CHARAF TAJER | CASABLANCA

Interview by Filep Motwary

Long before the brand Casablanca captivated the fashion world with its fluid, luxurious aesthetic—earning, in just two years, nominations for the LVMH Prize 2020, the International Woolmark Prize 2021, and a much-talked-about collaboration with New Balance—its founder Charaf Tajer had already been carving out a fascinating path as an “architect” of a new Parisian cultural identity. It all began in the late 2000s in Paris, when he and a group of creative friends founded Pain O choKolat, an unprecedented cultural collective. Legendary block parties, avant-garde artistic events, and the iconic club Le Pompon became reference points for people who, until then, shared no common scene. Tribe, class, sexuality, style—all fused into a new identity that didn’t ask permission to breathe.

Casablanca is just another chapter in this narrative: an ode to French elegance filtered through Tajer’s Moroccan heritage. He doesn’t simply design clothes; he weaves worlds through an idealistic lens—a vision that makes luxury accessible, tradition contemporary, and Paris global.

It’s no coincidence that, over the past fifteen years, fashion has shifted into the hands of rappers, DJs, and creators without formal design training. Names like A$AP Rocky, Rihanna, Pharrell Williams, and Kanye West now dominate far beyond music, each one redefining the rules in turn. They claim space effortlessly, renegotiating classical design concepts once revered with awe. Entering the new millennium, the deaths of iconic figures like Yves Saint Laurent, Alexander McQueen, Karl Lagerfeld, and Virgil Abloh—the first Black designer to gain global recognition for his talent, who passed away too soon—along with the pandemic, whose echoes remain even subtly, radically transformed the landscape. Alongside these shifts, our perspectives, needs, and, by extension, the entire fashion industry evolved—shaped now by youth, social media, parties, and music.

Speaking about his own journey when I met him recently, Charaf Tajer explained:

“Throughout my career, one idea remained constant: bringing people together. The parties of Pain O choKolat weren’t just events—they were small cultural explosions, a mosaic of sounds, styles, and presences—from skaters and punks to fashion designers and figures from the hip-hop scene; all tribes, all colors, all rhythms on the same dance floor. It was a celebration of diversity, but also a quiet revolution. My one goal was to offer people moments that were different, authentic, shared. I’ve always been moved by the idea of gathering, perhaps because I grew up in an environment that, however much it preached equality, quietly divided us by the color of our skin. That truth marked me. It took time to confront it directly. In my neighborhood, the concept of race was almost nonexistent for me—I felt like a citizen of the world. Until the moment came when I wanted to go out to a club, find my own place, live my life. And then, unexpectedly, I encountered a subtle but deeply rooted racism, at odds with France’s proclaimed values of liberty, equality, and fraternity—on paper yes, but in practice, immigrants were marginalized. And then, yes, it hurt.”

He confessed that this pain became the spark he needed to create worlds where everyone, regardless of color, origin, identity, or expression, feels they belong.

“I started throwing parties,” he continues.

“Not as escapism, but as an act of resistance, a ritual of coexistence. My first creation was Pain O choKolat around 2007, a collective of artists who organized events and later gave rise to Pigalle and then Le Pompon. During the Pigalle period, I began to understand the logic of the fashion industry. We had our own showroom, we did runway shows and parties. I learned how to communicate with the press. I learned everything. But I learned it simply, with my friends. We opened a store, then a second, then a third. We had two in Paris and one in Tokyo. Travel also helped me enormously. I learned so much!”

I asked him about his family to understand more about his creative expression. He told me that his parents met in a haute couture atelier in Casablanca—hence the brand’s name—while both his grandfather and great-grandfather were tailors. Another grandfather made ties and accessories for the King of Morocco. His father was also a tailor and a musician.

“My first memory of fashion was… a print. When my mother came to France, she worked as a maid for a couple of lawyers. I remember going to their home and being enchanted. The building had high ceilings and a brass-finished elevator—things I had never seen. One day, I found a Hermès scarf. I held it and couldn’t understand what it was. It belonged to the lady of the house, a strict, elegant, impeccably polished woman who commanded respect. And she wore this scarf that to me looked like a cartoon!” he says, laughing. “A childlike, colorful universe, full of imagination, rendered on luxurious fabric. And she wore it. The contrast blew me away.”

Tajer grew up in Belleville, a Parisian neighborhood truly at a crossroads of cultures, with Chinese, Jewish, North African, and Sub-Saharan communities.

“It was a working-class area, and we lived simply. Around eight, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism. I was a different child, and my parents thought it was serious, but over time we realized it was just a different way my mind worked. I always needed to express myself through art and had an obsession with image. My friends and I were passionate about fashion; we loved sportswear, the worlds of Lacoste, Hermès, Cartier—French luxury brands in general. We had buzz cuts, wore Air Max, were outsiders in the fashion world, but we didn’t see it that way. For us, fashion was expression, a way to declare who we were and who we wanted to become. You know how it is in adolescence—you want to stand out but also belong. All these contradictions clashed inside me. As a North African in Paris, you always knew you were ‘the other.’ In some stores, you weren’t welcome. In restaurants and supermarkets, people watched you, followed you. We grew up with that sense of being marginal. But we wanted to belong. There was a complex psychological weight within us. Around 18, I began to meet people from the fashion world. The mother of my best friend produced fashion shows. He came from a completely different background than mine, but we were inseparable. I observed how he lived. I remember asking his mother endless questions until she took me backstage at one show. That’s how I ended up behind the scenes at Rick Owens—and a whole new world exploded in my mind. I wondered how people who dressed so radically could exist in such a structured industry.”

That’s when he realized that any expression, however personal, could be commercial without betraying its truth. If Rick Owens could do it, so could he.

“The shapes, colors, and volumes felt extreme, but it became clear that this world existed. I realized that anything authentic to me could become my way to express myself, to be understood by others. From that day, I never apologize for my tastes.”

He explains that a designer, to endure, must strike a perfect balance between innovation and recognizability. You can’t reinvent your brand’s identity every season, but you must refresh it so it remains vibrant and relevant. In his view, the real challenge in building a fashion brand is being both commercially viable and radically creative.

“You must know and respect the codes of those uninterested in fashion, but also speak the language of insiders—having the right models, collaborators, photographers to showcase your vision. Most of the public may not care about these technicalities, but they recognize beauty. It’s a game of multiple readings. The everyday customer must understand what you do, as must fashion insiders, critics, investors. Everyone must grasp it. And at the same time, you remain authentic, true to your vision. For me, my work is a constant process of self-analysis: who we are, what message we want to convey.”

Casablanca’s current season collection couldn’t be further from Rick Owens. Titled Kaizen, it’s Charaf Tajer’s take on Japanese culture—a tribute to the boundless creativity of young designers shaping the modern fabric of the Land of the Rising Sun. Superbikes and the intricate embroidery of the Bōsōzoku create a bold counterpoint to the playful refinement of Harajuku Kawaii, which itself stands against the strict uniforms of Japanese corporate culture and the explosive brilliance of rave party attire. The collection also reflects the postmodern silhouettes of Japanese cities alongside the breathtaking landscapes of the countryside. A country of contrasts becomes inspiration for a collection of contrasts, woven together in perfect harmony. Ultimately, it’s a tribute to every facet of Japan—its youth, culture, identity—which mirrors the creator’s own mindset and experiences.

“There’s a word in Japan, ‘honmono,’ meaning authenticity in its purest form. This is also my vision of luxury: no compromise, only total dedication to creation. I want people to look at what we do and say: ‘Yes, this is real, this is genuine.'”