Why Moroccan Craftsmanship Deserves More Respect

Words Tom Barker

“Some of the most exciting ideas I've seen came from a workshop in Fes, not a studio in Paris,” says French-Moroccan designer Sophia Kacimi. And she’s determined to spread those ideas to everyone.

Every summer growing up, Sophia traveled from her home in France to her aunt in Casablanca, and kept hearing one word: “Zoubida.” Neither she nor her brother spoke Arabic, so they decided it meant “when things don't go as planned,” almost like a Moroccan way of saying “c'est la vie.” In reality, it was a neighbor’s name, but the idea stuck with Sophia: “That's what working with artisans feels like. You ask for pink, it comes back lilac. And it turns out nicer than expected,” she says. “For me, it’s a philosophy of life.” It’s also the name of her design brand. 

After 15 years working in luxury fashion, at labels like Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Alexander McQueen, and Burberry, she started Zoubida after hosting art retreats in Morocco and paying close attention to the craftspeople around her. “They are extraordinary masters, with a lifetime of knowledge in their hands, and yet underpaid, invisible,” says Sophia. “In my previous world of haute couture, leather goods, and high jewelry, everything is built on this same savoir-faire. That contrast felt deeply unfair to me.”

Over the past five years, she’s built a network of Moroccan craftspeople who form the backbone of Zoubida. It encompasses everything from upholsterers to wood carpenters and even Gnawa musicians, each helping make Zoubida’s latest fashion, interior design, and art projects more colorful and inventive than the last. 

One recent piece, a textile tapestry co-created with students at the Shems'y School of Crafts, where Sophia hosts workshops as part of AMESIP (Moroccan Association for Aid to Children in Precarious Situations), is in a new exhibition at Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris. Later this month, her biggest installation to date—a labor of love passed through over 50 people, from master artisans to students—will be presented at Doha Design Biennale. And after that, her standalone exhibition at Galerie Poche opens as part of Amsterdam Art Week.

While exhibiting around the world is always special, being part of the inaugural Morocco Design exhibition had a more personal significance. “Something new is being built here, by and for the Moroccan creative scene," says Sophia when we caught up with her at Villa Sahrai, where she was presenting an immersive installation during the three-day design event. “Bringing my work back to a Moroccan audience, who read these fabrics instantly, was the most meaningful test yet.”

How have years in the luxury fashion industry shaped your approach?

My role was to coordinate a new product launch from A to Z. That's exactly what I do today, just with a very different orchestra. What I left behind is the system: no collections, no seasons, no volume for volume's sake. And no emails! In Fes, everything happens face to face, over tea, or with a voice note. I had to unlearn so many bad habits of the capitalist, Western approach to work.

What’s the most rewarding part of running the brand?

The human relationships. My father and I have built an ecosystem of artisans we met by chance, through friends, or in the medina. Today, they're more than collaborators: they're family. We know each other's children; we share meals, worries, and a lot of laughter. 

I feel so proud seeing people jump on board with my crazy ideas, and knowing they're growing with us. And knowing that Zoubida has become an important source of income for many of them means more to me than any exhibition.

Tell me more about the craftspeople and the connections you’ve built with them.

Zoubida is tiny, and I say that proudly. Day to day, it's me and my father, plus a handful of artisans: Mohamed L, Fatiha, Batma, Ba Aziz, Mohamed M, Adil, Haj Ouazzani, to name a few.

You can't imagine the long days and nights we've spent trying, failing, laughing, starting again. What I ask for is never something they've made before, so I've learned to observe their tools, their gestures, their skills, and I adapt. If you want to make things by hand, with local materials, you have to accept that the knowledge in the room is bigger than your sketch. They bring everything a design school could never teach, and I bring fun ideas.

What makes Moroccan textiles so distinct? 

Brocade fabrics are the centerpiece of a Moroccan home. They traditionally cover the sedari, which are the sofas where every milestone happens: births, weddings, Eid, tea time. Normally, you'd never engage with them outside the family salon. But in my work, you're invited to.

The colors and patterns are extraordinary, and many simply don't exist anymore as the factories closed, killed by cheaper imports. My favorite game is asking audiences, “Where do you think this is from?” The answers are Italy, Uzbekistan, Japan... Almost never Morocco. That says a lot. 

I’ve spent years treasure hunting: antique rolls, deadstock, old merchants in the medina, workshops closing down. Over time, I’ve made a personal archive. Each roll is already a piece of history before I cut it. That's why every piece we make is numbered. They are true art pieces, and they carry history.

Are there many misconceptions about the country and its creative landscape?

So many! People imagine Moroccan design comes down to lanterns, poufs, and a riad postcard. Morocco is not a mood board. There's also this idea that craft is frozen folklore. In reality, it's a living technology, and it has always evolved. 

What challenges do the Moroccan creative industry currently face?

A value gap. Locally, craft is still too often seen as a souvenir trade, made for tourists. So young people make a rational choice and leave. Why spend your life on a skill that offers no visible future? 

Then, there's the industrial side. Mills that made our most beautiful fabrics couldn't survive cheap imports, and with them went knowledge that's hard to bring back. And for independent creatives, it's resources. Building a fair, slow, human ecosystem takes enormous time and money. What's missing isn't talent or beauty, Morocco has both in abundance. It's visibility, investment, and bridges between craft, design education, and the global market.

Have you noticed any change in how people are approaching Moroccan design?

Five years ago, nobody was using these fabrics the way I do. Now I see them everywhere, and I'm genuinely proud of that—not for the trend, but because it shifted how people look at their own culture. Moroccans, and especially the diaspora, are looking at our heritage with pride instead of distance. And international institutions are paying attention: When the Institut du Monde Arabe gave me its Creative Entrepreneur Prize, the jury created the category because I didn't fit any of theirs.

My work is heavily inspired by the Casablanca School. In the 1960s, those artists dared to break every convention of the art world: they rejected the academic and orientalist gaze, took their work out of galleries and into the street, and put Moroccan crafts and popular arts at the heart of modernism. I feel a real responsibility to carry that spirit forward.