How factories, scrap markets, hardware shops, and not fabric stores inspired Rimzim Dadu

It was a usual muggy Mumbai evening when I gingerly made my way to the show area to prepare for my first-ever runway presentation at the Lakmé Fashion Week in 2007. I vividly remember each moment, I remember my heart beating a mile a minute when the first model walked onto the ramp.

It’s been 15 years since that moment, but when I presented my retrospective collection at the Kiran Nadar Museum of Arts (KNMA) to celebrate the milestone on this year in August, the familiar butterflies were back in my stomach.

The excitement of presenting your work to the world, throwing it open for critique, and the joy that comes with innovation and experimentation are the things that have kept me going for the last decade and half.

And as I sit down to write this article, I look back at my work with a sense of gratitude, albeit along with a critical lens.

Over this time, my muse—the material—has been my constant companion. In the first few years, I had a rebel streak, I refused to follow the norm, and the years have solidified this nonconformist attitude in me and in the brand. My team was small when I started out, but each one of us knew that doing the “usual” was not for us. Doing what sells easily could have arguably been the easiest route to success, but I was ready for the long haul. We believed in the ideas we had and knew our time would come.

And it did!

Having said that, it was easier said than done. The pressures of following the market, the pressures of following trends, the pressures of doing what was selling were immense.

But what has kept me going is the golden advice that my father, who is also a designer and runs an export house, gave me before my first show. He said, “Be different, be unique, and always stand out in the crowd.”

That philosophy has remained with us ever since. He is the reason for my existence as a designer. It was his factory that my training started when I was four years old. I wasn’t interested in your usual toys. I loved watching the tailors and embroiders do their magic, I would ask them a thousand questions about stitching, materials, and designs.  

My fascination with materials started then, and my horizons grew when I started travelling the world with my father for his shows and to cities around India for sourcing.

Many people have asked me about my process and why I even bother about surface texturing when so much is readily available to work with. I answer the latter first—I find exploring new surfaces and the unexplored potential of a material refreshing. For example, I’ve discovered that steel can be malleable and delicate chiffon becomes structured—that was thrilling to say the least—or how about making silicone work on a custom-made loom because the elastic nature of this material usually hinders it from being used on a traditional loom as it contracts!

Both critics and audiences have liked how we experiment and always deliver. It brings me great joy when people say, “Oh, I had never seen something like this and I never knew that steel could be worn and still be so comfortable.” That makes all the hard work worth it.

Now, to the first question, successful textile experiments don’t happen in a vacuum—behind each triumph lie hundreds of experiments that don’t work. There is no limitation to when I look at a material and wonder if it could work as a surface. I don’t go to fabric stores for sourcing or inspiration. I go to unusual places like factories, scrap markets, and hardware shops. But not every experiment works. 

And that is the reason why I put up the wall of “failed experiments” in my retrospective exhibition at the KNMA. The idea was to let people see the rich repository of experiments that never made it to the world, but also to make them understand my belief in embracing successes and failures in equal measure.

We take a lot of time to experiment with a material to create a successful textile—sometimes it takes years before we find what we had been looking for. Once I approve a textile, the next process is studying the surface and its malleability, the ways it falls and takes shapes on a human form. We don’t make clothes just for the ramp, each of our pieces are wearable, technically perfect, and comfortable. 

Over the years, the acceptability of our work has increased. The audience has evolved, they want to own their personalities, they don’t like to follow the herd, and they take pride in wearing something that is a statement. And that is the reason why brides, grooms, and people in general are increasingly choosing to wear us on their special day.

Meanwhile, I have also strived, mostly subconsciously, to blur the lines between art and fashion. 

I advocate more collaboration between designers, museums, and other creative fields to realise the full potential of our rich history in textiles, art, and crafts. This belief first led me to create my interpretation of the jamdani with a silicone saree—which took two years to make—presented at the Devi Art Foundation in 2015. The next year, my take on the Patola and Ikat was part of an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. 

So, it was a natural to celebrate the 15th anniversary of my brand with a retrospective show and an exhibit at KNMA. It was very satisfying to see my work against the backdrop of works from some of the best artists from India. 

And this desire to blur the boundaries between design, art, and fashion has become an integral part of my shows. In 2016, I made work stations on the ramp and made my karigars take the centre-stage to mimic my studio. The next year, I collaborated with renowned architect Rajat Sodhi to design a show titled “the Maze”, which was an immersive presentation. Since then, I have collaborated with him on two more shows to create huge artworks that served as the backdrop for my clothes. I enjoy the creative process of collaborating with people from different fields immensely. 

Of course, to say this journey has been solitary would be absolutely incorrect. This journey wouldn’t happen without my team, the core group of karigars who have stayed with me since the time I began. I think they love experimentation more than I do and that is why they like to call my studio “the Lab”. I have profound gratitude for them. They are, so I am. I am eagerly looking forward to the next chapters in our journey as we explore more creative venues like home décor and lights. For now, it’s time to get back to the Lab.