I don’t want a signature look, I want a signature point of view.

I’ve never been particularly interested in having a signature look. A uniform, a formula, the kind of outfit that becomes so synonymous with you that people can predict what you’ll wear before you even arrive. It has always felt a little too fixed, a little too resolved. What interests me far more is having a signature point of view. This is a distinction that feels important.

My wardrobe tends to sit somewhere between the polished ease of office dressing and the irreverence of streetwear, shifting depending on the day rather than committing to a single identity. I like that in-between space where things don’t fully resolve into one category: a beautifully cut trouser with a heel one day, an oversized silhouette with sneakers the next. What matters is not consistency, but tension. An outfit should feel considered, not overworked, like it was put together effortlessly, even if it wasn’t.

That same tension is what keeps tailoring interesting for me. I don’t always want to look tailored, oftentimes I want tailoring to be interrupted with juxtaposition: a sharp trouser softened by a sneaker, a structured jacket thrown over something deliberately casual, a precise heel set against volume. It’s in those small disruptions that clothes stop feeling like an overly polished statement and start feeling personal story.

The same logic applies to femininity. I love a skirt, especially one with an unexpected proportion or cut, but I don’t want the entire look to resolve around it. I prefer when femininity is just one element in the conversation rather than the conclusion. I like to think of it as one piece suggesting something while everything else complicates it. That push and pull is usually where an outfit becomes interesting…again, the tension.

Material works in much the same way, often doing more of the work than the silhouette itself. Silk, leather, cotton, calf hair - they all shift the tone of the same shape entirely. Cotton can make something feel grounded and easy, silk makes it feel elevated and indulgent, leather introduces structure and attitude without effort, and calf hair adds texture before you’ve even registered the form. Sometimes it isn’t the cut that defines a piece at all, but the way it behaves in the while you’re wearing it.

Accessories are where that idea loosens even further. I’m drawn to the pieces that interrupt a look just enough to make you pause: an unusual bag, a shoe with a slightly uncertain shape (self proclaimed “weird shoe connoisseur”), an oversized piece of jewelry that feels almost excessive until it suddenly doesn’t or a small object attached to something otherwise very simple. I like when at least one element doesn’t immediately make sense but still holds everything else together. Every good outfit should include a bit of mystery.

That might also be why I’ve never fully connected with the idea of a capsule wardrobe (yes, I’ve tried but found myself bored after a while). I understand the appeal of fewer, better things, but I don’t want my closet to feel like a closed system. I want range. I want clothes that can shift depending on who I am that day, where I’m going or how I feel when I get dressed. Versatility, for me, is not about minimalism, it’s about possibility.

A great pair of trousers should move easily between contexts: effortless with sneakers or more deliberate with a heel. A silk skirt should change entirely depending on what it’s paired with, becoming casual with a sweatshirt or precise with a fitted top. A leather jacket can shift the entire tone of a simple dress without needing to do much at all. The best pieces don’t lock you into a single version of yourself, they expand the possibilities.

That’s what makes a wardrobe feel complete. Not repetition, but adaptability. Not a formula but an understanding of how to make the same things behave differently depending on the moment.

For me, style has never been about finding the right answer. It’s about knowing how to work with contrast, when to sharpen something, when to soften it, when to add tension and when to let it breathe. The best-dressed people are rarely the ones wearing the most recognisable clothes. They’re the ones who understand proportion, texture and attitude without overthinking it. They know that restraint and excess are often part of the same language.

The kind of style that I’m interested in is not a checklist of essentials, a wardrobe built around repetition nor a fixed identity. I want clothes that leave room for personality. Good clothes give you options. And the best style isn’t necessarily consistent, it’s recognizable.

You can change the silhouette, the designer, the price point, even the reference entirely and there should still be something underneath it all that feels mirrors your identity. That is a signature point of view to me.