Murva fashion collection introduced at Eco Fashion Week has been a life long process for Ivana Knezovic, Creative Director / Designer. This was not only the 29 year old Croatian designer's first collection, but also her first international performance.

She debuted her eco-friendly collection titled Rust & Flow on the runway at Eco Fashion Week in Vancouver, Canada. Her pieces are all made from eco-friendly wool flannel.

Ivana Knezovic made interesting use of symmetrical lines, and I admired the draping from the shoulders framing a dress low-cut in back. One dress had several parallel vertical cut lines on the backside.

Many of her tops had capes, hang from one shoulder or both, paired with slim pants or a skirt. A nice touch of dramatic flare as the models moved down the runaway.

“Fashion design was always in me,” say Ivana Knezovic. Having resided in New York, Toronto, and Switzerland, designing was something she always wanted to do. "Murva is the name of a tree in my village. My company represents a return to my roots, to who I am at my core."

"I like structure. I like hiding the body behind some kind of a structure," said the designer who makes all her own clothes and cosmetics. "Eco is a product of maturity and of wholeness that you can only achieve when you really and truly grow up."

As a designer, she told me that she strives for “pure minimalism,” yet her eco-fashion designs are made for a sophisticated, minimalistic, and determined woman.

Exactly what the eco-fashion movement needs.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015

Purge your unclean self
Your existence does not depend
On the judgement of others
You are the beauty created
For something long before you were born
Life depends on you
You are what you aspire to look like
Appearances fail when you forget
That time is an illusion
Seasons are fleeting
But you will reign red-blooded
The eyes follow every angle
Seriously believe in your immortality
The skinny boy on the runway
Believes
Invincibility
Inevitably forever
This is heaven
This is hell
Death is forever
Life lasts beyond eons
Your beauty is worn on your soul
Be it an old familiar jacket
That has toured the world
Be it a minimalistic shift
Worn moments before you were deflowered
Photographs will create the verdict
You will be weighed
You will be measured
Perfection is possible

Notes on your window
So subtly appear
As though they came from thin air

No rhyme, but reason
A familiar flick of the e's in everything
Glimpse of hope

A handwriting technique you know well
Smeared ink against the fibers
Calling out for one last message

They seem to procreate every few weeks
A simple one
Minimalistic hopes of something

Nothing more to lose
Just a note on your window
Signed by a smeared "O"

Have you ever been
overwhelmed by such a
feeling of nostalgia, blanked
the color blue and a song, a smell, the
light from the windows from so long ago
when you were young and the clothes you wore
were tight, stretchy and entirely juvenile but
the easiness,
minimalistic heart
what were you worried about then?


what was I worried about then?

shades of hues so dark, yet iridescent, lined the minimalistic realm during the era of the Grays.
each Gray wore gray clothes
ate gray food
thought gray thoughts
and could only think in terms of black and white… and gray.
there were no rules, simply because no one was unhappy with the way things were.
happiness was trivial;
trivial like a pale shade of pink managing to make its way into the spectrum of the Grays
or trivial like the way a Gray would see that pastel and disregard it entirely.
it did not exist.
happiness was trivial, smiles were trivial, balance was necessary.
balance, balance, balance.
order, order, order.
creativity did not exist.
creativity was not a word.
if a Gray’s words had no obvious meaning, they were disregarded, because they were incomprehensible. Words not in terms of black and white were seen as red, seen as blue, seen as green,
but never seen at all.
magnitude.
the magnitude of something’s potential depth was measured by their ability to disregard anything not pertinent to what a Gray should believe.
a Gray must be Gray, must be pensive, must be reserved.
a Gray must be tedious, must be timid, must be poised.
a Gray must be obedient, must be trusting, must be trusted.
a Gray must not see red, or blue, or yellow, or green, or purple, or indigo, or orange,
especially not cerulean or magenta or cyan or mauve or tangerine.
the Grays evolved from Whites, from Blacks
the degenerating masochists of times before
the Grays could not look down, nor up, nor in between, or sideways, or vertically, or around
they could not think what to possibly think of what these people before them may have thought about thinking and thoughts
and couldn’t bear to think about all of this thinking
so the Grays did not think about thinking
they lived for the sake of living
they breathed for the sake of inhaling, exhaling
inhale
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
­ exhale
but somewhere
somewhere in that Gray society
a young Gray began to breathe
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
and opened his eyes
his blue, blue eyes
and brought thoughts of color
to every Gray’s mind
lightened the world with light
opened the world to chance, to luck, to love
exposed the world to color, to beginnings and ends, to loss, and to destruction
and cried tears of red, of blue, of yellow, of green, of purple, of indigo, of orange,
       especially cerulean and magenta and cyan and mauve and tangerine
flooding the world with possibility
flooding the world with creativity.

Mundane chatter and VHS tapes
Renaissance iron and tired eyes, awake
Lying on the carpet
Minimalistic sandwich
Lying to the paw print
Cannibalistic light switch

A

I walked into Cartier
Dark Blood Red
was their trademark
It was sophisticated

I had a catalogue of rings
placed in front of me
I was presented options
but you were clean and minimalistic
Rose gold, I thought

Visuals like merchandising projecting
our conversations on dresses, themes, flowers
how we'll travel the world, have a home
how our daughters will have my eyes
your nose and our names

we sat at the bay front
had a long conversation till 3 am
discussing how we are going to allocate our daughter's time with our parents, classes -
if they are going for ballet or musical classes

It was certain,
the air was greeted with a breeze
in silent acknowledgement

until now,
I only can blame
how some words fall apart
like the world does everyday

how love is never enough
how we are never enough
how I will never be enough

even if my bones are sore
to its nerves, I will be
Happy for you.


