Roughly 92 million tons of clothing are thrown away each year. Due to the rise of fast fashion and microtrends, that number is actively rising. Clothing is made to last forever, but on average, fast-fashion items are worn only 7-10 times before being tossed. I want to fix this. Obviously, I can’t replicate the convenience of fast fashion–it's affordable and available with the push of a button. Hand-made articles can take days, weeks, months, or even. It’s me against the machine, against cost, against a world that prioritizes instant gratification. So what do I plan to do? Resisting creating something brand new. With brand new materials. Everything I make is made out of old materials. Old bedsheets that would have died in Goodwill (or go into the 5% of Goodwill donations that get sent to landfills). Old t-shirts I stained with hair dye. Old skirts, pillow covers, pants, whatever I can get my hands on. Materials that were made to last forever, rather than being abandoned, were turned into something usable and unique. Not only do I use old materials, but I also use every bit of them. Every little scrap gets turned into something. A hoodie will become a vest, and the sleeves will become a stuffed animal. A bedsheet will be a skirt, and then the rest will become a purse. I also frequent second-hand art supplies shops, which is part of the reason I decided to attend my school of choice, because it is close to a shop that sells fabric second-hand. I am going to be a fashion major come this fall, and I vow to never let any of my work become landfill trash. Whenever possible, I plan to use second-hand and recycled materials exclusively. We have enough waste already. It’s projected that by 2030, we will reach 134 million tons of fashion waste, and I will never be a part of that 134 million. The photos consist of a skirt made out of a bedsheet I thrifted and a purse that is exclusively made of secondhand fabric from the aforementioned secondhand art supplies shop aswell as fabric scraps from a previous project.

One of the best gifts I was ever given was a fashion design model sketchbook from my grandma. It came with stickers and stencils, but I thought just taking markers and a vision was better than making it polished. I filled that book up in a week, with immediate regret sinking in right after. I was so upset I filled it up immediately. I was just flowing with ideas, and I had so much to draw, but I was out of room. I started doodling ball gowns in the corner of my thrifted notebooks, though shapeless and almost always pink. It never filled my desire to take advantage of the curvaceousness of these models. Putting the tight skirts and shorts in the back of the notebook, a little bit racy for a children’s fashion vision. Not sure why I did that. I loved that book. I loved drawing something I’d never seen before, and proudly showing my grandma my fun ideas, and her complimenting it in the sort of “Ooh, I love it!” Grandma-like way. I took it to heart, though, and that book was the start of a decades-long love affair with fashion design. I wish I could say that after that book, it was never-ending, but it was picked up and dropped without any rhyme or reason. I look back on it now, though, and I don't think my love for fashion ever ended. Absolutely waiting for the costume days when I was in theatre, helping my mom pick out outfits, and curling up to watch Say Yes to the Dress every night. It just took a while for me to pick up the pencil again. It wasn't until almost high school that I spent every waking moment of my day drawing up models and bright looks inspired by candy and emotions, once again showing them to my grandma when I saw her. Her “Ooh, I love it!”s seemed more convincing. Then, as soon as I fell back in love, it disappeared for a while. Then junior year, I finally got to take a costume class, and in that class I remembered how much I used to hover over that fashion design notebook, how I’d dream about bright ball gowns and think about wedding dresses with fascination. It all came back to me, but now fiercer and with the skill to adore it. Then junior year, I got to create my first costume. Seeing something I made on stage brought me more pride than years of performances, writing awards, and every accomplishment I have ever had. I knew then that I couldn’t forget about fashion anymore. Since then, I’ve been designing every day, sketching and sewing, and diving deep into my obsession. So, I applied to fashion school, so I had no choice but to pursue my love, and was accepted. While I’ve gone back and forth about what I want to do with a fashion degree, I recently realized I needed to make work that has a societal impact. Recently, I have been doing a piece designed based on struggling with Tourette's syndrome, and my main collection, which is a study on the idea of the world “Ugly”. Focusing almost entirely on plus-sized attire, and the need for representation of plus-sized designers and designers with disabilities. I hope one day that people can look at my designs and learn that there is no such thing as “standard”. I want the world to know that fashion doesn’t have to be sleek or clean. Just like the rest of the world, it's tacky and gaudy.

