Founder’s Letters — Wearing Identity

By the founder of illi Collection

There’s an old Arab proverb: “Your clothes speak before you do.” I remember hearing it as a child, not quite understanding its gravity. I thought it was about neatness. Ironed shirts, polished shoes. But now I know: it was about identity.

What we wear is never just surface.

It’s a signal. A language. Sometimes a shield.

We dress for weather, for work, for rituals. But we also dress to be seen — and to see ourselves. Fashion theorist Roland Barthes called clothing “a system of signs.” What he meant is that garments are not just things. They are texts. We read them. And we are read in them.

In his book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, sociologist Erving Goffman likens daily life to theater. We’re all performers, staging versions of ourselves for others. Clothes are props in this play — integral to the story. A tailored blazer says “competent.” A silk scarf says “I’ve inherited a story.” Jewelry? Jewelry says something quieter. More internal. It’s memory, legacy, intention.

And what we choose not to wear speaks, too.

The minimalist avoids the loud. The traditionalist avoids the fleeting. The rebel refuses the expected.

When I started illi, I knew I wasn’t just designing objects — I was shaping a language. Each piece was a study in identity, a quiet statement of presence. I was asking: What does it mean to belong? To remember? To speak without ever being loud?

I think often of A Room of One’s Own, where Virginia Woolf writes, “Clothes change our view of the world and the world’s view of us.” That sentence contains a deep truth: fashion is both mirror and mask. It reflects our inner selves while shaping how the world receives us.

Psychologists call this “enclothed cognition.” It’s the idea that what we wear affects not only how others perceive us, but how we think, act, and feel. A necklace inherited from a grandmother might inspire quiet strength. A ring gifted in a moment of joy might carry courage into a difficult room.

This is why design matters. Not just because it is beauty, but because it holds emotion.

I believe in design that doesn’t impose. I believe in pieces that reflect the fragments and the wholeness of the wearer.

In Aramaic, the word “illi” means “that which is mine.” It is also a word of connection. A thread. A relation. This, to me, is the heart of design. Not display, but dialogue. Not noise, but meaning.

We are all still becoming.

And what we wear along the way — especially the quiet pieces — can help remind us who we are.

With love,
Lubna