"Arms. Some got them, others want them. They come in all shapes and sizes. But these...", I hesitate and take a step forward, "...these are ridiculously small. No. Inhumanly small. There's no way someone could (voluntarily) squeeze their flesh through these tunnels." I'm standing, slightly leaned forward, in the Jan Taminiau Reflections exhibition at the Centraal Museum. In front of me hangs -what is meant to be- a sleeve perfectly still, attached to a dress embellished from head-to-toe in glass beads. It is not particularly only this dress with alien sleeves attached to it that's caught my eye. As I straighten my back and somewhat confusedly glance through the exhibition space, I can see a trend coming. Narrow sleeves, alienating narrow sleeves everywhere.

Although I've never particularly been a fan of my arms (they are arms, what do you want from them?), I suddenly become very aware of all the flesh I potentially have to push down through the minimal pieces of fabric that is the sleeve in front of me. A horror image appears in my head of seams bursting in slow-motion and glass beads, sewn on by some poor intern, in waves falling to the ground. Leaving us with an echoing sound of clatter and disappointment.

Miss Marple Mode

As I was attending the opening of the exhibition and irgendwie irgendwann irgendwo a wild Taminiau was walking around -I imagine proudly, slightly tipsy- looking over us mere human-armed peasants, I could've potentially asked the master himself why he again-and-again chooses these sleeves instead of normal un-narrow human-like sleeves. However we all know I'm not worthy enough to question the work of the master. So instead of bothering him with my doubts and fears, I decided to investigate this issue by myself. Weaponed with deductive skills picked up from watching every Agatha Christie adaption (except for the 2017 Murder On The Orient Express movie as I'm still bracing myself for that AWFUL moustache), I further ventured into the exhibition space trying to find the motive behind the narrow sleeve. #activateMissMarpleMode

Jan Taminiau -for those unfamiliar with these particular syllables- is a famous Dutch fashion designer best known for dressing the queen, but he has also dressed the likes such as Lady Gaga and Rihanna. This exhibition is meant as an overview and insiders look into Taminiau's work. Especially the different kinds and patterns of embroidery he develops in his lab is highlighted. The pieces on display are mainly (narrow-sleeved) dresses and, if I'm being frank, you basically see everything you need to know about his repertoire in the first room and this vision only gets repeated in different spheres, fabrics and glass beads in the rooms that follow. This is however not to say that the other rooms are unnecessary.

Whodunit?!

Although generally a whodunit plot is driven by finding out the who and why, I'm afraid the who is rather obvious and the why is some made-up excuse like 'because of aesthetics' or 'because it's my signature style'. Basically not that interesting. So instead I focused on the how: as we're dealing with a serial sleeve killer, I wondered if my worst fear -flesh seeping out of bursting seams- could come true. Now I was going to rob a mannequin of her dress and test-drive it right there and then, but the guard kept giving me funny looks and I chickened out. So I had to solidly rely on my observational skills. Just picture me creeping through the exhibition with an imaginary magnifying glass inspecting every sleeve while Can't Touch This by MC Hammer plays in the background.

One by one I inspected every sleeve that came my way once, twice and sometimes even three times until I found the one that possibly contains the answer to all my questions. "A concealed zipper!", I enthusiastically yell to no one in particularly (though I was once again treated with funny eyes from the guard). Unfortunately these are the only narrow sleeves I spotted with a concealed zipper to safely confine and keep the flesh in place. However on my way home I came up with three theories that might support the intrinsicality of the other sleeves: concealed concealed zippers, ALIENS (or models who have significantly thinner arms than me) and the plausible possibility that the other sleeves are sewn close when tried on by a model. As these type of clothing aren't worn on a day-to-day basis (it basically gets lucky when it touches the skin of a human being once in its lifetime), it could be that the narrow sleeves are made on measure when modelled. Sew me up Scotty!



You can see the exhibition Jan Taminiau Reflections at the Centraal Museum Utrecht until 26 August 2018. If you do visit, please check the sleeves and report back on your findings. We will crack this mystery and catch the serial sleeve killer together!

