LOOKBOOK | 2014–2018
I am checking a makeup bag to discover an outdated lipstick of my mother, her eyeshadows and blush. Randomly I am pulling out of the storage a suitcase stuffed with shoes to find a pair of short supply Yugoslavian high heels bought back in the 1980s. I am searching through a bunch of boxes in a family shed to explore my mother’s old wardrobe and my elder sister’s suits: mainly colorful dresses, either purchased in a Soviet department store or sewn in a tailor shop and at home.
When a child, hardly could I wait for our apartment to become deserted. I would likewise open the closet to alternate the outfits and spin in front of the mirror imagining myself as an adult. Since I reached the age of my mother after she had given birth to me, I repeatedly go through the redundant things. Now I can wear them without any fear of being caught underway.
I put on the lipstick, which is falling off and burning my skin. I pull bundles with pieces of my grandmother’s fabric out of the sewing machine. For decades she kept them and after all never managed to sew anything. I flip through fashion magazines published in the 1970s and 1980s, which formed my first ideas of beauty and female representation in the 1990s.
I stand in front of the mirror, craving to recall the images of all the women in my family at once. I do that to figure out how they perceived their bodies and sexuality. I repeat the ritual over and over, replicating the memorized poses, echoing the foreshortenings.
After that I cut out the pieces of old fabric and turn them into new garments. This time they neither belong to other people, nor stem from my mother’s wardrobe. I create my own clothes; these dresses are about me.