The fashion industry is in a state of metamorphosis, and what thrills me about this change is that it relates directly to biophilic design. Biophilic design is mainly about two things: aesthetics and nature. In the realm of home and workplace design, the term “aesthetic” encompasses not just what’s pleasing to the eye but also what’s pleasing the senses in general—how a space feels. “Nature” in biophilic design means both real nature and representations of nature. When it comes to biophilic fashion, these concepts are still our guiding light, making real change in our wardrobes feel not just possible but also pleasurable.
Culture and surroundings feed right into fashion, and as awareness of our ecological footprint increases, biophilic fashion offers a stunning alternative. “Biophilic fashion” is an idea that blends biophilia—our innate love of nature—with the world of clothes we wear. It pushes us to think differently about the materials we use. Soft organic cotton, ethically sourced wool, and plant-based dyes infuse biophilic clothing with stories right next to the ones told by our eco-unfriendly garments.
The first designer I encountered who worked solely with natural fibers and plant-based dyes was at a small coastal fashion exhibit. I don’t know exactly what I would call the work, but it was on the clothes, as well as the materials, that the essence of nature was captured. The wool was like wearing a cloud, and the deep, earthy greens and soft curve of the browns and muted blues were straight from the landscapes that inspired the collection. Locally foraged plants had made up the palette and it felt very much alive. I couldn’t get over how the colors had direct correlations to the landscapes (and seascapes) of the places and plants from which they had been drawn.
Biophilic fashion seeks to use materials that are both sustainable and natural, and thus might be considered lovely. And we can look to the materials we use in biophilic fashion as an embodiment of this principle. Instead of going with what the fast fashion industry provides— synthetic fabrics produced under environmentally harmful conditions— we could opt for materials that are just as nice against the skin and orders of magnitude better for the planet. Consider organic cotton and linen: when I wear a linen shirt in summer, I’m always struck by its breathability, which keeps me cool in a way that synthetic shirts never can.
Another material gaining traction in biophilic fashion is hemp, and for excellent reasons. It is among the most sustainable fibers available, needing far less water to grow and no pesticides. Not many people realize this, but hemp clothing is really durable. If you wear it, you might even say it has a character that clothing made from petroleum and cotton lacks. My hemp jacket that I’ve worn has taken on more and more trustworthy vibes over the years. It has really gotten stronger in its softening, I might say, and it has an utterly beautiful appearance that virtually guarantees it won’t look outdated anytime soon.
The invitation to think about cloth’s association with the biophilia hypothesis extends to fashion as well. Just as natural textures—like wood, stone, and woven fibers—can calm us in interior design, the textures of our clothes can do the same. Clothes can mimic the rough weave of a hand-spun wool sweater or the flowing lines of a silk scarf that feels like water slipping through your fingers. There’s something incredibly grounding about these would-be second skins or. If not a second skin, there’s something a bit avant-garde about mimicking nature’s textile textures in apparel. Indeed, the very act of wearing nature-inspired designs seems to beckon a tactile, intimate engagement with the materials of life.
Patterns abound in the natural world, with beautiful, organic designs being as close as the nearest leaf. Even in a fractal world (or perhaps especially in a fractal world), desert tops are not just flat but are demarcated by depressions that create shadows. Side view, front view, and top view: All of these perspectives appreciate not just the smooth upper surface but also the bumps, dips, and depressions that give desert tops their form. And what about color? The deserted top door is essentially invisible. But everything from a rooftop’s lip to a rooftop’s peak is essentially the same element abstracted in different colors—beige, tan, ochre, gold, and shades thereof.
Biophilic fashion indeed encompasses materials and forms. But more broadly, it signifies a thoughtful and intentional intimacy with the versatile medium of clothing. It also represents a slower, nature-based alternative to the breathless biopolitical treadmill of fast fashion—wherein garments are senselessly produced and consumed, and then discarded—all in the service of “create, perform, discard” capitalism. Knitted garments don’t just emerge miraculously. Pigments used to dye fabrics don’t just appear. Craft, care, and, yes, more often than not, art are involved at every step.
