Do you want to sell quality? Feature fabrics and weavers in your communications, just as in the old days (if you can afford to).

When we think of fashion in the second half of the 20th century, we are invariably struck by an atmosphere evoked as much by the identity of the fabrics as by the lines and volumes: smooth or ‘dishevelled’ surfaces such as the mohair of the 1970s, soft or stiffer textures inspired by haute couture, and, of course, printed patterns: nothing characterises these periods quite like prints. Right up until the 1990s, a particular fabric was the key element of a collection (think, for example, of Galtrucco’s tubular acetate for Armani, which defined a decade). The choice of one fabric over another represented an aesthetic manifesto or, as we say now – unfortunately, sometimes to define nothing at all – a ‘statement’.

Today, however, it is fragmentation that dominates fashion, in both forms and materials. Let us therefore forget the visual clarity of the 1960s, the ‘democratic’ prevalence of synthetic fabrics, affordable to all budgets, the optical and psychedelic prints, through which every designer nonetheless had their own recognisable style, to the extent of defining a genre – as with Emilio Pucci, for example – and also the velvets, smooth or ribbed, and the Paisley patterns of the 1970s, the postmodernist micro-geometrics and the lamé of the 1980s, and finally the first technical fabrics derived from activewear, that is, sports-meets-urban styles.

These, and many other images, tell the story of eras that can be identified through the clothing worn, whilst for far too long now we have been immersed in limited, short-lived micro-trends which, by distancing themselves from one another, never become a defining feature of the contemporary era. Fabric manufacturers are well aware of this fragmentation – and to some extent suffer from it – to the extent that, at the presentation of new collections to clients or at trade fairs, it is evident that technical resources and in-house know-how are often not sufficiently utilised, in an attempt to satisfy a clientele that is as vast as it is indecisive. Meanwhile, designers who need to differentiate themselves as much as possible paradoxically find their inspiration primarily in the weaving mills’ corporate archives – a valuable technical heritage that it is a shame to reduce to yet another reinterpretation, to minimal variations in the mix of fibres dictated more by economic considerations than by the fabric’s performance, and to the endless colour variations trivialised by AI, starting from an original that is unattainable in terms of colour combinations.

And yet, from a technical point of view, the conditions for inventing a material that embodies a vision are all there – far more so than when Cristóbal Balenciaga decided to treat himself to a fabric all of his own, gazar – and not merely in the context of recycling and sustainability, which should be preconditions for production rather than merely visual cues. Craft techniques reproduced or supported by industrial processes; colourings that can only be stabilised with the aid of technology (I reluctantly had to forego the extreme craftsmanship of a historic silk from Maison Bucol, dyed and aged underground in a tuber plantation, which inevitably ran); Looms that allow digital printing on both sides of the fabric simultaneously, eliminating the unsightly white reverse side and making it possible to create combinations without worrying about minimum production runs. In general, while experimentation and innovation are present, they remain sporadic; they represent a micro-theme – once again fragmentary – on the fringes of collections that are heavily narrative, conceptual or dense with references, quotations and superstructures (accessories, finishes), in which the textile material is lost from view and becomes a blank canvas to be covered.

 Every now and then there is a flash in the pan (the ‘return’ of denim, velvet…), of fleeting commercial longevity and little visual impact amidst the jumble of the heterogeneous. Perhaps it is a sign of the times; we are faced with literally hundreds of styles and, as designers, millions of sources of inspiration: distilling these into a cohesive whole by taking a decisive direction, starting with the choice of materials, is a task that requires courage (a drop in sales is always lurking for a thousand other reasons), but the alternative is not total creative freedom so much as confusion.

Whilst, up until the 1990s, advertising campaigns by fashion houses and designers often featured the names of the collection’s partner textile manufacturers at the bottom of the page, and legendary designers such as Ossie Clark linked their identity to the prints created by his wife, Celia Birtwell, without losing an ounce of their creative relevance, we could now give space to the technical skill and all too often unrecognised creativity of those who first bring the fabric to life. 

Italian manufacturers and producers are a strategic asset to the fashion industry that we are not making full use of – beyond the salvific archives – with the risk that we may soon come to regret the loss of expertise and quality that have vanished amid standardisation and the pursuit of an illusory commercial competitiveness.