I love textiles. I love fabric.

The way organza flutters through my hands and catches light, even in a dark room. Satin ripples, slow like a whale’s call. Velour fabric glints brightly as fresh snow.

When I lived in London I’d spend many weekends mooching round fabric shops, going straight to the bins of discounted off cuts. A quirk of mine involves feeling sad to behold rejected or discarded objects, and I’d take home random bits of impractical fabric, relieved it had been saved, and try to work out what on earth I’d do with them. And thus I began to sew.

In Berlin (but also before) I’ve made quite a few pieces that now reside in my wardrobe. They’re not immaculately hemmed or from an avant-garde pattern. To be honest, most of them have mistakes. But I love seeing process in a piece of art. Or maybe that’s a bit disingenuous, and the truth is that I’ve always been a bit impatient. Sewing, I’ve learned, is all about patience. And I think, I hope, it has made me more patient. After a few years and tantrums, when I couldn't figure out why my dear tiny sewing machine is all bunged up.

Lunarpunk living says fast fashion is dull. While individualism has been warped into a vast moneymaking exercise, my homemade experiments not only lets my soul sit on the outside of my body, but also encourages me to make what’s in my heart, and not on the Pinterest trends for the coming year. In an age of cultural homogenization through algorithmic manipulation, unpredictable fashion is even more important.