I don’t think I knew what being trans was until my brother came home with an extra short haircut and I saw him practicing his deep voice in the mirror. I didn’t know that was something you could do. I spent my whole childhood annoyed at being called a girl. Refusing to join any women's teams, “girl power” was written on every shirt, and I hated it with a burning passion. I didn’t want to be a boy either. Hyper masculinity was never my gig, loved ranking dresses based on their “twirlability”, painting my nails pink and gossiping with my mom while they dried, always snuck into my mom's room for her heels. So what do i do? Boy or girl was the only sign written on the restrooms. Blue and pink were the only colors at the baby shower. Adam and Eve, so on, so forth, I mean, for gosh sakes, I took anatomy, I thought that was it. I discovered the term nonbinary on the internet. I lived in the middle of southern Alabama, and I barely knew what a gay person was, so seeing someone who understood what it was like to feel like something else was so rewarding. Someone who realized that the lines of gender were so much blurrier, like the way I saw it. As i dugged deeper, I realized that there were people out there who felt exactly how I felt, a bit of both. Gendered ideals were pushed so heavily on me as a child, and I always felt out of sorts with it. Pink or blue, but all I wanted was purple. I wanted to be the kind of person who could give up the idea that there was a solution for my gender crisis. I wanted to have it all, and nothing at the same time. I fully came out as genderfluid when I was 15. It felt so rewarding not having to explain myself. I was everything and nothing, everything everywhere all at once. I loved being able to be myself and not have to write F or M on all of my papers. One thing has always struck me as a problem, though. Why did I have to figure out who I was because of a stranger on the internet? I never realized how much of a problem the lack of nonbinary/genderfluid representation in the media was. I loved watching TV. I never saw anyone like me. Not on a cartoon, not on reality TV, not even on documentaries. I think a lot about how many little me’s are out there in the world. Who are stuck in some sort of hole because they haven’t got the words to describe what they are. I am going to school to be a fashion designer. I intend to focus on doing completely gender bending looks of all varieties completely. I have had a vision for my runways for years. I want drag queens and queer people and trans people of all shapes and sizes, so that one day, some kid will see my designs and realize they don't have to live within the binary. That they too can live outside of the box, wear what they please, and be who they are. That life isn't all pink and blue; it's a bit purple usually.

I was diagnosed with depression and PTSD when I was 17 years old. It didn't start when I was 17; growing up gay and trans in the middle of Alabama was where it started. Feeling like an outcast and out of place. I spent my life so unbelievably in sorrow and refused help whenever offered, out of fear that it would become a problem. Or that I was weird. Looking back on it now, it sounds rather silly. I recall how I would cry in the bathroom at my school for hours, and then coming back, and then when a teacher or a counselor would see me, I’d tell them I got an eyelash stuck in my eye or something along those lines. Depression has a special way of engulfing you and making it seem like it is the only thing in your life. Spending every night of my teenage years sitting in the dark in fear. Now that I have received help for my depression, all I can really feel is regret. Just regret over letting it take over those things people enjoy about high school. I never dated in high school. I tried twice and immediately abandoned ship when I felt like I was too ill to be loved or taken care of. I’d often feel like someone was with me; they would have to struggle to take care of and understand me. Like I was some sort of burden. Even non-romantic relationships were deeply affected by my mental illness. Switching friend groups and leaving people who probably cared about me more than anything, just because I had this messed-up idea that it was some complete facade, and they thought my illness was a nuisance and that they'd be so much better off without me. It wasn't until I met my best friend that I realized that these things were just made-up things I created. Even now that I know that it's fake, it still affects me. I wish I could say that I know better now, but since being in therapy, I now know it's a byproduct of PTSD. I've had to learn that this is just par for the course. There's a part of me who wishes it would've been different, like I could've gone back in time and told myself to just live a little. I want to have high school boyfriend regret stories like everybody else on earth, but mental illness has a way of changing things. Depression has been part of my life for as long as I’ve known. There's nothing I could do about that, even if it's all I've ever wanted. The only thing I could’ve changed, and I beat myself up for, was using it as an excuse to not enjoy life. High school is the best years of your life, and I spent all of it feeling sad about myself, but I should’ve been out making mistakes. Go to school dances, do things that would make for a good story at a party. Finding love and losing it just because that’s what it is to be human. Now that I’m in therapy and medicated, I am excited to let being mentally ill be a part of my life, but not my existence. I'm excited to make up for lost time and live things to the fullest. Pursue my passions with vigor and happiness, find love, and be a person. Not a “mentally ill person.”--even though I am– but instead just a person. Just like everybody else.

