Interview about Traditional Parure Jewelry Set, winner of the A' Costume and Heritage Wear Design Award 2025
This project revises a traditional Russian jewelry set by combining sustainable technologies with traditional craft techniques. The Russian Traditional Parure features three key elements: a Celebration Tiara, a faux amber neckpiece, and an Ojerelok neckpiece. Ekaterina researched jewelry from the Russian North to revive its crafts and history, incorporating new sustainable methods like creating faux amber from recycled glass. Additionally, she expanded design possibilities and developed a unique method for applying the cloisonne goldsmithing technique directly onto recycled glass.
View detailed images, specifications, and award details on A' Design Award & Competition website.
View Design DetailsThis technique emerged from a desire to merge two seemingly opposing forces—fragility and resilience—within a material and symbolic framework. Cloisonné, a meticulous enameling technique traditionally used on metal, represents the refinement and opulence of imperial Russian craftsmanship. Recycled glass, on the other hand, is a discarded material with no inherent value in traditional goldsmithing. The act of applying cloisonné directly onto reclaimed glass was a deliberate gesture of rebellion against conventional hierarchies of material value. Technically, it required months of trial and error to control enamel flow on uneven surfaces and to prevent thermal shock. I saw this process as a metaphor for cultural reparation: reassembling fragmented histories using overlooked or damaged elements. The result is a new visual and material language—one that honors historical craft while challenging its exclusivity and permanence.
Each piece in the parure functions as a wearable relic, evoking both reverence and resistance. In Russia, craft traditions were historically entangled with state narratives—used to project ideals of power, unity, and cultural supremacy. My reinterpretation seeks to peel back those layers. For instance, the Celebration Tiara adopts the formal geometry of Soviet festive regalia but subverts its meaning through the use of fragile materials and hand-finished imperfections. It critiques the spectacle of authoritarian aesthetics. The Ojerelok neckpiece, with its raw linen canvas and exposed stitching, references the everyday labor of peasant women, elevating their silent histories over state-manufactured icons. The faux amber piece plays with nostalgia—mimicking the prized material of Soviet elite jewelry—but made from recycled waste. These subtle disruptions embedded within traditional formats question the authenticity of national myths while reclaiming the value of vernacular, feminine, and eco-conscious voices within Russian culture.
The material choices were driven by symbolic resonance and narrative layering. Fine silver represents ceremonial formality and carries the weight of tradition—it’s the surface on which authority has often been etched. But I balanced this with modest and tactile materials like cotton cord and glass to insert a counter-narrative. Cotton cord, often used in domestic crafts, reflects labor traditionally excluded from "high" art. The contrast of softness and preciousness allowed me to question whose hands are remembered in history. Additionally, the use of paper elements, stitched textiles, and scorched or aged finishes evokes the ephemerality of memory, particularly cultural memory that has been manipulated or erased. This hybrid materiality forces a reevaluation of what we consider "valuable," both in terms of materials and narratives. The tiara becomes a microcosm of a nation in tension—ornate yet frayed, unified yet splintered.
One of the most striking discoveries was the role of pre-Christian symbolism in Northern Russian jewelry, particularly in coming-of-age and marital rites. Symbols such as the goddess Makosh or sun motifs appeared not merely as decorative elements but as talismans, deeply embedded with spiritual protection and agricultural cycles. These motifs endured even through centuries of Orthodox Christian influence and Soviet suppression. Another influential finding was that many traditional parures weren’t made with precious metals but rather with felt, leather, and copper—materials tied to everyday life and survival. This challenged the modern assumption that tradition equals opulence. It gave me permission to prioritize meaning over luxury in my material choices. Also, the performative nature of wearing these items—in rituals and public celebrations—inspired me to treat each piece as a stage for memory, rather than as an inert object.
Amber is an emotionally charged material in Eastern Europe—it represents warmth, ancestry, and economic value. However, the mining and commercialization of amber are both environmentally and politically fraught. I became fascinated by the idea of counterfeiting amber—not to deceive, but to provoke. By using recycled brown and yellow-tinted glass, I could mimic the appearance of amber while deliberately subverting its perceived value. This became a commentary on false nostalgia: what appears “authentic” may in fact be a reconstruction. The technique required developing a cold-working method to shape and polish the glass without introducing excessive heat, which might fracture its internal stress points. I also introduced internal imperfections—like trapped fibers or bubbles—to echo natural amber's organic inclusions. This process turned waste into luxury while reframing the conversation around what luxury should signify.
The most challenging moments were during the cloisonné-on-glass experiments. It’s an unstable marriage—glass and enamel expand at different rates, and I lost many pieces to hairline fractures or complete collapse in the kiln. There were weeks of failure, which taught me to accept unpredictability as part of the process. Conversely, the most rewarding moment came unexpectedly—when I stitched the final element of the Ojerelok and realized that every material, symbol, and imperfection was now in harmony. The piece wasn’t just beautiful—it was alive with meaning. Another breakthrough was emotional: as I assembled the set, I began to see how my own displaced identity as a Ukrainian-Russian émigré could find reconciliation through this work. I wasn’t just recreating history; I was healing it.
I believe that heritage jewelry can no longer afford to be static or purely decorative. As global crises challenge the meaning of culture, designers must move beyond replication and toward reinterpretation. I hope this work signals a shift toward “critical heritage design,” where the past is not just celebrated but interrogated. My approach encourages designers to treat tradition as a living, adaptable language—one that can speak to environmental concerns, diasporic identity, and feminist critique. I also envision more collaborative and interdisciplinary work in this field, blending historical research with sustainable innovation, community engagement, and even activism. In that sense, the future of heritage jewelry lies in its ability to be uncomfortable, to raise questions, and to act as a form of embodied storytelling rather than ornamental nostalgia.
Balancing authenticity and wearability required rethinking both function and symbolism. The original ojerelok was a multi-strand textile neckpiece worn primarily during rituals, not designed for comfort or durability in modern contexts. My reinterpretation maintains the visual vocabulary—layered cords, woven base, central pendant—but adapts the construction. I used soft cotton cord with a reinforced internal wire structure to maintain shape without weight. Linen canvas was backed with interfacing to provide stability while preserving its organic texture. All components are modular, allowing for partial assembly or full parure display. This flexibility honors the performative aspect of the original while acknowledging today’s need for ease and adaptability. The piece is wearable, but not passive—it invites the wearer to engage in its narrative, almost like putting on a memory.
I was deeply moved by the idea that jewelry once marked transformative life events—becoming a woman, joining a household, bearing a child. In reframing these traditions, I asked: What does coming of age mean today, especially for women in post-Soviet or diasporic communities? My pieces function as rites of passage but on new terms—celebrating autonomy, resilience, and personal myth-making rather than social conformity. Through recycled materials and hybrid forms, I transform these objects into tools for contemporary identity. They invite wearers to invent new rituals while remembering old ones, to celebrate not only where they’re from but who they’ve become.
I hope it serves as a bridge, connecting young designers and audiences to a rich but often overlooked heritage. Many traditional Russian crafts are endangered, not because of a lack of beauty, but due to a lack of relevance. By recontextualizing them through contemporary design language and sustainability, I aim to spark renewed interest and dialogue. I also see this work as a call to action: to decolonize craft history, uplift vernacular traditions, and embrace imperfection and reuse as strengths. If even one student or maker is inspired to see cultural inheritance as a source of innovation, then the work has done its job.
Dive into a world of design excellence with our curated highlights. Each feature showcases outstanding creativity, innovation, and impact from the design world. Discover inspiration and learn more about these incredible achievements.