As human beings we continuously grow into our [metaphorical] skin. This skin is shrunken and stretched, trying to make it fit our guiding ideology. Although most of the literal shrinking and stretching is based on biology, there's a handful of social and cultural aspects that don't mind giving a hand. Especially 'teenagehood' presents an important period of transition, which in particular opens the road to self-exploration; which comes with its very own aesthetic. An aesthetic that can be as cliché as it sounds.

My teenage years were mainly spend dressed in black (with the occasional strong desire to go full Lolita). Or as my aunt said, I was going through my 'black period'. Turning to my mother as she saw me in head-to-toe black with my hair covering 2/3 of my face: "Oh I see, she's going through her black period." Then dramatically pausing with a sympathetic frown on her face, continuing in a reassuring voice how 'both my cousins went through a black period' and how 'both of them eventually grew out of it'. To which, as can be expected, I angrily stamped my feet stating with the brain capacity of a vain teenager that "this isn't just a phase, this is who I really am." Obviously it was just a phase.

My resume? Black wearer, James Dean discoverer... the usual

As my fellow-teens in the neighbourhood decided that black wasn't their colour, I began to look for a representational being that captivated the essentials of my teen experience. Like most teenagers I eventually uncovered the not-so-well-hidden secret of James Dean: our very own cultural icon of teenage disillusionment and social estrangement (or so Wikipedia claims). And as I was the only black-wearer/James-Dean-discoverer I could relate to, I soon forged the idea I was 'the chosen one' to carry this secret.

Although James Dean is remembered as a vivid red-jacket kinda guy, his legacy as a rebel keeps attracting black-wearers or otherwise self-implied 'edgy' youngsters all over the world. With only three films to his name and the tragic age of 24 forever beaming in neon lights above his head, James 'Jimmy' Dean is the perfect candidate to bestow our dreams upon his facade; either to be debunked or underscored after stalking his image on the internet. Although my Jimmy-days lay long behind me, I began 2018 with reading a biography on him. I bought this biography many light years ago but unfortunately never came round reading it as I was too busy internet-stalking and shrine-building, sighing to myself "no one understands me".

Dream facade

The biography James Dean, Little Boy Lost is written by Joe Hyams. Hyams is no stranger as biographer of Hollywood stars, however as someone who knew James Dean personally he was a bit more reluctant to write down the roller coaster ride of his friend. So he took his time and published this biography 37 years after Dean's death. In the preface of the book Hyams concludes that Dean's seemingly splintered character created unique relationships with the people who knew him. He was never the same person twice. And so as there's no coherent picture of him to represent. This is noticeable throughout the book and the main thing that keeps the story together is the ongoing fascination of 'James Dean' as the ultimate "no one understands me" token.

For someone who's rummaged every corner of the internet, Hyam doesn't reveal any shocking or new insights into the life and death of James Dean. It's nice though to get a more personal account on 'the good ol' days' and how Hyam experienced it in combination with what in hindsight was going on outside of his knowledge. I think the best way to sum up the sentiment of this book is through the 2007 summer hit Fascination by Danish pop band Alphabeat. Not only because they repeat the word fascination a thousand times which is what's keeping the James Dean brand alive. But also because it lingers on unexplained entitlement ('it's just the way we feel') and a glorification of youthfulness dipped in a sinister upbeat tempo. Also who doesn't immediately think of Rebel Without a Cause when they grinningly sing: 'Passion is our passion, in the moonlight on a joyride, easy living killed the young dudes in the high boots'. Also kudos to them for rhyming 'passion' with 'passion' and 'dudes' with 'boots'... #poetry

Did you rock the black period look when you were a teen? And why do you think James Dean still speaks to disillusioned youngsters?

Last year Modemuze -the online platform for Dutch fashion and costume heritage- organised an exhibition at the OBA and this year we're back! In correspondence with the theme of the ICOM Costume meeting 2018, anything and everything that's got to do with fashion and innovation will be on display. Together with a fun packed programme of which a few events I'll be your (terrified) host. *immediately starts to panic sweat*

Last year as 'the intern' at both Modemuze and one of their fifteen partners, I had the privilege experiencing all the different stages of building the exhibition and subsequently knew all the in's and out's of what was on display (as I put it there myself). This time however I was kept in the dark. Although, admittedly, I was one of the first people to see the marvellous campaign image by Carin Verbruggen and Ferry Drenthem Soesman. But nothing more than that. So when the exhibition was officially opened last Thursday, I was in for a surprise.