(I heard you are having a baby
I heard you are having a family
I heard you are happy & you chose her) - echoing

Minimalistic ventures
  are more
full of meaning.

Than a room
full of
            false possessions.

words and spaces and punctuation

1
In constant consonance
Love, in it's minimalistic sonata
Plays a slow stitched waltz
Into the cough syrup
Haze of memories

2
When love was just a
Second-hand suggestion
A rebellious rose
Reaching recklessly
For a remarkable reaction
Finds a score left unfinished
From years past

3
In pointe shoes
Two bodies dance a
Painful coloratura
Yet in the midst of
This pa de deux
Love remembers contentment

from the sun-dappled emerald green plains
to the mountainous tides of the deep blue,
i will search for a dream settled in the history of our time.

my dream clouds will sit atop the north
like pillows placed on a bed
too materialistic to sleep on and too minimalistic to dream about.

caged?

Vadym Komarov, June 20th, 2019 - ******

hold me down.
i can see the story fluttering in the light,
but they do not let me out.

they keep me caged like a siberian tigress
bound to the melting frosted forests
our planeted body had provided for her.

they keep me caged.

whirlpool

a step in the sandy dunes of the Sahara has me dry.
the only thing i inhale is silence and sand.
the grainy ridges seen in the distance slowly weather,
until they are nothing but quicksand whirlpools.
as i fall into one, i can only think, “let me out of here”.

it holds me down.

Obed Nangbatna, May 25th, 2019 - Crossfire

spotlight

Lyra Mckee, April 18th, 2019 - Crossfire

in which the moon dances with the sun in a waltz.
even dancing with the moon,
the sun sprays its spotlight on the earth.

what is that?

it shoots its rays on a portion of our world.
look, there it is,
dancing amongst the skyscrapers,
galloping among the spray of bodies.
i wonder if i should follow it.

Ahmed Hussein-Suale Divela, January 16th, 2019

i follow the spotlight.

birthed

troy gave me my name.
the civilizations of Ilium,
the villages of Rhodope Mountains,
the flat plained city of Thessaloniki.

i want to run from them.
i can’t, so i run to them.

i find something.

crossfire

point blank guns are zeroed in on me
earthquakes rumble under my feet
as i stumble ahead.

refugees,
immigrants,

Leonardo Gabriel Hernández, March 17th, 2019 - ******

i guess we’re all the same.

Mojamed Ben Khalifa, January 19th, 2019 - Crossfire

monarchs,
Norma Sarabia Garduza, June 11th, 2019 - ******
tyrants,
Francisco Romero Díaz, May 16th, 2019 - ******
presidents,

different shades of governing bodies which diverge from our own political awareness

saints and sinners alike,
it doesn’t matter how much your soul is tainted.
we are all sainted souls that have sinned.

it just depends on whose part you play in the crossfire.

Amjad Hassan Balkir, June 18th, 2019 - Crossfire

tear

we live in ignorant bubbles,
cages of sort.
they are never ending
chasms of expectations and anxieties
our minds have conjured because of our complexities.
they prevent us from catching our stories, attaining our dreams.

i’ve fallen into whirlpools, followed my spotlight, retraced my birth, and plunged into a crossfire trying to escape my bubble.

i’ve followed my dream,
Jamal Kashoggi, October 2, 2018 - Dismembered
now will you follow yours?

housekeeping

i will make my bed,
fluff the pillows that were once
filled with my aspirations.
the pillows, now flat, vacant enough
to let new dreams puff them back up.

i make sure to leave the comforter untucked,
so the next dreamer can slide in easily,
slide into a place that once  sustained my adventures and stories.
i leave it untucked, leave the lights dim, and leave the door ajar.

i do not ever enter again.
A star-lit ballad plays for the dreamers who pursued their dream to the very end.

Beautiful day...even though it rained. A Robin flew above my head as I toiled in the dirt....stains and tears in my flannel shirt and quite a song he sang - my feathered visitor in the rain. A tale of our life - simple and humble - minimalistic by your design...never turned others away ... I thought the bird a sign. Every single moment of every single day...was better because you were here. You were the rock on which I leaned upon - who sheltered me from pain..I relied upon you ...admired...respected...and loved you with all my heart. So much like you - as I look at my ***** hands making clean money...I hope you're proud of me. Thank you for the reminder my sweet bird ...I hope to fly away with you one day...just not yet. Finishing my work - the bird finally found his way out - I knew exactly what he was talking about.      Cherie Nolan - 2016 * All Rights reserved

the most minimalistic poem is this one
just two lines and now i'm done

Save yourself. Once we are grown enough to take a look around and realize what the world is and can be, saving yourself is going to become important. Take a moment and deduce that to a minimalistic or complex notion and apply it. There is going to be obstacles every step of the way. You’re going to fall we all do, I’ve yet to see someone who has fallen and not come back. After all what is meant to be is what is meant to be. I’m so lost in a world that you do not need to go far to find anything in. You have to stay ready we have all been through **** at the end of the day we do what gets us through. You’re always going to be searching for someone to talk to and the key to survival is knowing who you are.