After more than a year of pandemic dressing, people fall into two broad fashion camps. There are the athleisure diehards, who never want to see a piece of rigid denim — or anything with a non-elastic waistband — again. And then there is the segment of the population that desperately misses dressing for the occasion — any occasion. These are fashionistas hungry for the rustle of skirts and the sharp knife-edges of pleats, for decorative embroidery and intricate beadwork — and places to wear it all.

Fortunately, this year's crop of International Folk Art Market artists has plenty to offer across the fashion spectrum, from loose and lounge-y — but still luxe — wide-legged pants to delicately embroidered ikat ball gowns. Even better, the four designers featured below all hold sustainability as a primary goal, both in terms of the environment and as employers in their communities. Farewell (for now) sweats. Let's get dressed!

Many of the pieces in Mexican designer Andrea Velasco's collection are made the way they have been for centuries. For example, popular squared-off dresses and blouses called

huipils are woven on back-strap looms in Chiapas. While Velasco's clothes are inspired by traditional Tzotzil motifs and methods, their aesthetic is distinctly contemporary. Details like an extra-deep V in a blouse, unexpected color combinations — faded mustard over beige and the judicious use of neon — and fluid, minimal shapes place them firmly in the 21st century.

When Velasco moved to Chiapas seven years ago, she partnered with philanthropist Adriana Aguerrebere and her organization, NGO Impacto, a group that helps connect artisans with designers while ensuring safe working conditions and fair wages. Living in Chiapas, Velasco says she learned from indigenous Tzotzil and Tzeltal women about clothing construction, their ideas about fashion and their approach to life, which involves being close to nature and allowing its influences to creep into clothes. The striped patterns on different huipil dresses are never exactly the same. Their design depends on what the weaver hears outside — thunder or birdsong — when they are making the piece.

The ongoing pandemic has meant a slowdown in demand, with design meetings taking place via mobile phones, but it has also allowed for new collaborations and ideas. For instance, Velasco had each weaver choose an existing prenda de ciudad (“city garment”) and remake it using traditional techniques. For Velasco, part of designing clothing for the modern world means understanding the effects and impacts of each step of the process. “[Sustainability] requires a complete understanding of how and why we make clothes and subsequently invites whoever buys and wears them to cherish the clothing,” she says.

In Uzbekistan, the ethos at Bibi Hanum atelier is slow fashion expressed via limited-run pieces — from flowing kaftans to eye-catching cocktail dresses made by hand and with care. Bibi Hanum founder Muhayo Aliyeva's purpose is multifold: in addition to providing a gorgeous alternative to fast fashion, which can be environmentally destructive and exploitative of the people who make it, she aims to provide employment for other women and to preserve her country's rich design heritage.

Aliyeva observes that while the Uzbek constitution enshrines equal rights for men and women, in practice, society remains male-dominated, with few opportunities for women to work outside the home and to earn their own money and independence. Aliyeva says, “I saw many women who were stuck in their situations. . . . The primary reason [they stayed] was lack of finances and unemployment.”

She adds, “I thought that keeping them partially away from home would eliminate the problems and add more light to their life.” She also explains that “women who work with us support their families by paying the education of their children or cover part of their household expenses.”

All Aliyeva's employees are skilled seamstresses and trained artisans, which is evident in the riots of color and pattern that explode across a swingy tasseled robe or a pair of chic (and super comfy-looking) wide-legged pants. While Bibi Hanum's designs are at home on contemporary city streets, their context is historic. Aliyeva explains that in centuries past, ikat patterns, differently weighted textiles and the quality of one's robe all had meanings that pointed to the wearer's social status and wealth. But during the Soviet era, much of the traditional knowledge around textiles and garment construction was lost or obscured. “Having learned the traditional fabric's role in history, I wanted to revive that role once again and put it back on people,” Aliyeva says. “The results were phenomenal. . . . Everybody wanted to wear an ikat garment.”

Rosario Ratzán learned about making art and about resilience from her parents. The daughter of a painter (dad) and a weaver/embroiderer (mom), Ratzán was a child when civil war and armed conflict in Guatemala meant that her father could no longer travel to the capital several hours

away to sell his paintings. Instead, he and Ratzán's mother decided that he'd design clothing and accessories, she'd fabricate them and they'd sell them in Panajachel, a safer city closer to home. When Ratzán grew up, it was a natural progression to form a business of her own, one that employs traditional artisans.

Today she heads up a group of about 80 women. Like her, they are part of the Indigenous Mayan Tz'utujil community. The women make embroidered huipils and colorful woven beaded accessories — cuffs, bracelets and hatbands — using recycled materials like plastic pipes. Only leather is purchased new. The jewelry is bright and uplifting, with the renewed materials finding fresh purpose and aesthetic harmony with one another.

The pandemic shut down the business completely for eight months, leaving some of her employees with no other sources of income. But Ratzán is hopeful that orders will pick up again soon. When someone buys a piece of her jewelry, “in that product there is a piece of culture, of my country and the history of my family and community,” she says.

The clothes and accessories produced by Clandestina, a five-year-old Cuban urban fashion brand and design collective, are cool in a way that's effortless and fun. The designers love color and don't take themselves too seriously. From appliquéd floral tote bags to a modern take on guayaberas (the official and unofficial shirt of Cuba, an airy button-down with roots in the 18th century), Clandestina aims to make street style easy, functional and open to all genders and kinds of people. The designers were recycling and reusing materials way before it was trendy or widespread. They did so out of necessity: they have access to only what's available on the island.

On the group's application to participate in IFAM, they explain that guayaberas have fallen out of fashion, in part because they were adopted as official Cuban ceremonial dress in 2010. But Clandestina hopes to bring back the iconic garment to be worn by men, women and nonbinary folks alike, reflecting the diversity within the design collective and on the island.

In addition, sacks that originally held sugar, beans or mail are sewn into color-blocked duffle bags and Dopp kits. Features like sturdy zippers, loops and linings ensure that the bags will have a long second life. “We really know how to make something from nothing,” the group writes. “We persevere, no matter what. That's our inspiration: a way to not only deal with the ups and downs of life but to enjoy them. In Cuba, we make it work.”

Writer Adele Oliveira grew up in Santa Fe and lives here with her family.