Aeyde Anemoia Ch. 03

“Red Riding Hood” by Durga Chew-Bose

This season, we invite guest editor Durga Chew-Bose to reimagine six Grimm Brothers’ tales that inspired the Aeyde SS25 collection. In Chapter 03, Chew-Bose brings “Red Riding Hood” into contemporary realms, offering a fresh perspective on the traditional storyline. The editorial marks the third in a series of commissions exploring German folklore and mythology, rooted in the seasonal concept of “Aeyde Anemoia.”

Have you heard the story about the woman who bit into a rose and chipped her tooth? Nobody knows how, the rose was a rose, velvety and soft; each petal’s bloom was common and fine, slightly cupped and cute. But she couldn’t help herself. The rose looked like candy, persuasively red. She leaned in, opened her mouth, and bit down. Crack. Her front tooth crunched against the rose and a small white shard fell from her mouth like a crumb. She pushed her tongue against the tooth and felt its edge. It was grooved, something close to a fang. Strangely, she didn’t mind. She liked the feeling against her tongue. It was new. It was sharp. It was fun to play with. She looked at the rose, studying its shape and color—neither of which seemed familiar anymore. Was it really a rose? Why had it…bitten back? Why had she assumed it wouldn’t? She stared at its soft lines, its stillness and strain like a ballerina’s body. She loved the rose. It was beautiful but not at all serene. The combination was seductive and dangerous and left a mark. Within minutes, she was already used to the spiky, sudden sensation in her mouth. It was her secret. She felt it gave her more reason to smile. The fang freed her.

Why were there so many collages of eyeballs inside of roses? Once you see one, you start to see more. Rose petals growing out of a single stare. Like lashes or blistered lids, in shades of pink and deep red and white. Why was it so natural to see something surreal? Why did it dare us to entomb other halves, out of context? A single eyeball is always strange, but somehow at home inside of a rose. A spy. A lost half. A prying, snooping lump. Inside of a rose, the eyeball is both trapped and tended to. If you ignore it, you’ll only start to see it more.

Have you heard the story about the city that was overrun with roses? It happened overnight, when everyone was asleep, safe in their homes. A combination of factors led to the rapid, intense growth, though those same factors are still being debated. There was rain, a torrential downpour that came seemingly out of nowhere, though the weather had been wrong a lot lately. The sort of storm that crashes with emotion: winds that put on a show, whipping around, uprooting trees. The sort of storm that leaves a trace. It wants you to know it was there. The clues are cheeky. Nothing is where it once was. And it was on this night, just after the storm and in those early hours when everyone’s nightmares kick in, that the city experienced an overnight bloom. The city awoke in disguise, untamed and untrammeled. Flush! Each corner, each park, each laneway, was choked with red. The smell of roses fanning in from all sides, even from high up, where some roses raced up building walls, wrapping their vines around electric wires in tight suffocating coils. The smell of roses was everywhere and soon it seemed as though it was nowhere. Nobody should ever get used to the smell of roses and yet. There were roses pushing against store windows, a mutiny of red rioting its way in. There were rose piles—heaps like trash—collecting in the middle of the road, blocking traffic. There were roses—big and in bloom—growing fast and hiding street signs, causing accidents, inviting bad judgement, distracting drivers. Below, there were roses clogging sewers and drains. Red goo. Red slushy masses of petals. A red impasse had forced the city to stop. How quickly the rose had become hazardous. Something to fear, something perhaps to understand anew. 

Have you heard the story about the woman who was lost in the forest only to be found, years later, in the city, with a tail. There she was, either in her habitat or far from it. Things were different with a tail. Things were different in a city with parks that were groomed and trees that seemed alone. She was wearing a red cape, so her tail was at first concealed. She was spotted by two lovers sitting on a bench, kissing. Lovers always see red. It’s possible they saw the tail but mistrusted their vision. It’s possible they saw the tail and enjoyed its fantasy. Lovers always love fantasy; it keeps their own little dream alive. There was something romantic about seeing something no one else would believe.

The Red Riding rose is a cross between the hybrid tea rose and a polyantha rose. It’s hardy and brave, highly disease resistant, ideal for a garden. It plays well with others. A friendly, rosette-shaped flower, with a light fragrance, registering two out of five on most fragrance guides. She has an upright build, not all roses do. Her bloom has a double petal count that might look like a frown, or anything else we associate with the word ‘crumple.’ Her creases seem to multiply; a frequency of tucks and puckers that wrinkle her face. She is an angry kitten. She is decadent. She is unusual, both easy and hard to look it. We lean in to account for our stare. We study her. She accompanies our thoughts. She is also known as a Chaperone rose. She is classified as a Fairy Tale Rose.

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