Inclusivity shouldn't even be a debate; it's not that difficult to execute.
For twenty-three years, Gary Bigeni has stood at the intersection of creative conviction and commercial survival, staging collections that cost tens of thousands of dollars for moments that last twenty minutes. In an industry that has quietly retreated from its own promises of inclusivity and sustainability, he continues to design for the women the runways tend to forget — and to teach the next generation that longevity requires both artistry and clear-eyed pragmatism. His story is less about fashion week and more about what it means to build something enduring in a landscape that rewards the disposable.
- Staging even a stripped-back Australian Fashion Week show demands $25,000–$40,000 at minimum, a brutal threshold for independent designers working largely without institutional support.
- The traditional infrastructure of buyers, lookbooks, and in-person retail relationships has eroded, forcing designers to rebuild their entire logic of visibility around digital storytelling and social media reach.
- Despite a moment of genuine momentum five years ago, the industry has quietly reverted to narrow, homogenous aesthetics — taller, thinner, whiter runways — even as the average Australian woman wears a size 14 or 16.
- Bigeni navigates these pressures by refusing the relentless churn of newness, instead refreshing core pieces, collaborating closely with trusted partners, and sharing his hand-painting process as a transparent argument for sustainable, intentional making.
- His 2026 collection — built on draping, hand-painting, and the quiet resilience of women through loss and transformation — arrives as both a creative summation and a quiet act of resistance against an industry that keeps forgetting its own stated values.
Gary Bigeni is in his studio a week before Australian Fashion Week, paint-splattered and unhurried. He has done this twenty-three times. By now he understands the rhythm: six months of work, a twenty-minute runway moment, and then the question that follows every show — what now?
The answer is expensive. Even without theatrical effects or elaborate production, staging a show at Australian Fashion Week costs between $25,000 and $40,000. For a designer who also teaches at the University of Technology Sydney and works closely with a small circle of collaborators, that number demands careful planning and genuine trust. He learned early, under the mentorship of boutique owner Belinda Seper, the principle he still lives by: establish yourself by doing one thing exceptionally well, then grow from there.
The industry Bigeni entered in 2003 operated on entirely different logic. Buyers attended Fashion Week in person. Lookbooks were mailed to target boutiques. International interest was possible. That infrastructure has largely dissolved. Fewer buyers travel now. What matters is digital reach — the ability to tell your story through a screen. Bigeni shares his hand-painting process online, making visible the labor behind an independent, sustainable label. He abandoned the traditional fashion calendar years ago, designing instead on a rhythm that works for him and his customers.
Those customers, he's noticed, consistently buy sizes 12, 14, and 16. He designs for them deliberately, at a time when the industry has quietly retreated from its earlier promises. Five years ago there was real momentum around sustainability and inclusivity. Now the runways have narrowed again. Bigeni pushes back — his collections feature models across ages, sizes, genders, and abilities, including a 68-year-old model whose presence he describes as vibrant and irreplaceable. The average Australian woman wears a size 14 or 16. Inclusivity, he says, is not that difficult to execute.
The financial pressures are real and worsening. Silk has nearly doubled in price. A single box of overseas samples costs close to $2,000 to ship. He tells his students to be smart: don't constantly produce entirely new products. Refresh what works. Build something people count on you for.
His 2026 collection draws on everything he has learned — draping, hand-painting, soft tailoring, sequins, tomato reds — and was shaped by what he calls the quiet, extraordinary resilience of women through birth, loss, illness, and transformation. After the bow, after the twenty minutes, he has learned to let the momentum rest. Friends, films, dance classes. Tomorrow is always a new day.
Gary Bigeni is sitting in his studio, paint-splattered and calm, a week before Australian Fashion Week. He's been here before—twenty-three times before, to be exact. This year feels different. He's made peace with the rhythm of it: six months of work compressed into a twenty-minute runway moment, then the question that always comes after: what now?
The answer, for most independent designers, is complicated and expensive. Bigeni's shows aren't elaborate productions. There's no special lighting, no theatrical effects, no unnecessary flourish. Just clothes, styling, and the energy of the space. Even stripped down to essentials, staging a show at Australian Fashion Week costs between twenty-five and forty thousand dollars. That's the baseline. That's the floor. For a designer working largely alone, juggling teaching at the University of Technology Sydney alongside his label, it's a sum that demands careful calculation and genuine collaboration. He works with Arlette Collective, close friends, and stylist Jana Bartolo. He's learned, over two decades, that you cannot do this alone.
