Fashion Is Not Just Clothes: Mkhetwa Baloyi on Culture, Fashion Criticism, and Building a South African Archive

South African fashion doesn’t suffer from a lack of talent — it suffers from a lack of documentation.

In this conversation, fashion journalist and cultural analyst Mkhetwa Baloyi, founder of DeMode Journaliste — a visual and editorial platform dedicated to documenting, dissecting, and defining the South African fashion narrative — reflects on observation as a practice, criticism as cultural infrastructure, and why fashion literacy matters as much as the clothes themselves. From Limpopo to the runway, he outlines a vision for South African fashion that is intentional, documented, and globally legible — without losing its intimacy. This is not a conversation about trends. It’s about memory, meaning, and building an ecosystem that lasts.

By Khaya Mnisi

Mkhetwa Baloyi. Image by @8ansho

Take us back to your origins — where did you grow up, and how did that journey lead you into fashion journalism?

I am an independent fashion journalist and visual editor from Mokopane in Limpopo — a town that is not tiny, but small enough to teach you how to observe people quietly. I grew up reserved, artistic, and always watching.

"Observation is really my first medium."

Fashion entered my life very early, through my parents. On Sundays my mom treated church like a runway. The silhouettes, the fabrics and the finishing was all intentional. My dad mirrored that in his own way: clean tailoring, high-quality suits, and a commitment to dressing well. Before I had the language for fashion, I was already absorbing it.

I didn't begin in a creative field at all. I initially studied BCom Law, realized it wasn't my path, dropped out, and moved to Durban to study photography, something I was already doing on the side. Photography was my entry point. I immersed myself in shooting people, clothes, movement, and texture in studios, in the street, in whatever environments would let me capture garments in context. I was obsessed with how clothing behaved.

But the more I shot fashion, the more I noticed the gaps. South Africa didn't have serious runway breakdowns, collection analysis, or cultural critique. Designers were making work, but almost nobody was unpacking it. Publications weren't platforming South African fashion globally, and we lacked voices that wanted to understand fashion beyond "nice clothes." I became one of those voices.

My work now sits at the intersection of editorial writing and visual production. I'm essentially a fashion journalist and a fashion photographer in one — documenting the clothing, and contextualizing the culture around it.

Photograph by Mkhetwa Baloyi

Photograph by Mkhetwa Baloyi

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Did you always see yourself becoming a fashion journalist, or did it grow out of other interests?

I didn't grow up imagining myself in fashion at all. I only really saw the possibility once I moved to Durban. It happened so fast. it's the way people dressed, the styling choices and the confidence. Something about the environment activated my eye. At the time I didn't have language for it, but my curiosity started forming there.

I moved through a lot of creative disciplines before arriving at fashion journalism I started in photography, then videography, shooting music videos for small-town artists, vlogs, anything that needed visuals. I launched an agency in Limpopo called creativehubdaily — a platform to help young creatives find footing in an industry that didn't have a clear entry point for them. After that I even started a podcast. It only survived five episodes, but it taught me how to construct conversations.

Eventually I went back to the root: photography. But this time not fashion photography — photography as craft. I was doing 5am street shoots in different towns and cities, practicing light, shape, texture and movement. Then that evolved into content creation. I was documenting the shoots themselves.

But the turning point was when all of that stopped and I went six months without producing anything. I wasnʼt burnt out, I was recalibrating. I was consuming information obsessively: South African fashion, African fashion, designers, collections, runway shows, history, the global context. Thatʼs when I noticed the gap. South Africa had no serious collection breakdowns, no runway analysis, no cultural critique, no publication championing South African fashion to the world. We had content, but not literacy. I didnʼt decide to become a fashion journalist. It happened accidentally. The interest was always there, but I never thought I could talk about fashion publicly, let alone write about it. But Iʼve always been a writer privately. I journal constantly, and I write down theories, observations, and ideas in full detail. So I asked myself: What if I wrote about designers and collections the same way I write about my thoughts?

