KEGADORU MANSION

"my pure white blouse will be stained with the blood of those dirty pigs."

an alienated eighteen-year-old seeking solace in the gothic lolita look, a social recluse who has not left his apartment in months, a beleaguered salaryman who lives to sleep, and a convenience store clerk who alternates between glancing disinterestedly at the store's security monitors and flicking through anti-war leaflets, are but a few of the disconnected loners brought together by a mysterious figure named Hasegawa. his Peep "TV" Show website, a conceptual experiment which capitalizes on the public's innate voyeurism and craving for the "real". shibuya, the vibrant and media saturated epicenter of Tokyo youth culture, is ground zero for this urbanized world of displaced young people, for whom fashion statements define not only their identity, but also how they relate to the world.

PEEP "TV" SHOW

"the world was beginning to flower into wounds."

it's normal to want to peep under the rubble, and see someone in a condition worse than your own. maybe you feel just as flattened and burnt, dismembered and unrecognizable to those looking to identify your body. you are disfigured, damaged beyond repair and you did not even get hit by the blast. you will never get hit by the blast no matter how many times you cross your fingers at night, you won't get run over no matter how many times you neglect to look both ways when you cross the street. and you won't bleed out no matter how many times you dig into yourself. because deep down you do not want to leave this world, you just want a different life. you fancy yourself a dark silhouette, but you are a small white orb drifting through space and time, just like everybody else. it is all in your control.

"i look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the age to come."

holding a camera toward the city because there no other way to touch it, every reflection within the store windows are eternal. undress your soul and empty yourself for the camera, for it is impossible to consume yourself without the lens. praying through the gazes of strangers. bruised moth manifesto : bandages have become the uniform for a certain type of doll, and the metropolis breathes like a dying organism with a clogged bloodstream. clogged by the bloated rotting flesh drenched in babyfrills. the mannequins beyond the glass stare into me as i stand ankle deep in browning sludge. throbbing against my calves as i pass by similar faces each time i exit my home. reflected upon a million screens and looped until my memory loses it's meaning.

underneath all of this rubble, we find fragments of our skin, bone, and old cassette tapes. ripped through and dangling ribbons of shiny materials, gutted like plush intestines falling down to my knees. we wanted to die on camera, kill ourselves on film but we lived despite everything. overexposed and underdeveloped in every way. our footage loops endlessly.

cruelty is the language of the divine.

"bruised moth manifesto, eternally bandaged and forever bloody."

breakfast
GLASS MILK

lunch
WILTED ROSES

dinner
SAINT'S MARROW

breakfast
GAUZE SCONES & CLOTTED CREAM

lunch
STRAWBERRY SHORT CAKE

dinner
ANGEL FEED