Lifestyle
The reuse revolution: Your guide to upcycled and sustainable fashion brands
This story is part of Image’s November Lost & Found issue, exploring the many lives our clothes and objects have, the many stories that are still waiting to be unearthed.
When Swedish brand Hodakova won the LVMH prize this year, it felt extra significant. The finalists for the most sought-after prize in fashion — awarded annually — are meant to foreshadow the future of the industry, and not since Paris-based label Marine Serre won in 2017 has a brand centering reuse and upcycling taken the title. Shortly after the LVMH awards, lauded Japanese designer Junya Watanabe presented looks that repurposed techwear, tires and foam blocks in his Summer/Spring ’25 womenswear show at Paris Fashion Week. It all feels different this time, like we’re finally entering the upcycling era.
While the establishment is just starting to adapt, there’s a whole wave of young designers for whom this ethos has been baked into the business from the very beginning, rather than clumsily implemented later on due to (in many cases) increasing pressure for transparency and responsible production. The truth is, reuse has been the foundation for emerging designers for decades (see: cult ’90s and early-2000s New York labels like Susan Cianciolo and Imitation of Christ), offering a chance to participate in an otherwise exclusive industry. Last year a Vogue India article’s headline read, pointedly: “Owning a one-of-a-kind upcycled garment is the new wardrobe flex.” But maybe it’s always been?
Jester wears Compost vest and bottoms, Eytys shoes.
Sky wears Sami Miro dress, Hugo Kreit earrings, Blumarine shoes, VidaKush anklet, model’s own necklaces.
“It’s a fascinating challenge to see how designers incorporate their own codes into the technique of upcycling,” says Faith Robinson, head of content at Global Fashion Agenda, a Copenhagen-based nonprofit dedicated to creating a net-positive fashion industry through research publications, events and policy engagement. “When it comes to garment production, the storytelling side of upcycling is unmatched. Take the spoon dress from Hodakova. Where did those spoons come from? How were they collected? Why? Or Buzigahill, the Uganda-based upcycling label that makes amazing pieces but also tells the story of textile waste.”
When it comes to reuse, scaling up and sourcing are issues yet to be solved, but emerging designers are willing and excited to get creative to reimagine the current system — they just need more support. “We don’t see the process of our clothes being made, so a lot of people don’t realize that the design choices completely define the sustainability credentials of our clothes,” Robinson tells me.
Young retailers like APOC store, Japan’s Season, NYC’s Tangerine and L.A.’s Maimoun focus on independent and emerging designers, with a growing selection of exciting brands from around the world that prove the appeal and potential of upcycling and reuse. In New York, there are brands like Giovanna Flores, Everyone’s Mother, SC103, Collina Strada and La Réunion Studio. In Europe, there’s Conner Ives, Rave Review, Ponte, (Di)vision and Marine Serre. New Delhi has Rkive City and L.A. has Suay Shop, Bobby Cabbagestalk and Rio Sport. Rather than remaining segmented from fashion at large, relegated to novelty or niche, the following brands (and many more) show why upcycling and reuse can, and should, be the new normal.
April wears Sentimiento top, Object From Nothing bottoms, Tecovas boots, Maria Tash earrings, jewelry by Spinelli Kilcollin, Emma Walton, Other People’s Property.
Hodakova
2024 is the year of Hodakova. Motivated by sustainability, Ellen Hodakova Larsson, 32, grew up on a farm an hour outside of Stockholm, and credits her parents’ ingenuity and resourcefulness as a major inspiration for her designs. This is clear in her use of unconventional materials like spoons, rosette prize ribbons, belts and silver plates — everyday items that she recontextualizes to stunning effect in dresses, skirts, and tops. Here’s hoping that under Larsson’s eye, her converted-goods philosophy will take hold of the industry at large.
