I’m Eira, a twenty-something creative and friend of Rosa who share her love of reading and writing. Some time ago I started working on a collection of short texts meant to function as literary representations of the all too often criticised OOTD-picture.

I decided to take a series of selfies and attempt to translate them into words. What would such a picture reveal about my own daily act of dressing, gender and identity, and why does it even matter? The result turned out to be the first fragment of a wardrobe autobiography in written form, spiralling out of control.

Fragment #1 Wardrobe Autobiography

Over-sized and covering my body, seams and fabric twisting into seemingly impossible shapes. Broken hems and faded trends from last year, or the year before that. Clothes displayed on a 70% sales rack designed for a body that is not mine. Still clinging on mine, anchoring my body like other bodies, a willing act of distortion and distortion of the free will.

Like those gorgeous trousers from ### that I wore for years made from this itchy material, machine-woven baroque patterns interwoven with gold threads. Shades of purple complimented by metallic hues and 100% polyester, showcasing my bulge. Skin revealed at the wrong places and transparent imitations of silk. Like gauze, fashion can be used for medical purposes.

Self-medication through glamour, a mass-produced individual selection of garbs worn up-side down is totally backwards, yet remains a future possibility. And a fashion student would say: CONCEPTUAL! but that’s just not it. Discarding notions of quality and couture, I read between the lines of hetero History-of-Dress-&-Design, paying homage to an invisible lineage transcending biology.

SUPERFICIAL-SURFACE and TRUE-DEPTH meld and merge in my costume jewellery so fake that it becomes more real than reality itself. My exoskeleton of femininity does not discriminate between fast fashion and vintage, but remains a silent shout expressing that which our collective subconscious seeks to erase.

Open-ended possibilities equates oblivion, and the work of the hands of those that our culture seeks to erase is put on display on my body, speaking in tongues.

For some of us, the struggle to keep on breathing is expressed through our clothes. Or as my friend Rosa says: clothes collect our souls.


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