creator cover Andrey Moss
Andrey Moss

Andrey Moss 

Photographer, Designer

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About

Russian independent designer and photographer Andrey Moss creates through a distinctive anatomical approach inspired by women, art, religion.. and explores the dark side of culture, employs a deft process of fabric analysis and personally sourced materials to create something entirely unique. His creations are a departure from any major fashion brand, rejecting beauty in the mainstream sense for something much more primal - a kind of second skin. Moss’s designs may seem macabre, but his exquisite relation of texture to form produces a beauty all its own. Through his creations, Moss reclaims damning constructions of woman to produce carefully crafted pieces that empower in the process. They are redolent of centuries past, yet their exceptional style makes them distinctly modern, they express the impermanence of the human experience through an artist's eyes.

The Bad Monk..

Cloisters in former times portrayed on their high walls
The truths of Holy Writ with fitting pictures
Which gladdened pious hearts and lessened the coldness,
The austere appearance, of those monasteries.
In those days the sowing of Christ’s Gospel flourished,

The Venal Muse..

Muse of my heart, of palaces the lover,
Where will you, when the blast of winter blows
In the black boredom of snowed lights, discover
A glowing brand to warm your violet toes?
How will you there revive your marbled skin
At the chill rays your shutters then disperse?

In the mood for murder..

Sanctified by the flickering candlelight of Baudelaire's poetry, this year is suddenly coming to an end, dedicated to a woman who once appeared as a white-stone goddess, and when she left, she brought to her knees a pitiful mortal who believed that a woman was just a patent for satisfying his carnal beliefs.. This year is suddenly coming to an end, unfortunately giving way to a more violent one, to the nervous and alcohol-soaked sounds of Poe's prose. There is no more birdsong or candle crackling here, everything is quiet in anticipation of the murder. We are no longer in a cozy and hidden room.. everything here exclaims only one word - revenge..

The Tell-Tale Heart..

"True! - nervous - very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses - not destroyed - not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?"
- Edgar Allan Poe
If you haven't seen Robert Eggers' very first film, today is the perfect day to do so. Besides, this film is straight from the moodboard of my next project..

Hymn to Beauty..

Did you spring out of heaven or the abyss,
Beauty? Your gaze infernal, yet divine,
Spreads infamy and glory, grief and bliss,
And therefore you can be compared to wine.
Your eyes contain both sunset and aurora:
You give off scents, like evenings storm-deflowered:

To a Madonna..

I’d build, Madonna, love, for my belief,
An altar in the dim crypt of my grief,
And in the darkest comer of my heart,
From mortal lust and mockery far apart,
Scoop you a niche, with gold and azure glaze,
Where you would stand in wonderment and gaze,

I’m fair, O mortals, as a dream of stone..

I’m fair, O mortals, as a dream of stone;
My breasts whereon, in turn, your wrecks you shatter,
Were made to wake in poets’ hearts alone
A love as indestructible as matter.
A sky-throned sphinx, unknown yet, I combine
The cygnet’s whiteness with a heart of snow.

Voynich manuscript..

“Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” - Albert Einstein

It's always a fun game with a definite loss - to find at least something in my garden that even remotely resembles everything that is depicted in this most mysterious manuscript.. Some books should be tasted, some devoured, but only a few should be chewed and digested thoroughly. And this one is either a great mystery, or an equally great joke, but still no less inspiring.

You’d Stick the World into Your Bedside Lane..

You’d stick the world into your bedside lane.
It’s boredom makes you callous to all pain.
To exercise your teeth for this strange task,
A heart upon a rake, each day, you’d ask.
Your eyes lit up like shopfronts, or the trees
With lanterns on the night of public sprees,

But the Almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman..

My company was charming.
Opposite me by the massive Renaissance fireplace sat Venus; she was not a casual woman of the half-world, who under this pseudonym wages war against the enemy sex, like Mademoiselle Cleopatra, but the real, true goddess of love.
She sat in an armchair and had kindled a crackling fire, whose reflection ran in red flames over her pale face with its white eyes, and from time to time over her feet when she sought to warm them.
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