The Chinese children are busy threading the sewing mashine named »Cock«. The four fat bastards are crammed before the bathroom waiting for a fitting that never occurs. The fashion muse has arrived and looks alternately like a vulture, Marie Antoinette and Father Christmas. The hohoho mug has been filled with green tea, as have the viscosa pants. Midgets and dwarves have no trouble raiding the waist-high refrigerator of bitter chocolates. The air is peppered with technoelectroambienttrancehouse, and the walls are salted with Ikea cartoon kitsch. The whole joint plays like a Japanese new-style porno vomitting out fashion's happy accidents and measured cuts with the regularity of a tie-chested anorexic.When she puts up a new fashion show, she advertises »Looking for a sugardaddy« on garbage cans, because as she quips »Trash is my domain«.When she's given the option of competing at throwing rocks, she chooses not to.And when she designs, she does this. A bang-fit, high-style, tounge-in-cheek, tounge-on-tounge attempt at selling out anyone smart enough to buy.The photos that follow are what it would look like if a postmodern critic (Frederic Jameson, say) got punched in the face, and the swear words that came out of his mouth turned magically into couture.Many designers can say » Fuck fashion«. Only the best can have fashion actually fuck you.If you haven't seen Davorka Požgan at work, you must at least see her work.
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