Wearing thoughtfully made garments brings me joy, especially when they come from natural materials. I possess a handwoven scarf made by a local artisan. Every time I don it, I feel a connection to the larger world—both to the individual who crafted it and to the sheep and dye plants that made its existence possible. I am reminded that fashion can be a celebration of the natural world. It can, with thought and care, also be a reflection of respect for the environment.
Sustainability and consumer awareness in the biophilic fashion sector are intimately connected. “Biophilic fashion” is derived from “biophilia,” which means “love of life.” Biophilic fashion has the potential to become a perfect vehicle for both sustainability and conscious consumerism because it is profoundly connected to these two concepts. The philosophy of biophilic fashion holds that love of life extends well beyond just human life and that our connection to the Earth and all its inhabitants is a primal and necessary one. It promotes a life-giving and nourishing aesthetic that calls on materials and processes to minimize harm and even restore the fashion system to a more “natural” state, which makes biophilic fashion profoundly connected not only to sustainability but also to conscious consumerism.
For me, the way biophilia influences fashion leads to an even more mindful consumption experience. Instead of filling our wardrobes with underperforming pieces that only last a season, this sensibility invites us to make a kind of thoughtful, almost reverent, shopping choice that (let’s be real) is not always easy to do but is definitely sustainable: to invest in well-made, hard-working garments that have a better-than-good chance of lasting well beyond the next few months.
A jacket crafted from recycled wool is one of the clearest embodiments of this principle in my wardrobe. The wool came from cast-off garments that were sorted by color and then re-spun into new fabric without the need for additional dye. Incredibly warm, durable, and quite handsome, my jacket carries with it something of the story of circular fashion—where materials are reused and repurposed instead of being thrown away. This kind of thoughtful approach to fashion is at the heart of biophilic design: creating a loop of use and renewal, rather like the cycles we see in nature.
A great deal of the most groundbreaking work in biophilic fashion occurs at the technological and sustainable intersection. For example, I’ve been following the development of organic materials like algae and mycelium into fiber and fabric. These materials are not only compostable but can also be cultivated with minimal environmental impact. Imagining clothes made from such pure, earth-friendly stuff is not hard. Still, I wonder whether the fibers and fabrics will actually look and feel like the clothing we know. The future’s potential for truly sustainable biophilic fashion is doubtless thrilling.
However, biophilic fashion is not only about new technological advancements; it is also about going back to the traditional practices that have stood the test of time. An example of this would be “slow fashion,” which is a perfect instance of biophilic design not only because it is deeply satisfying and compassionate to own handmade and “heirloom” clothes, but also because its principles encourage a reduction in the frequency of our purchases. Conservation of time and skill in biophilic practices, like “slow fashion,” does require an investment of sorts…
A textile workshop I visited recently exemplifies everything good about the fashion industry that, one might say, is too often overshadowed by the bad. The artisans there were using ancient techniques to create beautiful cloth from locally grown organic cotton. The process was slow, but not on occasion, and it was clear that the artisans and the environment they work in have a deep mutual respect. The cotton was grown pesticide-free and the dyes were made from plants and minerals collected from the nearby area. The end result of this kind of biophilic fashion was cloth that felt beautiful to the touch and carried with it the story of the land.
Biophilic fashion promotes the concept of buying less, but buying better. And when I say it resonates with me, it really hits that deep, familiar chord. I have traversed the path from impulsive buying to mindfulness in this domain. Period. (And no, the path has not been that straight!) In fact, I’m not sure I could even tell you what was on that journey’s soundtrack. So when I think about my wardrobe now, I often consider its composition in both present and future terms—meaning what I have now and what I hope to fold into its context over time.
The biophilic fashion movement aims to alter our perception of clothing from that of a disposable item to something imbued with inherent value. Biophilic principles prompt us to consider our garments as an expression of the natural world—something that should be treasured, maintained, and allowed to peacefully and safely complete its life cycle.
I often think back to a time when I was traveling in Japan and visited a small village celebrated for its indigo dyeing tradition. The artisans there used natural indigo plants to create some of the most vibrant blues I’ve ever seen. What struck me most about their work—it left me practically speechless—was the sustainability of their entire process. They grew the plants right there, locally; the dye vats were generational, passed down from mother to child; and the waste from their dyeing process fertilized the next crop of indigo. It was a closed-loop system, a cycle embracing the way fashion is created.