You never really know where art will take you until you jump headfirst into those uncharted waters and get your hands a bit dirty. All I know is that those uncharted waters are awash with fabrics of varying texture and color. Whether I am in there, digging my hands into bolts of blue organza, or I am watching from a distance with awe. Fashion is my future, no matter where I land. I’ve always been drawn to fashion, ever since I was a kid I spent my days doodling ball gowns in the corner of my notebooks. Even now, creating conceptual looks with markers and crayons but never losing my sense for the dramatics. Not to mention the way I am as a whole, building a life around accent pieces and some out of the box sweaters I found and altered. Annoying the crap out of my mother with the constant buzzing of my machine, who is lovingly named princess and to which I cried as I placed her on my desk for the first time. Having a love for your art is hard to describe, like a gut feeling that there is nothing else on earth you could do that would ever bring you this type of joy. As I sit at home, making skirts or drawing those tiny details onto my new sketches, it feels like home. It feels like I was born to scout out purple fleece. Like I am on earth just to fiddle with Princess and rethread the machine so many times I drive myself up the wall but it's all worth it to create an art that is not just something hung on the wall. It's art that lives and breathes and exists, something you can hold in your hands. The feeling is indescribable, being able to hold your own blood sweat and tears. I am not unaware of the fact that fashion is a scary career, but comparatively to art or music where trends change and things go out of favor, people never really stop wearing clothes. I have learned that also to make it anywhere in art, you have to be a little cocky. I know my work is something nobody else offers. I know that, while niche, my style is something that is needed in this world. I know that my fashion is good, almost entirely because I believe in it with every part of my soul. Even if I never make it on a runway, or in a magazine. I will still be there with Princess (as long as she lives) and my yards and yards of bright fabric, and I will keep going. In a world that tells you that art will never get you anywhere, I am the optimist that screams that this world is nothing without art. In a world that fears art school as a “waste of time”,I am the optimist that knows the worth in learning what it takes to survive in the crazy world of fashion. In a world that trades creativity over money, I am the optimist that knows that if I never pursued that gut feeling, I'd live with nothing but regret. I'm not shy about the fact that fashion school is expensive, but tuition has nothing over my sheer willpower and commitment to my art.

One of the best gifts I ever got was a fashion design model sketchbook from my grandma. It came with stickers and stencils, but I thought just taking markers and a vision was better than making it polished. I filled that book up in a week, with immediate regret sinking in right after. I was so upset that I filled it up immediately. I was just flowing with ideas, and I had so much to draw, but I was out of room. I started doodling ball gowns in the corner of my thrifted notebooks, though shapeless and almost always pink. It never filled my desire to take advantage of the curvaceousness of these models. Putting the tight skirts and shorts in the back of the notebook, a little bit racy for a children’s fashion vision. Not sure why I did that. I loved that book. I loved drawing something I’d never seen before, and proudly showing my grandma my fun ideas and her complimenting it in the sort of “Ooh i love it!” Grandma-like way. I took it to heart, though, and that book was the start of a decades-long love affair with fashion design. I wish I could say that after that book, it was never-ending, but it was picked up and dropped without any rhyme or reason. I look back on it now, though, and I don't think my love for fashion ever ended. Absolutely waiting for the costume days when I was in theatre, helping my mom pick out outfits, and curling up to watch Say Yes to the Dress every night. It just took a while for me to pick up the pencil again. It wasn't until almost high school that I spent every waking moment of my day drawing up models and bright looks inspired by candies and emotions, once