Layers of innovation

The 21st century is self-consciously an age of change and innovation, led by the so-manieth Apple-whatever, Facebook-scandal and Twitter-rant. Innovation however isn't always electronic or left to digital nothingness programmed by angry teenagers. It can be as big as the Industrial Revolution and as small as a simple popper; changing how we go through life and more importantly what we wear when staring directly into our webcam asking the FBI-agent on the other side if they know when your cousins birthday is. Thanks Tom!

As you can imagine, the words 'innovation' and 'museum' aren't often paired together. And even though I believe that museums have come a long way since the late 18th/early 19th century and (re)innovated themselves as reflections of the present instead of the greatest misconeption ever representing the unchanged past, not everyone sees it this way. Just looking at the frowned faces of my fellow-students, dramatically sighing and rolling their eyes as I once again stutter the word 'museum' in whatever context, following their misbehaviour up with a proud exclaim of "I never go to a museum" as if it's a badge of honour that physically fights the patriarchy. Yes, museums are undeniably a space for conservative old white men with an expensive hobby, but perhaps that's why it's even more important to show up and actively demonstrate that their unchallenged reign is over and therewith open up all the unexplored notions of what a museum could be. ANYWAY...

Challenging change

Although museums are perceived as dusty ol' patriarchal practitioners, there are currently many amendments made to this idea. As the Modemuze@OBA exhibition showcases, there are multiple developments -how banal it sometimes may seem- that got us where we are now. And it's thanks to these kinds of displays that show us these unnoticed layers underneath our imposed normative mobile-phone-driven existence. Museums, with all the 'useless' and 'boring' stuff they've gathered, can show just that. Poking through the seemingly fixed idea of the past, the present and the future as the notion of innovation changes with time. Just think again about the brilliance of a popper and how underappreciated its innovativeness is compared to the newest Iphone. #justiceforpoppers

The exhibition is similarly build-up as last year. When entering the space you're greeted with the campaign image and a brief introduction of what to expect. Because the space is on the small side, there's unfortunately no room for rotating mannequins doing cartwheels, however there IS room for fifteen museums and four private collectors to show off pieces of their extensive collection that in some way is innovative. This can literally go from a wrestling mask to glow-in-the-dark thread and my personal favourite: a two-in-one costume of the caterpillar on the mushroom from the 1976 production of Alice in Wonderland. This costume is what nightmares are made of.


Modemuze@OBA: Innovation will be at the OBA (Oosterdokskade 143, the one next to Amsterdam Cental Station) until 2 September 2018. As said at the beginning of this post, within the exhibition space multiple events will be held. You can find the whole programme on Modemuze and Facebook. Let me know if I'll see you there!

I was standing in the kitchen. A deep sigh escaped my mouth as I eagerly tried to open a biscuit package. As I was struggling to defy the powers of the cookie container -ya know, thousands of layers of plastic 'cause environment who?- I angrily murmured to myself "of course it won't f*cking open". I, now agressively, tried in an animalistic manner to tear the layers of plastic from my biscuit delight. As I put pressure on the surface, a piece of plastic suddenly rips off and in slow-motion I can see all my hopes and dreams crush on the floor.

I pick up the package, with an insignificant amount of plastic still clutched in my hand (because of f*cking course it didn't actually rip it open) and inhale all the air around me in preparation for the most magnificent scream the neighbours must have heard in years. Too dramatic? Well, tell that to me seconds later as I suddenly, effortlessly lay open the thousands of layers of plastic and am eagerly munching on crumbs trying to hold back tears.

The broken biscuit syndrome

This emotional outburst is naturally not a stand-alone case. Not being able to open a package doesn't normally make me that eyes-wide-open screaming-on-top-of-my-lungs. It's an accumulation of things that are going wrong or aren't what I expected them to be that makes me almost burst into tears when defeated by a lump of plastic keeping me from that one thing that might sooth the pain. This sudden misplaced feeling all the feels is called 'the broken biscuit syndrome'.

