Amani M. Heywood
Akraam Ahammed
Interview conducted by Amani Heywood
The more I understand the rules, the more confidently I can bend or break them. Rather than seeing technical skill as a constraint, I see it as a foundation to innovation - Ahammed
All photos are provided by artist
In this reflective and inspiring interview, Ahammed shares their deeply personal approach to creativity—transforming emotions like loneliness into striking visual narratives, such as the *Leaf Print* hoodies that capture London’s wintry solitude. Their work thrives on duality: the fusion of British and Bangladeshi cultures, the tension between tradition and self-expression, and the interplay of beauty and raw emotion.
Fashion became their canvas after a pivot from architecture, driven by a fascination with reinventing everyday objects like sneakers—symbols of identity and place. They embrace unexpected interpretations of their art, like a Brooklyn viewer seeing aggression in a piece meant to evoke introspection, valuing these moments as part of the dialogue their work invites.
Experimentation is central, with materials often guiding the creative process. Transparency about their journey—documenting struggles and triumphs—aims to inspire others from underrepresented communities to pursue art fearlessly. As they prepare for parenthood, they find inspiration in life’s ordinary shifts, seeing beauty in the mundane and strength in vulnerability.
Their advice to their younger self resonates as a manifesto: *"Be unapologetically yourself."* Through art, they’ve learned that authenticity fosters the deepest connections—both with audiences and within themselves.
Your work is deeply rooted in self-reflection—how do you navigate the vulnerability of turning personal experiences into art, especially when those experiences might resonate differently with audiences from different backgrounds?
Honestly, I’m still just scratching the surface when it comes to self-reflection in my practice. I aim to be bolder and more vulnerable in future work. So far, I’ve communicated personal emotions through visuals that many might interpret as beautiful. For instance, my Leaf Print hoodies were originally an expression of loneliness. The brown leaves printed against a black background create a gritty, cold atmosphere that mirrors the feeling of London in winter. A single set of footprints represents me—walking alone with just my thoughts.
By blending the beauty of nature with elements of man-made design, I’m able to attract viewers on a surface level. But once people start to unpack the work, the underlying emotion becomes more apparent. That moment—when someone sees beyond the aesthetic and connects with the feeling behind it—is what I value most. Different audiences may resonate with the work in different ways, and I welcome that. To me, the art has always been about starting a conversation, not controlling its direction. Any perspective adds to the dialogue.
Growing up between British and Bangladeshi cultures, how do you balance or confront the duality of your identity in your art? Are there moments where these influences clash or harmonize in unexpected ways?
I don’t feel a strong pressure to consciously balance British and Bangladeshi cultures—living in London, that blend has become quite natural. Bangladeshi culture is deeply woven into the city, from our food in restaurants to street signs written in Bengali. Even Britain’s national dish is chicken tikka masala. So in terms of visual influence, I feel I can simply express my day-to-day experiences, which are already a cultural fusion.
Where I do feel tension, though, is in my identity as a Bengali and Muslim artist. For many communities outside the West, our parents and cultures are still in survival mode—focused on financial stability and social status. Pursuing a career in the arts doesn’t fit into that framework. It often leaves me feeling isolated, like choosing this path makes me less Bengali or less ‘Muslim,’ as if I’m stepping outside the expectations of both identities.
But there’s also something beautiful in that struggle. Realising there’s an entire generation navigating these same contradictions gives depth to my work. For example, a hoodie that once symbolised loneliness can now reflect a broader narrative: our parents' financial stability allows us the privilege to think about emotional well-being. We have space to explore identity and loneliness—not because we’re disconnected, but because we no longer carry the same urgent weight of survival. That shift itself is part of the story I want to tell.
You transitioned from fine arts to fashion, using ready-to-wear garments as a medium for exploration. What was the pivotal moment or realization that made you shift your focus, and how has fashion allowed you to express ideas differently than traditional art forms?