The future of fashion is in consumers’ hands. When we spend our money on an outfit fashioned from organic materials or on a brand that puts sustainability first, we are voting for the kinds of garment-making and business practices that will not destroy either us or our planet. Biophilic fashion requires us to question the very nature of the industry and the movement it makes. It asks us to consider who is making our clothes, to what end, and at what cost to human life and the life of this planet.
For the past few years, my attention has been caught by the emergence of sustainable, slow fashion, and I am pleased to see more and more designers and brands adopting its principles. Among my favorite designers are those who work with artisan communities and use natural, renewable resources. Wearing a piece that has been hand-dyed using ancient methods or made from cellulose fibers painstakingly sourced to limit their environmental impact brings me great joy. These garments are small reminders that fashion can be both an expression of creativity and a commitment to sustainability.
However, accepting biophilic fashion does not mean we have to change everything about how we dress. It can just mean starting to make some small and thoughtful decisions, like choosing natural over synthetic fibers, that reduce the impact of our wardrobes on the things we are trying to conserve. The idea is to move toward a model of caring for our clothes that is analogous to how we might care for our bodies: with intention.
I find it incredibly gratifying to see biophilic fashion embracing transparency. Many sustainable fashion brands are putting themselves out there, being open about their production processes, from the sourcing of raw materials to the treatment of their workers. And this remarkable level of transparency really needs to be highlighted because it’s something so many of us crave in an industry that’s typically opaque. And biophilic is a brand that completely delivers on this front. From the very first moment I came into contact with the brand (and that was when I first laid eyes on the top), I felt a visceral sense of trust.
Looking ahead, I think that biophilic fashion will keep on increasing in popularity. The reason for my optimism is the general increase in public awareness—quite recently, in fact—of the profound environmental impact the fashion industry has. More and more people are realizing that for the industry to push forward into a truly sustainable future, both designers and consumers have to be part of the change. And the good news is, we appear to be in a moment where those involved with the fashion world aren’t shying away from using the term “sustainable.”
Biophilic fashion represents the conjunction of nature, sustainability, and individual expression. It embraces the idea of a wardrobe reflecting not merely a set of aesthetics or adherence to trends but something uniquely personal that speaks to an individual’s particular relationship with the natural world. In this way, biophilic fashion could be said to allow for deeper contemplation of the textures, colors, and materials with which a person chooses to surround themselves. For me, the clothes I choose communicate to the world my desired sense of self and how I wish to feel.
What I cherish most about biophilic fashion is its invitation to decelerate and be more deliberate with my sartorial selections. In a society that incessantly urges us to amass ever more, don the newest trends, and keep pace with fast fashion, biophilic fashion asks us to yield and think about the impact of our clothing. And what, really, is the impact of our clothing when we seek to dress in a manner that doesn’t oppress either the Earth or its inhabitants?
Since my youth, I have been irresistibly attracted to the ladder of clothes that ascend to the timelessness of nature without losing sincerity or elegance. My wardrobe is a collage of earth tones, soft neutrals, and the kind of green (deep and saturated) that you’d see if you were to walk through a rain-drenched forest—gorgeously still and gleaming with the sunlight filtering through the canopy above. And every time I wear a new item that’s been carefully added to my collection—like a recently acquired, deep olive-green jacket—I find myself lifted to a mental space somewhere between the path of my nature-drenched memories and the rooted enigma of our built environment.
Biophilic fashion is more than just colors and materials; it’s also about the associations we have with our wardrobes and how we choose to maintain them. I’m increasingly aware that, in biophilic fashion, materials are not just chosen for aesthetics but also for their intrinsic durational qualities—qualities I now embrace more fully on account of the strongly negative environmental impact of something like fast fashion. And that’s not to mention the woefully insufficient pay and poor working conditions of those who labor in fashion’s many mines and factories. So, the wool pullover I have isn’t just a “look.” It’s a long-lasting piece that with only creative care (“making visible what is usually concealed”) can see me right through until the end of my life.