The broken biscuit syndrome is a psychological phenomenon in children (and I like to argue adults) where the setback of, say, a biscuit that breaks, can be the last straw that makes you momentarily loose all sense. This is because 'we' long for control over our environment and a broken biscuit portrays the somanieth lack of this control. Another way the biscuit syndrome works, when looking specifically at the biscuit-breaking-based part of it, is the idea of wholeness that matters to the crumbled victim. Which is something you can find in perfectionists or those who find comfort in repetitiveness or rituals. *raise your hand if you've been personally victimised by a broken biscuit*

Beating the biscuit

My great great grandmother, grandma Gouwerok, owned a biscuit factory (producing among other things spiced biscuits for famous Dutch company Verkade). When my grandmother was about 14 or 15 years old she was sent to work there with the logic that when she knew how biscuits were made or was surrounded by biscuits all day, she would finally stop snacking 24/7. Grandma was put on plate duty, removing the biscuits from the plate through beating with a hammer on it so the biscuits come loose. Grandma Gouwerok told my grandmother that she was allowed to eat every broken biscuit along the way. Do you see where this story is going?

Grandma, not satisfied with the ratio biscuits and broken biscuits, decided to take matters into her own hands and purposefully smash any biscuit that came her way. This lasted less than a week and before grandma Gouwerok was robbed of all her biscuits grandma was 'fired'. The moral of the story, besides that my grandmother had a black hole in her stomach, is that a broken biscuit stand for loosing control, however when breaking a biscuit you take matters into your own hands. Naturally we can't always go through life swinging a hammer in front of us. Sometimes the overwhelming randomness of existence happily swoops the hammer from your grasp and break the biscuit for you. But, after shedding some tears, taking that what's broken and turn it into our own advances is something perhaps 'we' biscuit mourners should take more often into account when licking our crumbs. Because even though it feels like it, a broken biscuit isn't the end of the world.

Skincare routine? More like *tumble weed* amiright?! Skincare routines, or so I thought, belonged to people who had their sh*t together. And thus, as someone who clearly had NOT her sh*t together, I waved every aspect of it away and left it for what I perceived it to be: just another scam to get me buy useless lotions and potions to display on my dresser and gather dust until it starts to 'smell funny'.

I decided that the bare necessities were good enough for my potato peel. You know, a bit of moisturiser here 'n' there when your skin starts to flake of your skull and using a random Lush face mask once every decade until you realise its waaaaaay past its expiration date and you cross your heart, hope NOT to die. Meanwhile I comforted myself with the thought that any day from now nature would kick in, do its thing and everyone would live happily ever after.

More damage than good

However slowly but steady I realised what I was doing -or rather: what I wasn't doing- did more damage than good. "WHY", I asked myself dramatically while examining my dry, flaky but also sometimes greasy, spot prone skin, "am I not blessed with a squeaky clean marble surface?". Till this day the answer stays unknown but, as it turns out, nature doesn't mind a lotion or potion or two (or more) to stimulate its miracles.

And so my quest for marble started. Naturally rubbing whatever onto your skin, crossing your fingers and hoping for the best doesn't cut it. There are so many other factors like what you eat, drink, how you sleep or stress about everything, that influences whether your skin resembles a rotting shrimp or a Greek statue. However besides the general advices of eating your greens, drinking enough water and practising mindfulness, there's still enough to be said about rubbing some mixture onto your skin and a few hail marys to proceed the process.

Lotions and potions

The past couple of weeks I ventured out into the world (wide web) and searched for products suitable for my sensitive, mixed but generally dry skin. And *touch wood* at the moment my skin indeed has cleared up tremendously using the products I've selected. So here goes nothing...

Morning routine

I wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy, splash my face with some water and hit 'the city' with The Body Shop's Aloe Soothing Day Cream. It's a light formulated moisturiser, suitable for vegans (v) and fragrance-, colour-, preservatives- and alcohol free. It's perfect to wear under your make-up as it's quickly taken up by the skin and doesn't leave it feeling greasy. And that's it! Only a bit of Lush's Ultrabalm (v) on the lips and 'problem areas' and the morning routine is in the bag; besides, you know, a quick grab and go make-up panic. And don't get me started on the desperate wardrobe dance...

