What does it mean, for you, to render darkness sacred — especially in the context of female experience?

For me, transforming darkness into something sacred is a way of reclaiming the power to author my own narrative. Since childhood, we’ve been taught that light is purity and dark is danger especially for women. Emotions, desire, and intensity are often framed as wrong, shameful, or excessive. But I’ve come to realize that true power often resides in precisely those repressed realms. Darkness is a space of gestation like the womb, like the subconscious. It is also where truth is confronted most intimately. When I embrace darkness in my work, it’s not to glorify pain, but to build sanctuaries for the emotions and experiences that have been pushed to the margins. It teaches me not to fear my own shadow, and allows me to witness the complexity and the sacred essence of feminine experience.

In your narrative, Eve is not punished for desire — she rises because of it. Lucifer becomes less a villain than a silent witness to her becoming. What drew you to this radical reimagining of religious archetypes — and what cultural myths are you burning down in the process?

Inspired by Per Faxneld’s Satanic Feminism, I began to reexamine the women historically branded as “fallen.” This book delves into the mysticism, literature, and cultural discourse of the nineteenth century, revealing how Satan was reimagined by certain female thinkers and artists—not as a symbol of corruption, but as a symbolic ally, a spiritual liberator rising against oppression. No longer the fallen one of orthodox theology, he becomes the flame of thought resisting divine patriarchy and moral absolutism.
Through this lens, Eve’s so-called “fall” is not the origin of sin, but a radical awakening a decisive act in pursuit of consciousness and autonomy. As Faxneld states, “In these re-readings, Satan becomes an ally in the struggle against the patriarchal system upheld by God the Father and His male priests.” This is more than a historical observation—it is the echo of a contemporary feminist consciousness.
The demon is no longer the embodiment of temptation and downfall, but a silent witness to the birth of female will and sovereignty. He represents a shadowed wisdom, a refusal to yield. What has been labeled “temptation” is, in fact, a poetic rebellion an act of crossing thresholds and challenging the order built to fear the feminine.
What I truly seek to burn is the myth that frames female desire as sin, the cultural structure that treats women’s choices as threats. I seek to dismantle the language system that demonizes curiosity, knowledge, and the body. In reconstructing these archetypes, I am not attacking faith itself, but summoning the forces long exiled to the margins of myth the divine and demonic entangled in feminine consciousness. Powers suppressed by history, yet still burning in the dark.

You reference London’s underground goth scene as more than a subculture — you call it a ritual space. How has that environment shaped your aesthetic, and what do these gatherings offer that religion and mainstream society deny?

For me, London’s underground goth club scene has never been merely a subculture—it feels more like a living ritual space. A place where people are unafraid of shadow, unafraid of vulnerability, unafraid of being misunderstood. It holds space for all that remains unnamed—pain and desire, tenderness and rage, divinity and monstrosity all allowed to coexist, to resonate together.