Fashion has become our second skin.

W e often ask ourselves whether we feel comfortable inside this second skin. Sometimes we do. Most of the
time, perhaps we don’t.
And yet, somehow, we can feel most like ourselves within the very restrictions we create. Perhaps because
fashion gives shape to something we cannot always explain. It can give us confidence. A sense of being. A
certain power.

There is something fascinating about how one object can transform the way we see ourselves. How a
sculptural piece, resting against the body like armour, can suddenly change the way we stand, the way we
move, the way we occupy a room.

W e don’t always need a lot. Sometimes one object is enough. The simplest thing can be worn upside down,
turned around, taken out of context — and somehow feel more like our skin than ever.

A second skin can protect, but it can also expose. It can reveal the body while creating distance from it.
Softness against structure. Vulnerability against strength. Something almost fragile, yet quietly untouchable.

There is something familiar in this tension. Perhaps it is the old image of the angel — suspended somewhere
between flesh and spirit, strength and delicacy, earth and something beyond it. Not entirely human, not
entirely divine.

W e can think of heritage in the same way. The things we inherit become another kind of skin. They shape us
before we even realise it: the gestures, the materials, the silhouettes, the rituals we carry forward. Y et we
continue to find ways to make them our own.

Perhaps that is what fashion does.

It allows us to inhabit another version of ourselves without becoming someone else.

Our second skin is not always comfortable. It can feel restrictive, strange, even unfamiliar. But within that
restriction, we can find freedom.

W e put it on, and somehow, we become more visible.

More vulnerable.

More powerful.

More ourselves.