Our History

I settle down at my vanity adorned with slightly demolished photographs I did not take and whose colour is yellowing with each passing day, dried-out flowers I picked with my mother out in our garden back in spring, and herbs my grandmother collected for me, her remedy for every little thing. With the touch of herbs and botanical secrets, I draw in the wisdom of long-forgotten healers, their remedies a whisper from the past. Rooted in the earth, connected through soil. Aren’t we all?

Many things, I believe, stem from the distant past. Through the nuances of our everyday gestures or expressions, we can trace our connection to distant history.

We are all connected in a way.

I settle down at my vanity, the one with the slightly chipped-off colour, and look at myself. My reflection mirrors my lost gaze. My reflection mirrors the lost gaze of the women before me. I sit in quietness and am embraced by tranquil solitude.

I cannot help but wonder whether I will somehow affect the world. Whether my footsteps will be remembered. Whether a young girl from the future will think about me the same way I wonder about the women of the past. It is true, I have not known them, but something makes me smile about the happy memories they have made during their lives. Their tears of sadness and happiness had shaped them into who they had become. I wish to grow old, I wish to create memories. Earn the lines on my face for I believe they will be the wrinkles of joy. I want the women of the future to find joy in the fact that I was happy.

I find myself tracing my eyes with a liner, a ritual passed down from women before me.

Did their hand quiver the same way mine does?

Did they find it troubling - tracing the perfect line?

I gently swipe on my (probably already expired) rouge.

Were they smiling while applying it like I do too?

What was their preferred shade?

I vividly remember watching my mum applying makeup when I was little. The sacred ritual that was not yet available to me. I so yearned to grow up as swiftly as possible. To swipe on the rosy blush the way she did. Or to hold my breath while carefully brushing my lashes with mascara.

Did they, too, find joy in their shared similarity to their mothers?

I like to think that I am connected to the women who came before me. The ones I don't know and never will.

Through each dab of lipstick.

Through the colourful pigment of eyeshadows.

Through my trembling hand, it is not able to apply makeup flawlessly.

Through the urge to keep my head down while walking.

Through the constant need to profusely apologize.

Through the way, I strive to be perfect.

Beyond the rituals of vanity lies a deeper truth. We are all canvases of strength and resilience. Each stroke of makeup is a tribute to their stories. Each mirror reflection is a testament to their legacy.

In the quiet sanctuary of vanity, I am intertwined with the spirits of bygone eras. A living bridge between the past and present. A vessel for the echoes of feminine grace. In the art of adornment, I find a sense of togetherness. I am embraced by the women of times before me, each action and emotion a homage to them. We are all keepers of an ancient legacy — each dab of salve, each stroke of colour, each tear and each heartfelt laughter a testament to our enduring spirit across all ages.