At my core, I believe creative spaces should be rooted in care, collaboration, and deep respect—spaces where artists aren’t just showcased, but supported. This belief led me to launch Les Adore nearly two years ago, a global production company built on nurturing creativity. Since then, I’ve had the privilege of leading a talented student team to produce six editorial magazine issues, host record-setting events during New York Fashion Week, and collaborate with models, artists, and designers from around the world. Les Adore has built a digital community reaching over 500,000 viewers. Every project has been about more than just production—they’ve been about making art more accessible, human, and alive.
Currently, alongside the production of the Les Adore Spring Magazine Issue, I am producing the inaugural “Adore Short Film Festival” as part of the Office for the Arts at Harvard’s 2025 Arts Festival. I share this not to boast, but to emphasize: when I say a creative space is disjointed or harmful, I speak not as an outsider. I’m speaking as someone deeply invested in building respectful, inclusive art communities, and as someone who knows the difference between a true artistic collective and a muddled label posing as one.
Last year, I was contacted by members from Maison, a student-run fashion organization at Yale University, to design a collection for their annual spring fashion show. Amid a packed midterm season, I agreed and later brought on a friend who was working on a new fashion label. Together, we created five original looks, a process that took weeks of planning, designing, sourcing materials, sewing, and fitting.
From the start, this experience revealed something bigger than just one show. Even creative spaces built on the promise of inclusion can end up replicating the same barriers they claim to break. Maison, for instance, states, “Our focus is to be a space where all fashion enthusiasts and artists, regardless of experience, can fulfill their artistic vision.” But that promise fell apart quickly. Early on, I was in communication with the Maison outreach director, who shared key information and deadlines over email. Since I’m based in Boston and the show was in New Haven, I proactively requested reasonable accommodations, explaining that shipping all our designs or making multiple trips would be financially and logistically difficult. The outreach director agreed that I could bring the designs in person closer to the event.
As the show week approached, designers were asked to select models to walk in their looks. I submitted mine as requested. A few days later, my selections were erased. I reached out to clarify, thinking it was a mistake, and the reply was curt: designers who had attended the in-person dress rehearsal were prioritized. There was no mention of the earlier agreement I’d made with the outreach director, no follow-up, no conversation—just a quiet override of what had already been discussed. I had reached out early, explained my travel limitations, and was told I could bring the designs closer to the event. But now, that communication felt invisible.
Still, we adjusted. My co-designer and I chose new models from the remaining pool and continued moving forward. I even organized a campus photo shoot to build momentum for our collection’s release. We were excited, planning everything from hair and makeup to final accessories. But just days before the show, that energy began to dissipate.
At 2 a.m. on Friday, just two days before the show, I received a text from the outreach director abruptly requesting model sizes, without prior notice or a communicated sense of urgency. I didn’t see the message until later that morning. When I followed up, they claimed that they “did not receive a timely response for a single one of [the deadlines]” an accusation that felt both inaccurate and deeply disrespectful, especially considering the time, effort, and personal funds we had poured into bringing this collection to life.
Without a meaningful explanation, we were told that three of our five looks had been cut. When we raised our concerns, we were met not with collaboration but with defensiveness and blame. “Every single one of our 25+ other designers, including those who shipped their items from London, South Korea, and Canada through Trump’s tariffs, have met these deadlines,” one Maison executive wrote, as if our coordination and commitment somehow counted for less.
Despite the tension, I still tried to make it work. I offered to source new models myself. I requested a phone call with the executive team to find a solution that could salvage our involvement. But I felt as if my efforts were met with unproductive responses. Ultimately, my co-designer and I made the painful decision to withdraw from the show. We felt like Maison didn’t seem to care.
This was never about missed deadlines. It was about a failure of leadership, empathy, and care. As an individual invited into the space, asked to create, and then treated like a burden, it became painfully clear that Maison’s commitment to “creative inclusion” was more of a marketing phrase than a meaningful practice.
Others have spoken out, too. A Yale undergraduate publicly documented their decision to withdraw from Maison’s 2024 show, citing experiences of passive-aggressive communication, unpaid labor, and a pervasive lack of transparency. They described being urged to produce multiple looks without compensation for materials, having their work disrespected during runway practice, and witnessing selective, exclusionary decisions made behind closed doors. “The board members at the head of this do not even have the skills to back up their judgment,” they wrote in an April 19, 2024 Instagram post. “They do not make clothes. And even if they did, their treatment of others would be unacceptable.” Unfortunately, this kind of extractive, top-down culture is not uncommon in the design and arts industry. Maison is a visible case of a much deeper problem.
Across creative industries, Black and brown artists are often welcomed for their aesthetic, but not truly supported in the process. You see it everywhere: a new dance goes viral, a style takes over TikTok, a phrase becomes pop culture currency, and often, the Black and brown artists who sparked the trend are nowhere to be found when the rewards are handed out. In creative industries, the same pattern plays out: artists are celebrated for their ideas but left out of the real opportunities that allow them to grow and sustain their work. It’s easy to put diversity on a poster; it’s harder to build structures that support it. That gap was glaringly clear to me during my experience with Maison, where promises of inclusion fell apart when it came time for real logistical support.
The labor is expected, but rarely protected. And the moment boundaries are asserted, or the process is challenged, it becomes “your fault.” What happened at Maison represents a broader trend—it shows how easy it is for institutions, even student-run ones, to replicate harmful patterns of exclusion under the guise of community. It shows the toll that disorganization, condescension, and last-minute decisions take on creators who are already giving their time, talent, and emotional energy for free. And in a moment when nationwide initiatives are actively working to dismantle DEI, it’s not enough to speak the language of inclusion. Otherwise, we risk becoming mirrors of the very systems we claim to resist.
I’ve seen firsthand how much it matters when artists are valued not just for what they produce, but for who they are. I founded Les Adore, rooting our practices in joy, collaboration, and mutual respect, where every opinion is valued equally. From the start, I wanted it to be a space where creativity wasn’t gatekept, where students who hadn’t grown up attending portfolio reviews or working fashion internships could still lead a shoot, pitch a concept, or direct a campaign.
Three of our current team members, all of whom joined Les Adore with little to no formal experience in the arts, are now pursuing competitive creative internships this summer. One of our team members, based in Paris, recently landed her dream internship in New York City. In reflecting on her journey, she shared how writing for Les Adore and leading shoots by the Eiffel Tower helped build the experience and confidence to apply to internships. Stories like hers reflect what I care about most. At Les Adore, we intentionally prioritize access and support. We don’t just work with people who already have traditional experience—we collaborate with creatives who haven’t yet been given the chance to show what they can do. I believe the art world needs more of that: not just celebrating inclusion, but building the systems to sustain it.
I’m not writing this op-ed to receive an apology. What I want is a shift. A higher standard. A louder conversation about how we hold each other accountable, not just in our politics, but in our everyday practice of building inclusive creative spaces. We owe that to each other. We owe that to ourselves.
Amina Salahou ’25 (aminasalahou@college.harvard.edu) launched Les Adore to build the creative space she wanted, but couldn’t find.