From the very first days of our existence — 2009, or maybe 2008, I honestly don’t remember anymore — we were already doing fashion-art experiments.

We grew up in a theatre crowd, spent our entire childhood in costumes, props, and make-believe worlds, and we dragged that instinct straight into adulthood. We couldn’t not continue.

And we were doing all of this in Russia, in Moscow, in that weird transitional period after the 2000s had ended and before the 2020s had arrived — a time when the city felt grey, tense, self-conscious.

People wore black puffer jackets, black skinny jeans, and fear.
They were terrified of experimenting.
The wealthy dressed in vulgar luxury — loud Dolce & Gabbana, screeching Gucci, radioactive Versace.

The whole Moscow scene looked like some kind of gypsy-baroque burlesque-vomit — and yes, it disgusted us, but also, ironically, it fueled us.
We felt potential. We felt static electricity in the air. Something unhinged inside us started to boil.

At the same time, we had been raised on sci-fi, then run over by early MTV — the psychedelic era, the absurd transitions, the chaotic graphics of the 90s and early 2000s.
So we started making abstract fashion.
Pure experiments. Seven or eight years of nonstop madness.

We made bright, modular clothing — the Constructor Clothes, huge sets of interchangeable pieces, absurd silhouettes, a riot of prints and colors.
We wore it ourselves, dressed our friends in it, slowly building a small community around us — a community with the aura of delightful insanity.
Insanity of courage, foolishness, creative hype.
It was amateur in the best way: we sold the clothes, made custom orders, even sent pieces to musicians.
Erykah Badu received some of our work and actually wore it.
But in the end, it remained what it always was: a long, chaotic, deeply personal experiment in fashion, a living extension of the madness we carried inside.