Ellen Poppy Hill
“I’m kind of a scavenger,” U.K.-based designer Ellen Poppy Hill says of her approach to secondhand fabric sourcing. “I never know what I like but I really know what I don’t like. My fingertips squeal when they don’t like the fabric. It’s a bit of a magpie process.” Hill grew up in Southeast London in an eclectic and playful household with a set designer mother and an actor father. Her first collection, “Constant State of Repair,” debuted this year and was born from her patternless, freehand design method. An Ellen Poppy Hill garment tells a story, like the long black dress covered in lifelike mice figures; the cap with sewing ephemera, buttons and toggles attached by pins; the upcycled dress that appears to be taped together at the seams; or the recycled wool blankets turned into bomber jackets with exaggerated zipper-shaped cutouts. Collections come from time, Hill tells me, to research, draw, think and read. “A lot of the time it’s about listening to the fabrics first,” she says. “I’m focused on finding fabrics that tell a story about why I’m attached to them, why they make me feel a certain way.”
Jester wears Sentimiento top, FreddieFrances bottoms, Rock Town Hollywood belt, Eytys shoes, Zucca bracelet.
Hood Baby
Hood Baby founder Anny Saray Martinez grew up at the swap meets of L.A. “My mom was a vendor at swap meets and I would go to work with her,” Martinez tells me. “When I got older I started to frequent the other fabric vendors and purchase their leftovers from them.” Motivated by sustainability, a love for ’90s and early-2000s fashion and Latina pop stars like Selena, it’s no surprise that Martinez has been embraced by prominent young pop stars like Tinashe and Tyla. Her body-conscious designs range from feminine upcycled miniskirts to sporty football jersey reworks. “I’ve loved fashion my whole life and have definitely done the homework,” says Martinez.
Sky wears Hood Baby top, Sami Miro bottoms, Ancuta Sarca shoes.
All-In
All-In is the life of the party. Founding duo Benjamin Barron and Bror August Vestbø initially bonded over their love of reuse, enamored with the idea that with the right technique, you could create something covetable from nothing. Since presenting their first collection in 2019, their fashion shows have become a must-see, where models like Colin Jones bring the downtown-meets-uptown attitude of the brand to life in redesigned dresses of denim and polka dot chiffon. Charli XCX and Rihanna are also All-In girls.
Nicklas Skovgaard
Copenhagen’s Nicklas Skovgaard found his way to fashion design through weaving. He taught himself on a small loom, creating intricate swatches of fabric, before expanding into ready-to-wear and formally launching his brand in 2020. Often credited as sparking an ’80s revival in fashion, his voluminous, one-of-a-kind party dresses come to life through a combination of contrasting thrifted fabrics like denim, taffeta, chiffon, leather and lace. Sequins and florals also feature heavily. The potential of upcycling absolutely shines with Skovgaard’s tough yet elegant touch.
Jester wears Hood Baby top, Object From Nothing bottoms, Vaquera hat, Kiko Kostadinov shoes, Zucca bracelet.
April wears Sentimiento dress, Givenchy shoes, Maria Tash earrings, jewelry by Spinelli Kilcollin, Emma Walton, Other People’s Property.
Object From Nothing
Partners and founders of Object From Nothing, Meridith Shook and Jacob Schlater met at the University of Cincinnati while studying architectural engineering and product design, respectively. OFN came to life after their move to a studio space in L.A. last year.
“The No. 1 driver for us is dispelling the myth that reuse is just DIY or lower quality than ‘new’ fashion,” says Schlater from his studio. “When fashion content is shared on Instagram, there’s very little focus on the quality, construction and longevity of pieces. Instead, the focus is on the value of the image that you can get with a piece. It doesn’t matter how the garment actually feels to wear, it matters how it looks like it feels to wear.” Adding value to forgotten materials and reimagining them into exceptional everyday pieces, Shook and Schlater embrace extreme resourcefulness, incorporating everything from metal washers they find on the street to deer antler buttons sourced by Schlater’s mom at a garage sale in his hometown of Hillsborough, Ohio. Inspired by designers like John Alexander Skelton and Paul Harnden, OFN treats even the most unassuming blue striped button-up — made from an upcycled vintage cot cover, no less — with the utmost consideration, transformed by their hands into a wearable artifact.
Compost
Tomo Givhan started exploring fashion design in 2021 after a formative trip to Japan, where he discovered traditional Japanese hand-stitching methods like boro and sashiko. Inspired by Japanese brand Kapital as well as antiques and indigo dyeing and distressing techniques, he set out to put his own spin on these traditional methods, resulting in soulful and layered patchwork creations made from carefully sourced vintage materials. “It’s kind of like painting for me,” Givhan says. “I’ve always gravitated toward vintage. I think the quality is better, the silhouettes are timeless and it’s accessible. There’s so much waste [in fashion] and I don’t want to be a part of that.” Based in L.A., Givhan plans to continue to grow the brand as organically as possible, recontextualizing the history of old garments and funneling them through the Compost lens.
