Autumn Is Forever: The Slow Build Against the Speed of Now (An Interview with Hanif Cropper)

By BradQuan Copeland.

“Art is made in hindsight,” a quote attributed to the late Virgil Abloh, a visionary who understood that the weight of purpose is rarely felt at inception, manifesting itself later once context, seasons, and echoes fall into alignment.

I should make it clear that I don’t consider myself fashionable at all in the traditional sense. By most practical measures, I’m what one might consider a bum. A proud bum, but a bum nonetheless, as my drip consistently consists of hooded long sleeves, sweats, and Crocs year-round, mirroring the apathy I carry while wading through the surreal theatrics of our contemporary landscape. Still, I take pride in weaving together notional fragments erected from society’s perpetual paradox, fragments that not only reflect but actively challenge what is deemed acceptable thought. That, after all, is what fashion, in its truest sense, has always done.

So it’s fair to say that it’s the high fashion of consciousness that led me to the wondrous intellect of Autumn’s founder and CEO, Hanif Cropper, a Harlem-born and Albany-raised fashion designer marked by composure, who works meticulously and patiently to transmute the psychological density of upstate New York into a unified language of design. His work encompasses everything from the region’s muted color palettes to the physical weight of his materials, reflecting upstate’s restive heaviness and quietly grounding his supporters within the maddening cacophony of an industry driven by speed, spectacle, and incessant trend.

“Contemporary fashion largely amplifies absurdity rather than resists it. Much of what we see now is driven by speed and visibility, not intention. People want to arrive faster, and absurdity becomes a shortcut, a way to compress five years of work into six months by doing something outrageous enough to force attention. In many cases, the shock isn’t rooted in meaning. It’s performative. The goal is reaction, not resonance.

“That approach can work, but it isn’t sustainable. Shock grabs attention, but it doesn’t hold it. When disruption exists only to be seen, it creates a cycle that eventually becomes hollow.

“There is a difference between meaningful disruption and disruption for its own sake. Meaningful disruption invites people into something. It gives them a sense of belonging or participation in a moment that feels intentional and rare. That kind of disruption lasts because it creates memory, not just noise.

“My work doesn’t come from chasing that immediacy. I’m interested in building slowly, in creating pieces that feel grounded and intentional. I’m not trying to compete with spectacle. I want the garments to exist beyond trend cycles, to feel wearable across ages, contexts, and time. That requires patience, restraint, and an understanding that people may not immediately get it.

“Fashion right now is split. Some people are chasing the fast lane, and others are committed to the long build. Neither is inherently wrong, but they lead to very different outcomes. I’m choosing the long build. I’m choosing work that accumulates meaning rather than demands attention.”

Hanif opened with this at the outset of our meeting, as we settled deeper into the rustic botanical warmth of The Nest located at 512 State Street in Schenectady, New York. As he bit into the blistering crackle of his eloquently plated Parmesan wings, chasing them with an Old Fashioned, it became clear that what he describes isn’t simply a design preference, but a dismissal of velocity as virtue. In an economy that rewards immediacy over imprint, his work treats endurance as a form of resistance.

Having previously purchased a mustard yellow zip-up hoodie, flexing a wavy, almost hand-drawn autumn logo laid over a pulsing solarburst emanating sinuous rays, I was enamored by its premium heavyweight feel, akin to the accessible luxury of Ralph Lauren.

“A lot of people want the best bang for their buck from starting brands. They want front logos, back logos, extra details, packaging, everything, for a fraction of the price. They don’t question it when it’s Prada or Balenciaga, but when it’s a new brand, suddenly a hundred dollars feels crazy.

“Early on, I was asking myself if I should sell hoodies for 60 or 80 dollars. But I realized I was putting too much time, money, and effort into them to not believe in the price. If I don’t believe it’s worth a hundred dollars, nobody else will. People don’t see the sampling, the cut and sew, the upfront costs. They just see the hoodie. But I care about the craft, and the price reflects that,” he said.

It remains ironic how frequently people dismiss the value of startups, forgetting that the recognizable brands they revere without question once emerged from the same uncertainty. There exists a subconscious tendency to stamp what is accessible or unfamiliar with insignificance, quietly erecting barriers to entry for aspiring creators. One need only look to Apple’s Think Different era to understand the power of deviation when it still demanded patience, conviction, and the willingness to be misunderstood.

That same audacity has since been absorbed into the realm of fashion and technology, its edge dulled and repackaged, to the point where many adults refuse to entertain potential soulmates simply because their message bubbles appear green instead of blue. The logic is inane, yet its potency is undeniable. 

Status, once earned through risk or originality, has been reduced to aesthetic alignment and convenience, offering the intoxication of rebellion without the searing cost of effort, action, or consequence, leaving behind only the hollow illusion of arrival. The gradual ascent of defiance rejects that fallacy outright, trading clout for continuity and flash for retention.

Mike Miller, an affiliate of the Autumn brand and a highly savvy local videographer, once posted a deceptively simple yet weighty observation on Facebook: “People don’t want success, they want comfort with praise.” It is one of capitalism’s most efficient sleights of hand. The irony, however, is that Hanif operates within the same system while actively resisting its hollowness, offering not shallow validation but an invitation into something accrued.

Autumn doesn’t honor what spikes, only what stands when everything else falls. The mottos are “Autumn is forever” and “Autumn is more than just a season,” because the brand doesn’t shift to follow the seasons. The seasons pass through the brand. In real terms, it’s a commitment to developing things meant to be aged with, not worn thin.

He doesn’t call it fall because, unlike the brevity of trickling leaves from September through November, the point isn’t the season itself, but the refusal to reduce transformation into something disposable. Autumn claims a permanence inseparable from becoming, as those who are once had to become.

What’s sold exceeds attire. It’s the recognition of people who feel out of sync with speed culture, who are suspicious of pageantry, and who are more at ease with depth rather than display. Earlier that morning, a line from Kanye West’s 2005 single “Drive Slow” lingered in my mind as I lifted from sleep: “You need to pump your brakes and drive slow, homie.” It stayed not as directive, but as residue, the kind culture leaves behind without asking. Autumn stands firmly on a similar principle: move at your own pace, and mean it.

Autumn’s worth will blaze in hindsight because it thrives on humanity’s innate desire to grow, not wane. “I’m not trying to get there fast. I’m trying to build something that lasts. If people don’t understand it right away, that’s fine. I’m okay with the slow build,” he said further into our conversation. 

A husband and father of three, Hanif diligently grinds to lay the bricks forged from the trials and afflictions of the very hearts that once pumped blood through the veins of this unsung city, solidifying his foundation without losing sight of a life beyond ego. It’s something that must be mastered before it can be put down, and that happens by carrying the weight of reality without the loss of humanity. 

Legacy is often mistaken for something solitary, when in truth, it’s communal. What I’ve seen and continue to see are people spanning the full spectrum of life sporting the brand with a conviction usually afforded only to those cemented in history. The infrastructure exists, and history has shown just how far that kind of groundwork can go. 

Who’s to say he can’t someday follow a path similar to that of Daymond John, cultivating patiently within a bloated and cutthroat industry while creating space to invest back into the dreamers still bleeding to become?

Hell, I could keep writing about the brilliance of what this brand is, but the truth is better experienced than explained. Autumn exists in ceaseless becoming.

Tap into the full range of his curated palette at autumnsforever.com.

Just because real value doesn’t rush into bloom doesn’t mean it asks you to wait.