When Bigeni started in 2003, fresh from East Sydney Technical College, the fashion industry operated on a different logic entirely. Buyers and media came to Fashion Week. You printed lookbooks, mailed them to your top ten target boutiques, and if you were lucky, someone wanted to see the collection in person. Bigeni was lucky early. A few buyers expressed interest after his student show. A mentor named Belinda Seper, who owned boutiques across Sydney, took him under her wing for a year, gave him studio space above her Corner Shop in Paddington, and taught him the principle he still lives by: establish yourself by doing one thing exceptionally well, then expand from there.
The landscape has shifted beneath his feet. Fast fashion accelerated the cycle. Social media flattened the gatekeepers. Fewer international buyers travel to Fashion Week now. The traditional pathways have narrowed. What matters now is digital reach, social media engagement, the ability to tell your story through a screen. Bigeni shares his hand-painting process online, showing the labor and intention behind an independent, sustainable brand. He stopped following the traditional fashion calendar years ago. He designs for what works for him and his customers—and his customers, he's noticed, are buying sizes twelve, fourteen, and sixteen consistently. Those are the women he designs for.
This matters because the industry, by his account, has taken a step backward. Five years ago there was momentum around sustainability and inclusivity. Now the runways have reverted to a narrow aesthetic: tall, thin, predominantly white. Bigeni pushes against it deliberately. His collections feature models across ages, sizes, genders, and abilities. He works with a sixty-eight-year-old model regularly who brings what he calls vibrant energy—life experience, presence. The average clothing size in Australia is fourteen or sixteen. Inclusivity shouldn't be a debate, he says. It's not that difficult to execute.
The financial realities are unforgiving. Silk has nearly doubled in price. A thirty-seven-kilogram box of samples from overseas costs just under two thousand dollars to ship. The era of running a business on an oily rag is finished. Bigeni advises his final-year students to be realistic about this. Build a strong portfolio. Trust your instincts. But also: be smart. Don't constantly churn out entirely new products. Take successful core pieces and refresh them with a new cut, fabric, or color. Build something people count on you for, then nurture that growth.
His 2026 collection brings everything he's done over twenty-three years full circle. It's built on draping, hand-painting, soft tailoring, playful prints, sequins, and tomato reds. The collection was inspired by what he calls the quiet and extraordinary resilience of women through birth, loss, illness, depression, and transformation. He took his bow in a bright fuchsia shirt and tailored pants that felt like an extension of the work itself. After six months of planning, after the show ends in twenty minutes, there will be the question again: what happens next? This time, he's made sure to hang out with friends, watch movies, take dance classes. He's learned that the momentum doesn't have to consume everything. Tomorrow is always a new day.
Citas Notables
You absolutely cannot do it alone. You build wonderful relationships with your team and the models.— Gary Bigeni, on the necessity of collaboration in staging a Fashion Week show
The average clothing size in Australia is a 14 or 16. When I look at my own e-commerce sales, sizes 12, 14, and 16 are consistently my top sellers.— Gary Bigeni, on the disconnect between runway aesthetics and actual customer demand
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a twenty-minute show cost forty thousand dollars? What's actually being paid for?
The venue, the production team, the models, the styling, the sound design, the logistics of getting everything backstage and ready. But also—and this is the part people don't see—the months of planning before it. The fabric sourcing, the sampling, the fittings, the coordination with collaborators. It's not just the show itself; it's everything that makes the show possible.
You mentioned that fewer international buyers attend Fashion Week now. If they're not coming, who are you actually showing for?
That's the question every independent designer is asking. You're showing for press, for social media visibility, for the models and the energy in the room. You're building a narrative that travels digitally. The traditional buyer-seller relationship has almost disappeared for small brands. Now it's about reach and engagement metrics.
You champion size diversity on your runway while the industry has apparently moved backward. Does that feel lonely?
It would be wonderful to see more industry-wide support. But when I see the models at our castings—the confidence, the excitement—I know we're doing something right. The women who wear my clothes, the ones buying sizes fourteen and sixteen, they're telling me they feel seen. That's not lonely. That's the whole point.
After twenty-three years, have you ever considered stopping?
Many times. There have been moments when I've thought about throwing in the towel. But I refuse to let setbacks overshadow everything I've built. You pick yourself up. Tomorrow is a new day. That's what I tell myself and what I tell my students.
What changed most between 2003 and now?
Everything became digital and faster and more expensive. But also—and this matters—I learned that longevity beats trends. I have customers who've worn pieces I made twenty-three years ago and still can't bear to part with them. That's what I'm chasing now, not seasonal noise.