Sky wears Nicklas Skovgaard dress, Hugo Kreit earrings, Margiela Tabi shoes.
Buzigahill
In 2018, designer Bobby Kolade, armed with a masters in fashion design from the Academy of Arts Berlin Weissensee and experience at both Margiela and Balenciaga, returned to his native Uganda with the goal to invest in the local fashion economy. After some trial and error, Kolade began sourcing and redesigning clothing from the secondhand market in Uganda, a system that is sustained (and burdened) by excess clothing outsourced from the Global North. Handwoven baskets are adorned with fringe made from strips cut from multicolor T-shirts, and patchwork hoodies feature the brand’s signature triangle motif. “We’re sending the clothes back to where they came from,” Kolade told Vogue Business in 2022, “but we’ve imbued a Ugandan identity onto these pieces.”
Duran Lantink
One of Business of Fashion’s top 10 shows of the Spring/Summer 2025 season, and the recipient of the 2024 Karl Lagerfeld prize issued by LVMH, Duran Lantink had a phenomenal year. The Amsterdam- and Paris-based label offers surreal and seductive fashion that merges three-dimensional sculpting techniques with traditional handiwork, all made from a mix of recycled textiles, deadstock and new sustainable materials. Lantink’s inflated silhouettes — think Pokémon-esque, puffy cropped bomber jackets and button-ups, and spherical skirts that look like an inner-tube pool float — are a favorite of stylists and celebrities, appearing on the covers of magazines like POP, Interview, HommeGirls and Re-Edition.
Sky wears Sami Miro dress, Hugo Kreit earrings, Blumarine shoes, VidaKush anklet, model’s own necklaces.
Les Fleurs Studio
Paris-based Les Fleurs Studio is a self-described upcycling project by creative director and stylist Maria Bernad. Steeped in Gothic and Renaissance-era references, Bernad’s romantic designs feature almost exclusively antique lace and crochet in shades of cream and ivory, and sometimes black or the softest pink. Her intricate designs are very bridal-ready, and both Beyoncé and Jared Leto are fans.
Prototypes
In June of this year, the show on everyone’s radar — including Kanye West, who reportedly went out of his way to attend — was Prototypes. An upcycling and repurposing project by designers Laura Beham and Callum Pidgeon, Prototypes has a dark, direct energy in its balaclavas and black and red color scheme, conjuring Balenciaga, but upcycled. “Out with the new, in with the old” is part of their motto, and according to their website, they want to pave the way toward individual expression and sustainability-focused design, with their customers by their side.
Sami Miro Vintage
When Image staff writer Julissa James spoke to Sami Miró back in 2021, Miró was clear about her commitment to sourcing eco-friendly fabrics. “There’s really no other way,” she told James. “I don’t care if I could find the exact same fabric that’s a fourth of the price; I would still choose this.” Since then, Miró has stayed true to her values while making it to the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund finals, and showing her first upcycled runway collection at New York Fashion Week in 2023. Her self-taught and intuitive design method remains sought after beyond her home base of L.A., and we’ll be watching to see where her scissors take her next.
Production: Mere Studios
Models: Jester Bulnes, April Kosky, Sky Michelle
Makeup: Valerie Vonprisk
Hair: Jocelyn Vega
Photo assistant: Saul Barrera
Styling assistant: Ron Ben
Photo intern: Khalil Bowens
Location: Projkt LA
Romany Williams is a writer, editor and stylist based on Vancouver Island, Canada. Her collaborators include SSENSE, Atmos, L.A. Times Image and more.
When Marian Sherry Lurio and Jonathan Buffington Nguyen met at a mutual friend’s wedding at Higgins Lake, Mich., in July 2022, both felt an immediate chemistry. As the evening progressed, they sat on the shore of the lake in Adirondack chairs under the stars, where they had their first kiss before joining others for a midnight plunge.
