My girls are the hyperbolic Barbies of the theatre-born fashion fabrics. In being so stereotypically and dramatically pink and girly, they subvert these conventions and become a feminist statement. Think Arvida Byström, Zoe Pilger, Kitty Pryde. Fourth wave.
My girls aren’t necessarily my girls. Boys and my everything in between. Whoever they want to be. 80s garish disco-goers, 1990s pastel princesses, marshmallow marabou dreamers, endless chiffon empresses, violent raw edge silk skirt-wearers, acidic lace revolters, laser cut plastic pioneers.
They listen to Hole and Lady Gaga. They see the similarities. Pop symphonies and savage lyrics. They’re bloodthirsty glitter dolls, vicious and sparkly. They are defined by their contrast, which is derived from Blanche DuBois’ neon New Orleans poverty and Southern Belle ideals in A Streetcar Named Desire. Her sexual impulses conflict with society’s demands for a delicate flower of a woman; she’s lost and discovered and passionate and wilting. She’s a paradox.
And paradoxes are where my prints come from; the overt contrast of the Royal Exchange theatre in Manchester. What the pink, gold and neon blue cacophony evokes in an individual. The classical clashing with the dramatically modern. A fusion of opposites; hysteria in harmony. My drugstore Romeos translated into luxurious and garish fabrics.
ALL IMAGES AND DESIGNS COPYRIGHT ELLE SHOEL 2014