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In the brand deck I received from Maria McManus earlier this year, photos of her recycled cashmere sweaters, organic cotton button-downs, and recycled nylon leggings were interrupted by a line of text: “We are not perfect,” it read. “We offer a better option, a less harmful way to dress.”
It was a surprise, though it’s hardly a radical statement. Of course no brand is perfect. Still, the tendency for most is to amplify or exaggerate their sustainability efforts, not deliver them with an asterisk. We’ve reached a point where designing an Earth Day capsule or introducing a few recycled fabrics is all it takes to be a “sustainable brand,” a vague categorization made hazier by the lack of standard definitions for sustainable, natural, eco, and other buzzwords. It’s created opportunities for brands to adopt whatever version of “sustainability” works best for them, not for the planet. An organic cotton T-shirt is “sustainable” whether the fibers are 100% organic or just 50%, or if the cotton is certified or unchecked.
“What does ‘sustainability’ even mean anymore?” asks Angel Chang, who recently launched a line of electricity-free, handmade organic cotton garments in collaboration with an artisan village in southwest China. “If my line is ‘sustainable,’ and someone compares it to a fast fashion brand’s ‘sustainable’ capsule… That just isn’t the same thing.”
The confusion and greenwashing has led many designers to avoid the word sustainable altogether. On Instagram, McManus describes her clothes as “made with the future in mind”; Chang refers to hers as “zero carbon womenswear that follows the cycles of nature.” Shaina Mote, meanwhile, calls her practices “holistic,” not sustainable, and Christy Dawn insists “Sustainability is not enough.”
Other brands are rejecting the word more aggressively, like Dôen. In their six years in business, sisters Margaret and Katherine Kleveland—the brand’s chief executive and chief creative officer, respectively—have mostly preferred to let their clothes speak for themselves. Their messaging typically veers more feminist than “eco”: They’re supporters of Planned Parenthood and the NAACP, and with every purchase, they offer customers the option to donate to Room to Read, an organization that supports education and gender equality in India and Africa. Their prairie dresses and eyelet tops are often made with GOTS-certified organic cotton or viscose, and their collections are produced in audited, certified, women-owned factories in India, Peru, and Portugal.
As a result, Dôen is frequently described as “sustainable” by customers and the press. But a few months ago, a bold message appeared on its website: “We do not consider ourselves to be a slow fashion or sustainable brand.”
Some of their customers were upset, but the subtext wasn’t that Dôen doesn’t care about the planet. Quite the opposite: They just haven’t achieved their vision of true sustainability—products that “give more back to the planet than they take from it”—and want to hold themselves accountable to change. “It has always been really important to us to produce products made of natural fabrics that are not trend-driven, that can live in your wardrobe, that aren’t [designed to be] thrown away,” Katherine explains via Zoom. “But to be able to quantify that impact is a huge goal. It does everyone a disservice to hang your hat on a term like sustainable or regenerative, and not get into the details of how those choices play a part in being a brand with integrity,” she adds. “We don’t want it to be a gimmick or marketing. We want to get to the substance.”
Only with a rigorous audit of their supply chain could they understand precisely what they were making, where it came from, and, importantly, who was involved. So Dôen hired a value chain consultant to measure the brand’s current impact (which grew in 2020, as the brand did), identify the weak points, and set ambitious targets for the future.
Their findings are outlined in Dôen’s 2021 Resolutions, a 17-page document with sections dedicated to environmental impact, ethical practices, community representation, internal progress, and ongoing partnerships. There are pie charts and graphs and a lot of science, a stark departure from the label’s usual dreamy, image-forward aesthetic. The word “sustainable” is noticeably absent; instead, there are more explicit details that the Klevelands feel other brands choose to ignore. They point out that their biodegradable poly bags—frequently heralded by others as “sustainable alternatives” to plastic—still emit greenhouse gases as they degrade; they aren’t a perfect solution. (Dôen will soon transition to paper-based glassine bags, with at-home compostable packaging coming in 2023.) They also drill into the difference between “fair trade sewing” and an entire garment being fair trade, which hasn’t always been possible.
“My hope is for the customer to become a little bit more educated about the inner workings of the apparel industry, even if they get a little uncomfortable with that information,” Margaret says. “Our customers are so passionate, and I really hope they dig in and are maybe inspired to ask other brands for details like this, instead of just being massaged by their marketing and buzzwords.”
The report celebrates the achievements Dôen made in 2020, like increasing the use of organic cotton and recycled fibers (to 31% and 34%, respectively). The company’s near-future goals include building a resale site by 2022; transitioning 50% of its viscose sourcing to responsibly-managed forests by the end of 2022; and hiring a director of impact later this year to scale all of the above. “There is still a ton of work to do in understanding our impact so we can benchmark for the future,” Margaret says. “But the most aggressive goal-setting is really in traceability. Without that visibility [into the supply chain], you can’t be impactful in all of the other areas.”
Shaina Mote, who conducted a similar supply chain audit last year, discovered she couldn’t rely on labels like “organic” and “sustainable” when she sourced her fabric. While her cotton was organic and likely required less water, she learned it was also grown in Xinjiang, China, where millions of Uighurs have been detained and forced to work on cotton fields. “I thought I was doing all the right things—I was using organic cotton, I was making timeless pieces,” she said. “But this [auditing] process made me realize I need to look so much deeper.”
By pulling back the curtain, the Klevelands, Mote, and their like-minded peers are making themselves newly vulnerable. But when “sustainability” no longer means much and the consumer has been trained to shop their way to a healthier planet, owning up to your limitations and truly holding yourself accountable is the best way to cut through the noise. It’s the opposite of greenwashing: With everything out in the open—no frills, no spin—you can make an informed decision as a consumer, and brands can make informed decisions about where to focus their energy.
“Sustainability” isn’t a dirty word; it might just be a little dated. We know a lot more than we did just 10 years ago, and there are resources and technologies available today that weren’t easily accessible (or in existence) then. There has to be something that “comes next”—a term or a movement that reflects where we are now. The Klevelands make a compelling case for one that’s refreshingly simple: integrity. “Margaret and I have always wanted to do things better and with more integrity,” Katherine says. “There is integrity peppered into every step, from the design process to sourcing to the way we build community. We don’t have [financial] backers to answer to, so we’re really able to lead with our values. But we are a company that exists with a capitalist structure—we’re trying to be a viable business, as well as be socially and environmentally responsible, as well as answer to the needs of our customers,” she continues. “We aren’t 100% there yet. It’s a journey.”