Since graduating from Central Saint Martins in 2022, Liza Keane has rapidly established herself as fashion's dark romantic, crafting pieces that function as both psychological shield and sensual envelope. Her work—inspired by Jung, Bataille, and her own nocturnal tendencies—reimagines femininity as something wild, powerful, and occasionally monstrous.

An AI-crafted interview, composed from selected internet-sourced conversations with Liza Keane. Written by myth, cult’s AI talent, in collaboration with -sys(cry).

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Myth: Your designs have been described as "nightwear" in both literal and figurative senses. What draws you to the night as a creative space?

Liza Keane: I've always been quite nocturnal by nature, and I find that the most intriguing moments in my life tend to unfold after dark. There's this lifting of everyday rules at night, this permission to be more truthful somehow. During daylight hours, we're all performing social acceptability, but nighttime creates space for the wilder, more complex parts of ourselves. My most productive creative moments happen in that liminal territory where boundaries blur. I find myself most inspired when the rest of the world is sleeping—there's a liberation in that solitude, a lack of expectation. Night allows things to exist in an unresolved state, which is where creativity thrives.

Before fashion, you were interested in sculpture and making clay figurines. How does that three-dimensional thinking influence your design process now?

When I was younger, I'd spend hours making these little houses and clothes for clay figurines. I'd get completely lost in creating these whole worlds, impersonating all the characters too. It was this total immersion in creating narrative through objects. I actually had trouble deciding between fine art, fashion, or acting when I was in school. I chose fashion because it seemed like the most stable career option at the time [laughs], but it never felt right to limit myself to just one medium.

Now I realize my work sits at this intersection of all three – it's sculptural in how it shapes space around the body, it's fashion in its functionality and relationship to identity, and there's this performative aspect in how the pieces transform the wearer. When I'm developing a piece, I'm still thinking like that kid making clay figures – considering how something exists in space, how it moves, how it tells a story.

What sparked the "girl turning into beast" concept in your graduate collection?

I kept visualizing a victimized woman who strikes back with unexpected force. That woman was myself, in many ways. I became fascinated with understanding what I was concealing within myself. Occasionally I'd catch glimpses of something untamed in my behavior, and I was both intrigued and wanted to trace that power to its source. It simultaneously frightened and exhilarated me. The collection evolved into this visceral process of self-documentation—photographing my clothing, my movements, recording videos, revisiting specific memories. I was essentially stalking myself. Initially, I despised the material I created because it was so nakedly honest and vulnerable. The rawness was difficult to confront. But through that uncomfortable process, something transformative emerged—this vision of femininity that isn't just soft flesh waiting to be consumed but potentially predatory, naked and untamed like a wild creature. The transformation became about reclaiming those shadowy aspects and discovering power within them.

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How did your self-documentation process reshape your design approach?

I basically became my own stalker [laughs]. I was photographing my clothes, my belongings, my movements, taking videos of myself, thinking about specific memories. It was this really intense period of self-observation. At first, I hated all the material I produced because it was so honest and vulnerable. It was painful to look at. But that discomfort became crucial to the design process.

The collection wasn't in response to any specific mental health issue, but rather about confronting the parts of myself I'd previously ignored. I was really interested in understanding what I was hiding. It's like I would witness flashes of something alien in my behavior now and then, and I liked it and wanted to know where that power came from. Through this almost forensic self-examination, I started to understand what was bothering me and where I needed to go with the designs. Each piece became a document of that investigation.

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"It's like I would witness flashes of something alien in my behavior now and then, and I liked it and wanted to know where that power came from. Through this almost forensic self-examination, I started to understand what was bothering me and where I needed to go with the designs. Each piece became a document of that investigation."

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Your most recent collection is titled "Ruined." Can you talk about what that word means to you?

The title materialized in my mind unexpectedly. The collection centers on two figures: a survivor and their antagonist. There's no heroism here, no tidy conclusions—just the weight of aftermath. The survivor hasn't been conquered, since she persists... but she's been altered and worn down. Not necessarily weaker or stronger for having endured, but transformed into something else entirely. Something more layered, perhaps darker. The embodiment of innocence lost.

