PLEASURE: An Exclusive Excerpt From Jovana Reisinger’s Hit Novel

I have a lunch date with writer and icon Hengameh Yaghoobifarah. […] The restaurant is busy, but nobody takes any notice of us. Surprising. I’m impressed every time I spot celebrities on the street, eating, going out, being on the phone, playing sport – and that’s exactly what we are, right?

“Stars are only human,” my father used to say when talking about the precious moments in his life when he was surrounded by superstars and wanted to appear unimpressed. Back when things were still going well, before unemployment, poverty and shame, he worked in a senior position for Lufthansa. He cooked for Michael Jackson. For the entire FC Bayern team. For the staff and passengers of Air Force One. For the high society. And yes, he once even cooked for the Pope.

[…]

he said in modest moments, I never believed him. Modesty is an overrated virtue. It keeps the most beautiful, funniest, craziest and weirdest stories and acts secret and we all lose out on a large portion of fun and joy. Not everyone has to be an annoying show-off, but I much prefer those who know what they are doing, accomplishing and pushing along, and talk about it in an appropriate, authentic, only slightly exaggerated way, to those who are at the back of the queue waiting to be put in the spotlight and then are offended when it doesn’t happen.

[…]

and me and our meeting, because we are also cheerful. The reason is essential, I say it openly, I have fallen in love. Hengameh knows that. That’s why we’re here. It’s getting hot, because I want to get the object of my desire. Time for the handover. I want to hold it in my hands, my new Prada handbag. Its name is Cleo, patent leather, metallic silver. We push our plates to one side and Hengameh takes the bag out of the packaging and places it on the table. We look at it silently for a moment. It is breathtakingly beautiful, has no visible scratches, a high-quality finish and comes with a matching dust bag. Prada or nada. It will soon be mine. I take it in my hand. Everything about it looks real. A first-class copy. It costs 50 €. A bargain. I need a sip of water to calm down.

[…]

Doesn’t matter! After all, it’s about something more important, it’s about fashion and making people believe that the Prada Cleo is real. At least until someone asks me about it, because of course I’ll tell the truth. That’s right, I’m not ashamed of it. Neither for owning it nor for the illusion it creates. Quite the opposite. What I do find tricky, however, is to deny wearing fakes. That’s much more embarrassing than actually wearing the dupes.

[…]

Most people would probably agree: fakes are a no-go. They are, and they should be banned. Especially at public appearances, award ceremonies, high-profile events, shoots and film sets. That’s the exclusive social contract. After all, who wants to be photographed with fakes? With the cheap copy, the shabby alternative, the betrayal of fashion, design, craftsmanship, art? To be seen with the poor workmanship, toxic material and bad replica? With the obviously helpless attempt to be something you’re not (rich, glamorous, part of it, up there)? Me, I want to. And I’m in good company. The allure of the rule-breaking where there is no longer a rule. I wear and care for my fake designer handbags with the same dedication as my real ones. With the same carelessness. Somewhere between coquetry and camp. Between glamor and trash.

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The increasingly sophisticated copies, which can’t be distinguished from the originals, are worn with a natural carelessness.

As a countermovement, art needs to shift its own boundaries, and it is not only fashion designers who are able to do that but also the people. One example is the fantastic outfits of the most important It-girl of the moment, Julia Fox, which are daring, often very naked and absurd in the most wonderful way. Some of her looks are like delicate sculptures, others are inspired by her past in the fetish scene, others are nothing more than witty statements. She manages to perform fashion like performing art, giving it back its power. At its best, fashion is something holy. Fox is one of its priests.

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And because stars create desire and the need for imitation, she constantly makes me rethink my outfit choices.

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As the child of Italian immigrants in New York, always precarious, unnoticed, risk taking and struggling

, she apparently had no choice but to become famous, because she probably wouldn’t have survived this intense life otherwise. I know people like that from my youth, some of them died. Fox, like me, like many from the lower classes, learned to rely primarily on herself and to constantly get over the obstacles imposed by society and family. This means: being disturbing, annoying, demanding, unpleasant. It means constantly slipping and falling and carrying on regardless. It means greed. Not primarily and necessarily material greed, but greed for security (which is often connected). Not accepting the role that was given to you (poor, female, creative), but scandalizing and overcoming it. The key to revolution: sisterhood.

