction between making and an idea that extends beyond the object can be seen in the work of several designers. Some of those whose work I have closely followed or retrospectively studied include Azzedine Alaïa who was a pioneer in approaching clothing as a sculptural practice, shaping and molding fabric in direct relation to the female body and constructing garments with a level of precision that recalled sculptural practices.

Matthieu Blazy also belongs in this context. A significant part of his work is the way his collections and their presentation through shows and campaigns form a narrative. His garments especially now for Chanel are not shown on their own, but as part of a larger spatial and perceptual setting which shapes how they are perceived. 

Albert Kriemler of Akris takes specific artistic position as a starting point for most of his collections. Rather than just referencing art, he translates distinct visual languages into garments allowing them to exist in new contexts, where they become visible in entirely new contexts beyond the museum context.

CWS: It was a completely organic development. I grew up near Kassel, where the Documenta takes place every five years. At Documenta, I saw an expansive art installation for the very first time in my life, which was such a formative experience for me that it became the starting point for everything that followed. The work was by Rebecca Horn and was installed in an actual school building that had been closed for the summer holidays. Extending across an entire classroom, historical school desks were mounted upside down to the ceiling. From each desk, thick metal wires ran downward, gathered into a bundle, and continued out through the window into the ground outside. Along these wires, liquid ink made its way downward. Even today, I would still find this work striking, but back then as a child, it was beyond anything I had ever encountered. It made me realize just how powerful art can be.

Much later, when it became possible to live with art, I began to experience what that means in everyday life: surrounding oneself with art shapes our thinking, how we relate to ourselves and others and it directs our attention.

Over time, this shifted to something less about my personal space, but about cultural responsibility, about how to contribute to the cultural systems that sustain diverse artistic practices and artistic freedom. Collecting to me today is much less about an individual work rather than about being supportive in various ways. To help that independent artistic practices will remain a vital part of society.

CWS: Of course, I remember exactly. It was a work by the Italian artist Turi Simeti, who passed away recently. It is a completely white canvas with wooden ellipses mounted on the back of the canvas, creating slight elevations across the surface. When the work is displayed on the wall, light and shadow shift depending on the surrounding light conditions. Conceptually, the work is rooted in the Zero movement of the 1960s, which was concerned with its focus on reduction, light, space and perception. What drew me to it from the beginning was its calm presence, it radiated a kind of visual quiet. The work still hangs in my home today and it continues to respond to the light and atmosphere in changing ways. That still fascinates me. 

CWS: Fashion has been integral to my thinking from very early on. It fascinated me already as a child, and I enjoyed studying books we had at home about dress making across past centuries as well as international fashion magazines we had at home, I loved playing in my mother’s wardrobe and I would even make things myself. Clothing is part of everyday life and of course you learn quickly that it is an important part of how you feel. But later, I started to pay close attention to what makes certain garments so special as a piece of design – the materials, the levels of craftsmanship, the underlying ideas, whether in terms of design or heritage. This was a different way of looking at it, what it conveys. This awareness only develops over time and is linked to the nature of clothing itself. You live with it, there is no immediate reason to search for deeper layers of meaning. But once you become aware of those some parallels to art can become apparent – in underlying conceptual thinking, precision, techniques, and in how all of these choices shape cultural reality.

With art, aspects as institutional context, art-historical classification, and market value among many others play an immediate role, while with fashion, especially as part of everyday life, there is no such threshold.  

CWS: A true artistic symbiosis with genuine added value exists when both sides can learn from one another and when the collaboration leads to something meaningful that neither could achieve on their own. So the question is what fashion can take from art and what in turn art can learn from fashion. Looking at fashion first, this becomes evident. In art history color, material, and proportions are never neutral, but deliberately used to express something. In historical portrait painting, as we discussed earlier, clothing was never accidental. It communicated character, social status, and much more. This helps fashion to understand how clothing can take on a specific meaning through certain design decisions as for example material and color. The same applies to motifs: in the 1930s, Elsa Schiaparelli created several pieces with Salvador Dalí, including the famous Lobster Dress. In this couture creation, a surrealist symbol, the lobster, was used as an embellishment. This challenged and subverted established codes of femininity and contemporary ideas of evening wear at the time. And vice versa: what is it that art learns from fashion? In particular the engagement with the human body. Everything fashion does, material, color, structure, is done with the awareness that the result must be wearable and usable in that sense. Fashion always exists within a social context and must function in everyday reality. And it is subject to an entirely different set of constraints than art since it requires continuous renewal. Works of art mostly endure only because of their intellectual or aesthetic significance across eras; fashion, by contrast, must constantly adapt: seasonally, socially, as well as to practical and economic conditions. From this permanent responsiveness of fashion, art could learn how visual languages can change and still retain their relevance.

CWS: I would say that the questions they ask one another are not symmetrical – and that is one of the reasons that makes the dialogue between art and fashion so intriguing . Art might ask fashion how it is still possible today to consistently realize aesthetic concepts without being absorbed by economic constraints. And how one can remain committed to a set of design principles while operating within market logic and being exposed to the demand of constant renewal. What does it mean, from the designer’s perspective, to see one’s work worn and interpreted by others. The wearer may adopt the intended visual language, but not necessarily the values or positions associated with it. 

Conversely, what could fashion ask? Could some forms of art still retreat into mainly aesthetic concepts, allowing its positions to unfold through form, material, and perceptions rather than stating them directly – or do the conditions of the present, shaped by global challenges, require a more direct articulation of where it stands? And, more fundamentally, can a practice that resists such declaration still sustain its relevance today?

CWS: It would definitely be Rebecca Horn. She unfortunately passed away two years ago, but will remain one of the most significant artists of our time. She became known primarily for her performative works as well as her expansive installations and kinetic sculptures. Her work often engages with physicality, perception, power, and structures. In a conversation with her, one of the topics I would love to touch on would be her work series called Body Extensions. In these works, she artificially extended parts of the body, arms, legs, even the hands, by attaching feathers, rods, or elongated elements to the fingertips. Through this, she explored the boundaries of the body, intensifying perception and sensitivity; she described this herself as an attempt to make the boundaries of the body more tangible. Today, forms of body modification -artificial nails and other aesthetic interventions – are omnipresent. When Rebecca Horn began working on her series in the 1970s, none of this existed in this form. How would she relate to this phenomenon today? Are there continuities or clear shifts?

She also worked in a distinctly political way and engaged deeply with environmental questions. I would ask her how she assesses the current political and ecological moment, and how she would position herself in relation to that through her work today.

CWS: Likewise! Thank you for your exciting questions!