On a small plot of land in the Visayas region of the Philippines, the farmer Totong Edgar is cultivating abacá. This tall, pointy-leaf plant, which takes two years to grow, is transformed during harvest into a hemp-like fibre that resembles Rapunzel’s blonde locks. Later, it will be hand-woven by local artisans into basket bags for London-based brand Uri. Uri is owned by Edgar’s cousin, the Filipino-Dutch designer Charly Jacobs.
Jacobs is part of a grassroots movement that sees luxury brands shun convoluted supply chains in favour of their own farm-to-fashion ecosystem. Indian label Oshadi — founded in 2015 by Nishanth Chopra and creatively helmed by Irish designer Richard Malone — grows, weaves, cuts and crafts all its womenswear within its own fences in Erode, in India’s south, and British designer Patrick Grant is currently growing hemp for his utilitarian brand Community Clothing.
Meanwhile, sheep farming might just be the next big trend in fashion. Italian label Zegna owns 10,000 Australian ewes that graze freely on 6,300-acres — their fuzzy, merino wool fleeces are turned into its sumptuous sweaters, which sell for upwards of £600; Gabriela Hearst and Joshua Millard both use the shepherding knowhow and rolling pastures of their family farms in Uruguay and Dorset, UK, respectively; and Alexander Stutterheim, of the eponymous raincoat brand, bought a flock on a Swedish island to create his knit label John Sterner. “It’s an honest way of manufacturing,” says Stutterheim. “I set up a farm myself to understand it all.”
Textile and garment production is usually complex, sometimes murky and can involve multiple factories across different geographical locations. Wool, for example, needs to be sheared, cleaned, carded (combed), spun, woven and dyed before it can be knit into a sweater; a single cardigan can rack up plenty of air miles before it gets to a brand’s warehouse, ready to be sold. For Jacobs, having a family farm means “you minimise waste and maximise the quality of fibres produced.”
Eco credentials are increasingly marketable; Chopra thinks fashion-run farms reduce greenwashing. “We don’t have to rely on [external] certifications, which often are documents that don’t reflect the actual work done on the ground,” he says, referring to specifications such as organic cotton. Traceability helps reduce carbon footprint.
“Before [you] start building something on the other side of the world, can [you] build it somewhere nearby?” asks Stutterheim. “Most of the time the answer is yes.” Millard certainly did; he introduced a specific Teesewater breed to his family’s flock for its snugglier fleece. The meat is sold for food, while the shearlings and leathers are used for oversized outerwear, and the spun wools are turned into cloth for made-to-order tailoring. Once the main source of trade in medieval England, shearlings today are worth so little that farmers often burn them.
Such infrastructure is costly to implement, especially for nascent brands. Millard, Chopra and Jacobs each invested heavily into their own supply chains. They hope it will eventually pay off: in 2019, when Chopra established his farm, his cotton was 50 per cent more expensive than regular cloth. It’s now only 30 per cent more. His operating costs have also reduced by 30 per cent as the farm reaches its full yield. Jacobs says, in the long-run, it’s cheaper to grow her own crop rather than pay suppliers.
The farm is already affecting how Jacobs approaches design, which has shifted from abstract creativity to a deeper understanding of the process and long-term strategy. Her cousin Edgar has started to grow pandan, rattan and bamboo for Jacobs to use in future collections — the latter two take around seven years to mature before harvest. “I made a vow that I will only design [pieces] around fibres that can be grown sustainably, and no further than 10km from our makers,” she says.
Farming also affords brands greater control over supply chains. Stutterheim says he has learnt to have “fewer intermediaries”. His endeavour will prove beneficial as the industry staggers towards transparency. “Even the most certified [fabric] suppliers tend to be guarded when it comes to the location of makers . . . these middlemen make their living by keeping them hidden from competitors,” says Jacobs. “But there isn’t one person in my whole supply chain I don’t know the name of.”
This stability has been beneficial during the pandemic, which saw factories shutter and global supply chains implode. “The farm has been an incredible support to our business,” says Chopra, who grows all Oshadi’s cotton and natural dyes on-site. Early in the pandemic, cotton was “in very limited supply. But we had a good stock of fibre from the farm so we could continue making [clothes].”
In fact, Oshadi grew. The farm expanded from 50 acres to 100, and it now employs 50 farmers and 70 artisans, up from 40. Many of them are multigenerational family members, and Oshadi is committed to paying fair, living wages. Uri’s Jacobs is similarly determined to help matters: “A lot of Filipino women choose to work abroad to find enough money to raise their children [by sending cash home]. It’s a pattern I want to break . . . by elevating the profile of marginalised makers,” she says.
Whether environmental or social, responsibility is at the heart of such agendas: Chopra describes farming as a “humbling” experience. “To see so many small organisms and processes play such a vital role in turn teaches the way of treating each and every person with equal importance,” he says.
Stutterheim agrees: he likes to “cuddle” his sheep and says he even likes their smell. “Sheep are highly sensitive and self protective, yet also strong and social . . . I learn a lot from them,” he says. “It’s a holistic approach. When you manage your own resources, you learn to respect them more.”
Source: Economy - ft.com