The two learned that the following weekend Ms. Lurio planned to attend a wedding in Philadelphia, where Mr. Nguyen lives, and before they had even exchanged numbers, they already had a first date on the books.
“I have a vivid memory of after we first met,” Mr. Nguyen said, “just feeling like I really better not screw this up.”
Before long, they were commuting between Philadelphia and New York City, where Ms. Lurio lives, spending weekends and the odd remote work days in one another’s apartments in Philadelphia and Manhattan. Within the first six months of dating, Mr. Nguyen joined Ms. Lurio’s family for Thanksgiving in Villanova, Pa., and, the following month, she met his family in Beavercreek, Ohio, at a surprise birthday party for Mr. Nguyen’s mother.
Ms. Lurio, 32, who grew up in Merion Station outside Philadelphia, works in investor relations administration at Flexpoint Ford, a private equity firm. She graduated from Dartmouth College with a bachelor’s degree in history and psychology.
Mr. Nguyen, also 32, was born in Knoxville, Tenn., and raised in Beavercreek, Ohio, from the age of 7. He graduated from Haverford College with a bachelor’s degree in political science and is now a director at Doyle Real Estate Advisors in Philadelphia.
Their long-distance relationship continued for the next few years. There were dates in Manhattan, vacations and beach trips to the Jersey Shore. They attended sporting events and discovered their shared appreciation of the 2003 film, “Love Actually.”
One evening, Mr. Nguyen recalled looking around Ms. Lurio’s small New York studio — strewed with clothes and the takeout meal they had ordered — and feeling “so comfortable and safe.” “I knew that this was something different than just sort of a fling,” he said.
It was an open question when they would move in together. In 2024, Ms. Lurio began the process of moving into Mr. Nguyen’s home in Philadelphia — even bringing her cat, Scott — but her plans changed midway when an opportunity arose to expand her role with her current employer.
Mr. Nguyen was on board with her decision. “It almost feels like stolen valor to call it ‘long distance,’ because it’s so easy from Philadelphia to New York,” Mr. Nguyen said. “The joke is, it’s easier to get to Philly from New York than to get to some parts of Brooklyn from Manhattan, right?”
In January 2025, Mr. Nguyen visited Ms. Lurio in New York with more up his sleeve than spending the weekend. Together they had discussed marriage and bespoke rings, but when Mr. Nguyen left Ms. Lurio and an unfinished cheese plate at the bar of the Chelsea Hotel that Friday evening, she had no idea what was coming next.
“I remember texting Jonathan,” Ms. Lurio said, bewildered: “‘You didn’t go toward the bathroom!’” When a Lobby Bar server came and asked her to come outside, Ms. Lurio still didn’t realize what was happening until she was standing in the hallway, where Mr. Nguyen stood recreating a key moment from the film “Love Actually,” in which one character silently professes his love for another in writing by flashing a series of cue cards. There, in the storied Chelsea Hotel hallway still festooned with Christmas decorations, Mr. Nguyen shared his last card that said, “Will you marry me?”
They wed on April 11 in front of 200 guests at the Pump House, a covered space on the banks of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River. Mr. Nguyen’s sister, the Rev. Elizabeth Nguyen, who is ordained through the Unitarian Universalist Association, officiated.
Although formal attire was suggested, Ms. Lurio said that the ceremony was “pretty casual.” She and Jonathan got ready together, and their families served as their wedding parties.
“I said I wanted a five-minute wedding,” Ms. Lurio recalled, though the ceremony ended up lasting a little longer than that. During the ceremony, Ms. Nguyen read a homily and jokingly added that guests should not ask the bride and groom about their living arrangements, which will remain separate for the foreseeable future.
While watching Ms. Lurio walk down the aisle, flanked by her parents, Mr. Nguyen said he remembered feeling at once grounded in the moment and also a sense of dazed joy: “Like, is this real? I felt very lucky in that moment — and also just excited for the party to start!”
He always texted when he was outside. No call, no knock. It was just a message and then the soft sound of my door opening. He moved like someone practiced in disappearing.
His name meant “complete” in Arabic, which is what I felt when we were together.
I met him the way you meet most things that matter in Los Angeles — without intending to. In our senior year at a college in eastern L.A. County, we were introduced through mutual friends, then thrown together by the particular gravity of people who recognized something in each other. He was a Muslim medical student, conservative and careful and funny in the dry, precise way of someone who has always had to choose his words. I was loud where he was quiet, messy where he was disciplined. I was out. He was not.
