I can’t remember how I first came across Pico Goods.
I think it was originally through one of their online stockists, probably Nadinoo, and I know that I followed their beautiful Instagram account for a number of years before it was cruelly and unceremoniously deactivated by Meta (more on that later). I was originally drawn in by the simplicity of their soft organic cotton underwear, the kind that I feel every cool-girl-in-the-know would wear, eshewing frills and adornment for casual effortless nonchalance. The pieces, in aesthetic, are the same as every ubiquitous underwear brand, yet they differentiate themselves through their cut, quality and impressive commitment to full traceability back to source.
That’s something worth investing in, in my opinion. Behind the Pico brand are two women building a clothing business from kitchen tables in two different countries; Phoebe works from home in England, Isobel from a small studio in Portugal. They connect through screens, voice notes, and that sacred intimacy that comes from having known one another since school, and trusting their ability to build something slow and unglamorous together.
What they’re building sounds simple until you understand what complete traceability actually means. It’s not about certification stamps or vague supplier lists, but working intimately with farmer co-operatives, visiting ginning units, and working with the same factory manager (Girish) they met on their first research trip to India in 2016. It’s about understanding which natural dyes come from which artisan, how soap nuts wash ecru fabric without bleaching, and why you can see tiny flecks of the cotton plant if you look closely at the finished fabric. This level of knowledge isn’t directly scalable, and requires the kind of attention that only comes from staying deliberately, perhaps a little awkwardly, small.
Of course, they didn’t set out to be small. They set out to understand—truly understand—where their clothes came from, with the same traceability they’d come to expect from food. Isobel had studied tailoring at London College of Fashion, worked on film sets, used sustainable materials and natural dyes, but could never trace organic fibres right back to their source. Phoebe, with a history degree from Goldsmiths and a background in events, had grown up wearing her mother’s eclectic collection of vintage clothes and had written her thesis on the hazards of crinolines. When they moved in together after university, they started growing vegetables, talking endlessly about the world, fashion, farming, and kept circling back to the same question: why didn’t they know about their clothes the way they knew about their food?
Underwear became the answer. They couldn’t find organic cotton underwear on the market that met both their ethical requirements and had the design aesthetic they felt was essential for people to truly value this type of everyday item. It was “essential, close to our skin, intimate and one of the items of clothing that we need, and has high function,” as Phoebe describes it, something you need rather than want, wouldn’t buy secondhand and, they believed, needed making properly. And, she adds with characteristic understatement, “we like a challenge.”
A trip to India in 2016 changed everything. Phoebe and Isobel spent two weeks in Dehradun on Dr Vandana Shiva’s farm, studying Gandhi, globalisation, and Gross National Happiness, which seems like a somewhat unusual curriculum for two women in their twenties trying to understand cotton. In their final interview before leaving, Dr Shiva offered advice that has shaped everything since: “start small and keep holding hands.”
They took her sat her word, and what followed involved travelling practically the entire perimeter of India by train, “eyes wide open, being tested and stretched” at every turn. They met artisans and visited dye recycling units, jumping between industrial and artisan supply chains, trying to find a way to produce jersey fabric—which sits firmly in industrial systems—whilst staying connected to everyone along the way. The challenge was immense. Most farmers work one hectare of land, operating within large co-operatives. How do you maintain relationships at that scale when you’re two people with no factory, no infrastructure, no established supply chain?
Then they met Girish, the factory manager they’ve worked with ever since, who had a small factory sewing organic and fairtrade garments for small brands. He didn’t feel like a supplier; he felt like someone who understood what they were trying to do. Eight years later, “he increasingly feels like a partner in Pico rather than a contractor,” and that distinction matters enormously to them. The supply chain they established on that first trip has remained remarkably consistent: the same knitting unit, the same core relationships, though they’ve woven in different natural dyers and co-operatives as they’ve learned more.
Recently, they’ve been working closely with Swaminathan from KASKOM as part of a two-year research project with UAL and the British Council. The goal is to produce fully compostable underwear using indigenous Karunganni cotton, by working directly with a small cluster of just eight farmers. It’s work that “has really refuelled us and sparked all the intentions of why we began Pico,” Phoebe says, “being able to connect with individual farmers, and work with fibre that’s better for soil, for farmers, and for the planet than even long-staple organic cotton. There’s more to come from all of this work, but it feels really positive to be still making steps forward into producing a truly regenerative pair of pants.“
Regenerative, not just sustainable, is a distinction that matters. They’re not trying to do less harm; they’re trying to actively improve the soil, livelihoods, basically the entire system. It’s ambitious work for a business run from kitchen tables, but perhaps that’s precisely why it’s possible, because they’re not answerable to investors demanding scale or growth metrics that would make this kind of patient, relationship-based work impossible.
When Phoebe and Isobel talk about traceability, they don’t simply mean a certificate or a supplier audit report. They mean being able to tell you that your organic cotton knickers come from farmer co-operatives called Pratima and Pratibha, and that the cotton goes to a specific ginning unit where seeds are separated from the boll, then to a spinning unit, before heading to a knitting unit close to Girish and his factory.
The undyed natural ecru fabric is washed using soap nuts, which means no bleaching and no synthetic detergents. If you look closely at the finished fabric, you can see a natural fleck, a visible trace of the cotton plant itself. It’s the kind of detail that would be usually be edited out in industrial production, smoothed away in pursuit of perfection. But for Pico, it’s proof of origin.
The charcoal-dyed pieces are coloured using Oeko-Tex certified dye in a unit that recycles everything. The dye water runs through pools that function as solar panels, powering the process. The five per cent that can’t be recycled gets used for building materials. Some pieces are dyed by Kumar, a friend of Girish’s, using natural plant dyes. The supply chain isn’t uniform—it shifts slightly depending on colour, on what’s being made—but every variation is known, chosen, and understood.
This level of specificity isn’t marketing copy: it’s the actual structure of their business. They’re not scaling towards automation or efficiency; they’re deepening relationships with the people and processes they already know. It’s the kind of work that makes no sense in conventional business terms. The margins are smaller, the complexity higher, with scalability non-existent. But Phoebe and Isobel aren’t trying to build a conventional business, they’re trying to prove that you can make everyday essentials—things people actually need—in a way that honours every person and process involved.
In 2023, Meta permanently deleted Pico’s Instagram account: over 16,000 followers, years of work—connections with makers and designers who supported each other online and offline—all gone in an instant. They posted about it on their original, dormant Instagram account, thinking they’d rebuild there, but Meta deleted that one too. To this day, they don’t know why.
“I think we were instantly devastated and panicked that our business would not survive without it,” Phoebe says. Like many small businesses, they’d come to believe their survival depended on Instagram. “There was always a big pressure to post and share what we were doing, but in truth it never came very naturally to us.“
Then they discovered something unexpected: most of their customers were loyal ones who perhaps didn’t even look at their Instagram. The business kept going, orders still came through, and after a while, the panic subsided into curious liberation.
“In some ways it was a relief. We both struggled with Instagram a lot. It didn’t always, or often didn’t, feel that healthy. It took up a lot of time and thought, and this might be one of the reasons why we haven’t taken it back up again.” The deletion forced a question they’d been avoiding: did they actually want to be on social media, or did they just feel they had to be?
But the reality isn’t quite that simple, and they recognise there are people they’d love to share Pico with who are no longer seeing them, and those who might think the brand doesn’t exist anymore. Phoebe misses “the random opportunities and ideas that might pop into your inbox, or an amazing artist or designer who might reach out to collaborate, or whose work you stumble upon.” There’s a feeling of being disconnected from a community that primarily communicates through platforms they’re no longer part of. “Maybe in some ways we feel a bit separate,” Phoebe acknowledges, “but all the more reason why we need to and are trying to connect with people and brands directly and see where that takes us.” It’s fitting, really, for a business built on direct relationships with farmers and factory managers rather than scalable systems, but this kind of slow, relationship-based work has its costs.
“Maybe it’s not the best one,” Phoebe says when asked about the unglamorous truth of running a small business, “but it took us so many years before Pico could even pay us a minimum wage. We were both juggling jobs as cleaners, gardeners, nannies, you name it, so that we could run our own business.” At one point, they were fitting Pico work around other people’s schedules and needs, scheduling meetings for midnight and packing pants until the early hours, which is often the unvarnished reality of building something that can’t be rushed, won’t compromise, and takes time to find its people.
They’re both working from home now, juggling small children—four between them—all under the age of three. They may be in different countries but technology affords them constant contact, and they still manage to meet in person regularly. When they started, they were both involved in every aspect of Pico. In some ways, perhaps they still are, but their roles have evolved. Isobel focuses more on design, brand, and production, while Phoebe handles sales and marketing, though she describes her role as “more creative director.“
So, how do they prevent burnout when they’re so close to the work, so personally invested, and stretched thin between children and the complexity of what they’re trying to build? “We both have incredible partners who help with the kids and families who are always so supportive,” says Phoebe. “We also have a mutual understanding of running a business with kids, so we can take the weight for each other if we need to. This doesn’t mean burn out or exhaustion doesn’t creep in at times, but we do our best. We want to make sure we are there and present for our little ones too.”
Rest, when it comes, looks different for each of them. For Phoebe, it’s walking in the woods, getting in the sea, sitting around a fire with friends or family, her women’s circle, and singing in nature, a newfound love. When none of that feels possible with young children around, “simply a good book and a bath and bed,” does the trick. She’s just read ‘The Brotherless Night’ about the Sri Lankan civil war, which was “incredible but heart-wrenching,” she says.
For Isobel, it’s walking in the beautiful woods and hillside near their home in Portugal, alongside time in the studio to create or make something for her kids or friends, usually by knitting or sewing. She’s also been attending a yoga class with Ana, her youngest, once a week, which she describes as “a moment for them both to pause in the busyness of two little ones and all the other juggles of life.”
When I ask about key decisions which stand out in their journey to date, Phoebe immediately says “trusting and working with Girish and a small factory, and not trying to be something we weren’t; acknowledging we are small, starting small and doing our best.”
What she’d change is harder to articulate, because it’s not a specific decision but a state of being: “having more confidence in what we were doing.” She’s quick to add that confidence isn’t something that just happens; it has to come from you, as part of the journey. “When starting out we were nervous of even calling ourselves a business. We didn’t want to be part of the capitalist system, but the more and more we have evolved I feel confident we are trying to do business differently. We are continually trying to improve, and ultimately we all need pants, so let’s keep trying to do it the best way we can.“
So, what do they hope people feel when they choose Pico? “I hope that they feel and can see the quality and care, that they can resonate with the value and the story of their everyday item, that there is beauty in the simple things.“
I, for one, deeply connect with that.
PICO
What they make: Organic cotton underwear with complete supply chain traceability from seed to finished garment
Based: Founders in England and Portugal; production in India
Founded: 2016
Website: project-pico.com
Instagram: n/a
All imagery © Pico & respective photographers, used with permission.