<h1 class="centre">A concrete brutalist structure from the 70s in the middle of a forest in New Delhi is where artist and designer Devanshi Jain drums up her creations. Bags, candelabra, to the odd bits and bobs—all of which borrow elements from this serene habitat. Her work is emotionally charged but created with the soft and slow process of working with bio-materials and collaborating with artisans from around India. A graduate of Parsons School of Design in New York and currently residing between New Delhi and Calcutta, Jain creates work in chapters that explore the depths of her lived experiences while also experimenting with different bio-composites. Working closely with the Healthy Materials Lab at Parsons while at school, science and experimentation are central to her body of work, where form and material take precedence over utility.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Perched on cushions fashioned out of algae foam, and curtains made out of Lotus silk in her studio, I chatted with Devanshi about her material choices, her design identity and how to build a practice that listens more than it imposes.</h1>
<h1 class="left">How would you explain your practise to somebody who may not understand your trajectory, which spans many verticals?</h1>
<h1 class="left">My work sits at the intersection of art, fashion and material research. It spans body objects, installations, and spatial interventions—often guided by biomaterial exploration and speculative narratives. I view each piece as a tactile offering, almost like a portal into another possible world. Whether it’s a sculptural handbag made with hemp-fibre-based bio-resin or a recycled-glass jewellery series displayed on melting ice. I see my studio as a site of alchemy where discarded/natural matter, emotions, and ideas are metabolised into form.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Do you consider yourself more of an artist or a designer?</h1>
<h1 class="centre">I exist somewhere between. Some days I’m sculpting a body object with the sensitivity of an artist, other days I’m problem-solving like a designer. I’m more drawn to the poetics of process—my process borrows from design, but my instinct is driven by art. I think through making, but not always toward a function. Labels tend to fall short— at times I am a choreographer orchestrating a circus in a tomb, a cook/scientist formulating plant-based alternatives to resin, a storyteller translating non-linear chapters of my life into wearable forms or a farmer planting wild grass around my studio to keep the fireflies coming. What matters most to me is the emotional and material language a piece holds. So yes, in between. Maybe outside. Maybe neither. Maybe just a translator of sensations.</h1>
<h1 class="right">You say your instinct is driven by art, what sparks first— the material or concept?</h1>
<h1 class="right">The concept almost always leads. I try to listen closely to what it needs - sometimes it asks for clay, sometimes for algae foam, rose silk, or even sound. The material usually finds the work. I work with plant-based leathers, recycled glass, bio-textiles, algae-based foam, reclaimed metal, found tapestry…they each carry a memory, a temperament. But I don’t force material onto meaning.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">One can tell from the visuals you put out that you have a distinctive aesthetic identity. I am curious how that came about.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Slowly and subconsciously. I think it’s shaped by instinct, repetition and refusal, from an unwillingness to make beautiful things just for the sake of it. I’ve always been drawn to the awkward. To objects that are slightly undone, fragile, uncomfortable, and tender. It emerged through collecting memories of sensations and paying attention to what made me feel something. Spending time in my studio in the forest, surrounded by silence, has also shaped the way I see and sense. My aesthetic isn’t planned —it’s a result of paying attention.</h1>
<h1 class="left">Why were you drawn to using bio materials?</h1>
<h1 class="left">For me, working with eco-forward materials is about learning to co-exist with nature instead of just extracting from it. They carry memory, process and care—it’s a way of creating responsibly with the end in mind. Fashion’s future is conscious, tactile and rooted in respect. Embracing the age of bio-fabrication is not just a shift, it’s a choice— I’m always looking for healthier alternatives to what we wear and how we make because fashion’s future can’t look like its past. This isn’t fashion disguised as green, it’s luxury redefined. a new set of values for a new era of consumers.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">As far as conscious goes, your creations move beyond the typical forms of eco-inspired craftwork. Where does tech get involved, and how do these materials take shape?</h1>