I understood, or thought I did. I thought that I couldn’t get hurt if I was completely conscious throughout the endeavor. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel like the whole world shares your freedoms — until you realize the city is enormous, and not all of it belongs to you in the same way.
For months, our world was confined to my apartment. He would slip in after dark, and we’d stay up late talking about his family in Iran, classical music and the particular pressure of being the son someone sacrificed everything to bring here. He told me things he said he’d never told anyone, and I believed him.
The orange glow from my Nesso lamp lit his face while the indigo sky pressed against the window behind him. In our small little world, we were safe. Outside was another matter.
On our first real date, I took him to the L.A. Phil’s “An Evening of Film & Music: From Mexico to Hollywood” program. I told him they were cheap seats even though they were the first row on the terrace. He was thrilled in the way only someone who doesn’t expect to be delighted actually gets delighted — fully, without guarding it. I put my arm around his shoulders. At some point, I shifted and moved it, and he nudged it back. He was OK with PDA here.
I remember thinking that wealth is a great barrier to harm and then feeling silly for extrapolating my own experience once again. Inside Walt Disney Concert Hall, we were just two people in love with the same music.
Outside was still another matter.
In February, on Valentine’s Day, he took me to a Yemeni restaurant in Anaheim. We hovered over saffron tea surrounded by other young Southern Californians, and we looked like friends. Before we went in, we sat in the parking lot of the strip mall — signs in Arabic advertising bread, coffee, halal meats, the Little Arabia District — hand in hand. I leaned over to kiss him.
“Not here,” he said. His eyes shifted furtively. “Someone might see.”
I understood, or told myself I did, but I was saddened. Later, after the kind of reflection that only arrives in the wreckage, I would understand something harder: I had been unconsciously asking him to choose, over and over, between the people he loved and the person he loved. I had a long pattern of choosing unavailable men, telling myself it was because I could handle the complexity. The truth was more embarrassing. I thought that if someone like him chose me anyway — chose me over the weight of societal expectations — it would mean I was worth choosing. It took me a long time to see how unfair that was to him and to me.
We went to the Norton Simon Museum together in November, on the kind of gray Pasadena day when the 210 Freeway roars in the background like white noise. He studied for the MCAT while I wrote a paper on Persian rugs. In between practice problems, he translated ancient Arabic scripts for me. I thought, “We make a good team.” Afterward, we walked through the galleries and he didn’t let go of my arm.
That was the version of us I kept returning to — when the ending came during Ramadan. It arrived as a spiritual reflection of my own. I texted: “Does this end at graduation — whatever we are doing?”
He thought I meant Ramadan. I did not mean Ramadan.
“I care about you,” he wrote, “but I don’t want you to think this could work out to anything more than just dating. I mean, of course, I’ve fantasized about marrying you. If I could live my life the way I wanted, of course I would continue. I’m just sad it’s not in this lifetime.”
I was in Mexico City when these texts were exchanged. That night I flew to Oaxaca to clear my head and then, after less than 24 hours, flew back to L.A. No amount of vacation would allow me to process what had just happened, so I threw myself back into work.
My therapist told me to use the conjunction “and” instead of “but.” It happened, and I am changed. The harm I caused and the love I felt. The beauty of what we made and the impossibility of where it could go. She gave me a knowing smile when I asked if it would stay with me forever. She didn’t answer, which was the answer.
I think about the freeways now, the way Joan Didion called them our only secular communion. When you’re on the ground in Los Angeles, the world narrows to the few blocks around you. Get on the freeway and you understand the whole body of the city at once: the arteries, the pulse, the scale of the thing.
You understand that you are a single cell in something enormous and moving. It is all out of your control. I am in a lane. The lane shaped how I drive. He was simply in a different lane, and his lane shaped him, and those two facts can coexist without either of us being the villain of the sad story.
He came like a secret in the night, and he left the same way. What we made in between was real and complicated and mine to hold forever, hoping we find each other in the next life.