An additional facet of biophilic fashion that I find particularly thrilling is the emergence of upcycling and the repurposing of materials. I’ve encountered designers who take the fabrics and old garments of yesterday and transmute them into something altogether new. This not only minimizes waste but also endows each piece with a kind of creativity and individuality. I recently bought a bag made from recycled sailcloth. It is waterproof, incredibly durable, and carries with it the story of its past life in the open sea. Every moment I engross myself in thought, carrying that bag reminds me of the importance of rethinking the use of our materials and how fashion can be a harbinger living up to its promises necessary to meet the challenges of climate change.
The notion of dressing according to the seasons forms an integral part of biophilic fashion. Just as our natural surroundings transform from one season to the next, so, too, can our wardrobes. In the balmy months of late spring and summer, I drift toward easy, lightweight classics like linen and cotton. These breathe with such effortless alacrity that they might as well be standing far from the hearth in a summer’s evening. Conversely, I tend to favor wool, flannel, and other “heavy” lyrical riffs of the “tunable” circuit in the flamework labyrinth when I am wrapped up for fall and winter. Indeed, this cyclical, almost rhythmic, nature of dressing feels right for both mind and body and even serves as an implicit reminder that today’s venture into a warm, cozy outfit should be more about conversing with the natural Biomes we inhabit than any shorthand signifier for mere aesthetics.
Biophilic fashion offers individuals a more intimate connection with the environment through the materials and processes of making clothing. For me, the allure of biophilic fashion lies in the act of bringing design and nature closer together—a union that too frequently exists in parallel.
This summer, I began experimenting with natural dyes, made from plants, flowers, and even the scraps of food I normally throw out. The sounds of summer won’t soon escape my memory. My hands, wet and slippery with avocado innards, watched the kitchen counter transform into a lab not unlike the one my high school chemistry teacher used to fashion in the summer. Turmeric, my summer staple, offered good company.
My exploration of biophilic fashion has led me to a heightened interest in capsule wardrobes. These curated collections of versatile, high-quality pieces are the antithesis of our fast fashion culture, which encourages a carelessly abundant dress space. Capsule wardrobes push biophilic design principles to the forefront by demanding even more of a thoughtful and intentional approach than our erstwhile dress spaces. When I thought more deeply about this, I realized that my own wardrobe had become a type of capsule: a pared-down, personal, and intentional space that I navigate with much more ease and calm than I did when my wardrobe was larger and filled with more regrettable purchases.
Biophilic fashion isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being on a path toward progress. It’s not about living in a completely sustainable wardrobe—you can still have your favorite not-so-sustainable pieces, and nobody’s asking you to give them up. Instead, it’s about choices. What small, conscious choices can you make that align with not just living a sustainable life but also a harmonious one? Sustainable does not equal sensual or sexual, which for some is a quality that makes fashion feel good. Can sustainable fashion also be biophilic fashion? Can the materials we wear be a pathway toward progress? These are some questions that biophilic fashion might answer.
There is also the encouragement of an almost meditative mindfulness that biophilic fashion can foster in us, particularly in the frequently neglected context of dressing. Biophilic fashion makes one more conscious of what one is wearing, with an appreciation of the artistry and labor embodied in every garment and of the natural materials—each with an interesting story, a special texture, a fit, and a comfort—that one has chosen to drape over one’s body. When one thinks in such terms, the act of dressing becomes a source of happiness in a way that is sometimes unexpectedly profound, as in the case of donning a modestly stunning wool sweater on an early fall day.
Looking ahead, I think biophilic fashion will keep encouraging individuals to reconsider their ties to garments. It presents another opportunity—much like the one we’ve seized with sustainable fashion—to create a more environmentally sound, considered, and indeed personal mode of dress that champions not just the look of nature but also the many forms of life that might inspire fashionistas. Biophilic design in what we wear could help us too, in a manner reminiscent of childhood, re-see the world around us and in turn re-love it.
To me, biophilic fashion transcends being a mere trend; it embodies a way of life. It brings delight to the unassuming routine of choosing one’s attire, rendering that act a well-earned moment of indulgence. One’s clothing, it seems, can convey a palpable appreciation for the natural world and the foregoing of an aesthetic that—while appealing—relies on the degradation of that world.
