That Was 2025. Goodbye.
An essay by Sven Appelt
My dear customers, my dear friends, my dear partners and companions,
2025 is over. And I will say it openly: I am grateful. Not because everything was easy—but because something happened that has become rare in our time: despite everything, a year came to a positive close.
I want to say this first, before turning anywhere else: thank you.
Thank you for trust. For patience. For transparency. For carrying this together. For that quiet solidarity that cannot be ordered like a package—and that you only understand once it exists. Some of you have been with me for years. Some joined recently. And this year, metaphorically speaking, I gained 28 new (association) friends: people who do not “consume,” but understand what it means when something is made by hand and not just by shipping label.
And yes: I also thank myself. Not out of self-glorification, but because in 2025 I had to relearn what civic courage means in practice: staying when it gets uncomfortable. Continuing when systems are sluggish. Defending craftsmanship when it is ridiculed. And that made something possible that cannot be planned—but can be earned.
China. France. And two collections of my own.
2025 was also a year in which I felt very clearly on an international level what my work is worth—when it meets people who do not start with the reflex question, “Discount?”
I was invited to design a collection for the largest sportswear manufacturer in China. I say this not to boast, but because it was a cultural shock in the best sense. There, thinking does not begin with “Where can we save?” but with “How big can it become?” I remember one moment vividly: I asked about material quantities—and the answer was essentially, “We don’t place orders under 10,000 meters. Period.” My jaw dropped. Not because I am “money-hungry,” as some lawyers are, but because I realized how much Germany has grown accustomed to thinking big and acting small—and then being surprised when the two no longer align.
At the same time, I worked as a consultant for a major French corporation, with a very concrete assignment: advising on the upcoming latex collection of a Paris fashion house. This is the kind of work where no one asks whether latex is “fetish,” but whether latex can be fashion. Spoiler: it can—if you take it seriously.
And then, between these international poles, I returned to my own studio life: I completed two of my own collections in 2025. Two. Finished. Released to the market. So that it would not remain a “project,” but become reality.
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Craftsmanship in Germany – and why we are losing ourselves
I will say this bluntly, because softness no longer saves anyone here: Germany loves to talk about “quality.” But over the years, Germany has trained itself into a culture where quality is treated like a luxury that should please come free of charge.
You build a house—and I am building one too—and you want heating. Windows. Electrical work. A kitchen. And then you hear sentences that would not be normal in any economically serious country: “In two, maybe three years.” Not because tradespeople are bad—quite the opposite. But because craftsmanship here is too expensive, too slow, too thinned out. And because structures meant to protect often get caught in administration.
What many do not say out loud: many people no longer want a German tradesperson. Not out of contempt—but out of fear of time loss, cost explosions, planning chaos.
And now the irony: at the same time, we still have a generation proudly carrying around the old slogan “Geiz ist geil” (“cheap is cool”) as if it were a philosophy of life. As if getting everything cheap were a sign of intelligence. That slogan was pop culture for a while. Today, it is an accelerant. And tragically, this mentality is often carried by precisely that “old” self-assurance I mockingly call the “Eisenberg generation”—people who explain with maximum conviction how the world should work, while no longer having to bear the consequences of their own thinking.
And the chambers?
Chambers of Crafts and Chambers of Industry and Commerce are legally strong, historically grown institutions. They have tasks: training, examinations, consulting, representation of interests. They are part of the system of “self-administration.” And yes, that can make sense—if it works.
But here is my point: many people today experience that these chambers primarily administer themselves. Mandatory contributions, committees, processes, paperwork. And the feeling that the machine keeps running mainly because it must keep running.
At the same time, mandatory membership is no myth—it is legally secured. The Federal Constitutional Court has explicitly ruled mandatory IHK membership and contributions to be constitutional. That means: you don’t just “opt out.” You pay. You must. Period. And if, as an entrepreneur, you feel you get too little in return, frustration is structurally built in.
And that is precisely why—this is my ironic commentary—I am introducing a serial number for every single piece starting in 2025. Not because I think I am Rolex. But as a sign. A mirror. A message.
To the Chambers of Crafts: If even a latex designer is ironically exposing you with a serial number, then perhaps it is time to rethink your role—less self-preservation, more future.
Because the German customer is not stupid. The German customer sees: much from China arrives faster. Often cheaper. Sometimes disturbingly good. And the German customer asks: Why does everything take so long here? Why is everything so expensive? Why does craftsmanship feel like a museum instead of a motor?
And now it gets even more bitter: this is not just craftsmanship. This is education. This is culture. This is an entire mindset.
Education and AI – Germany economizes itself small, America thinks ahead
I have been someone for years who passes on knowledge. As a designer. As a lecturer. As someone who does not just build products, but ways of thinking.
And in 2025, something happened that I truly consider an honor: I was invited to California to work with students on costume design—using AI programs around ChatGPT workflows. Exactly where the topic is not discussed as the “downfall of the West,” but as a toolbox.
In the U.S., the debate is far more pragmatic: How do we integrate AI meaningfully? How do we protect integrity without killing innovation? How do we make students AI-fluent? Major universities are rolling out GenAI programs at scale or testing them campus-wide—examining opportunities and risks at the same time. Research likewise shows: U.S. universities develop guidelines and didactic models—not just bans.
What I did there was not “AI replaces craftsmanship.” It was: AI supports craftsmanship. We worked with students in workshops—mood boards, character development, costume narratives, material logic, silhouette decisions—and then AI as a sparring partner: varying ideas, testing options, structuring references, sharpening text concepts, making production steps more predictable. Not as a machine that “does,” but as a module that stimulates, reflects, accelerates—without stealing authorship.
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And now comes the German contrast—and it hurts.
In Berlin and in Germany, I have watched for years how culture and education are praised rhetorically—but financially treated like a hobby. Berlin discussed and decided on austerity measures that would severely affect science and universities; institutions publicly warned of drastic consequences. These were not minor cuts. We are talking about hundreds of millions of euros and concrete impacts on teaching, staff, and infrastructure.
And then we talk about teaching—about teaching contracts. About the reality that freelance lecturers are often paid by the hour, frequently at rates that—if preparation and follow-up are honestly calculated—feel like pocket money. This is not a feeling; it is structural: teaching fees are often low and rigidly formalized.
And that is why I say openly: I now teach in Germany primarily at private universities. Not because I am elitist. But because the public reality often looks like this: a dean must submit a request he already knows will fail—because the honorarium does not respect the work. And that is not just a personal annoyance. It is a symptom. Germany loves to praise cultural work rhetorically—but often treats it financially with condescension.
And then we wonder why, in international comparison, we no longer have the radiance we once had. We would have to become again—economically, culturally, craft-wise—what we once were. Not as nostalgia. But as a decision.
AI, for me, is not a monster.
AI is a tool.
A companion.
An idea generator.
And if we use it correctly, AI can even be the opposite of dumbing down: a system that forces people to think again—because it makes questions faster, and thereby raises the standards for answers.