As a part of Fashionplay # 6 me and Magnus Carlsson opened the studio and invited visitors to participate. Questions asked to us and by us was answered by artists/musicians Henrik Stenberg and Elis Larsson in a conversational music performance, 2009.

Lecture on the methods behind Restructional Clothing was held August 2009 at the Architectural Museum in Stocholm, as a part of Alter/Mode, curated by Tomas Rajnai, 2009.

The Lasts is a short documentary text published in the publication Research & Practice (I), produced by Research/Racket Studio, 2007.

The Lasts.

I'm one day too late. I lie and say that I got the days mixed up. That I am from an art school seems to make that lie true. I've put on my happy smiling face on the way into the building which helps. The lady that is apparently the boss for the day tells me, bothered, to wait in the cafeteria.
The corridor is painted in a dirty shade of yellow and there is a trail in the plastic carpet from all the feet that have been walking back and forth, everything looks worn down.
The lunch menu on the wall says lasagna and meat pie. I'm thinking of buying a coffee but I have two bananas in my black bag so I eat one. After some minutes a small, thin old man greets me. He is in charge of the conveyer belt. He doesn't ask me what I want but seems to know. He guides me through the building, we pass rooms filled with clothes, into the big hall. He is smiling and sweet. My father is a car mechanic and the man reminds me of him.

I take off my black woollen coat and put it on the bench underneath the only window. Outside the sun is shining and there was a hint of spring in the air. It's a quarter past eleven. I'm told to stand where the first conveyer belt ends and the other starts. I climb a small ladder onto a narrow platform where a girl is standing. She is chewing gum and looking at her mobile phone a lot, her low waist training trousers reveals the tribal tattoo at her lower back. She is the one who makes sure that the clothing stay on the belt. If garments fall down she picks them up slowly and throws them back. Sometimes when the piles get too big she evens them out. A man drag big carts to a lift which lift the heavy carts up and tips the clothing-content onto the first conveyer belt. The motion is slow so that the clothes fall down in large portioned sections. The clothes fall from the first belt about a meter, onto the next one. The second conveyer belt goes 90 degrees from the first and is angled up towards a gathering point where the cloth is pressed and packed into big bales. I start digging through the mass of garments. I only want black pieces. I tell the girl this and she answers by shrugging her shoulders. We don't talk but she stops the belt sometimes when a lot of black passes by. I pull the cloth wherever I see something black, throwing it back if there is too big prints or if the garment is of a too small size. By touching the textile I fell the synthetics and don't mind pulling. I reject trousers. Looking over my shoulder I get eye contact with the small man and he asks me how it's going. I smile and try to look as excited as I can. I ask him if there is some kind of bag to put the clothes in.

The first cart goes down to the floor empty. The cart-man puts another in the lift. I've started a small pile of my own on the platform floor and when the second cart has emptied its content the pile has grown significantly. I climb down the ladder. On the thin iron bars there hang a tie with Christmas print and scarves with anonymous logo print. On the floor buns of rolled sock lie scattered among big clusters of dust. I move my pile onto a waist-high platform and start sorting it too curious and anxious to only pick cloth I can use. Behind me against the wall a line of carts stand labelled Recycle which seems accurate. I divide the pile in three stacks. One for the things I know I can use, one for the things I might be able to use and one for the things I don't really want but keep just incase. Some pieces that are of too small size I throw back on the conveyer belt.

Making the call to the sorting central.
I explain that the shape and outlook of the clothing doesn't matter. As long as the colour is right I would be happy for anything. She tells me about the rejects. Clothes we don't want here, the garments that can't be sold here. We set a date and I ask her what it would cost. She tells me, and I can hear her smiling, she doesn't expect money for those kind of pieces.

I climb back. The carts are lifted up, unloaded and replaced. Realising the large quantity of blackness I get more picky choosing. Only selecting long sleeved tops and large garments. My nose is starting to itch and I can fell the dust on my face. Another black pile is growing beside me. The small man is waving his hand holding a green woven plastic bag. He's made a construction with thinner plastic bags to go inside of the coarse and stiff green one. He tells me how to pack the clothes in the best way. After asking me if I have a big trunk on my car, he compliments me on the good plan of bringing a small cart as clothing-transport. I smile, thanks him and continues, he goes to look for some rubber bands.