I was studying Architecture at Central Saint Martins, initially drawn to the idea of learning the technical side to help bring my sculptural visions to life. But while on the course, I found myself more drawn to altering sneakers and presenting them as architectural forms. Rather than building from scratch, I became fascinated with transforming existing objects into something unexpected.
That was the turning point for me. I realised I wasn’t driven by the freedom to create anything—I was more intrigued by the boundaries of a task, and how I could bend or even break them. That curiosity led me to drop out the course and pursue this direction more seriously. It wasn’t the right time for me to finish the degree, because my creative energy was pulling me elsewhere.
Fashion, particularly ready-to-wear, has given me a new kind of canvas. Altering everyday items like garments or sneakers allows me to continuously explore form, function, and meaning. It opens up a dialogue between the traditional and the contemporary, and that experimentation often feeds back into my fine art practice in unexpected ways.
Sneaker culture in the ‘ends’ plays a big role in your current work. What is it about this subculture that fascinates you, and how does it connect to your broader themes of identity and environment?
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I was introduced to sneakers at a young age by my uncle, who bought me my first pair of Air Max 95 Neon Greens. Before that, I didn’t care much, I was happily wearing my black and gold Nike Total 90 Astros to kick ball. But in London, sneakers are more than just footwear, they’re part of the culture. Whether you're into them or not, you’re never far from a pair of Air Force 1s on the street.
That said, certain silhouettes like the Air Max 110s or 90s resonate more specifically with London. They carry a history and a sense of identity that feels local and familiar. By incorporating these into my work, I’m able to connect with audiences on a deeper level—it transcends age and background. If I were to use something like a New Balance instead, only a small group might recognise the design, and even fewer would link it to London straight away.
Sneakers are a way for me to explore identity and environment at once. They’re part of the stories we carry—often without us even realising it.
You’ve mentioned that your art is designed to create experiences and open discussions. Can you share a time when a viewer’s reaction to your work surprised you or changed your perspective on the piece?
A recent example that really stuck with me involved one of my basketball print hoodies. As with much of my work, it featured themes of cold London streets, autumn leaves, and footprints—symbols of solitude and introspection. But someone from Brooklyn, New York, told me it reminded them of someone getting rushed on a basketball court.
That reaction caught me off guard. I hadn’t intended to evoke that kind of aggression or intensity—those emotions weren’t in my mind at all while creating the piece. But it made me realise how the gritty visual language I associate with London could translate differently depending on someone’s background or experiences. It showed me that what feels like solitude in one context could feel like violence or tension in another.
That moment shifted something for me. I realised I don’t need to make work that directly speaks to everyone’s story—but by clearly presenting my own perspective, I can open space for others to see themselves in it, too. Their interpretations add value to the piece in ways I could never plan for.
Right now, much of the attention around my work focuses on the process and my use of natural elements like leaves—especially after going viral. But looking back at that conversation with the person from Brooklyn, I feel more driven to use clothing in ways that spark deeper conversations. I want to push the imagery and compositions further, not just to make interesting garments, but to tell stories that invite others to reflect on their own.
Experimentation is key to your practice—how do you decide which medium or method best serves a concept? Have there been times when the material itself led you in a completely new direction?
I often begin with a material or form I’m curious about, then explore how its textures and properties can embody the essence of a concept. For example, I created a sculpture about the feeling of being held back by family. Since I was engaging with a streetwear audience at the time, I used a sneaker—specifically an Air Max 97—as my base. I filled the air bubbles with plaster, what originally symbolised positive energy, the phrase ‘you have a spring in your step’ comes to mind, now became something heavy, restrictive, and painful. I considered concrete for its coarse texture, but ultimately chose plaster to maintain a monochromatic, white palette.
There are countless ways to express a single idea, so I rely heavily on intuition and what resonates with me in the moment. Materials often guide the direction of my work. I approach them with curiosity, allowing for organic reactions and outcomes. My experience with plaster, for instance, My designs are never based on the flawless use of it, if it sets unexpectedly or forms extra texture, I adapt. I shift the design to become more organic—still aligned with the concept, but now shaped by the material's natural behaviour.