[…]

There’s a potential for identification and empathy for those who undermine the system, just as I try to undermine it myself. I grew up in different classes. This means that we, or rather I, made several changes. My parents started at the bottom, my father even more than my mother, worked their way up, lost everything and ended up further down than where they started. They both came from the countryside, met each other in Munich, moved to an Austrian village and then back to a small town in Bavaria. I took part in the move from further up (Munich) to the very bottom and then climbed back up on my own. The most defining years of my childhood were those in which our standard of living got worse and worse and I was able to watch everything become more and more tragic. At nineteen-years-old, I left my parents’ home and was dependent on BAföG, student grants and part-time jobs. Waitress, customer support employee, wardrobe lady, art guide – I was the walking part-time job. The first, and the only one so far, in the family to go to university. As an underdog, I shaped my life outside the known framework: no education, no permanent job, no home, no property, no car, no family of my own, not even a boyfriend or girlfriend to finally get to know. Instead, a failed first marriage, a sexy singles column (cringe-worthy), scandalous, feminist and angry texts in fashion magazines, and last but not least, this strange art nobody could understand.

My parents often told me not to hope for this (scholarships, prizes, success) or that (support, jobs, contracts) because people like us don’t get those things. People like us were the ones with the low income, the small apartments, the credit debt, the crooked teeth, the digestive problems, the insomnia, the love for triangle-shaped cheese toast. We belonged directly to those who lived in the plattenbau, with old cars, concrete balconies, cupboards from the second-hand store, mini-jobs and alcohol addiction. To those with the TV permanently on, with the many pets, with the worn shoes and the clothes with holes in them. Whenever they spoke of us in a disrespectful, warning manner, a diffuse feeling of inadequacy, of not belonging, a blurred image of one’s own social group, of anticipatory disappointment took over. I believed for a long time that you don’t need role models. That may still be true, but we do need narratives. Julia Fox saved herself all the time. I saved myself, too. Julia Fox saved me a little. Her unimpressed couldn’t-care-less attitude and her excessive joy in breaking the rules inspired me.

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It happens somewhere between exclusivity, subcultural codes and omnipresent mass trends. Sometimes, what fashion communicates is a bizarre mixture of simultaneous messages. In its worst moments, the fashion market seems like an all-consuming, self-processing force that creates enormous chaos. Yet in the end, everyone only wants one thing: the glamorous life of the upper class, filled with carefree joy and beautiful things. After all, it is outstanding objects that make existence outstanding. The real, the exclusive, the rare, the precious – hardly anyone can afford that. Naturally, this fuels our longing. A classic example is the legendary better treatment of those who carry a real Hermès Birkin bag. It is said that every door is held open for those who wear it.

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It is the cornerstone of capitalism. While the lower classes are condemned for their excessive consumption of the wrong things (alcohol, cigarettes, energy drinks, fast food and fast fashion), other classes see expensive (unnecessary) objects as proof of a successful lifestyle (car, yacht, jet, pool, villa, animals, alcohol, cigars, delicacies). Consumption as a distinguishing feature. This is where it’s getting blurry. Which objects are considered suitable for showing off status depends on the viewer’s perspective, which, in turn, is influenced by political, social, and cultural interests, all of which are subject to shifts and changes. Nowadays, the super-rich are condemned for their exorbitant, destructive lifestyles that destroy our environment, at least by some. You can track private jets and yachts, check their routes. Since climate change is clearly noticeable, the jet set life no longer seems so cool and desirable (flight shame). Suddenly, the luxury car seems decadent, and the expensive watch on your wrist sends the wrong signals. What was previously seen as a necessary show-off product may now have to be held back. Sovereignty is gone. Or not? It depends on the peer group. If the Birkin is not recognized as a luxury accessory, no one will hold the door wide open for its owner.

