“We are all broken, but, for some, there is strength in the cracks,” offered an introspective Bora Aksu at a walkthrough of his spring 2026 collection. For the first time, the designer’s inspiration didn’t come from a real-life person, but the hundreds of damaged Victorian dolls he’s spent his entire adult life collecting. Like his previous muses—the assassinated Empress Elisabeth of Austria, or Sophie Germain, the 18th-century thinker who was published under a male pseudonym—these tarnished figures crowding his studio shelves were at some point cast aside. It’s a position Aksu, who was actively discouraged from playing with so-called girls’ toys as a child, sympathizes with. And, well, it wouldn’t take a shrink to connect that feeling of exclusion to the care with which he treats his source material. “I always think: ‘OK, I’m gonna bring your beauty out,’” he said. “That fuels the passion.”
We were in the rose garden behind St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden when Aksu brought his dolls to life. The transformation was often literal, with models walking in scaled-up versions of the pretty-baby dresses this reporter had spotted on their porcelain counterparts. Among them was an elaborately ruffled nightgown cut from iridescent lace—deadstock from a shuttered Turkish bridal house, to which Aksu returned throughout the collection for overlays, trimmings, prints, appliqués, you name it—and a tiered prairie dress in pale pink broderie anglaise that spoke to his newfound appreciation of cotton. The designer worked meters of the stuff into puff-sleeve dresses and striped peplum blouses layered with tulle, lace, and crochet—an experiment that resulted in more of the same antique chintz that has always been his signature. “I’m a one-trick pony,” Aksu said, with a laugh. “I do what I know.”
What felt new was Aksu letting go of the need to faithfully reconstruct every detail of the anti-heroines who’ve previously served as his starting points. “Because doll clothes were historically made from the remnants of a person’s wardrobe, there’s a randomness and humor to the collection,” he explained. “It’s been a platform to imagine.” That sense of playfulness came through in jumbo sequins, swaying on wires beneath the tulle underlays of a voluminous sack dress; in the baroque swags of mustard georgette and crimson silk across asymmetrically frilled gowns; and in the jaunty short suits cut from clashing check separates. These imperfect gestures proved effective in reining in Aksu’s more sugar-sweet instincts. “The idea isn’t to eradicate people’s faults, but to see the beauty in them,” he concluded. “I had so much more freedom this time around. I just want people to have that, too.”