<h1 class="centre">A lot of it happens at the studio. We formulate biocomposites that can be moulded and machine-sanded. Other materials are sourced globally: mango-based leather from the Netherlands, cactus-based leather from Mexico, algae-based foam and milk protein-based pigments from the US, deconstructed tyre outsoles and pineapple-based leather from Spain. Over the years, I’ve established relationships with material innovators across the world, and I often reach out when I’m exploring a new direction. I also tap into local ecosystems - sourcing from mills and collaborating with emerging researchers in India working with banana fibre, tomato leather and other plant-based materials. Fairs, labs and workshops continue to be a key part of the process, offering access to the evolving world of sustainable materials.</h1>
<h1 class="right">Are there any artists or thinkers—past or present—who deeply influence your way of making?</h1>
<h1 class="right">I think Neri Oxman’s idea of material ecology cracked something open for me: that design can grow as nature does, with intelligence and intention. Nature isn’t something to decorate with, it’s something to collaborate with. True luxury isn’t perfect, it’s alive. It decays, adapts, and holds complexity. That’s the future I hope to build towards—one made with care, not conquest.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">I was so excited to see your collaboration with artist Haruhiko Kawaguchi! How did that come about?</h1>
<h1 class="centre">I came across his work on Hypebeast while I was researching the idea of containment and emotional claustrophobia. His work with vacuum sealing felt viscerally close to what I was feeling during the pandemic, so I reached out to him with a cold email, honestly not expecting a response. But he did get back, saying he wanted to collaborate - that initial connection was more than just a professional exchange; it felt like an organic match, where we both saw the resonance between our works.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">For me, it was about pushing my work into a different space where it could be appreciated not just as fashion, but as fine art. The pieces I create are deeply personal—each one is a reflection of a chapter in my life—and I wanted them to transcend the usual perception of accessories. Collaborating with Haruhiko Kawaguchi [photographer hal] allowed me to reframe my body adornments as not just objects of fashion, but pieces that provoke emotion and storytelling. It was a chance to showcase my work in a completely different light, in a space where the narrative was as important as the design itself.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">Your studio space is a structure worth talking about if we look beyond your work. Tell us more about this universe you have created.</h1>
<h1 class="centre">My studio structure was originally built in the 1970s by my grandfather. When I returned from New York after five years, I instantly knew I wanted to inhabit and reinterpret it. The idea was to keep it raw and grounded, almost monastic, so the work could breathe. I was inspired by installations like Prada Marfa by Elmgreen & Dragset— how they stand in isolation, a sculptural retail gesture in the middle of nowhere. That idea of an unlikely but intentional retail space shaped my thinking— I wanted it to be viewed as a sculpture you can live inside; to create something really unexpected: a biomaterials lab-meets-studio-meets-gallery tucked away in a private forest. The space offers a unique, almost surreal retail experience— not transactional but experiential— for a discerning/curious audience. It’s surrounded by untamed wilderness— that was the biggest guide. I didn’t want to tame or manicure it or overly design around it, but to create a subtle contrast— a minimalist monument to nature. Soft futurism meets industrial quiet energy. The monochromatic tone is meant not to interfere with the materials and objects that come into the space. A large rock sits at the entrance— it acts as an anchor, sculpture and grounding, blurring the line between natural and placed/indoor and outdoor. The curtains are made from rose and lotus silk, allowing the space to be divided and configured gently, with softness instead of structure. The cushions are made with algae foam, echoing the same materials used in my work. Everything in the space holds the same logic as the practice— experimental, tactile and deeply in tune with nature.</h1>
<h1 class="left">As a fellow artist, I'm interested to know what you feel about doubt— it’s very important to doubt yourself, to doubt the work you are doing. Do you feel this way, or are you always satisfied with how your pieces turn out?</h1>
<h1 class="left">Doubt is holy. a form of intimacy with the work. I never feel fully done, and I think the best pieces feel a little unresolved. If I ever feel too certain, I know something’s off. Doubt reminds me I’m human. And that’s the whole point.</h1>
<h1 class="left">Is there any one piece that felt particularly personal to make?</h1>
<h1 class="left">All of my pieces are deeply personal and emotional, as they reflect non-linear chapters of my life. I’m currently working on a series of woven body structures made of tomato-based leather. It came from a space of loss and transition, of reflecting on the idea of an empty nest—physically, emotionally, and symbolically. It was born in solitude, but strangely, it made me feel less alone. It’s about mothers, departures and rooms left behind. making it feel like writing a letter I’d never send.</h1>
<h1 class="left">Photography: Angus Guite</h1>
