For Native designers, sustainability isn’t a trend; it’s a continuation of cultural practices rooted in reciprocity, intention, and reverence for the land. In interviews with two trailblazing creators, Korina Emmerich (Puyallup) of EMME Studio and Wendy Ponca (Osage) of Ponca Design, it’s clear that sustainability in Indigenous fashion is not only about materials and methods, but also about values, storytelling, and generational knowledge.
To better understand how sustainability and Indigenous knowledge intersect in fashion, we sat down with two powerful visionaries who have spent their lives and careers challenging the status quo. Both artists, each in their own voice, era, and approach, shared how their work honors cultural heritage while addressing environmental responsibility in meaningful, tangible ways.
We asked them what sustainability means in their practice, how they navigate the fashion industry as Indigenous women, and what role Native teachings play in shaping their creative decisions. Their responses were filled with wisdom, sometimes practical, sometimes spiritual, but always intentional. From sourcing to stitching, from concept to community, both Korina Emmerich and Wendy Ponca show us that Indigenous fashion isn’t just about what we wear, but how we live.
What follows are their stories, reflections, and powerful insights on designing for a world that needs healing—beginning with Korina Emmerich.
Korina Emmerich: Centering Justice and Slow Fashion
Since launching EMME Studio in 2015, Korina Emmerich has been a dynamic force in the world of sustainable design. Her label blends vibrant color palettes with bold silhouettes that reflect her Puyallup heritage and her deep commitment to climate and social justice. “Everything we do is in relationship, with land, with people, with history,” Emmerich shared. “Fashion should be in dialogue with those relationships, not extract from them.”
Her work challenges colonial frameworks embedded in the fashion industry. As a board member and educator with The Slow Factory Foundation, Emmerich is helping shape how sustainability is taught, defined, and practiced, particularly through an Indigenous lens. She also serves on the board of The Fibers Fund, which supports regenerative textile systems, and is the Exhibitions and Materials Steward with Catalyst, where she continues to advocate for transparency and justice in design.
Sustainability is at the heart of your work. How do your Indigenous values and ancestral knowledge shape your approach to sustainable fashion?
My focus on sustainability is deeply rooted in my Indigenous values, prioritizing reciprocity, respect for the land, and responsibility to future generations. These values shape every decision I make in the design and production process, from sourcing materials to design to community collaboration.
We are raised to see ourselves as an extension of the land. This value steers me to consider the impact of everything I create, where the materials come from, the production process, the biodegradation, etc. It’s not just about being “eco-friendly”, it’s about being a good relative.
Ancestral knowledge teaches us to also value durability and multifunctionality. Fashion isn’t solely trend-driven. It’s a form of storytelling and a continuation of practices long before colonization. When I design, I’m creating pieces that hold memory, community, and a future rooted in care.
My work prioritizes thoughtful sourcing, slow, small batch, and made-to-order production, with a deep commitment to ethical collaboration. Actively caring for the systems we’re part of and reducing harm.
Many mainstream brands are only starting to embrace sustainability, but Indigenous communities have practiced it for generations. How do you see Native leadership reshaping the industry’s sustainability movement?
Indigenous communities have always valued sustainability before it became a trend and marketing tactic. We’ve maintained systems of balance, reciprocity, and care long before the fashion industry began talking about “sustainability.” What’s powerful now is that more Native voices are being recognized and acknowledged as leaders in this movement. Our leadership is reshaping the conversation by expanding beyond materials and emissions. It’s about how you show up for people, land, and legacy.
I see Indigenous designers, artists, and organizers creating models rooted in community, circularity, and cultural survival, building spaces that reflect our values. The industry is beginning to realize that true sustainability must include Indigenous knowledge systems and leadership.
What does sustainability mean to you beyond just materials? How does it connect to community, tradition, and storytelling in your work?
Everything I make is made-to-order. That choice is a reflection of my values, and it allows me to reduce waste, avoid overproduction, and stay connected to the purpose behind each garment. Made-to-order also gives space for customization and relationship.