again showing my grandma them when I saw her. Her “Ooh, I love it!”s seemed more convincing. Then, as soon as I fell back in love, it disappeared for a while. Then junior year, I finally got to take a costume class, and in that class I remembered how much I used to hover over that fashion design notebook, how I’d dream about bright ball gowns and think about wedding dresses with fascination. It all came back to me, but now fiercer and with the skill to adore it. Then junior year, I got to create my first costume. Seeing something I made on stage brought me more pride than years of performances, writing awards, and every accomplishment I have ever had. I knew then that I couldn’t forget about fashion anymore. Since then, I’ve been designing every day, sketching and sewing, and diving deep into my obsession. So, I applied to fashion school, so I had no choice but to pursue my love, and I was accepted. While I’ve gone back and forth on what I want to do with a fashion degree, I realized recently that I needed to make work that had a societal impact. Recently, I have been doing a piece designed based on struggling with Tourette's syndrome, and my main collection, which is a study on the idea of the world “Ugly”. Focusing almost entirely on plus-sized attire, and the need for representation on plus sized designers and designers with disabilities. I hope one day that people can look at my designs and learn that there is no such thing as “standard”. I want the world to know that fashion doesn’t have to be sleek or clean. Just like the rest of the world, it's tacky and gaudy

I was diagnosed with depression and PTSD when I was 17 years old. I spent my life so unbelievably in sorrow and refused help whenever offered, out of fear that it would become a problem. Looking back on it now, it sounds rather silly. I recall how I would cry in the bathroom at my school for hours and then come back, and then when a teacher or a counselor would see me, I’d tell them I got an eyelash stuck in my eye or something along those lines. Depression has a special way of engulfing you and making it seem like it is the only thing in your life. Spending every night of my teenage years sitting in the dark in fear. Now that I have received help for my depression, all I can really feel is regret—just regret, for letting it take over those things people enjoy about high school. I never dated in high school. I tried twice and immediately abandoned ship when I felt like I was too ill to be loved or taken care of. I’d often feel like someone were with me, they would have to struggle to take care of and understand me. Like I was some burden. Even non-romantic relationships were deeply affected by my mental illness. Switching friend groups and leaving people who probably cared about me more than anything, just because I had this messed-up idea that it was some complete facade, and they thought my illness was a nuisance and that they'd be so much better off without me. It wasn't until I met my best friend that I realized that these things were just made-up things I created. Even now that I know that it's fake, it still affects me. I wish I could say that I know better now, but since being in therapy, I now know it's a byproduct of PTSD. I've had to learn that this is just par for the course. There's a part of me who wishes it would've been different, like I could've gone back in time and told myself to just live a little. I want to have high school boyfriend regret stories like everybody else on earth, but mental illness has a way of changing things. Depression has been part of my life for as long as I’ve known. There's nothing I could do about that, even if it's all I've ever wanted. The only thing I could’ve changed, and I beat myself up for, was using it as an excuse to not enjoy life. High school is the best years of your life, and I lay at home for four years feeling sad about myself, but I should’ve been out making mistakes. Go to school dances, do things that would make for a good story at a party. Finding love and losing it just because that’s what it is to be human. Now that I’m in therapy and medicated, I am excited to let being mentally ill be a part of my life, but not my existence. I'm excited to make up for lost time and live things to the fullest. Pursue my passions with vigor and happiness, find love, and be a person. Not a “mentally ill person,” (though I am), but just a person. Just like everybody else.

