There were no pioneers in my childhood, but there was a school uniform.  I didn’t like it, but I liked to wear it on holidays, then the apron turned white instead of black, and my mother wove big white bows into my thin braids of hair.  In the 7th or 8th grade, the school uniform was canceled, but the director didn't stop dominating his authority over the students: during the lessons, the floor attendants had to wash the black footprints from the shoes on the floor. The students did not like him, and teachers and parents said "behind the eyes" that outwardly he was very similar to the first president of Belarus.

The uniform, school or any other, is a symbol of submission to the system.  Working with uniforms, I work through stereotypes and transform them into mythical images.