I often work using reclaimed or deadstock fabrics. Ethical production is about paying people fairly, creating collaboratively with mutual respect, and designing garments meant to last. Each piece is part of a larger story: a link to the past, and an offering to the future.
Sustainability is also about community. I host workshops, work with other Indigenous artists, and create space for shared knowledge. I’m not interested in extractive systems; I’m committed to systems of care. Everything I make is grounded in reciprocity and storytelling. That’s what makes it sustainable. Not just materials or methods, but spirit.
Can you walk us through your design process? How do you source your materials, and what role does ethical production play in your work?
Fashion, for me, is a form of activism. It’s how I challenge colonial narratives and industry norms that have long erased Indigenous presence. One example is my piece that was exhibited at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, reimagining the Hudson’s Bay Company point blanket. The ensemble isn’t just outerwear, it’s a statement. It holds the complicated legacy of trade, extraction, and colonialism, and I wanted to confront that history while reclaiming it through Indigenous design and storytelling. It’s about taking something used against us and transforming it into a vehicle for sovereignty. My design practice is as much about making as it is about unmaking. Working to unravel harmful systems and weaving something new.
One of the ways this shows up in my work is through the use of wool as a primary fiber. Wool is natural, biodegradable, durable, and renewable. It also holds cultural significance for many Indigenous communities. It’s a material that carries memory and tradition. It has been a part of trade, ceremony, and daily life for generations.
I source a lot of my wool from Pendleton Woolen Mills, which has a long history in the Pacific Northwest and carries both complexity and cultural weight for Indigenous people. I approach this relationship critically and carefully. For me, it’s about reclaiming, recontextualizing, and telling our own stories with the materials that have shaped and even distorted our image.
Each garment is a vessel for narrative, community, and care. From sourcing to sewing, the entire process is an opportunity to resist fast fashion and root back into slow and intentional ways of making.
Sustainability in fashion is gaining momentum. How does your brand ensure ethical sourcing and minimal environmental impact?
My brand is built on principles that have guided our communities for generations: take only what you need and honor your materials. That means being intentional at every step, from sourcing to production to community engagement, while prioritizing ethical sourcing and working with natural, biodegradable fibers like wool. I’m also mindful of using materials that already exist in the world, reducing resource extraction.
My production model is small-batch and made-to-order, which helps avoid overproduction and excess waste. Ultimately, my goal is not just to create sustainable fashion, but to model a system where making is relational, not transactional; where fashion can become a tool for education and preservation.
What advice would you give to consumers transitioning to more sustainable fashion products?
We’ve been conditioned to see clothing as disposable, but fashion should be about people, not just numbers on a cost sheet. You don’t have to overhaul your wardrobe overnight. Orsola de Castro, of Fashion Revolution, says, “The most sustainable garment is the one already in your wardrobe.” I think this speaks volumes for those looking to be more “sustainable”. You shouldn’t be “buying into sustainability”; we should be buying less.
I’m always cautious of how the word “sustainability” is used in fashion. It’s become a buzzword and a marketing tactic without brands making meaningful system changes. Greenwashing is real, and it often masks continued harm both to the environment and to marginalized communities. Sustainability shouldn’t be a branding strategy. It’s a lived practice rooted in Indigenous knowledge and responsibility, not just in appearance, but in practice.
What are some of the biggest challenges Native-led sustainable brands face in the mainstream fashion industry?
One of the biggest challenges is visibility. Native designers are often left out of the mainstream conversation unless it’s through a tokenized lens. We’re not new to fashion or sustainability, but we’re frequently overlooked or misrepresented. There’s a lack of access to funding, distribution, and media platforms that can help our brands grow in ways aligned with our values.
Another challenge is the tension between cultural integrity and commercial demand. Indigenous fashion is often expected to “perform” Indigeneity in a palatable way to mainstream consumers, rather than being supported for its authenticity and depth. We’re navigating appropriation, erasure, and extraction while protecting our knowledge systems and creating space for future generations.