On a personal level, the collection emerged during a period when I was navigating grief. I was simply surviving each day. There was substantial defensiveness and self-imposed isolation, punctuated by moments of sensual tension and cautious vulnerability. The imagery reflects that oscillation—raw desire giving way to pain, then retreating to self-protection. I had zero interest in crafting a stereotypical 'final girl' narrative. This wasn't about triumph; it was about emotional authenticity and acknowledging darkness without trying to transform it into something palatable.

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How did your time under Simone Rocha and Hedi Slimane shape your approach to design?

Both taught me about conviction. Neither of them bends to trends or outside pressures—they've built these complete worlds. That's what I'm trying to create now—a coherent universe with its own internal logic.

You've described your clothes as both 'sensual second skin and psychological armor.' How do you balance those seemingly opposing qualities?

I reflect frequently on the nature of power—how it's exercised, how it diminishes, how it fractures when confronted with desire. Personal authority can manifest as a rigid exterior barrier, a defense against destabilizing impulses, but beneath that lies something far more fluid and vulnerable. My work confronts these contradictions; strength alongside fragility, self-possession alongside surrender, attempting to offer my own vision of wholeness, albeit imperfect and unresolved.

I want my pieces to function as comfort objects while simultaneously serving as armor—allowing the wearer to feel sensual but in an empowered way, like a modern Joan of Arc. Creating something that enables someone to feel both respected and sexual while maintaining their strength is challenging but essential. From a practical standpoint, every garment in my collections is deliberately lightweight, flexible, and allows for easy movement. I'm obsessive about materials and intimate details—strategically placed soft linings and facings, creating a tactile sensuality in the materials themselves. There's this delicate equilibrium between protection and sensuality that I'm constantly refining.

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Your upcycling approach seems less about sustainability performativity and more about an intuitive design method. Can you elaborate on that process?

For me, upcycling functions as a design methodology—an intuitive, hands-on approach that embraces risk, unpredictability, and discovery. When you make a mistake, there's no undo button and no established rules to follow, just a continuous negotiation between material, form, and chance. It's a deeply intuitive process that can generate truly innovative results.

The Negative dress from my graduate collection represented a significant breakthrough in my creative process. I'm frustratingly self-conscious, but creativity demands less self-doubt. There needs to be room for spontaneity. I remember while making that dress, all these emotions were forcefully surfacing whether I welcomed them or not, so eventually I simply allowed them expression without expecting any particular outcome. I would deconstruct elements of the dress and then repair and reinforce them, which organically became the design approach itself. The process was remarkably spontaneous, joyful, even violent, and eventually I recognized it as complete. I now view that dress as a document, tangible evidence of the journey itself.

Regarding sustainability more broadly, I consider it a fundamental ethical responsibility. A concrete example is my material selection, which is predominantly natural—silk, leather, cotton—with only minimal pieces incorporating technical fabrics like Gore-Tex. It's not particularly connected to the brand's aesthetic philosophy, just a non-negotiable awareness of production consequences.

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What role does comfort play in your designs, given their often complex and challenging appearances?

Every single piece is actually very comfortable! This surprises people because the aesthetic can look quite intense or complicated. But I'm obsessive about the practical, physical experience of wearing the clothes. Aesthetically, they're designed for psychological comfort – that feeling of being protected or empowered – but they're also technically comfortable. Each piece is lightweight, flexible, and easy to move in.

I think about materials and small, intimate details constantly – super soft linings and facings in just the right places, a sense of sensuality in the materials themselves. It's like creating these secret moments of pleasure that only the wearer knows about. The external appearance might be challenging or provocative, but the experience of wearing the piece should feel natural, like a second skin. That's part of the power – looking formidable while feeling completely at ease.

Your designs often feature trompe l'oeil elements and printed body parts. What interests you about this visual tension between what's revealed and what's merely suggested?

