The collection draws on Sól’s Icelandic roots and research at the V&A East Storehouse, using deadstock or certified materials throughout. At its heart is a fairly simple reality: fashion might still be presented in complete looks, but most of us do not actually get dressed that way. Wardrobes are accumulated over time. Sól’s hybrid pieces are designed to enter that mix rather than dictate it. Much of the collection begins with objects made for work rather than fashion, particularly the clothing worn by women working in Iceland. ​“You have such a big fishing industry there,” she says, flicking through old Icelandic photographs around the studio. ​“This was one of the only jobs they could get for a while. It was either being a midwife or working in fish.” What catches her eye are the shapes created by necessity, oversized gloves, coverings and layers built primarily to protect the body. ​“There’s a lot of amazing shapes.” The word she keeps returning to is ephemera, things never really intended to last, briefly useful and then overlooked or thrown away. ​“I like the idea of something that is almost not precious,” she says. In Sól’s hands, these things are allowed another life.

The hairdresser’s bib is a good example. It is not a replica or a fashion interpretation of one, but the actual disposable plastic bib tied around Sól’s neck at her hairdresser in Soho. ​“They always put on this plastic bib that you tie around and then they throw it out,” she says. She asked to take hers home. ​“I was like, what is that? It’s beautiful. Can I have one?” Its shape became the starting point for a long-sleeved top and the original now hangs in her studio as reference. Elsewhere, hairnets become caps, gloves become detachable sleeves and aprons are pulled apart until they sit somewhere between skirt, armour and accessory. Sól is interested in how these objects sit on top of the body and how easily they accommodate different people. ​“They work in varied sizes, I really like that idea.” From there came a question that underpins much of the collection: How can something work for multiple sizes? Like an accessory would? The same resourcefulness extends to the studio floor, where scraps are collected rather than discarded. ​“I’m religiously, religiously collecting leftovers here to make little brooches out of them.” One brooch comes from a custom dress made for an Icelandic performance artist. We search for the right word for what that fragment becomes: keepsake, memento. Eventually we land on souvenir. A bib becomes a top, a hairnet becomes a cap and the remainder of a dress becomes jewellery. Nothing is entirely finished with just because its first purpose has ended.

For all the thinking behind the collection, Sól is refreshingly unserious when it comes to naming it. She pulls out an asymmetric top with a flowing pistachio shawl detail and tells me, ​“We call it a One Tit Drape Top.” I repeat it back. ​“One Tit Drape Top?” ​“Yep.” It does exactly what it promises, falling across the body with one side exposed. There are the Naughty Pearls too, a necklace carried through from an earlier collection. ​“I love a good name,” she says, inspecting them. ​“They look a bit like anal beads or something.” Then comes the oat, high necked and ribbed with a collar that rises up to the chin. ​“I was thinking about calling it Evil Aunty Coat,” Sól says, pulling it upwards. There is a longer version too, ​“the official Evil Aunty Coat,” although, she clarifies, ​“But in a nice way, a fun way.” At one point I call another piece the Original Scarf and she lights up. ​“Oh my God, that’s such a good name. It sounds like the first scarf I ever made ”  One Tit Drape Top, Evil Aunty Coat, Naughty Pearls, Original Scarf. A slightly unhinged family of clothes that manage to carry all the research behind them without taking themselves too seriously.