There’s also the structural reality that many Native-led brands operate independently, without the infrastructure or capital that mainstream labels take for granted. We often do everything from designing, producing, marketing, educating, and serving our communities.
Despite these challenges, we continue to show up with innovation, care, and deep cultural grounding. Native designers aren’t just contributing to the sustainability movement; we’re leading it. What we need is for the industry to recognize that leadership, invest in it, and shift its frameworks to be more relational, not extractive.
How do you balance innovation and staying true to traditional knowledge in your work?
Innovation and traditional knowledge aren’t in opposition; they’re in conversation. Indigenous communities have always innovated. That’s part of our legacy. So when I create, I’m not looking to “modernize” tradition, I’m continuing it in a way that reflects who we are now and where we’re going. I give myself permission to interpret certain teachings through my own lived experience.
Innovation allows tradition to breathe, evolve, and remain alive, not static. And when it’s rooted in intention and respect, it becomes a form of cultural futurism, honoring the past while imagining a resilient future.
What excites you most about the future of Indigenous-led sustainability in fashion?
Indigenous designers are no longer waiting for permission; we’re claiming space, telling our own stories, and building systems rooted in our values. We’re not just participating in fashion, we’re reshaping it.
At Relative Arts, the space I co-lead in NYC, we’ve created a hub where Indigenous creativity, community, and culture thrive. It’s more than a gallery or a shop, it’s a living ecosystem of artists, thinkers, and makers. We host exhibitions, workshops, panels, and pop-ups, all centered on the idea that fashion can be a site of resistance, education, and celebration. It’s where we uplift each other and build futures on our own terms.
What excites me is the way younger Indigenous creators are showing up, continuing to weave together art, activism, design, and education in ways that are incredibly powerful. We’re seeing collaborations across nations, disciplines, and even oceans, and it feels like a cultural renaissance. Indigenous-led sustainability is about liberation. It’s about reclaiming our relationships to land. It’s about shifting power and creating systems that care for people and the planet. The more we lead with those values, the more healing can begin.
Wendy Ponca: A Lifelong Legacy in Sustainable Design
Wendy Ponca is no stranger to innovation. For over four decades, she has built a legacy that intersects fine art, fashion, and cultural preservation. A veteran designer and artist, Ponca’s approach is inherently sustainable: rooted in traditional techniques, elevated by her signature aesthetic, and guided by spiritual and environmental consciousness.
From silk-screening to beadwork to body painting, Ponca’s versatility is unmatched. She was one of the first Native designers to incorporate eco-conscious materials and practices into her work long before “sustainability” became a buzzword. “Our teachings have always emphasized balance,” Ponca explained. “In design, that means respecting every part of the process, the source of your materials, the purpose of the garment, and what it says about our connection to nature.”
Beyond her fashion collections, Ponca has influenced generations as a fine arts educator and Pendleton blanket designer, and continues to make waves in theatre costume design and museum exhibitions. Her presence in both contemporary and traditional spaces exemplifies how Native fashion honors the past while shaping the future.
At first thought, what does sustainability in Native American fashion and art mean to you?
Just one phrase would encompass that: less is better. We don’t have Native American factories per se, here in America, so you have to send it abroad, and usually, synthetic materials are used, and it’s antithetical to our traditional ways of doing things. When we made traditional clothes or any clothes that we used to wear before colonization, we made them for individuals themselves, and we either tanned or wove the materials ourselves and dyed them, painted them, sewed them ourselves, or we traded with people for materials so we could put these things together.
Less is better because we would make pieces for individuals. I know that’s hard in the life that we live today; to make money, you’ve got to sell a lot of products, but maybe not. Make a few of the things, but make them higher, better quality-sourced within our own tribal groups or people that you can trade with that are doing sustainable practices as well. Work your way up to higher prices. It’s hard at first. That’s all I’ve done all my life. It’s just more handwork and less factory work. For example, here are a couple of pieces that I’ve done. It’s cotton and silk. I hand-wove the material, hand-silk-screened, and printed it, which is a part of a jazz dance costume that I made. Then I beaded and lined it.
