Jovana Reisinger’s new book PLEASURE is all about glamour, lounging around, indulgence, and kitsch — as an unconditional devotion to the present moment. A conversation about growing up with designer fakes and the underclass celebrating excess. Plus, a serious craving for a papaya.

I’d love to be one of those super hot business ladies – you know, the kind that steps on a train in a white suit or chic outfit, perfect makeup, at least some heels, with a cute suitcase and a cunty handbag. Sometimes I think, ‘I’ll be like that someday.’ Maybe not too far off in the future. But the truth is: I’m wearing Asics sneakers, vintage Prada trousers, a black silk Max Mara blouse that’s way too big but somehow sexy with its deep neckline, also second-hand, and on top, a Cos cashmere sweater. My jewelry’s shining, and so are my eyeshadow and lips. At least when I boarded, I was wearing a vintage Gianni Versace cashmere coat. And by the way, I scored all these pieces at bargain prices, like a Trüffelschweinderl sniffing out deals. I’ll admit that much.

Fashion is a form of communication. For me, getting dressed is a game, a way of claiming space, and definitely a form of dressing up. Not just to look richer, or smarter, or cooler, or whatever, but to step into a role I want to embody. Sometimes, when I’m too stressed, too tired, too sad or too drained, I create characters. That’s when I want to be a sexy office slut, and I know exactly how she looks in my world. It helps me make fashion decisions. Another time, I might be the business babe, or an abandoned housewife with a martini problem, or a professor of “Tussi studies”, or maybe a flight attendant for some weirdly exclusive but eco-friendly airline. This whole process of dreaming up characters and stories is something I’ve taken directly from my work as a writer and filmmaker and applied to my wardrobe.

I grew up with fakes. Just like I grew up with designer clothes. Fakes are an absurd amusement to me. They fascinate me. There’s something about their power, the symbolism, and that feeling of either outsmarting the elite or disrespecting and mocking the craftsmanship. It’s a fine line between participating and betraying. As a teen, I used to be embarrassed by fakes. I’d have preferred the original thing. But others celebrated those fakes, seeing the bargain price as a middle finger to the elite. Recently, I was in Rome and found the best replica: a crocheted Prada beach bag that’s been everywhere for years. But instead of “Prada”, it had “Roma” in the Prada font. I thought it was not just clever but so campy. Obviously, I bought it.

On one hand, the oyster is often used as a symbol of a cross-class delicacy — once a super cheap working-class snack and later a high-society marker. At the same time, traditional home-cooked food is making a comeback. Suddenly, dishes like Königsberger Klopse are en vogue. It’s an interesting, let’s call it, return to the roots. Probably everyone, across all classes, eats ice cream. But there are clearly huge differences in quality and flavor intensity. My current favorite ice cream by the way is mandarin.

Sushi. Soup. Fruit. Certain kinds of bread. Now I want a papaya.

Because the working class is more often mocked than taken seriously. The cliché is that they’re lazy, uneducated moochers who exploit the system and are generally a burden. If these people are seen sitting at a café, grabbing a bite at a food stand, or simply enjoying themselves, it’s met with suspicion. At the same time, the idea of the “good life” is one that oozes excess in every sense: time, glamour, food, drinks, fashion, and so on. But within the neoliberal framework of achievement, that excess is seen as earned, a reward for hard work. It’s legitimated by career success.

Yes! And no! Life is full of contradictions. Life is exhausting. Life is—what, exactly? Obviously, I have to take responsibility for creating a beautiful life. That means taking ownership. But not everything can be changed by me personally, individually, or single-handedly. That’s the cruelest lie of all—this “with hard work and dedication, you too can make it! Just keep pushing! Never give up!” I’m being honest when I say: Yes, in my life, it worked. But I look around and see people who tried just as hard, who are just as disciplined, talented, or dedicated, and for them, it didn’t work out. So, now what?

In shame. This shame comes from a bourgeois idea of culture, and from everyone who’s claimed the right to decide what is regarded as good art, good entertainment, intellectualism, prestige or genius. To fit that image, it’s more fashionable to feel embarrassed by trash TV, acrylic nails or fast food. You consume it, but still act above it, distancing yourself through irony. In my opinion, it’s an inappropriate stance. Kicking down is never elegant; it’s always a revelation — of bad character and a lack of decency.