That question became the bridge. Today Iʼm not pivoting away from photography, Iʼm integrating it. My work sits at the intersection of editorial writing, visual analysis, and cultural critique. Iʼm essentially a hybrid media specialist. The part that excites me most about fashion journalism right now isnʼt where it is, but where it could go. With the evolution of global fashion systems, AI, new design appointments, bolder silhouettes, and new design philosophies, the fashion critic is re-emerging as a necessary figure. Many people enter the space through commentary, but only a few build beyond the moment into an ecosystem. Thatʼs the challenge and the opportunity — to expand the narrative, not just react to it.

Photograph by Mkhetwa Baloyi

Photograph by Mkhetwa Baloyi

Your name, De Mode Journaliste, is iconic. Where and how did the name come about?

The name came when I decided to build a platform instead of posting everything under my personal name. I wanted a title that reflected the reality of my work — that Iʼm a hybrid media specialist working across formats, mediums, and accounts. It needed to feel like a publication, not a personality.

The French influence wasnʼt accidental. Paris remains the symbolic center of global fashion — not just because of Paris Fashion Week, but because the French language and fashion share a historic lineage. In international fashion media, certain French terms carry a prestige and intellectual weight that English doesnʼt quite reproduce. “De Modeˮ is one of those terms. It means “of fashion,ˮ and a lot of international commentators use it.

So I took “De Modeˮ and paired it with “Journalisteˮ — the French term for journalist. In French, “fashion journalistˮ would normally be journaliste de mode, but that felt like a job title. De Mode Journaliste felt like an institution. The inversion gave it presence, and more importantly, it gave it a future.

Thereʼs also a strategic layer people miss: I didnʼt want the platform to be conflated with my identity. Yes, I am the face right now, but that wonʼt always be the case. I see De Mode Journaliste expanding into segments, contributors, and departments — eventually functioning as a South African fashion archive. Something designers can reference, scholars can cite, and future students can learn from. In fifty years, someone should be able to pull up a review and say: “This is the first time this silhouette appeared in South African fashion, and hereʼs why it mattered.ˮ

Interestingly, I came up with the name before I even knew what the platform would become. The identity preceded the work, which is rare. And I didnʼt use my own name because my work isnʼt just about advancing myself — itʼs about building literacy and visibility for South African fashion.

De Mode Journaliste isnʼt a persona, itʼs an ecosystem. Today, when I hear the name, I hear “South African fashion archive.ˮ

You're from Limpopo, and there's a common belief that to succeed as a creative in South Africa, one must relocate to Johannesburg or other creative centers like Cape Town. Do you believe this is accurate, or can maintaining a connection to your roots be equally influential?

Growing up in Limpopo, the creative industry didnʼt feel accessible at all — especially fashion. Trends, silhouettes, and new ideas arrive later there. By the time something reaches Limpopo, Joburg has already moved on. So if youʼre a young creative trying to develop taste, perspective, or cultural literacy, you eventually have to branch out just to see different possibilities.

Leaving definitely shifted my perspective. First I moved to Pretoria to study law - I dropped out, but that year was important because itʼs when I started taking photography seriously, using real cameras instead of just shooting my friends DJing in pubs on my phone. Then moving to Durban exposed me to a different creative rhythm entirely — different clothes, different conversations, different types of ambition. That opened my imagination in a way Limpopo couldnʼt at the time.

So I donʼt think the answer is as one-dimensional as “moveˮ or “stay.ˮ Location matters — access, proximity, and industry density are real factors. But perspective and ambition matter just as much. You have to be willing to push yourself into the rooms where the work is happening. Sometimes that means relocating, and sometimes it means traveling frequently while still being based at home. It all depends on your capacity — financially, emotionally, and strategically.

For me, staying connected to Limpopo doesnʼt “ground my workˮ in a romantic sense. I donʼt confine myself to Limpopo. I travel a lot, I attend shows, I think nationally and globally, and Iʼm actively planning to relocate to Johannesburg. Going home to Limpopo is part of my story, but not the container for my future.

If a young creative from Limpopo asked me whether they have to move to make it, Iʼd say: not immediately, but eventually you'll need to expand your geography in some form. Maybe thatʼs moving, maybe thatʼs extended stays, maybe thatʼs constant mobility. Build a network, build competence, build literacy, build a name. Once your work can operate without you physically babysitting it, then you have freedom to choose where you base your life. For me, Limpopo is where the story begins, not where it ends.

