The Witchy, Catholic, Gay Boy Behind Your Next Favorite Couture Gown: Dominico Pérez of Nicó

“I’m an idiot savant when it comes to dressmaking—I have no process except spontaneity,” says Nico, who launched his self-titled design studio at just 17.

What began as a whim—a DM sent on impulse—led to my first meeting with Nico. He and his fur baby, Koti, greeted me with the kind of embrace you’d give a dear friend after years apart. Then, without hesitation, he declared, “I’m going to make you a dress today.”

We step into Nico’s new studio in the couture capital of the world—San Antonio, TX—a bright, airy space that serves as a blank canvas for his signature Gothic Revival aesthetic. Having moved in only four days prior, the studio is mostly empty, awaiting the arrival of his cutting board, mannequins, and gowns. But Nico is already brimming with excitement, bouncing from room to room, detailing how each space will serve him and his clients. He’s ready to take what’s familiar and reimagine it in a new setting.

Finally, he lands on the wooden floor in the middle of the studio, unfurls a stone-blue archival fabric, and begins cutting my dress.

His brand, Nicó, embraces contradiction: raw yet refined, delicate yet defiant, romantic yet unsettling. His designs whisper ghost stories, exude elegance, and refuse to be neatly categorized—just like their creator.

I sat down with Nico to explore why, in a bridal world often associated with softness and light, his work is so unapologetically moody.

Images from @tejanico

Jasmine: You didn’t study fashion formally. How did that shape your approach to design?

Nico: I don’t know what I’m doing—and I mean that in the best way. I just do it. It feels spiritual. My grandmother was a dressmaker, and at this point, it’s almost like intuition. Like how ducks fly south for the winter—that’s me with dressmaking and design. I don’t know what’s guiding me, but I think it’s her.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’d be further ahead. I’ve been turned down for jobs because I don’t have a degree, and I see people with less experience getting opportunities. It’s frustrating. But not having a traditional background has also made me scrappy. It’s forced me to be smarter, more resourceful. Couture is expensive, and I don’t have big financial backing. If I can’t afford fabric, I have to find a way.

J: Your aesthetic is very specific—frayed edges, corsets falling apart, this almost haunted yet romantic quality. What’s the intent behind that?

N: Everything I make has to have intent. Nothing is just ‘pretty’ for the sake of it. A frayed hem isn’t edgy—it’s what happens when you run through a South Texas field and your dress gets snagged on mesquite branches. A gown that looks like it’s been sitting in an attic for decades? That’s a story. Couture should tell stories.

J: You describe yourself as a ‘young brown queer thing from Texas.’ How does that identity shape your work?

N: There’s no space for brown people in couture. Look at who keeps getting appointed as creative directors—it’s the same three people. So I have to make my own space. And because that space doesn’t exist yet, it has to be even better than what’s already out there. I have to be the most polished and the most vulgar at the same time.

J: You say your gowns are a love letter to women. Who is the Nico woman?

N: You know, people ask why is your corset falling apart? Well, because women have to do things themselves in life. So she had to lace up this corset on her own and maybe missed a couple spots, but it still looks beautiful. It may not be perfect, but perfection lies in her doing it herself. Bridalwear is incredibly specific; it’s delicate, deeply personal, and undeniably vulnerable. But the Nico bride understands that she is in complete control of this experience she’s about to step into.

To me, the Nico woman is someone who is assertive, bossy, and fully present. And every bride I’ve made a dress for, no matter how wonderful, leaves just a little brattier—because she’s experienced something made just for her, tailored to her body. Visually, she’s a romantic. She wants something different, something that reflects her personality. But at the same time, she trusts me to bring that vision to life.

And she’s informal in all the right ways. I want her to wear my gowns somewhere she’s absolutely not supposed to. A dive bar. If people aren’t looking at her like why is she here?, then we’ve failed.

J: You’re based in San Antonio. Do you feel like Texas is the right place for what you do?

N: No one thinks of couture when they think of Texas. But I’m still here because something keeps me here. Maybe it’s patience. Maybe it’s comfort. I’ve tried to move to New York. I had a job lined up, and they went with someone with a degree instead. But I can do what I do from anywhere. The industry is so virtual now. I’ve had shows in New York while still living here. Would I like to be in a bigger fashion city? Sure. But I also refuse to struggle for the sake of struggling.

J: You have a show coming up. What can you tell us?

N: Nothing. I don’t talk about a show until everything is absolutely finalized. But I can say this: it’s my biggest collection yet, featuring 30 pieces. For the first time, my designs will be shoppable, and we’re expanding into small-scale manufacturing, leather goods, and even shoes. The intent remains the same—every piece must have purpose. And if the show isn’t perfect? Then I have no business doing it.

Images from @tejanico

“When someone wears my garment, they need to know that they don’t have to do anything else. They don’t have to shop for a specific underpinning to give that body, they don’t have to install anything in that dress. It is made for them.”

The Tejano, self-described “young brown queer thing from Texas” was raised around Catholicism and curandería—where traditional teachings are blended with alchemy, astrology, and spirituality. Before meeting him, I had never even heard of it. But it’s clear this upbringing profoundly shaped him in the best way.

“My parents were like, ‘Oh, he’s an artist. He’s supposed to paint on the walls. He’s flamboyant. Let’s not make him feel bad about it.’ They’ve openly told me how special I was from a very young age. My grandmother, my whole maternal side—” Tears well in his eyes as he gestures around his studio. “This—I’ve never been made to feel weird for being different.”

Nico’s reimagined use of forgotten silhouettes are what first drew me to him. Here was someone creating not for mass appeal, but for his younger self and the women in his life. That kind of intention feels rare in a world where most designers chase trends and data-driven predictions year after year.

That’s why featuring Nico as the first designer on Alter felt so right. Alter exists to inspire authenticity in the pursuit of creating cool shit—and Nico does this instinctively. His work embodies the spirit of a designer who refuses to conform, who takes up space unapologetically, and who, 'wants people to see Catholic arches, dead birds, and dead flowers and feel like they need to go buy a Nicó gown to wear next to it.'

For enquiries with Nicó / @tejanico