Rooted in Brussels yet dreaming of wider horizons, Maud Vanden Beussche has carved out a singular path in fashion; one that resists the pressures of the industry and stays true to instinct. From early mornings at Alexander McQueen to building a brand in her own name, her journey is shaped by freedom, rawness and a refusal to compromise. In this conversation, she speaks about her philosophy of clothing as sculpture, her complicated love for cities, and the importance of space—in work, in life, and in thought.
How did you start your way into fashion?
I studied fashion for two years at La Cambre, but during a six-month internship in London at Alexander McQueen, I realised that the classroom was not where I wanted to spend my days. After that experience, I discovered that I simply loved the act of working. I still remember those early mornings, when I would leave for the metro at five o’clock, filled with a kind of energy that made me forget everything else, I barely even stopped to take a break because I was so absorbed in what I was doing. I worked in the men’s department, which suited me perfectly, because I loved handling the materials and seeing how tailoring could be translated into a kind of sculpting. There was a tailor who used to come in with his tools, and I’d do everything I could for him, while carefully observing every detail of his craft. Day after day I produced countless collars, repeating the exercise with my hands. That was my true training ground.
Your approach to clothing seems very personal, detached from fast fashion and seasonal trends. How would you describe your fashion philosophy?
I’ve always been drawn to things that feel raw and unpolished, almost like a blank canvas in art, where spontaneity and naïve gestures are allowed to exist without overthinking. One of my favourite shops is Wendela van Dijk in Rotterdam, a city I adore. Once, Wendela gave me a compliment that stayed with me ever since: she said that with my clothes, you don’t see what is special straight away, but you feel that something is there. I don’t do this intentionally, but I think it captures my approach well. I know the techniques, because La Cambre and my training taught me to respect the craft of clothing, yet my method is looser, lighter, more about making pieces that are accessible, simple, and wearable by all kinds of people. I dislike the side of fashion that pushes us into endless novelty. Although I enjoy watching runways, I’ve never felt the desire to create for them, because I don’t belong to that system. For me, freedom has no price. People sometimes tell me I should “work” the clothes more, but I refuse, because I cherish that naïve side, without any show-off. When a garment feels finished, it’s finished. Beauty, to me, is like a wild horse—untamed but full of emotion and life.
Even as a child of six or seven, I’d take my father’s oversized T-shirts or my mother’s jumpers and wear them with pride, because I loved how they transformed me, how they felt so oversized and unbounded. For me, femininity has never been about revealing the body, but about creating sensation and presence. The shapes of my clothing are universal, timeless, open to interpretation, and my greatest joy is that people can wear them however they like and feel more themselves. What bothers me today is how people tend to like the same things, following the mainstream rather than making their own choices. I find it exhausting how Instagram has made everything look the same, how it has amplified the tendency for people to copy each other. Of course, this has always existed, but now it feels overwhelming, a saturation of sameness.
You founded your first brand at a young age, and recently you’ve created one under your own name.
I launched my first brand, Can Pep Rey, with my boyfriend when I was only 23, and when our relationship ended, he kept the brand, including my designs. At the time we had forty sales points around the world, so giving that up was a traumatic experience. Yet, out of it came Clown Blanc, which I built on a very small budget, relying on a model where professionals had to prepay and order a minimum of five pieces, simply so the system could function financially. About a year and a half ago, I finally launched a brand under my own name, and it was truly reassuring that the same agent from my past wanted to collaborate with me again. Last year, my clothes were stocked in four shops, and this year we are already in twelve, which shows that people see my work and connect with it. It’s all that really matters to me now – that people feel good in my clothes. The fabric and the cut are what draw them in. Both men and women. Some items, like a particular pair of trousers, return in every collection, and they become garments that I see my friends wear constantly, pieces that integrate into their everyday lives. Personally, I dislike the act of dressing in the morning because I don’t want to make too many choices. I admire women who style themselves with intricacy, but I don’t know where they find the time. My clothes need to work in every situation, they need to feel good always and they need to last. Everything is produced in Belgium, apart from certain fabrics that I source from Japan and Italy - my dream would be to one day have my own factory where I could create my own materials.
I have always admired Yves Saint Laurent for his absolute elegance, and Azzedine Alaïa for his independence and refusal to compromise, surrounding himself only with people he genuinely liked. I’m not against anything, I’m curious and open, but in my work, I simply want to remain honest. When I buy clothes, I either choose vintage or something I know I could never make myself. Worn pieces often inspire me the most - my friends’ wardrobes are treasure troves. We don’t need a new T-shirt every year; if I buy something, I want it to feel even better ten years later.
You grew up in Brussels and live here now. What do you love about the city?
I grew up in Brussels, though we moved around a lot, sometimes three times in a single year. For me, Brussels is magical because of the freedom it offers. In Paris, you’re defined by being Parisian, but here you’re simply yourself. Even the architecture reflects this openness. Life here feels easy-going, and people are kind. I love little Belgian things like a pistolet with Gouda dipped into coffee, small rituals that feel both ordinary and special. The art scene is full of possibilities without too much ego, and I cherish the absurdist tradition of figures like Magritte and Marcel Broodthaers, poets of freedom in their own way. The city is small enough to cross quickly, and every street feels different from the one before. I love hanging out and shopping in the Marolles area. Among my favourite places are Mademoiselle Ancien on Rue Haute, La Clef d’Or, and L’Imaginaire, where I still need to pick up a book on Dubuffet. I miss a Peruvian spot that used to serve the best ceviche on plastic chairs, anti-chic in the best way. Nowadays, when I want to eat well, I go to Crab Club or Chez Nona. I complain about paying five euros for a coffee, yet I still end up in those cafés several times a week. That contradiction feels like Brussels itself, full of paradoxes, but alive.
Is Brussels a good base for you and your work?
For now, Brussels is home, but I can’t continue producing everything here because it’s too expensive, so I might change base at some point. This winter I’ll go to Portugal to prospect a little. I’m renting in Brussels, but I dream of one day buying a place of my own, perhaps a farm near Faro where I could build a project. I’m very solitary by nature, and more and more I find myself asking why I’m here. I love seeing my friends, but I don’t drink, I don’t go out much, and I love animals, so sometimes the city feels at odds with me. City life is self-centred I often find. People comparing themselves too much, simply because they live so close together. In truth, no one really cares, because we all live our own lives, but the constant influx of information makes it hard to find peace. For me, the greatest luxury has become space - space for the body, space for the mind, space in time itself. The mal du siècle is the loss of space. Instagram is flooded with endless images and opinions, and sometimes I ask myself: where’s the room to breathe? That’s why I love driving actually, because in the car I feel freedom and vastness, with music turned up and no traffic. I drive at night, when the road feels open and infinite, a sense of being able to go anywhere. As I grow older, I long more and more for space and for good energy.
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Maud is one of the 73 locals who has generously contributed to our city guide 'Brussels by locals' by sharing her favourite spots in town.
Interview: Sisse Bro
Photography: Stephanie De Smet