Mkhetwa wearing @noscompanies

Thinking back to when you first started, what was one of the hardest lessons you had to learn as a fashion journalist, and how did it change the way you work today?

When I first started, the hardest lesson wasnʼt about writing. It was about access. Fashion is saturated with many roles, but fashion journalism — especially when it is culturally literate and archival — takes time to be recognized. Nothing is handed to you. You have to earn the room: through rigor, through consistency, through showing that you understand the work designers are doing and that youʼre willing to frame it with the respect they deserve. I also had to learn that the general public doesnʼt always read fashion through the same lens that designers, scholars or fashion anthropologists do.

For many people, clothing is simply clothing. For us, it is identity, history, silhouette, craft, ritual, material, and communication. Building that bridge between the two worlds requires patience and context.

The next lesson was about relationships. Fashion operates through delicate networks — not in a superficial way, but in a deeply communal way. Designers connect through ideas, references, archives, and values. Those relationships do not reveal themselves to outsiders immediately. They form slowly, and once they do, they are incredibly fruitful. Coming from Limpopo into cities like Johannesburg and Cape Town, I had to understand not only the ecosystem, but the pace, the level of professionalism, and the cultural differences in the way people in fashion work, collaborate and speak to one another. None of this was “hardˮ in the sense of discouraging — it was just a reality. A system you have to learn, not fight. It didnʼt change who I am, it simply refined how I place myself inside the ecosystem. It helped me understand that if I was going to contribute to the archive of South African fashion, I needed to hold myself to the same standard as the designers I write about. Thatʼs why my work never felt like an entry point — it felt like I had already been here. I positioned myself intentionally from day one. Today, that lesson shows up in the way I choose what to critique. I donʼt waste my platform on work that isnʼt ready. If something doesnʼt move me, I donʼt need to announce it I simply donʼt speak on it. And when I do speak, I speak from research, not opinion. My audience is given context, not gossip, because the goal is to elevate the literacy of South African fashion, not to add to the noise.

You also describe yourself as a cultural analyst. Can you unpack that role a little—what does it mean to examine fashion not just as clothing, but as culture?

When I describe myself as a cultural analyst, it means I see fashion not just as clothing, but as a living archive, a multidimensional form of expression, a sacred art, and a means of communication that carries feeling. Fashion is how we document identity, history, and the ways people live and experience the world. For me, the core of culture in fashion is identity, and to understand identity, you have to engage deeply with history. Everything else —ritual, politics, even social structures-feeds into or flows from these two pillars. Without identity and history, culture in fashion loses its depth and resonance. I do think South African fashion is beginning to fully understand clothing as culture. It's been a journey, but we're now at a moment where the industry is reaching a new height. There's a new dawn unfolding, and anyone engaged with fashion right now is witnessing something rare: a local scene that's growing rapidly in conversation, quality, and cultural relevance, while also asserting itself globally. In my work, I practice cultural analysis by identifying these layers in real-time and amplifying them thoughtfully. I look at how a garment communicates identity, how it converses with history, and how audiences experience it emotionally. It's not just reporting what's on the runway-it's unpacking the story behind it, the ritual of its unveiling, the intentionality of its design, and the conversation it sparks culturally. A perfect example is Siyababa Atelierʼs red dress moment. It wasnʼt just a runway highlight—it was a cultural statement. I captured it through multiple angles: the spiritual unveiling on two videos, plus two sit-downs with the designer unpacking the story, the collection, and the meaning behind the model. The response was massive—views and engagement that proved people werenʼt just watching a dress, they were witnessing culture in motion. That moment showed exactly how South African fashion can be more than aesthetics—it can be a living, breathing cultural conversation.

Mkhetwa at the Crochet Affair panel discussion with Crochet Couture ZA

You talk a lot about fashion criticism. How would you explain it in your own words, and why do you think it’s important for an industry to have honest, objective voices giving feedback? And what do you think happens when creatives are not giving constructive criticism?