The author lives in Los Angeles.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
The art industry is increasingly shaped by artists’ and art businesses’ shared realization that they are locked in a fierce struggle for sustained attention — against each other, and against the rest of the overstimulated, always-online world. A major New York art fair aims to win this competition next month by knocking down the increasingly shaky walls between contemporary art and fashion.
When visitors enter the Independent art fair on May 14, they will almost immediately encounter its open-plan centerpiece: an installation of recent couture looks from Comme des Garçons. It will be the first New York solo presentation of works by Rei Kawakubo, the brand’s founder and mastermind, since a lauded 2017 survey exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.
Art fairs have often been front and center in the industry’s 21st-century quest to capture mindshare. But too many displays have pierced the zeitgeist with six-figure spectacles, like Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and Beeple’s robot dogs. Curating Independent around Comme des Garçons comes from the conviction that a different kind of iconoclasm can rise to the top of New York’s spring art scrum.
Elizabeth Dee, the founder and creative director of Independent, said that making Kawakubo’s work the “nerve center” of this year’s edition was a “statement of purpose” for the fair’s evolution. After several years at the compact Spring Studios in TriBeCa, Independent will more than double its square footage by moving to Pier 36 at South Street, on the East River. Dee has narrowed the fair’s exhibitor list, to 76, from 83 dealers in 2025, and reduced booth fees to encourage a focus on single artists making bold propositions.
“Rei’s work has been pivotal to thinking about how my work as a curator, gallerist and art fair can push boundaries, especially during this extraordinary move toward corporatization and monoculture in the art world in the last 20 years,” Dee said.
Kawakubo’s designs have been challenging norms since her brand’s first Paris runway show in 1981, but her work over the last 13 years on what she calls “objects for the body” has blurred borders between high fashion and wearable sculpture.
The Comme des Garçons presentation at Independent will feature 20 looks from autumn-winter 2020 to spring-summer 2025. Forgoing the runway, Kawakubo is installing her non-clothing inside structures made from rebar and colored plastic joinery.
Adrian Joffe, the president of both Comme des Garçons International and the curated retailer Dover Street Market International (and who is also Kawakubo’s husband), said in an interview that Kawakubo’s intention was to create a sculptural installation divorced from chronology and fashion — “a thing made new again.”
Every look at Independent was made in an edition of three or fewer, but only one of each will be for sale on-site. Prices will be about $9,000 to $30,000. Comme des Garçons will retain 100 percent of the sales.
Asked why she was interested in exhibiting at Independent, the famously elusive Kawakubo said via email, “The body of work has never been shown together, and this is the first presentation in New York in almost 10 years.” Joffe added a broader philosophical motivation. “We’ve never done it before; it was new,” he said. Also essential was the fair’s willingness to embrace Kawakubo’s vision for the installation rather than a standard fair booth.
Kawakubo began consistently engaging with fine art decades before such crossovers became commonplace. Since 1989, she has invited a steady stream of contemporary artists to create installations in Comme des Garçons’s Tokyo flagship store. The ’90s brought collaborations with the artist Cindy Sherman and performance pioneer Merce Cunningham, among others.
More cross-disciplinary projects followed, including limited-release direct mailers for Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo designs each from documentation of works provided by an artist or art collective.
The display at Independent reopens the debate about Kawakubo’s proper place on the continuum between artist and designer. But the issue is already settled for celebrated artists who have collaborated with her.
“I totally think of Rei as an artist in the truest sense,” Sherman said by email. “Her work questions what everyone else takes for granted as being flattering to a body, questions what female bodies are expected to look like and who they’re catering to.”
Ai Weiwei, the subject of a 2010 Comme des Garçons direct mailer, agreed that Kawakubo “is, in essence, an artist.” Unlike designers who “pursue a sense of form,” he added, “her design and creation are oriented toward attitude” — specifically, an attitude of “rebellion.”
Also taking this position is “Costume Art,” the spring exhibition at the Costume Institute. Opening May 10, the show pairs individual works from multiple designers — including Comme des Garçons — with artworks from the Met’s holdings to advance the argument made by the dress code for this year’s Met gala: “Fashion is art.”
True to form, Kawakubo sometimes opts for a third way.
“Rei has often said she’s not a designer, she’s not an artist,” Joffe said. “She is a storyteller.”
Now to find out whether an art fair sparks the drama, dialogue and attention its authors want.
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