That’s another way I’m sustainable; I use only natural materials, such as silk, wool, cotton, and linen. I rarely use synthetics, but usually it’s all silk. When I get my furs, I try to use fur traders themselves, but sometimes I go to bigger companies, like in Canada. You can’t always be completely sustainable, but you could try.
Sustainability is at the heart of your work. How do your Indigenous values and ancestral knowledge shape your approach to sustainable fashion?
Well, traditionally, people in the tribe would work together, based on their cultural and religious beliefs. You would have different clan groups with different jobs to do. Like some clan groups would go out and hunt deer and deal with the skins, and the meat, and everything like that. Other groups would work with buffalo, and other groups would be doing the plants. Other groups would do smaller animals. Other groups would just be weaving mats for houses and things like that, so that we would all work together, you know, trade with each other, these, these goods. And that’s how we, that’s called tribal life. Well, my family and my clan group were tattooers. We tattooed traditional tattoos on people, and also made ceremonial clothing for them. We would trade to get those materials, like buffalo hides and elk skins.
The coming together of those materials and everything is very beautiful and “wakan,” which means of God, a way of working in the world. The way people come together is “wakan,” just like the materials. They come together, and it’s beautiful.
What does sustainability mean to you beyond just materials? How does it connect to community tradition storytelling in your work?
It’s recording historical symbols and historical techniques. If we practice them, then our children and grandchildren will see that, and hopefully, some of them will take on those practices. That’s how our culture works.
Can you walk us through your design process? How do you source your materials, and what role does ethical production play in your work?
I source my materials in various ways, just like everybody does. I’ll order them from different places, like beading outlets. Sometimes I’ll meet people at dances, at powwows, and if I see that they’re tanning their hides or something like that, I’ll see if I can do some trading with them. I’ll just go to the fabric store. I’m doing the best I can. Like this right here, this material was originally white silk. I ordered it from a company in California, and then I dyed it and printed it myself with water-based dyes. I don’t use any oil-based dyes because they’re harder on the environment. These water-based dyes are not so toxic.
Are there any traditional techniques, fabrics, or natural dyes that you incorporate into your collections?
Finger weaving, though I haven’t done any natural dyes in a long time, I have incorporated before, just getting clays and dirt and mixing them with Elmer’s glue and using them for paintings, drawings, and things like that. But finger weaving is a main thing. Of course, making the buckskin clothing that I make is also traditional.
How do you incorporate traditional plant-based materials or Indigenous knowledge into your products?
All my design elements are from my tribe, even if I change them just a little bit to make them softer, more my design, they’re all historically based on historical designs that we’ve used since maybe hundreds of thousands of years ago, from cave paintings and stuff that we’ve passed down. The way that we put these images together is my cultural practice anyway.
What are some of the biggest challenges Native led sustainable brands face in the mainstream fashion industry?
First of all, if you, I would say don’t try to compete with the mainstream fashion industry if you want to stay true to being traditional Native American, because that is not us. I’m not saying it’s bad or good. Still, you have to make that choice on your own, whether you want to make money by making millions and millions of disposable throwaway plastic things, or do you want to make really beautiful treasures with your art and talents? That’s an individual choice.
How do you navigate the balance between innovation and staying true to traditional knowledge in your work?
I just do it the way I do it traditionally. It just comes naturally.
What excites you most about the future of Indigenous-led sustainability in fashion?
We could lead the world in quality, not quantity, because our work is absolutely beautiful, and people love our traditional designs and things, especially the time and energy and the skill that we put into our work. If we just keep doing what we do naturally, we impress the world, lead the world, and inspire the world.
As climate concerns intensify, the rest of the fashion world is catching up to what Indigenous designers have known all along: sustainability isn’t a choice, it’s a responsibility. Designers like Korina Emmerich and Wendy Ponca aren’t just creating clothing, they’re weaving together land, legacy, and leadership. Through their work, they remind us that fashion can be a powerful act of care, for the earth, for each other, and for the generations still to come.