Fashion criticism is not just about saying whether a garment is “niceˮ or “ugly.ˮ At its highest function, criticism is a cultural and educational tool — it teaches audiences how to see, not just how to react. It asks what a [designer’s] collection is proposing politically, technically, socially, and emotionally. Without that lens, entire industries become echo chambers of generic praise. Everything becomes “beautiful,ˮ “cute,ˮ “love,ˮ and nothing actually moves forward.

Where I sit with it — especially as someone who documents stories — is that the greatest tragedy of weak criticism is that it erases the personal and material labor behind fashion. Designersʼ life experiences, the intention behind silhouettes, the way a seamstress has been sewing for 50 years in the back room, the reason a designer casts a specific model in a specific look — all of that disappears. Weʼre left with the bare surface: did people like it or not?

That creates a shallow industry. One dimensional. No depth. No continuity. No literacy.

Real criticism builds muscle — it sharpens taste, it sharpens ambition, and it keeps the ecosystem fluent.

I donʼt actually think fashion lacks criticism; if anything itʼs full of criticism — but almost all of it is literal criticism, not contextual criticism. People are quick to judge and slow to understand. Thereʼs little curiosity around design process, sourcing, technique, or intention. Itʼs reactions without research.

But critique also asks another question: where is the critique coming from? There is a difference between seeing a garment on a runway vs feeling it, wearing it, knowing the hours behind it, knowing the supply chain, understanding how fabrics behave, understanding how ateliers function. If criticism is coming mostly from people who have never even been in a runway room or held a couture piece in their hands, then what literacy is being developed? What conversation is actually happening?

So yes — fashion does need critique. Not for negativity, but for continuity. For memory. For craft. For literacy. It keeps the industry from becoming passive and keeps audiences from consuming fashion like fast content. It forces us to think.

You mentioned this idea of “literal” versus “contextual” criticism earlier — could you unpack that a bit for me? What’s the real difference between the two?

That distinction matters a lot, especially in fashion.

Literal criticism is surface-level judgment — focusing on what is immediately visible and how the viewer personally feels about it. It’s a very reactive version of criticism; it stops at first glance without asking deeper questions. Because of that, it often says more about the viewer’s taste than the designer’s work. It creates noise, not understanding.

Contextual criticism, on the other hand, is more investigative and interpretive. It treats fashion as multidimensional — as design, culture, labor, history, and communication — rather than just clothing. It’s really about asking questions before making conclusions. This type of criticism understands that a garment exists within systems.

You might still decide that you don’t like the piece, but your judgment comes after understanding, not before it.

When you critique a collection or a designer, how do you balance being honest with being respectful?

For me, critique always starts with the work itself. It has to pull me. Something has to spark my curiosity — it might be a silhouette, a detail, a textile, a form, or just how the garment sits on the body. Thatʼs usually my point of entry. And then once Iʼm in, I can start unpacking: what was the designer trying to do here? Where does it come from? What are the references? What is the story? How does it exist culturally, technically, and historically?

I think honesty in fashion criticism only really exists when you have literacy. Literacy meaning knowledge, observation, research, curiosity.

You canʼt tell the truth about fashion if you donʼt understand what youʼre looking at. I canʼt stress that enough — honest critique is informed critique. It canʼt be rooted in “I like itˮ or “I donʼt like it.ˮ Those are feelings, not insights.

And respect, for me, looks like speaking about the garment as a piece of design, not as a reflection of the modelʼs body, not as an extension of your own personal taste, and not as a personal attack on the designer. I might look at something and say, “I would never wear this,ˮ but then when I research it and understand its story, the material sourcing, the construction, the time, the technique — suddenly the garment becomes interesting. Thatʼs respect. Respect is understanding before declaring. Respect is curiosity before critique.

When I write or speak about fashion, Iʼm primarily speaking to the designer, to future scholars, to the archives, to the industry — stylists, photographers, pattern cutters, historians, creative directors — and then also to the general public, because I want them to understand that fashion is not just clothes. Fashion is emotion, intention, silhouette, identity, politics, history. Fashion is narrative. Fashion is engineering. Fashion is communication.

