It all started with an iron, a needle, and thread in my grandparents’ home, Uptown,

New Orleans.

I was about eight years old when my grandfather had me iron his jeans every Monday and Thursday — paying me one dollar a pair. “Fold them like this. Lift the top. Spray the starch — not too close. Let it sit, then iron.” Blues played in the background while I turned the denim inside out, studying the stitching, the texture, the color. I became fascinated with how garments were made — and with the endless possibilities of what I could create myself.

At the same time, my grandmother was teaching me the fundamentals of sewing. It began with threading her needle so she could hem — a deceptively difficult task that required patience and steady hands. In many ways, it was my initiation. If you had the patience to thread the needle, you had the love for the craft.

Soon I was hemming her dresses, skirts, and pants at the dining room table beneath the chandelier — “so you can see,” she would say.

By middle school, I was altering my own uniform skirt for a better fit, turning old pants into custom book bags and neckties, even hand-sewing plaid fabric onto my sneakers so everything matched from head to toe. As an Aquarius, I’ve always found a way to stand out — even within strict rules.

In high school, when Destiny’s Child released “Soldier” featuring Lil Wayne, the moment felt close to home. Wayne’s mother used to play cards with my grandmother and aunties, while my mother helped watch the children. Inspired, I took army fatigue fabric my grandmother Denise had given me and made matching outfits for my friends so we could choreograph dances and perform together. Only later did I learn that my great-grandmother Glenise — on that same side of the family — had been a seamstress by trade.

By college, my passion had evolved from reconstructing pieces for myself and loved ones to starting a clothing line with my best friend. In one class, we studied “The Century Closet,” a collection of garments spanning from the 1800s to the 2000s. Seeing fashion across time revealed a profound truth: nothing is entirely new. Most modern designs are reinterpretations of what came before. It taught me that creativity isn’t just about what you make — it’s about how you make it.

The name came to me years later while driving down Freret Street on the way to a cousin’s art event. Passing the barbershop where my cousins used to get their haircuts, a thought surfaced: What if I’m meant to open a store here? I had grown up just around the corner in my grandparents’ house. Maybe the legacy was meant to continue in that space — or through it.

Then it clicked.

Lou — for my grandmother Louella.
Melv — for my grandfather Melvin.

Lou’Melv.

Two lineages interwoven into one name. A clothing house born from a house — built on memory, craftsmanship, and the quiet lessons passed down across generations.