ZOMER

Interview by Filep Motwary

There are moments when something new slips quietly into fashion’s field of vision—discreet, yet instantly magnetic. An energy that feels less like a debut and more like a reminder that beauty, craftsmanship, and joy can coexist. This is precisely where Zomer belongs, the brand founded by Danial Aitouganov and Imruh Asha, who infuse contemporary luxury with an almost childlike curiosity. Their collaboration feels like a breath of fresh air in an industry that too often forgets how to have fun. Through innovative textures, surreal forms, and tailoring that balances nostalgia with modern restraint, Zomer—“summer” in Dutch—radiates a lightness that carries real meaning.

Although the brand is only two years old, Zomer has been a decade in the making.
Aitouganov and Asha met as students in Amsterdam: the former was looking for a stylist for his graduation collection, the latter was working at a concept store. Their chemistry was immediate. When Aitouganov later became a finalist at the Hyères International Festival, their paths crossed again, reopening a dialogue that would eventually find its full expression in Zomer. In the meantime, each followed his own trajectory. Asha became one of the most sought-after stylists of his generation and later Fashion Director at Dazed & Confused, while Aitouganov worked for houses such as Chloé, Burberry, and Louis Vuitton. Today, they are not merely building a brand, but a universe rooted in joy.

At our scheduled meeting, Asha is absent, held back by last-minute obligations. Danial welcomes me instead, dressed in a white shirt and oversized denim trousers—an outfit that suggests both control and ease, radiating a humility almost out of place in a world of exaggerated gestures and poses.

When I ask how he viewed fashion before becoming one of its rising names, he looks at me with unmistakable nostalgia. “It all started with my love of getting dressed,” he says. “I was obsessed with styling outfits; I spent all my money on designers like Rick Owens and Yamamoto.” Dutch by origin, from a country with almost no fashion tradition, he felt drawn to Paris. “In the Netherlands we’re very sober,” he explains. “I never idealized fashion, but I wanted to be part of it. And Paris is the city you go to in order to see whether you’ll bloom or not.” His early years there were both revelatory and shocking. His first job at Chloé was as cinematic as it was ruthlessly eye-opening. “I thought The Devil Wears Prada was exaggerated, but I realized it wasn’t that far from reality. It was a cultural shock—and the best school,” he admits. There, he was introduced to a sense of design fluidity: silhouettes that breathe, freedom that encourages movement. Burberry followed, where everything revolved around structure and discipline.

“That’s where I learned construction—the inside of a garment, its functionality, the essence of design. If you don’t understand how something is built, it remains vague. Design isn’t about drawing beauty; it’s about constructing it.” It sounds almost like a manifesto—one that would take shape years later with his closest friend in the form of a brand that is both light and intelligent. He admits that those around them tried to discourage the partnership. “They told us this is how friendships end. But we were naïve enough—or confident enough—to try.” And so, what began as an experiment evolved into a brand that quickly captured attention.

Their Paris shows are explosive without being loud, moving without excess. Naturally, as with any partnership, friction was inevitable. “We had to get to know each other again, this time as partners. We disagree, but we listen to and respect each other.” Indeed, this creative marriage is built on dialogue, which may be precisely what gives Zomer its soul—impressive maturity for a brand barely two years old.

In their collaboration, image and design carry equal weight. “For Imru, visual language is everything,” Danial explains. “He comes from styling, where there are many limitations, but with Zomer we wanted the opposite: total freedom. Our images don’t just sell a product; they build a universe.” That universe is infused with childlike curiosity. “We called our first design attempt ‘childlike,’” he says. “Like a child drawing without thinking, our first season had no concept. We just started creating. Structure came later.” When I ask about the humor that often surfaces in their work, his answer is immediate: “We need it. With everything happening in the world, lightness is essential. In the ’80s, humor was everywhere—Moschino, Gaultier, Mugler. Today it’s rarer. For us, it means smiling through fashion. A journalist told us our last show felt like a vitamin injection—there’s no better compliment.”

Their winter collection explores the idea of wearing clothes backwards—a meditation on time and memory. The show began… at the end: models appeared in a final procession before the clock turned back, and the collection unfolded in reverse. The gesture recalled Margiela’s Spring/Summer 1992 collection, but for Zomer it wasn’t a trick—it was a language. “It started with the idea of return,” Danial explains. “Of going back to fix something, or to relive a moment. That’s how we began turning garments inside out and backwards. Some were designed that way from the start, others were adapted just for the show. Then people started posting them on TikTok and they became a trend! We told our clients: if you feel comfortable wearing something backwards, do it. Fashion shouldn’t dictate; it should invite.”

This dialogue between creator and wearer defines their work. For Aitouganov, the body isn’t a surface to work on—it’s the foundation of expression. “I always talk to the models,” he tells me. “I ask them how they feel. The body tells you things design alone can’t.”

At Louis Vuitton, he recalls, there were five fittings and an unlimited budget. “At Zomer, we make the samples ourselves, send them to factories, and hope they come back right. Constraints make us more creative, not less.”

When I ask about fashion that tries to reshape the body—to tighten it, distort it—he pauses before answering. “There’s beauty in proposing new forms, but few dare to do it. Functionality always wins. I love the radicalism of the ’80s, but perhaps today it’s more important to be imaginative without losing touch with reality.” I tell him many people describe them as brave. “Imru is fearless,” he admits. “He says ‘let’s go’ without thinking. I think about the woman who will wear our clothes. We’re both courageous in our own way.”

On craftsmanship, he is emphatic: “Beautiful things take time. Every season we collaborate with artisans who give our clothes different qualities. It’s a slow process, but it’s worth it.” When the conversation turns to street trends, he smiles. “Everything comes back. Recently I saw kids wearing plastic chokers like the ones I wore as a teenager. I thought, ‘Have we run out of ideas?’ Maybe it’s no longer about originality, but reinterpretation. You can’t reinvent the wheel—but you can make it roll differently.”

Aitouganov belongs to a generation of designers who are more than creators; they are voices, presences. “At first, I didn’t want to be visible,” he admits. “I wanted the brand to speak for itself. But I learned that people connect with people. Imru, who has always been more social, told me, ‘You need to speak.’ And now I’m learning. It’s part of the job—and part of growing up.”

Before we part, I ask him what defines a great brand today. “A great brand brings something new,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be radical, but it has to be smart, honest, innovative in its own way.” Perhaps that is Zomer’s quiet revolution: not to shout, but to invite; not to conquer, but to connect. In a world that demands speed, noise, and spectacle, the brand and its creators offer something precious—a reminder that innovation can be born from the simplest gesture, like turning a garment inside out.