<h1 class="full">A concrete brutalist structure from the 70s in the middle of a forest in New Delhi is where artist and designer Devanshi Jain drums up her creations. Bags, candelabra, to the odd bits and bobs—all of which borrow elements from this serene habitat. Her work is emotionally charged but created with the soft and slow process of working with bio-materials and collaborating with artisans from around India. A graduate of Parsons School of Design in New York and currently residing between New Delhi and Calcutta, Jain creates work in chapters that explore the depths of her lived experiences while also experimenting with different bio-composites. Working closely with the Healthy Materials Lab at Parsons while at school, science and experimentation are central to her body of work, where form and material take precedence over utility.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Perched on cushions fashioned out of algae foam, and curtains made out of Lotus silk in her studio, I chatted with Devanshi about her material choices, her design identity and how to build a practice that listens more than it imposes.</h1>
<h1 class="full">How would you explain your practise to somebody who may not understand your trajectory, which spans many verticals?</h1>
<h1 class="full">My work sits at the intersection of art, fashion and material research. It spans body objects, installations, and spatial interventions—often guided by biomaterial exploration and speculative narratives. I view each piece as a tactile offering, almost like a portal into another possible world. Whether it’s a sculptural handbag made with hemp-fibre-based bio-resin or a recycled-glass jewellery series displayed on melting ice. I see my studio as a site of alchemy where discarded/natural matter, emotions, and ideas are metabolised into form.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Do you consider yourself more of an artist or a designer?</h1>
<h1 class="full">I exist somewhere between. Some days I’m sculpting a body object with the sensitivity of an artist, other days I’m problem-solving like a designer. I’m more drawn to the poetics of process—my process borrows from design, but my instinct is driven by art. I think through making, but not always toward a function. Labels tend to fall short— at times I am a choreographer orchestrating a circus in a tomb, a cook/scientist formulating plant-based alternatives to resin, a storyteller translating non-linear chapters of my life into wearable forms or a farmer planting wild grass around my studio to keep the fireflies coming. What matters most to me is the emotional and material language a piece holds. So yes, in between. Maybe outside. Maybe neither. Maybe just a translator of sensations.</h1>
<h1 class="full">You say your instinct is driven by art, what sparks first— the material or concept?</h1>
<h1 class="full">The concept almost always leads. I try to listen closely to what it needs - sometimes it asks for clay, sometimes for algae foam, rose silk, or even sound. The material usually finds the work. I work with plant-based leathers, recycled glass, bio-textiles, algae-based foam, reclaimed metal, found tapestry…they each carry a memory, a temperament. But I don’t force material onto meaning.</h1>
<h1 class="full">One can tell from the visuals you put out that you have a distinctive aesthetic identity. I am curious how that came about.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Slowly and subconsciously. I think it’s shaped by instinct, repetition and refusal, from an unwillingness to make beautiful things just for the sake of it. I’ve always been drawn to the awkward. To objects that are slightly undone, fragile, uncomfortable, and tender. It emerged through collecting memories of sensations and paying attention to what made me feel something. Spending time in my studio in the forest, surrounded by silence, has also shaped the way I see and sense. My aesthetic isn’t planned —it’s a result of paying attention.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Why were you drawn to using bio materials?</h1>
<h1 class="full">For me, working with eco-forward materials is about learning to co-exist with nature instead of just extracting from it. They carry memory, process and care—it’s a way of creating responsibly with the end in mind. Fashion’s future is conscious, tactile and rooted in respect. Embracing the age of bio-fabrication is not just a shift, it’s a choice— I’m always looking for healthier alternatives to what we wear and how we make because fashion’s future can’t look like its past. This isn’t fashion disguised as green, it’s luxury redefined. a new set of values for a new era of consumers.</h1>
<h1 class="full">As far as conscious goes, your creations move beyond the typical forms of eco-inspired craftwork. Where does tech get involved, and how do these materials take shape?</h1>
