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Imagine a warehouse breathing walls vibrating with distorted bass, lights twitching like neurons, the air thick with heat, perfume, and creative tension. That was the world we built for the Tomato Purée launch. When Garage Clothing and I dreamed up this collaboration, we knew it had to be something that didn’t just look good it had to feel like something you couldn’t quite name. That in-between space of chaos and comfort. The mess that makes you feel.

I didn’t just co-create the line I hosted the night as its unofficial head chef. We leaned hard into the kitchen-core fantasy: sauces splattered on fabric, crushed tomato textures, clothing that looked like it had survived a food fight and turned runway. I was in an apron at one point, serving ironic hors d’oeuvres and explaining the concept like a deranged culinary director. It was theatrical, a little unhinged, and completely intentional.
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Tomato Purée became a metaphor for digital girlhood sweet, acidic, disposable, and permanent all at once. It stains. It clings. It’s not supposed to be elegant, but somehow, it is. People who came understood the assignment dripping in reds, thrifted silks, torn mesh and vintage ruffles. It felt like a dinner party thrown in an abandoned art school, hosted by a girl who found poetry in pantry items. I looked around at one point—wine in one hand, mic in the other and thought: this is everything I wanted it to be. Fashion as food, nostalgia as protest, chaos as curation. We didn’t just launch a collection. We served an experience, and if you left with a stain, then it worked.
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Just girls, Pasta & Tomato Puree.

     they're shatter the boundaries of mere sound, catapulting into a sanctum of sublime spectacle — a vivid chiaroscuro of grace and provocation, where art breathes and contrasts collide in exquisite tension.

     The goddess visual or Red Velvet, Irene. draped in a black gown of timeless silhouette, is the embodiment of quiet divinity. She doesn't demand attention; rather, the world pauses for her. The majesty of athens and moonlight in her presence. She glows, not with artifice, but with the kind of beauty that feels eternal.

     In striking counterpoint, the egnimatic dancer or Red Velvet, Seulgi enters like a vision from a modern noir — in strength and thought. Her tailored black attire, paired with soft curls framing her face, radiates a sophisticated boldness. She is introspective yet commanding, cool yet rich in feeling. There is an artful restraint to her aura, as if her story is written between the lines of her gaze.