“At The Rind
“

There’s a line in Langston Hughes’ Tired that lingers — the ache of repetition, of watching the world return to what it swore it had shed. At the Rind was born from that weariness, and from the strange grace of peeling back what’s been performed until only what’s real remains. Each gown bears the name of a man once loved or loathed — men who made us see ourselves differently, who left their mark whether they meant to or not.

Visually, the collection draws from the language of the 1950s and ’60s — a time lacquered in elegance, bound by control. Its silhouettes speak in tension: the refinement of restraint, the beauty of defiance. Shown in black and white, the gowns recall an era of absolutes — good or bad, wife or nothing at all.

The nine new gowns are apparitions — women remembered, women reimagined. They move like ghosts through time, lingering between memory and renewal, haunting the present with reminders of what was lost and what refuses to disappear.