So for me the balance between honesty and respect is very simple: donʼt comment your personal thoughts — comment the designerʼs intention.

Sustainable fashion is a big topic globally. What does it mean to you here in South Africa and how are designers embracing it?

When I think of sustainability in the South African fashion context, the first things that come to mind are longevity and environmental responsibility. For me, sustainability isnʼt just a buzzword — itʼs about making clothes that are meant to last, that honour the environment they come from, and that carry meaning beyond aesthetics.

In South Africa, sustainability often has a different logic than it does in European or North American fashion systems. Here, sustainability has always been about resourcefulness and cultural continuity rather than just trend-driven eco-claims. Thereʼs a long history of designers and makers using whatʼs available, repurposing materials, and deliberately choosing methods that support both people and place — a form of creativity rooted in necessity but also in meaning.

Globally and locally, sustainable fashion tends to mean reducing waste and carbon output and improving working conditions — and some of that is true here too. But in South Africa, sustainability also intersects deeply with cultural preservation, craft education, and community support, because those things have always mattered here. Itʼs not only about minimizing environmental impact — itʼs also about supporting local artisans, revitalizing traditional techniques like natural dyeing and beadwork, and acknowledging the people behind the clothing.

One standout example of this practice in motion is VIVIERS Studio. Founded by Lezanne Viviers in 2019 in Johannesburg, the studio prioritizes Earth-conscious limited editions, local raw materials, and rigorous transparency about origin, production, and impact. They encourage clients to ask questions about how garments are made, who makes them, and what materials are used — because sustainability should start with disclosure and accountability. In doing this, VIVIERS isnʼt just making sustainable clothes — itʼs educating the wearer about the value and provenance of what they own. This aligns with a broader move in SA fashion toward conscientious creation and slow, intentional consumption, not wasteful volume. (brand manifesto details you provided)

Beyond individual studios, other South African designers — from upcyclers to heritage knitwear champions — are blending environmental care with cultural storytelling. Local creatives are using traditional fabrics and natural dyes; many are sourcing materials locally to reduce environmental strain and support regional economies.

Right now, sustainability in South Africa is still primarily driven by designers and people active in the fashion industry, but thatʼs changing. Consumers here are increasingly aware of environmental impact and ethical production — theyʼre starting to care about where garments come from, who made them, and what they represent. Itʼs not yet mainstream the way it is in some European markets, but the shift is real, especially among younger, conscious consumers who think about fashion not just as clothing but as an expression of values.

Looking ahead, I see a sustainable South African fashion industry shaped by institutional support, craft preservation, and cultural infrastructure. That means stronger local production systems that make sustainable fashion economically viable, educational and craft-based support so traditional textiles and skills donʼt disappear. Archival systems that document design histories, materials, and techniques for future generations.

Export infrastructure that helps South African sustainable fashion reach international markets without losing its local specificity.

These elements will help expand sustainability from a set of isolated practices into a full ecosystem — one where ethical production, environmental care, and cultural preservation are all valued as part of a mature South African fashion industry.

Now that we’re in 2026, what excites you about South African fashion? And what do you wish would disappear entirely?

What excites me most right now is the momentum — and momentum isnʼt hype, itʼs direction. You can feel South African fashion recalibrating itself. The pause of institutions like SAFW for restructuring, the first solo showcase of BamCollectiveʼs “Graphism,ˮ and Uniform by Luke Radloff finally presenting on runway with Confections & Collections last year… those are signals of an ecosystem thatʼs shifting from survival mode into intentional growth. Something is clearly happening.

The other thing that excites me is the media shift. More people are talking about South African fashion with actual curiosity, not just aesthetics. More outlets are documenting shows. More platforms are archiving the work. And my own platform has become part of that archive — a place where runway moments, designer interviews, and collection language can actually be preserved. Thatʼs important because South African fashion has lacked historical referentiality. The work we make today becomes the documentation scholars, institutions, and designers will need tomorrow.

