Next Saturday it’s not allowed to rain. It’s flea market again, and we definitely need the sun.
A flea market is a movable place. Like a magic carpet, it can settle down and disband
anywhere. Its fringes are sometimes the most interesting. They are tangled into each other.
By pulling randomly on one of the promising strings, one undoes other strings of neckties,
scarves and all kinds of different loops. Behold: A beautiful handmade dress appears.
Unluckily, it’s too big, but these yolk-yellow trousers, which also appeared, look perfect.
The flea market has no shop windows. Its fascination comes from the unformed and bulging
richness. There are different displays, because of lack of space or by accident, either on the
floor or on folding tables. There are huddles of clothes, loops of jeans, balls of fabrics,
unpaired shoes and fine off-the-peg clothing, which is not really something for the flea market
freaks. If you want to find something special, you must let yourself be dragged, with lust for
disgust, into the mountains of clothing, search in the old smelly entanglements of nylon,
acrylic and pure new wool (matted) and unscramble silk and brocade. I ignore the greasy
collar of a beautiful parka. Once a mass product, today it’s a unique item outlasted the others
by chance. In other words, a piece of clothing with nameless history sentenced to live
because of me.
karin ruprechter / translation thomas kuscher
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art direction / so+ba
photography (VIENNA) / jens preusse
photography (TOKYO) / seiji shibuya
styling / mikiti aizawa
hair-makeup / miyuki oya
models / mari takahashi, sanae ise, jun vera