I grew up in a picket fence town in the deep south of Alabama, but the kind of picket fence town where they didn't feel like putting up the effort to mend the fences. The sidewalks were uneven, and the humidity was about as unkind as the people. Especially to me. I like to joke now that I had the makings of a town pariah, if exile was still a thing I’d have been long gone. I was fat, gay, and trans with a tics and weird. I never got beaten up, but the mental torture was plenty. I came out of an accident. In the sense though I didn't know that coming out was a thing. I never saw a single gay person growing up. My life consisted of school and church and home, and it was never on TV or anything. So I mentioned casually that I thought girls were cute, and then the whispers started. Girls refused to sit by me because they thought I had some sort of sick fantasy about them but I was 11. I didn’t know what happened. One day I had friends, the next I didn't. I couldn't fathom what was so wrong about me that would make people avoid me, I was always the “weird kid” but the people who once tolerated me now ousted me completely. The day I realized I might not be a girl or a boy but something I couldn't quite articulate was I suppose the final straw. I didn’t expect a bunch of middle schoolers whose parents told them it was Adam and Eve to learn something new, but the pointing and staring at my short hair and noticeable lack of feminine attire hurt more than anything. Even as I grew up, I never really escaped the ridicule. I started writing as a way to cope with this, not sad poetry or complaints like most people but instead, comedy. To deal with the bleak feeling of being bullied. My lonesomeness drove me to learn to laugh with myself. If people refuse to converse with you because of arrogance, have a conversation with yourself. As sad as it sounds, almost sorta psychotic, it drove me out of that hole. I learned the art of being charming. I learned that humor is 90% confidence and with this new found confidence I got the courage to stop letting what people had to say about me affect me, because truthfully I could always come up with something funnier than whatever “ clever” insult they could come up with for me. Laughing at my writing was the best medicine and steered me from a life of just wallowing in a hole for my whole life. It helped me get into an arts high school to be a writing major and meet people who shared my love for writing. Who were also queer and strange and didn’t make me feel weird. Despite the time I spent writing, I almost didn't choose to do it for college though, my style has always been so specific I feared I wouldn't enjoy just analyzing sad poetry when all I wanted to do was giggle. I couldn't just abandon it though, it was such an important part of me. So I decided to minor in writing so I wouldn't have to give it up but wouldn't have to bore myself with it. I’ll never stop writing, I’ll join all the comedy groups I can because comedy saved me. Taught me how to be who I am now, it's a part of my soul that’ll never die.

I call it the “Art of being uncomfortable, ugly, and undesirable” . It's like camp except nobody finds it amusing at all. Except me, I find it very amusing to make new silhouettes, using patterns that do not go together, loud hair and makeup, and unconventional materials. Now it hasn't caught on, like most aesthetics do but I have seen the way I create in small bits and pieces. Chappell Roan's tiny desk concert but only the lipstick on her teeth, very UUU (the abbreviation for uncomfortable, ugly, and undesirable). Remi Wolf's music videos, and the cockroach dress from the original Hairspray. If it's bright, creates a conversation, and is deemed by fashion critics “A Fashion No”, then it matches my style. This collection I have been working on is the epitome of that. But, it's more than just absurdity for absurdities sake, it is a social commentary on the growing change in fashion design. Slower and slower we move towards neutrals and grays, browns and blacks, sometimes burgundy if the designer is feeling adventurous. Watching the red carpet of the Grammys, I only see wasted potential. I have always felt that in fashion design, as well as hair and makeup design, if we can, why don’t we? We have so many colors and designs at our disposal, and we opt for simpler? I have never understood that. Sometimes I fear the farther we go, we lose the idea that creativity is the goal. Not beauty or elegance, creativity. I have never designed with the intent of the model looking radiant, I have always designed with the intent that it scratches that part of my brain that only yearns for something that's never been done before. I make things ugly on purpose, because If I ever made something beautiful it wouldn't be me at all. Not only is it a commentary on society, it's a commentary on myself. As my hook suggests, I was bullied a lot as a kid. Plus sized gay kid in the south, no figure I wasn't generally liked. I got bullied constantly for being strange and weird and for a long time I thought they were right. I mean, I was. Always bragging that I could read 700 pages in a week, millennial-core t-shirts. Weird. It wasn’t until that covid struck, and on the internet I could see every kind of person on earth, that I realized that being weird wasn't the problem. Hiding that you were weird was the problem. I began to embrace it. Thrifted as many overalls and funky patterned shirts as I could. Working my way up to layering and striped socks. To where I am today, as a high school senior, pants with skirts and 6 different tops at once. Mismatched, but somewhat cohesive. This collection represents embracing what's wrong with you. It's a testament to how I have grown as an artist. This collection is an homage to who I am. Uncomfortable, ugly, and undesirable but more than that. It's an homage to the bounds of my creativity. As for the outfits themselves, It's all about layers, ruffles, neons mixed with primaries mixed with muted. It’s a love letter to my favorite fabrics at the late great Joanns that I never got a chance to sew with. It’s also unbelievably tacky. It's gaudy, it’s atrociously ugly, and I love it to death.