“Every product is a statement. Whether it’s glasses, the food you choose in a restaurant or the vehicle you drive: consumer decisions mark your social position by affirming or raising your own status. Many consumers prefer to spend their money on products that set them apart from the ‘underclass’ and are intended to signal their own higher status, from caviar to luxury watches, to name the most striking examples.”^[1]

^[1] Laura Wiesböck: In Better Company, p. 131.

However, if this underclass, of which Laura Wiesböck writes, is now clever enough to get hold of status objects that are so well made that they can easily pass as originals and were bought for only a fraction of the real price, it almost feels as if the underclass has cheated the logic of the entire luxury market. The inequality has been undermined. A really good deal has been made, and without a waiting list. But that’s not how desire works. Supply and demand are crucial. If the items are seen too often and are then worn by the wrong people, they lose their appeal. New it-pieces have to be created, found and marketed to be worn by the top ten thousand.

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I just suffered because I couldn’t show off a Puma bag in the school playground or have a sassy rhinestone slogan adorning my neon thongs. The real chicks, the ones with money, had understood much earlier than me that life would be about fashion, sex, fun and self-expression from then on. Then my hormones took over and everything changed, I was striving for a new identity, and a change of identity goes hand in hand with a new look. I had to go shopping. On one of these shopping trips, I got hold of some (controversial) shoes. I can remember the feeling they gave me back then. Almost everyone can. The universal reason for the never-ending plague of romanticized coming-of-age films, books and series. The retrospective idealization. At this time, everything is exciting, new, open, possible.

But in such a small town, right on the border with Austria, there was very little going on. Two basic beliefs were mixed up in this sudden spirit of optimism: Firstly, this can’t be it now, and secondly, I want more. As a naive optimist at the time, I thought life would sort itself out, the main thing was to be sexy. The shoes I wanted to get away with were high (black leather boots with pink appliqués, spiked heel) and far too expensive. I practiced walking in front of the mirror in the tiny children’s room, it was so small that I couldn’t walk towards the mirror, only along it, which made practicing difficult. Then I dared to go out, which my boyfriend at the time, an older, horrible guy with bad behavior, immediately getting his recognition. “Hot,” he said and slapped my but with his hand. “You look so hot.” (They just always say the same thing, no matter what class, descent or milieu). “Hot,” I thought and walked extremely slowly from then on. Running was out of the question in these shoes, so I walked alongside him in slow motion and was presented like the trophy I wanted to be. He held my neck with his hand. He was that kind of guy. The tight low-rise jeans (tucked into the boots), the multiple tops layered over each other, the long blonde hair. In my memory, this was my first pre-practiced appearance. These shoes brought me the attention I longed for. Confirmation as an award, as a prize. Confirmation through fashion. Shortly before that, I had been too short and too fat, but a sudden growth had pushed me up the hotness ranking. No more comments like “I had a better body at your age” to “Nobody likes fat girls”, “Don’t eat so much” and “I’d be ashamed if I were you”. So now, I was walking through the small town, somehow tall and slim, insecure on high heels and letting myself be treated badly because I thought it was the right thing to do – finally a woman. It took me a long time to realize that I could fight back, defend myself and not waste my time with some wannabe cool small-town machos.

[…]

it was impossible to buy good brands or even sustainable, organic, fair-trade products (of any kind). Back then, dinner was sometimes only served for us kids. Back then, there was no such thing as a perfectly balanced diet. Back then, we couldn’t have cared less about the impact of our consumer behavior, back then, we had to make sure we survived. Nothing else. Back then, we often couldn’t pay for electricity for months on end. Or for water. Back then, when the electricity was paid for, water was heated with the kettle so that we could bathe and wash properly. Back then, we thought it was okay. Back then, we hoped to be able to heat the house in winter. Back then, we thought we will get over it. Back then, everyone watched TV shows about underclass families. Back then, we had the feeling that that was it. Back then, I thought I didn’t deserve anything else. Poverty was the end of the line. For a brief moment, we looked around and just shrugged our shoulders. Then, something changed. Things got better again. Slowly at first, then a little faster. My parents’ new independence. The new regular jobs. Then, I was accepted into university. At the time, I didn’t know whether everything would work out. But I knew one thing: