Doukkana is an independent cultural project founded by Moroccan designer Karim Doukkana. More than a shop, less than a gallery, it operates in the in-between: a platform where objects, stories, and ideas from North Africa and beyond are collected, reimagined, and put back into circulation.

Part archive, part experiment, part community, Doukkana asks what happens when heritage is treated as something to remake, remix, and live with, and not something to preserve behind glass.

We spoke with Karim about why heritage can’t survive without risk, how everyday objects become acts of resistance, and what it means to build culture outside the market.

You began with graphic design and 3D rendering. What drew you to object-making?

3D rendering has always felt like the closest thing to holding my ideas in real life. In Blender, I can control light, shadow, texture. I can make an object feel tangible on screen. But there’s always been something missing: the weight of it in your hands, the imperfections that come from human touch. I’ve always imagined my designs existing in the physical world, especially those rooted in my culture and heritage.

The turning point came when Elegoo, a 3D printer manufacturer, sent me their newest printer. That brand partnership accelerated a shift I’d been dreaming of for years. What’s stayed the same is the visual universe my work lives in — deeply tied to Morocco, to the streets, objects, and symbols I grew up with. What’s changed is that now those objects can leave the screen and enter the world, carrying with them the same stories, but now with texture, weight, and presence.

Storytelling seems central to your work. What role does narrative play in how you design?

For me, a story is the soul of an object. Early in my career, I would model something beautiful, post it online, and let it exist without context. But I started to feel like I was doing the object a disservice. Now, every piece is rooted in a narrative — even if it’s playful, even if it’s layered with pop culture references.

I take where I grew up — the textures, symbols, and rhythms of Morocco — and mix it with where I am now, immersed in new media and global pop culture. I adapt my stories for today’s attention spans, using hooks, slang, and visual cues people can instantly connect with. But the mission never changes: to export my culture to the world, to make Morocco visible in spaces it’s rarely seen.

Can you walk us through your process for transforming a symbol into an object?

It starts with observation. If the object exists in my home or my parents’ home, I’ll photograph it from multiple angles. If not, I search online marketplaces like Etsy for listings with detailed reference images.

Then comes 3D modeling in Blender — building the form, then moving into textures, either hand-painted or sourced as PBR textures. I set the object to real-life scale, choose the focal length, adjust lighting with HDRI environments, and often remove the background to isolate the object.

The post-processing stage is where tone comes in: I’m meticulous about contrast — deep blacks, crisp whites — and I pair visuals with unexpected music. A delicate piece might be set to hard hitting Playboi Carti, for example, creating tension between sight and sound.

You return to the fez again and again. What does it hold for you?

Image courtesy of Doukkana

The fez has become a personal monument for me. I’ve poured time, energy, and my own resources into elevating it because I believe it has the potential to travel far — to be worn everywhere, to be recognized globally, and yes, to generate real economic opportunity.

Part of what pulls me back is the constant encouragement from my audience. People DM me asking, “Where is it? What’s happening with it?” Their excitement fuels mine. On a deeper level, it’s an object that’s intimate to me — my grandfather wore it, I wore it. It’s woven into my personal memories. Seeing an international audience fascinated by something so familiar to me feels like watching a childhood memory take on a second life.

What’s the story behind the Fez Balaclava you’re developing with auster?

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It started as a rough sketch in my notebook. I shared an unfinished render on TikTok and was met with a wave of comments telling me to “keep it a prototype.” Instead, I finished it, refined it, and posted the final version — and it went viral, with over 5 million views across two videos. That moment opened doors I hadn’t expected: my first-ever magazine feature in Hypebeast Arabia, then Dazed, and messages from artists across the MENA region — even from Turkish musician Edis, who wanted to wear it in a video.

I built a landing page to collect emails for the launch, and over a thousand people signed up. But early attempts to produce it locally didn’t meet my vision. That’s when auster network stepped in. I’m genuinely grateful for their support — they believed in the concept and gave me the opportunity to bring it to life exactly as I had imagined. They’re now overseeing manufacturing in Turkey, working with experienced textile experts and project managers to make sure every detail is right. It’s the first time I’ve had a professional infrastructure behind my vision, and it’s making all the difference.

Along the way, there’s been unexpected drama — a YouTuber, WowMao, made his own version after seeing mine, but we’ve since become friends, and he’s promised to share the real purchase link when it drops. There was also a misunderstanding with a singer who used it in a video without approval, but we resolved it, and it even led to potential collaborations. Today, the Fez Balaclava has found its way into mixtape covers, profile pictures for Algerian tour guides, and more — a mix of my grandfather’s fez and a Nike face mask that somehow became a global conversation.

Could you share previous works you're particularly proud of?

Amāriyya Ring: The Amāriyya is a ceremonial bridal seat carried during Moroccan weddings. I transformed it into a ring, replacing the bride with a single luminous pearl — the “pearl of the wedding.” It’s both a tribute to Moroccan women and a distillation of a larger ritual into something intimate and wearable.

Image courtesy of Doukkana

Gold Chebbakiya Pendant: Chebbakiya is a Ramadan pastry, intricate in form. I modeled mine from one my mother made, studying its folds as she prepared it. I rendered it in gold — not for accuracy (brass might be closer in tone) — but to elevate it into a premium, symbolic jewel. Sesame seeds became green diamonds, a nod to ornamentation and abundance.

Image courtesy of Doukkana

Has your relationship to cultural symbols like the fez, khamsa, or sand masks changed over time?

Definitely. In the beginning, I would model these symbols as they already existed, essentially treating them like still-life subjects. But over time I realized that’s not my role. I’m not a product photographer — I’m an artist and a thinker. My job is to transform these symbols, give them new stories, and sometimes challenge the way people see them.

That means confronting taboos — like publicly saying I don’t believe in the evil eye in a culture where that can be controversial. I admit I’m drawn to that tension, to reclaiming my culture in ways that may provoke debate. For me, authenticity means creating what feels true, even if it disrupts expectations of what our culture “should” look like.

What do materials mean to you?

In the digital space, materials are limitless. I can make glass that’s imperfect, gold that’s hyper saturated, fabrics that defy physics. My goal is always to make the object feel as premium as possible, whether or not it exists physically.

In the physical world, I’m more constrained — plastic, fabric — but 3D printing with castable resin is expanding my range. Now I can print a model and have it cast in silver, gold, or other metals, giving me the ability to merge my digital precision with real-world craftsmanship.

You’ve spoken about facing discomfort or backlash for being visibly proud of your culture. How does that shape your work?

In Morocco, there’s a term — zlayji — used to mock people who are hyper-patriotic about cultural heritage while ignoring bigger social issues. Some critics lump me into that category because my work celebrates Moroccan and Maghreb symbols so openly.

But I see it differently. Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia — we share a common heritage shaped by centuries of intertwined history. I believe in owning that shared identity instead of fighting over who “invented” couscous or the kaftan.

For me, being proud of culture doesn’t mean ignoring real problems. It means contributing in my lane — as an artist, my job is to preserve and reimagine heritage, while others tackle education, healthcare, and policy. I embrace the tension: the visibility my work brings can spark pride, but also conversations about what pride should look like.

What kind of responses do you hope your work provokes — especially from younger North African or diasporic creatives?

I want fascination to be the first reaction — not just to the object, but to the story behind it. I want people from the Maghreb to recognize the threads that connect our cultures, and for audiences outside the region to be surprised by the beauty and sophistication of our traditions. If my work inspires younger creatives to look at their heritage with fresh eyes, to reimagine it rather than replicate it, then I’ve succeeded.

Language can connect and divide. How do you navigate language in your creative process?

Working in English has opened doors for me — global collaborations, brand deals, a wider audience. But it also creates a gap: many Moroccans, including my own mother, can’t fully engage with the stories behind my pieces without translation.

Some people tell me I should “just speak Arabic,” but my response is that I’m already doing a lot for our culture by showing it to the world. That doesn’t mean I dismiss their point — in fact, I’m considering adding Arabic subtitles to keep the accessibility without sacrificing my current reach.

Language, for me, is a tool. English is the bridge I use to export my work, but Arabic and French are embedded in the DNA of what I make.

In a world that forgets quickly, what do you hope your work remembers?

Image courtesy of Doukkana

For me, it’s about legacy — not just for myself, but for my family name. Claiming “Dukana” as my Instagram handle may seem trivial, but it’s symbolic of my larger mission: to attach pride to that name.

I don’t want to be remembered only as “the Moroccan artist” or “the guy who makes 3D.” I want to be remembered as someone who bridged Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia — who took the shared culture of the Maghreb and made it visible to the world.

auster

More than a shop, less than a gallery, Doukkana operates in the in-between: a platform where objects and stories from North Africa and beyond are reimagined and shared.

auster