They say the Devil lives in the details. In that Marni bubbled up primrose colored chemise you take to match your late morning latte or in the buttons your dark silk Mitsouko sunken kimono owns to hold the vanity shy in front of daylight.

The first time I had the palms of my hands on a vintage crepe de Chine dress which belonged to my mother, I thought there must be no fashion without words and no words without instinct. In a worldly equation this translates as none shall stand tall without summoning a story with their presence and all Prada purses that rise above tableware will fall when the hand that bears them is only begging for attention.

There is no poetry in trends. Not as it breathes out of a rich Balenciaga grey coat coveting the skinny shoulders of an autumnal Charlotte Gainsbourg or as it unfolds from the big soft whirly knits of Sandra Backlund. Not like it uncovers rawness from a Murmur laser cut t-shirt, not like it shudders in the shades of rosemary and wine in a Vanessa Bruno raspberry molded dress. While a Sick Owens, as my friend J. used to say, should only benefit from the tender loving care of those who match the Tumblr crowned stressed, depressed, but well dressed syntax.

There have been two moments that made me shiver. When the heart doesn’t forget to be proud and when pride unravels in heart lines.

In 1996 I was walking back home from school, it was a harsh cold February, those times when the real winters would show their fangs. My boots tapped the snow steadily, trying to avoid having my back stuck to the ground and my feet up in the air from one minute to another, when I saw this picture that made my march heavier than an avalanche. A woman had taken out on the street a bunch of objects from the house and was trying to sell them. A sea shell most of our grandparents used to store on the TV. Shoes, worn a couple times, a glasses holder, a hand sewn tablecloth, a small doll, resting on what looked like a former wooden box for storing oranges. Tiny furnitures of an old, secluded life, which, there and then emanated a material, far from miniature, sadness. I suddenly felt like somebody pasted me in a Hemingway poem. The woman made no gesture. She just stood there, in the 50 shades of pale her winter coat exhaled, like System of a Down’s sad statue. She wasn’t young but neither old and completely lacked the stubbornness of market sellers. In her silent helplessness face to desperation she wouldn’t beg for anything. I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t look away either. I thought there was no sadder story on Earth that day. Years later I still think the same. I just wish rather more than less people associated style with dignity.

The sequel came two years ago, when a proud, dressed in shadows head-to-toe old lady told me in a high end fashion store how she spent half her wallet there on a pair of shoes I personally – with all my lust for lush, would have failed to pay unless I won the lottery or married the Prince of Arabia. Screw them meds, I’ve got one last ball to dance to, she whispered without blinking, without all those faces and words we hate at old people because they make the back of our soul itch. She covered herself in a black woolen robe which I could swear I saw in a 1965 film and studied herself in the mirror. Her teeth bloomed in bright red lipstick stains, like an average miss Havisham gone on a shopping spree, but then I saw her rise above all shopaholic confessions I have heard and understood how vanity sometimes tastes better than all antidepressants, pain killers and low blood pressure pills in the whole wide world.

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Creative Director Ioana Cristina Casapu

Photography Florin Gorgan

MUA Mihaela Vasiloi

Hair Ioana Goicea



109, Mihaela Cretescu, Neogalateca, Gabriela Dumitran, Simona Semen,

H&M, C&A, New Look & Meli Melo