<h1 class="full">A lot of it happens at the studio. We formulate biocomposites that can be moulded and machine-sanded. Other materials are sourced globally: mango-based leather from the Netherlands, cactus-based leather from Mexico, algae-based foam and milk protein-based pigments from the US, deconstructed tyre outsoles and pineapple-based leather from Spain. Over the years, I’ve established relationships with material innovators across the world, and I often reach out when I’m exploring a new direction. I also tap into local ecosystems - sourcing from mills and collaborating with emerging researchers in India working with banana fibre, tomato leather and other plant-based materials. Fairs, labs and workshops continue to be a key part of the process, offering access to the evolving world of sustainable materials.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Are there any artists or thinkers—past or present—who deeply influence your way of making?</h1>
<h1 class="full">I think Neri Oxman’s idea of material ecology cracked something open for me: that design can grow as nature does, with intelligence and intention. Nature isn’t something to decorate with, it’s something to collaborate with. True luxury isn’t perfect, it’s alive. It decays, adapts, and holds complexity. That’s the future I hope to build towards—one made with care, not conquest.</h1>
<h1 class="full">I was so excited to see your collaboration with artist Haruhiko Kawaguchi! How did that come about?</h1>
<h1 class="full">I came across his work on Hypebeast while I was researching the idea of containment and emotional claustrophobia. His work with vacuum sealing felt viscerally close to what I was feeling during the pandemic, so I reached out to him with a cold email, honestly not expecting a response. But he did get back, saying he wanted to collaborate - that initial connection was more than just a professional exchange; it felt like an organic match, where we both saw the resonance between our works.</h1>
<h1 class="full">For me, it was about pushing my work into a different space where it could be appreciated not just as fashion, but as fine art. The pieces I create are deeply personal—each one is a reflection of a chapter in my life—and I wanted them to transcend the usual perception of accessories. Collaborating with Haruhiko Kawaguchi [photographer hal] allowed me to reframe my body adornments as not just objects of fashion, but pieces that provoke emotion and storytelling. It was a chance to showcase my work in a completely different light, in a space where the narrative was as important as the design itself.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Your studio space is a structure worth talking about if we look beyond your work. Tell us more about this universe you have created.</h1>
<h1 class="full">My studio structure was originally built in the 1970s by my grandfather. When I returned from New York after five years, I instantly knew I wanted to inhabit and reinterpret it. The idea was to keep it raw and grounded, almost monastic, so the work could breathe. I was inspired by installations like Prada Marfa by Elmgreen & Dragset— how they stand in isolation, a sculptural retail gesture in the middle of nowhere. That idea of an unlikely but intentional retail space shaped my thinking— I wanted it to be viewed as a sculpture you can live inside; to create something really unexpected: a biomaterials lab-meets-studio-meets-gallery tucked away in a private forest. The space offers a unique, almost surreal retail experience— not transactional but experiential— for a discerning/curious audience. It’s surrounded by untamed wilderness— that was the biggest guide. I didn’t want to tame or manicure it or overly design around it, but to create a subtle contrast— a minimalist monument to nature. Soft futurism meets industrial quiet energy. The monochromatic tone is meant not to interfere with the materials and objects that come into the space. A large rock sits at the entrance— it acts as an anchor, sculpture and grounding, blurring the line between natural and placed/indoor and outdoor. The curtains are made from rose and lotus silk, allowing the space to be divided and configured gently, with softness instead of structure. The cushions are made with algae foam, echoing the same materials used in my work. Everything in the space holds the same logic as the practice— experimental, tactile and deeply in tune with nature.</h1>
<h1 class="full">As a fellow artist, I'm interested to know what you feel about doubt— it’s very important to doubt yourself, to doubt the work you are doing. Do you feel this way, or are you always satisfied with how your pieces turn out?</h1>
<h1 class="full">Doubt is holy. a form of intimacy with the work. I never feel fully done, and I think the best pieces feel a little unresolved. If I ever feel too certain, I know something’s off. Doubt reminds me I’m human. And that’s the whole point.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Is there any one piece that felt particularly personal to make?</h1>
<h1 class="full">All of my pieces are deeply personal and emotional, as they reflect non-linear chapters of my life. I’m currently working on a series of woven body structures made of tomato-based leather. It came from a space of loss and transition, of reflecting on the idea of an empty nest—physically, emotionally, and symbolically. It was born in solitude, but strangely, it made me feel less alone. It’s about mothers, departures and rooms left behind. making it feel like writing a letter I’d never send.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Photography: Angus Guite</h1>