Isolation in the sweetest sense of the world. Smoking alone in her apartment. Her castle, her fortress. It was all hers. She played dress-up, made crowns, cooked, and wore lingerie all for herself. It was her hideaway, her seclusion, her paradise...her sanity.
Factory girl played on the television. Film cameras lined the coffee table and winter incense burned next to a vase of blonde and red roses. She was a factory girl today. Singing iggy pop and the velvet unground in the mirror as she put on her make-up. Hazy words of artistic expression and big false eyelashes. Nothing is real anymore, welcome to the dreamland. Take the elevator to the 16th floor and step through the door, here is where she keeps her ideas. Tucked away, artists, come and crawl. They float on top of white sheets and keep paint brushes in an empty fridge. She builds dollhouses with her hands and writes in a diary. Soundtrack after soundtrack.
Once you have come here, you will never be the same again.
sweater by wildfox couture
photos by kyle dunn