Evening routine

I first clean my face with Ultrabland from Lush, the only cleanser I've tried so far that doesn't leave my skin feel like a trampled sand castle. Then I clumsily try to apply The Body Shop's Tea Tree Anti-Imperfections Daily Solution (v). It's advised to use it twice a day, but my skin ain't having it that frequently. I highly recommend it though to anyone who wants to deal with their blackheads, but will warn that it's thus a pain to apply and quite strong stuff (don't take a sniff straight from the bottle or you'll start hearing colours and seeing sounds).

To top it all off I use Lush's Celestial moisturiser (v). I've been using this moisturiser on and off since 2016. I love it but the formula is rather greasy and made my make-up melt before I even put it on, so I skipped it in the morning. Which made me skip it in the evening, which made me forget about it, which made me -eventually- flake to the bone. But we've made commends now and it works magic as a night cream.

Special additions

Besides these daily wonders I also use The Body Shop's Aloe Soothing Cream Mask twice a week. It literally works while you're asleep. Therefore it's a perfect match with all us busy/lazy people who like the idea of putting our feet in the air, cucumber slices on our eyelids, trying to not scratch our nose, but always find they're running out of time (watching the so-manieth Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie funny moments compilation on Youtube).

HAVING SAID THAT I took this moment of skincare-revelation to further experiment and try out a Lush mask hoping the Tea Tree fumes inspired some brain cells to get their act together. I went with the Mask of Magnaminty which, as the name suggests, is very minty. Its smell will prevent an upcoming cold and its substances will get rid of dead skin, spots and other unwanted blemishes. Highly recommend!


Compared to many other skincare routines, mine is a bit meagre. However this is no 'who can smear, rub and scrub the most' competition. And I think we can all agree that for someone who did next to nada, this already is a HUGE improvement. My skin looks so much more healthier and -dare I say it- happier. *looks into mirror and does finger guns*

Do you have a skincare routine? If yes: Which product do you mourn when you scoop up its last remainings and you're faced with the abyss of an empty container knowing it'll take at least a day before you can replace it? For me it must be Ultrabalm, that stuff is tha multifunctional bomb.

Fire all confetti canons and throw glitter in the air, 'cause Fashioned by Pluche is five years old today! Yes FbP was actually established in April 2013, but it took me a whole month before I gathered the nerves to post something. Since then we haven't been unfamiliar to that eerily ghost-town feeling, every once in a while interrupted by a head arising from a mountain of blankets holding a finger against its lips. However I still like to think all the nerves summoned when publishing that first post wasn't for nothing. At the very least I can say that this blog has helped me overcome my fear of filling squeaky clean notebooks with haunting 'possible blogposts' (if only they would hunt your screen...).

Generally I don't like *coughs* HATE *coughs* birthdays, but I've been looking forward to this one ever since I thought my five year anniversary was last year (13+5 is harder than you think, okay?!). I even bought a balloon, I don't get a balloon for my own birthday. So to celebrate this time turning event in true Fashioned by Pluche style, I've compiled the perfect playlist for party poopers. You can listen to it on your own, alone, at home, perhaps lying faced-down on your bed. Or standing in the middle of a meadow with your hands in the air, gently swaying your hips from side-to-side, religiously mouthing every word and melancholically sighing your way through the instrumental bits.

Happy birthday Fashioned by Pluche! *confetti canon finally, suddenly fires after struggling with it this whole post long*

By now it must be no surprise if I suddenly disappear from here for a week, a month or more. And as always I've got enough reasons for being MIA. Again. But to shortly sum it up for you, it generally boils down to this: 1) life is life, 2) once life is life you start to fantasise and build castles in the sky and then 3) you become either overwhelmed or unbothered by the shadows of those castles gazing over you and instead of laying bricks, you knit a jumper.