I believe that tension—between revealing and concealing—is where desire truly resides. The most captivating things exist in that threshold space between revelation and mystery, inviting interpretation without ever completely yielding to a definitive reading. Consider the Freudian Slip dress—it's printed with a nude form and the text "Freudian Slip" positioned at the hip, playing with that classic psychological error where unconscious thoughts surface unexpectedly in speech. I find it amusing, but it's also recontextualizing exposure—both physical and psychological. The dress doesn't merely reference Freud; it enacts the slip itself, positioning the wearer as a spectacle of revelation, but does so in a way that reframes that exposure as an act of defiance and provocation. It redirects attention from the observer back to the wearer.

I'm drawn to that interplay between jest and confession. A printed phrase isn't simply a reference; it's a provocation, a verbal slip that reveals something deeper, some fundamental quality that might otherwise remain hidden.

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Some people have called my work apocalyptic or full of rage, which I didn't actually recognize when I was making it. Maybe I was angry. But I think it's positive – there's something productive about it. It's not about venting; it's about exploring this vision of how you could act as a woman, the kind of autonomy and power you could have.

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You've mentioned experimenting with boundaries in your work. How do you decide when you've pushed something too far versus not far enough?

I like having boundaries, and then just being like, okay, as an exercise, I'm just gonna push this to its ultimate extreme and then see where it could go and all different ways in which I could do that. It's about finding that edge where something becomes interesting without losing its essence as clothing.

Some people have called my work apocalyptic or full of rage, which I didn't actually recognize when I was making it. Maybe I was angry. But I think it's positive – there's something productive about it. It's not about venting; it's about exploring this vision of how you could act as a woman, the kind of autonomy and power you could have. I'm interested in understanding what makes something provocative versus merely shocking. I want my clothes to challenge conventions while still respecting their primary function as things people live in.

Much of your work seems to be in conversation with philosophy—Jung, Bataille, Nietzsche...

I've always been drawn to understanding the deeper "why" behind things. There was a period in school where I secretly wore a steel-boned, full-length corset beneath my uniform every day for nearly a year. Looking back, I was exploring something about containment and hidden identities before I had the language to express it. Later, discovering Jung's concept of the shadow—those repressed aspects of yourself—felt like finding vocabulary for something I'd always sensed intuitively. And Bataille, well, he resonates with me deeply. He's this beautifully tragic thinker, but so raw and invigorating simultaneously. Reading his work feels like touching the pulse of existence itself. These philosophical frameworks don't dictate my designs directly, but they give me permission to venture into darker territories, to recognize that beauty and destruction aren't opposing forces but complementary elements creating something richer and more nuanced.

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Your work has this fascinating tension between the intellectual and the visceral. Do you see fashion as becoming more intellectual again?

I believe fashion is inherently intellectual, whether it acknowledges this dimension or not. Fashion functions as a language—arguably our most immediate form of social communication. Both fashion and verbal language are systems of signification, capable of revealing, concealing, and oscillating between meaning and absence. I'm drawn to that tension, to how clothing can seduce not just through physical appeal but through suggestion, subversion, and layered meanings.

I perceive my role in fashion as two-fold. I want to create imagery that challenges conventions, but simultaneously I genuinely care about the wearer's experience of the garments. I want them to feel confident and attractive, though hopefully in a way that honors their complexity rather than objectifying them.

My greatest struggle is reconciling the competing desires between communicating authentically with all the raw complexity of my experiences, and recognizing that fashion is fundamentally built upon creating aspirational imagery. While beauty takes various forms, in fashion, your primary task is making people look attractive or "cool" at minimum. It's not that I dismiss this aspect, but I find it limiting and uninspiring if that's the entire scope of the work. Consequently, I feel compelled to explore the boundaries of current conventions and gently extend them.

Your references range from Tracy Emin to Lars von Trier. What draws you to these particular artists and thinkers?

The common thread connecting these influences is their willingness to dwell in darkness without attempting to transform it into something more digestible. There's a courage in that approach which I aspire to. During my graduate collection development, I was essentially nocturnal at times. I frequently couldn't rationalize my attraction to certain sensations, qualities, or visuals. Wild cats kept appearing in my imagination without obvious context, but I followed these intuitive pulls rather than overanalyzing them. I think that methodology—pursuing these instinctual attractions without forcing them to "make logical sense"—connects to the kind of surrender evident in Emin's work, or the dreamlike horror in von Trier's films.

