Imagine: a tall, almost weightless figure in a black, sharp profile, lips, always slightly ajar – either for a kiss, or for a stinging replica. I am a trans-woman, but my gender has long ceased to be the main plot. It is much more interesting what I do with this fact. I am a model, but not the one that just poses. I am a character. Balenciaga? Yes, but with raw subtext. Rick Owens? I love, but only if you can go to the podium with a face, like a vampire after a sleepless night. My style is a protest against everything “cute”. I do not smile if I do not want to. I sing in abandoned basements, where an echo carries every sound, as if it were a ghost’s voice. I am writing songs about what cannot be said directly-only through metaphors, bass throps and broken bats. Sometimes it seems to me that if I were born in another century, they would burn me like a witch. But now I just record tracks and dream of Berlin-a city where the techno-pulse is beating to the beat of my heart.