The initial draft of this I'm-not-dead-yet post, or, as I named it 'New Blog, Who Dis? 3 Things I'm Changing RIGHT NOW' (hell yeah I've become fluent in blog title *high fives*), consisted out of a lot of blah blah nicely wrapped in empty promises. Empty promises, so I discovered throug reading this blogpost by Golly Miss Holly on being a half-arsed blogger. Moral of the story: you're only going to get out of blogging what you put into it. So if your blogging-attitude includes the phrases 'oh well', 'I will do that later' and 'whatever', welcome to the half-arsed club we are happy to have you! And so, after realising all this, I started knitting another jumper.

What I've been up to

And now, while knitting before-mentioned jumper, I'm seeing a pattern of half-arsedness throughout my life and am thus finally anxiously scribbling down these words in the hope a fulfilled blogpost will fall from the sky. So while Fiyero is dancing through life, I'm half-arsing through mine (name that reference). Not in the sense that I hardly put any effort into 'living the dream', but more in the sense that the dream never turns out the way it was pitched in my head. Case in point:

These past couple of weeks I've had the pleasure of tagging along with the Modemuze-gang to three special occasions: a night opening of the exhibition High Society at the Rijksmuseum, a curators meeting at the Master Tailor Institute (special because we editors normally don't get to sit-in on the curators meeting and the headmaster would give a speech and show us around) and an opening of the Jan Taminiau Reflections exhibition at the Centraal Museum with Jan Taminiau.

This all sounds lovely, Dominique, how could you possibly half-arse any of this?

1. A humble beginning

Well, the Rijksmuseum promised all kinds of wonders during this night opening of High Society, from a lecture by Bianca 'famous fashion curator' du Mortier to personal guides and a live DJ. However they only managed to fulfill the DJ-part, which turned out to be a guy with a tablet and a Spotify playlist. Now I know this is more life-being-life than half-arsing from my side, but Modemuze being Modemuze aka existing out of fashionable intelligent people, I was provided with an off the cuff personal guide through the exhibition with all kinds of specialist knowledge on pantless gentlemen and how ruffs eventually became ties. Something my have-you-ever-heard-about-Coco-Chanel knowledge wasn't up against.

Half-arsing 1, building castles 0.

2. Lost in Amsterdam

As said, I was headed to an 'exclusive' meeting at the Master Tailor Institute, which is located in Amsterdam-West. I know sort of my way around the city centre and East, but West is complete new territory to me... I can only say that now more than ever I can truly appreciate the privileges of the 21st century: I ended up taking directions from my sister through the phone as she tracked me down on Google Maps and, literally, guided me step-by-step into the right direction after I helplessly circled around for over an hour.

In fact I got so lost that I ended up in that part of Amsterdam where local residents start beating up their local junkie for always making a mess and enough is enough! #truestory Just imagine me tiptoeing around them on my kitten heels with a chihuahua clenched underneath my armpit in a mini designer bag saying "excuse me, excuse me, I'm on my way to a very important fashion meeting". It wasn't actually like that but sure felt like it.

Half-arsing 2, building castles 0.

3. It's getting hot in here

Everything went according to plan. I was having a nice time with some of my Modemuze-colleagues at the grand opening of Jan Taminiau Reflections at Centraal Museum. After some speeches and visiting the exhibition we casually strolled to the garden for some chitchats. Yes it was 30+ degrees (which is highly absurd) and yes I, a creature of the shadows, was standing in direct sunlight, but I wasn't prepared to act upon bodily dysfunctions and thus happily waved away any unusual symptoms like distorted vision and hearing. You've guessed it: I almost went flat-faced but luckily I could just in time, not so gracefully, settle my arse down on the grass while all the semi-famous museum and fashion insiders stood around me mildly entertaining each other with insignificant small talk and bubbles (shout out to Sterre who handled the situation perfectly and got me back on my feet).

Anyway I felt very embarrassed. More so than walking into a drugs-fight like the lost innocent Barbie-doll that I secretly am. Which brings the score to half-arsing 3, building castles 0.


I'm afraid if I spend any more time with my head in the clouds instead of my feet on the ground things could end up seriously awry. So although I'm not going to fill this place with empty promises (like how I from now on will post regularly), I will hereby at least plead to build more castles instead of living in its shadow. And act, d*mn it, act and not just sit back and knit a jumper. I'm not going to live the rest of my life undereducated, lost in space and flat-faced on the ground!