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Pixel PantsWhen My Laundry Met Machine Learning


It started as a joke: the night before a crit at Central Saint Martins, I caught myself eyeing the underwear on my floor and thinking, what if this went through an algorithm instead of the wash? Not metaphorically, literally. So I photographed every pair I owned, then raided my mum’s drawer and my flatmate’s too. 

I trained a generative model on the lot and waited to see what kind of lingerie a machine with zero libido and no idea of cup sizes would dream up. The results were chaos in silk and pixels. The algorithm doesn’t understand straps, seams or modesty. It spat out prints like digital Rorschachs: knickers with impossible Möbius waistbands, colours clashing like a broken TV. They’re garments only a motherboard could imagine; glitchy, genderless, and strangely beautiful.  

That’s the point. 

Underwear already lives in a weird duality: private but political, hidden but loaded with centuries of rules about who gets to look and who gets to desire. By handing that vocabulary to a machine with no cultural memory, I got to watch those rules short-circuit. The AI isn’t trying to be sexy or practical; it’s free of every fashion cliché. In a world obsessed with elevated basics and capsule wardrobes a pattern that refuses to fit at all feels radical.

At first I thought I’d tidy the outputs, give them some wearable logic. Instead I leaned into the accidents. Glitch became method. Each print is a tiny rebellion against the idea that design must be perfect, or even functional. They’re like post-human tailors’ sketches, acknowledging the body only as data. And because the system is indifferent to gender, the silhouettes drift somewhere between absurdity and critique, neither masculine nor feminine, just… other.

People always ask me how I see the algorithm. I think of it more as a collaborator with a short attention span. I build the dataset, set the parameters, and then watch it misbehave. The surprise is the art. The machine doesn’t replace me; it makes me question what authorship even means when the thing closest to your skin is imagined by something that doesn’t know what skin is. Pixel Pants isn’t a fashion line. You can’t buy these pieces or wear them on a night out. They’re like speculative objects.   An invitation into intimacy, technology, and control. They ask who gets to decide what we hide, what we show, and how much agency we give the systems shaping our most private layers. What began as a laundry-day landed Somewhere between code and cotton. 


 
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