The massive amount of clothing passing me by are in all shapes and colours, with brand names and anonymous. Nothing is ripped, dirty or in an unwearable condition. Lots of polyester trousers, shirts in all shapes, colours and patterns, jackets, hoodies, skirts, jeans, vests, weird looking pieces, beige zip jackets, but mostly colourful tops in stretch material. Knitted sweaters with strange patterns, lace, cotton, viscose, buttons, seams, lots of seams. Not long ago these garments were for sale in stores, on hangers, folded in neat stacks, on shelves, desired. Bought worn, thrown out , bought worn thrown out, sometimes not even worn, sometimes bought again.

The girl is looking at the clock hanging above the window. There's a few minutes left until twelve o'clock so the lunch break is about to start, the small man has brought rubber band. I start to say my good-byes thinking that I have to leave and incase I would be finished packing before they're back. I realise that the lunch break is only half an hour and keep quiet, the more time I get the more material I can gather. Everyone leaves the hall and the machines are switched off. I stay behind and go through the things still left on the conveyer belt thoroughly and climb down on the concrete floor.
Being gladly overwhelmed by the amount of black I don't mind sorting everything in piles. The three stacks are now a mass of garments I know I can use. I fold the pieces and put them in the plastic inner bags and lift them into the green one, I press it together with my body weight to fit more cloth and put it on the cart. I've filled just about half of the bag. Pulling the cart I realise that it's almost too weak, banning myself for not bringing the stronger cart I have in my studio.
I go to the toilet were there are three notes posted; not to wash feet in the sink, not to bring toilet paper home and not to throw sanitary objects in the toilet. The two first ones I think you should be allowed.

There is an aura of cigarette fumes around the girl as she retakes her position. The electricity is switched on making a loud humming sound. The belt starts moving and I continue pulling.

Bought, worn, thrown out, collected and put in another circulation.
When the clothes have past the conveyer belt and reached the gathering point they are packed and pressed together in big white bales with metal bands that hold them together. Further down the hall I see the bales going from the floor, stacked on top of each other in row after row, all the way to the ceiling. They are ready to be shipped elsewhere.

I strap the filled green bag down tightly to the cart. The cart is overloaded. I make a joke about it braking on the way home to the man but hoping that it wont happen. I try to get the layer of dust now covering my sweater and trousers, blowing air through my nose to get some dust out. The small man asks me if I found what I was looking for.
On my way out I try to find the bossy woman but she is somewhere still having lunch. I drag the cart through the dirt yellow corridor past the cafeteria. It's cold outside but the hint of air has grown. A truck passes me by on the dried dirt road and I hold my head down not to get the swirling sand in my face. I look down on my coat, and it looks like it's been rolled in fibre and textile-dust, completely covered. The cart's handle is a bit too low for my height and the weight of the load makes my arm feel like boiled spaghetti.
-
I sit on the back-support of a bench, waiting for the tram. I eat my other banana. A man bicycles onto the platform over the tracks and pass behind me. Except from the two of us there is no-one else around and the area feels deserted. The tram rolls in and I struggle to lift the cart up the two steps. Having to change trains a young man asks me if I need assistance. I don't have my smiling face on anymore and eyes follow me and my heavy cart as I find a place to sit.

Getting a bit worried that the cart actually is going to break I ask the bus driver to lower the front.

I place the green bag on the floor of my studio and take out the first inner bag. Looking carefully at every piece, how it's cut, estimating the amount of material, planning lightly how to use it, putting it either in the stretch material group or the woven fabric group. I take out the second bag and sit down on the floor. Wearing only black I start to melt into the growing piles. The amount of the unpacked clothes seems to be much larger than the volume of the green bag. As my thoughts wander the two piles mix together. A scent is growing as the slow unpacking is done. It doesn't smell bad or good, it's curious. A blend of the smell of dust, washing powder, hands after holding coins, unrecognisable perfumes, bodies, storage and something more. I stand up looking at the mass of clothing and material, the scent has filled the room.