I don’t see my role as forcing materials to bend to my vision, but rather working in harmony with them—testing unconventional processes, then refining the results through composition. While my work often visually highlights the mundane, the process itself of allowing the materials to be, reflects finding beauty in the unexpected and overlooked
Your documentation of your journey is almost as important as the art itself. Why is transparency and sharing your process so vital to you, especially in bridging the gap between your community and the arts?
Being an artist in my community is already an uncommon path—and that’s something I want to change. It’s a shame, because while people are often told that the only way forward is through a certain degree or traditional job, so much raw talent goes unnoticed or gets left behind. I don’t see myself as the best at any one thing—I’m not an artist because I’m an exceptional painter or drawer. I’m an artist because I kept creating, even when it went against what my family or community expected of me.
That’s why documenting and sharing my process is so important. I want to show people that there’s more than one path to success. If I can be a visible example that you can build something meaningful by following your passion—regardless of what others think—then maybe more people from my community will feel empowered to pursue their own creative voices.
Transparency isn’t just about showing how I make things; it’s about making space for conversations around topics like mental health, self-reflection, and personal growth. My hope is that by being open about the journey, I can help bridge the gap between the arts and communities that don’t always see themselves represented in those spaces.
The mundane often finds its way into your work, transformed into something profound. How do you approach finding beauty or meaning in everyday moments, and what’s something ordinary that has recently inspired you?
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I didn’t go out much as a kid—my mum was quite protective—so I spent most of my time looking out the window. With nothing else to do, I was left alone with my thoughts, and over time, I started to find beauty and meaning in the everyday things I saw outside. I think I had to, otherwise I probably would’ve felt quite miserable. That upbringing shaped how I see the world today. I don’t have a set approach to finding beauty in the mundane—it just feels natural. I believe everything has a reason for being where it is, and that in itself is beautiful.
Lately, I’ve been inspired by the ordinary experience of change. I’m expecting my first child soon, so unlike change that is internal and reliant on ones willingness to develop, its the kind of change that just happens wether you’re ready or not. It’s made me more open and loose with my ideas. Sometimes we obsess over making something perfect and end up missing the subtle revelations along the way. This phase of life has pushed me to embrace the process more freely, to stay present, and to welcome the unknown.
It’s an exciting time for me—as an artist, a husband, and hopefully, a dad if all goes well.
As someone who is learning pattern-cutting and garment construction while creating, how does the technical challenge of fashion design influence your creative vision? Do you see limitations as a catalyst for innovation?
Absolutely—limitations, or more specifically the industry-standard ways of doing things, often push me to find alternative approaches. Learning the technical side of fashion design, like pattern-cutting and garment construction, has opened up a new level of creative control for me. It allows me to apply my usual process of altering the ready-made, but now at a much deeper level.
For example, I can experiment with the core structure of a garment—like using real hair instead of thread to stitch a shirt, or even altering the weave of the fabric itself. The more I understand the rules, the more confidently I can bend or break them. It makes every creative decision more intentional and gives me greater authorship over my work. Rather than seeing technical skill as a constraint, I see it as a foundation for innovation.
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Your artistic journey seems to be a continuous dialogue between your art and your life experiences. If you could go back and give your younger self one piece of advice about creativity, identity, or belonging, what would it be?
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I would tell my younger self to be unapologetic about simply being yourself—in every area of life. Growing up, I was often afraid of making mistakes that might reflect badly on my family or culture, even more than on myself. That fear shaped how I expressed myself creatively. I avoided making work that was too controversial or too emotionally raw, because I didn’t want to step outside what felt acceptable.
But the truth is, people will always have opinions—good or bad—and you can’t let the fear of judgment stop you from creating what you truly feel. That’s something I’ve only recently started to learn and try to put into practice. The more honest I am in my work, The more it connects with both me and my audience.
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