Confessions in J.P.G.

“You can even see the approaching of a revolutin in clothes. You can feel and see everything in clothes.” (Diana Vreeland – “The eye has to travel”)

I was born in the nineteen eighties, in a middle-class family, in Bucharest, as my parents’ only child. My grandmother had a very old, manual sewing machine that would convert into a small table when unused, but it rarely happened, as she always had something to sew. It worked on gas and the process of pumping that addictive smelling substance in it has always fascinated me (and probably helped turn me into the – occasional – gasoline sniffer that I am today. And have I ever told you much I love the smell of naphthalene, kerosene and fresh cigarette smoke? If Thierry Mugler, Gaultier or Yves Saint Laurent would create an essence  based on any of these, I’d be the first one in line to get it.)

Most of my and my mother’s clothes were created by my grandmother in her room, crowded with tape measures, patterns, threads in every colour imaginable. My mother ‘s closet was amazingly colourful, with playful patterns everywhere – on dresses, blouses, trousers that I would try on in front of the wall sized mirror in the livingroom, because I was too young and short to actually wear them outside. Whenever a dress became too small, my grandmother would turn it into something else and before my eyes, it metamorphized into a blouse, a skirt, even a pair of shorts, sometimes all of the above. She taught me to not take anything for granted, to respect clothes and the effort put into creating them, to wear them with grace and femininity. At all costs. She has been through a lot in life which made her into the strongest and most resistant woman I know.

Although I was never talented at drawing – on the contrary – nor did I know anything about fashion or body shapes, sizes or anything in that matter, I knew what I liked and dared to wear it. I rarely asked for advice or cared for anyone’s oppinion other than my mother’s. I would combine pink, furry, belted boots with yellow jeans just because. I would see a skirt and in my mind, convert it into a dress – for a party – adding butterfly broches and pink ribbons and punching pins into it and wouldn’t stop until it’d become…something totally different than what I actually had in mind. Unwearable. A total disaster. Thrown away eventually. Or…I’d see someone, somewhere, wearing something incredibly beautiful and would try to recreate a similar piece from materials I kept stored in my room, in boxes. Soon, I started creating my own trinkets. I liked my accessories oppulent and massive. And intertwined. I would throw everything in there and use anything for an artistic effect, even my father’s screw nuts (and no, it doesn’t mean what you think it means). I even chopped my two front teeth in the process of creation – because I was stupid enough to use them as tools – which is impossible to see now, as I have developed bruxism and before realizing it, all my teeth were even.

Because of my unusual and sometimes bad vestimentary choices, I would often get strange looks from people on the street which made me feel very unconfortable, angry and missunderstood at first. From judgemental glances to ironic stares, I know what they all feel like. I remember taking the tube to school and there were always “some girls” sitting in front of me, commenting about my outfit, giggling, giving me almost compasionate looks. Staring. With time, I learned to stare right back. What I much later realized is that I was actually lacking attitude and that, instead of me wearing them, clothes were actually wearing me. But I live in London now, where the chances of being the strangest person on the street at any given time are pr’tty low.

By the way, do you have any idea how many pairs of jeans you will have to throw away before mastering the bleaching technique? ALL of them.

And don’t get me wrong, I was never a rebel, at least not in the traditional interpretation of the word. I mean, yes, I would occasionally steal money from mother’s purse or father’s wallet to buy new clothes, but…it was all for a good cause – is what I would tell myself to make me feel a little less guilty. And then, of course, there was this effortlessly beautiful girl in my classroom, that all  girls wanted to be like and all boys dreamed of being with…Alisia. Perfect straight, brown hair, perfect lips, white teeth, perfectly fitting clothes on her thin body, perfect height, perfect skin, perfect small rings accentuating her perfect long fingers…anyway, you got the point. And of course, her boyfriend was part of the most popular group in school, drove a car and showered her with expensive gifts. They were perfect together, she was living a fairytale and I was a little envious – I wished I was her. In hindsight, his parents had a lot of money, not him – and this was pretty much the reason he was popular, not his personality or phisique and, as it would later transpire, he was cheating on her; not to mention that one time, she even came to school with a purple eye. At this point, I don’t even know if this last part is true or my mind just made it up. It doesn’t even matter. The point is that her perfection haunted me throughout highschool and also that…

I wasn’t very popular back then. As a matter of fact, I think there’ve been five occasions I’ve actually been popular. In my life. And, with time, I’ve learned to deal with this as well. But as an adolescent, it used to hurt me very much. So I needed to find some sort of a compensation, and I did – clothes. People had to SEE ME. So I made them watch…I don’t remember ever being a punk fan (and the only rock band I’d heard of was Purulent Excretor and their name is the only reason why I haven’t forgotten who they are) but I would cut my jeans, attach safety pins all over the cuts and embroid what was left with sequins. Many times, my classmates would advice me not to sit on my jeans, as the safety pins might pinch me in the ass. Fortunately, this never happened…In the meantime, there was a Doina Levintza designers’ contest at the National Theatre of Bucharest. I thought I was onto something, so I went – even though I didn’t have anything good enough.  Everything is a blur, I don’t remember what I presented myself with, but what I do remember is that she didn’t come to me at all. Not a word, like I wasn’t even there. It was only about the other contestants. I was hurt, but overcame the feeling and continued to come up with ideas for bracelets, jackets, blouses, continued to steal money from my parents and lie to them about it. I needed more clothes to personalize, so without realizing what a serious problem it was, I became a compulsive shopper.

My closet was jam-packed by the time I started uni. As my my second year begun, I still didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. I was in a relationship that provided me with more questions than answers when I almost coincidentally discovered fashion and sh clothes blogs. Almost. Pandora, The cherry blossom girl, Late afternoon, Garance Dore, The Sartorialist, Atlantic-Pacific, Mary’s vintage boutique, Pixalia, Panic at the store – you name it, I followed it or bought clothes from it. I’d made sure I was the first one to know about it, the moment something new was posted. I’d get completely captivated and not do anything else for days. By this time, my parents were desperate, although neither of them completely understood the nature and gravity of my addiction. But then I got my first real job, as an accountant for Renault…and spent my first salary on a pair of high heeled Jason Campbells. ALL of it. And then it hit me: no blouse or boots could possibly be worth completely losing my parents’ trust and disappointing them. Altough I was never brave enough to tell my father what I had done and he never brought it up in any of our conversations, he knows everything. If I could only turn back time..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The irony of it all? I now live in London, 2544 kilometers away from three closets full of clothes that are either too small, too short, or in obvious collision with my current lifestyle, most of which will be given away without ever having the chance to ever see the sunlight. Surprisingly, here is where I found complete cure for everything from shyness and fear of men to OCD closet hoarding and compulsive shoping. On my own, without interventions or prescriptions from psichiatrists. Here is where I had to face all my demons. Here is where I truly became a part of the world. Here is where I let myself be seen as who I am, not as who my clothes make me. But these diseases really exist and are extremely dangerous. I experienced both, caused irreparable damage and terribly hurt the people who I love and who love me. But I finally understood that clothes are never  the answer to anything. They have to compliment you, not own you. Shopping only gives the illusion of happyness and for a very short period of time.

Fashion, on the other hand…I still haven’t found a cure for.

 

To be continued, then.

 

Jean Paul Gaultier trenchcoat worn as a dress

No name purse

Golden/turquoise choker/belt – my own design

No name hat

No name boots

Green Eyed Kisses,