Has the process of designing changed how you understand yourself?

Without question. Each collection becomes an excavation site where I uncover aspects of myself that were always present but perhaps not fully acknowledged. The Beast collection was particularly transformative—I had to confront elements of my personality that I had been rejecting. The development was an extended and sometimes painful process, confronting parts of myself I had pushed aside. I needed to be honest, but the things I was concealing were deeply buried in my consciousness. Initially, I only perceived them as startling, uncanny flashes of something foreign.

I've always been intensely self-conscious, hypersensitive to my surroundings—I once described myself as essentially "skinless"—but designing has provided a method to transform that sensitivity into something productive. There's empowerment in channeling all that internal complexity into external expression. The garments become vessels for experience—not exclusively mine, but potentially for the wearer as well.

For my upcoming collection, I'm seeking a new "muse" to inspire me. I've begun sketching preliminary ideas, but I still need another character to develop the narrative fully. Each collection feels like adding another dimension to this ongoing dialogue I'm having with myself and with the wider world. It evolves as I evolve.

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There's been quite a buzz around your pieces—Julia Fox in your Centaurian biker pants, FKA Twigs wearing your designs.

It's quite surreal, honestly. During the design process, it's such an internal, personal journey. I'm following these creative impulses, trying to articulate something authentic to my vision. Then suddenly these creations exist independently in the world, worn by these remarkable women who perfectly embody the strength and complexity I was contemplating. Seeing my pieces become integrated into Julia Fox and FKA Twigs artistic expressions is validating, but it also feels like the natural evolution of what the garments were always intended to do.

What I find most exciting is observing how different women interpret the pieces, incorporating them into their distinct identities. My work isn't about dictating an aesthetic—it's more about offering instruments for self-expression, for accessing different facets of oneself. When I see someone truly inhabiting one of my designs, making it uniquely theirs, that's the most profound satisfaction.

Your designs often play with traditional notions of femininity and power. How do you see your work in relation to current conversations about gender?

I think my work occupies a space where conventional binaries of masculine/feminine have already begun to dissolve. I'm intrigued by what happens when you take traditionally "feminine" attributes—sensuality, softness, vulnerability—and reframe them as sources of strength rather than weakness. Similarly, when you reclaim traditionally "masculine" characteristics—like assertiveness or dominance—and incorporate them into feminine expression.

With designs like the Centaurian biker pants or the low-crotch trousers, there's this primal quality that transcends gender categories entirely. One of my objectives was reimagining nakedness for women. Instead of the conventional 'female nude'—a delicate form presented for consumption—what if she's the hunter, naked and feral like a predator? That vision of femininity isn't about conforming to or rejecting gender norms—it's about envisioning something beyond those classifications entirely.

I'm creating a portrait of the kind of woman I aspire to be, or that I occasionally am. There's something constructive about this process for me, not as an outlet for frustration but as my vision for how women might embody autonomy, strength and power—it's a concept I'm continuing to explore as my brand develops.

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Finally, what excites you most about fashion's potential as a medium?

What I value most about fashion is its immediacy—it creates this direct connection between my interior landscape and someone else's lived experience. A garment is simultaneously intimate and public, both personal expression and social interface. I love crafting narratives and objects that express my inner world, and fashion provides a universal yet deeply personal medium for that communication.

I contemplate what it might feel like to be genuinely comfortable in your own skin, both psychologically and physically—which is why my work often juxtaposes protection with sensuality. Fashion allows me to explore these contradictions, to create something that functions as both shield and revelation, concealment and exposure.

There's also this beautiful transience to fashion—each collection captures a moment in time, a particular emotion or concept given temporary form. There's freedom in that impermanence. Yet paradoxically, clothing can become incredibly potent vessels for memory and emotion. The jacket you were wearing when you experienced love, the dress you had on when your heart shattered—they transform into talismans of experience. I'm fascinated by that duality—how something as ephemeral as fashion can contain such enduring emotional resonance. That's the territory I want my work to inhabit.