South African fashion is setting itself apart by using clothing as a form of cultural expression rather than just decoration. Designers here donʼt just make garments — they communicate identity, ritual, hybridity, lineage. While global fashion is in a long cycle of commercial minimalism and resale-driven nostalgia, South African designers are unearthing culture, reconfiguring silhouettes, and reinterpreting textile language. Itʼs not just “African printˮ or “local inspiration.ˮ Itʼs design as anthropology.

What I wish would disappear is the idea that South African fashion is only local. That it belongs only to us, and therefore it must only circulate within us. That belief makes the industry small. It creates limitations around value, reach, and ambition. South African fashion is global in output, in intention, in technical language, in cultural richness — the only thing that isnʼt global yet is distribution and perception. And perception is the easiest part to change once the work is documented, understood, and accessible.

If we continue on this trajectory, I think weʼll see the rise of institutionalised design houses in South Africa — brands with structure, longevity, and archives. Weʼll see more garment reconstructions and design references that pull from our own timeline rather than always borrowing from Europe or America. And weʼll see a fully developed South African fashion archival system supported by media, scholarship, and platforms. Accessibility will also change — the average person will finally be able to encounter South African fashion not as something rare, niche, or “for insiders,ˮ but as a living cultural economy.

If you had to sum up the South African fashion industry in one sentence, what

would it be?

South African fashion is local before it is global — it speaks to us first, and because of that intimacy, the world listens later.

What I mean by that is South African fashion isnʼt trying to replicate Paris or New York or Milan. Itʼs not chasing their language. Itʼs building its own. Our designers design from identity, from culture, from ritual, from memory. The work is rooted here — in our communities, our histories, our archives, our tensions, our textures. Thatʼs why the output feels so different: itʼs not made for export, itʼs made for expression.

And because itʼs local in intention, it becomes global in relevance. The world doesnʼt need more of the same — itʼs looking for sincerity, for proximity, for cultural precision. South African fashion has all of that, and weʼre only now beginning to document it properly, archive it properly, and speak about it in a way that reflects its actual scale.

Supporting African brands seems like a no-brainer (think the fashion circle and individuals like Awonke Moko), but if you had to convince someone who’s skeptical, how would you explain why it matters?

Supporting African brands is not charity — itʼs cultural infrastructure. When you support an African fashion house, youʼre sustaining a system of makers, craft histories, design philosophies, and textile ecosystems that donʼt exist anywhere else in the world. African fashion isnʼt just clothing; itʼs language, cosmology, ritual, identity, and memory translated into garment form. It carries stories that global luxury cannot reproduce, because the references, symbols, and contexts are rooted in place — in land, in history, in community.

The common argument is, “Clothes are clothes — why does it matter who made them?ˮ But that assumes fashion is purely aesthetic. Fashion is not just what is worn; itʼs why it is worn, how it is made, who made it, and what lineage it belongs to.

A cobalt blue coat from Thebe Magugu doesn't mean the same thing as a cobalt blue coat from Saint Laurent, even if they share a colour reference — one is an archive, the other is a product.

African designers bring value in areas the global north often canʼt replicate: artisanal handwork, indigenous textile knowledge, Afro-futurist silhouette logic, culturally grounded storytelling, environmentally inventive material sourcing, and a design literacy that emerges from scarcity, ritual, and improvisation. Their work doesnʼt just add to global fashion — it expands its vocabulary. When African brands are supported, entire ecosystems benefit. Artisans keep their craft alive. Young designers see a pathway that doesnʼt require relocation. Studios, pattern cutters, dyers, seamstresses, stylists, photographers, show producers, archivists, and educators become part of a living economy. And critically, the archive grows — because you cannot archive what is not produced, and you cannot produce without support. African fashionʼs success alters global fashionʼs center of gravity. It dismantles the assumption that innovation only happens in Paris, Milan, or London. It proves that excellence is not geographic. When African brands thrive, the continent stops being a “reference pointˮ and becomes a reference source — and that distinction is everything.

Ultimately, supporting African brands matters because it keeps our stories from being erased, diluted, or exported without context. It matters because fashion history is being written in real time, and we have the rare chance to ensure that Africa is not footnoted, but authored.

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