Milana: I often think about traditional craft roles in the past, such as the role crafts like gold embroidery played in different historical contexts. Today, conditions have changed, and crafts’ original functions have been lost. So where do these crafts belong in modern life? To me, the answer lies in the realm of art.
 

Darali: We tend to separate ourselves from tradition. Grandmothers might be in folk costumes, singing traditional songs: we are modern and different. But Udmurt ethnofuturism shows that folklore can be contemporary. The creative group Emnoyumno (Divine Elixir), for example, has gratitude songs that are composed spontaneously in the moment, to thank someone.

 

I work with collecting, restoring, and popularizing traditional costumes. What interests me most is documenting how tradition changes and adapts to new realities. For instance, if a dress was to be worn by a nursing mother, the neckline would be made deeper and a chest panel would be added for convenience. In the early 21st century, aprons disappeared from the traditional dress of southern Udmurt women as their work changed: one did not need to wipe one’s hands quickly, and folk clothing gradually shifted from everyday practical wear to something more ceremonial.

 

A traditional Udmurt dress has a three-part structure: the upper section represents the higher world — gods and spirits; the middle, from chest to hips, symbolizes people; and the lower part is linked to ancestors and the afterlife. I am fascinated by intricate details. For example, folds point in one direction for the living, and another for the dead, and their number could show how many children a woman had. I have even heard a theory that these tucks protected against ticks — parasites would crawl up and get stuck in them.
 

Woven patterns, embroidery, and patchwork were not just decorative; they served as protective symbols, marking the boundaries between different worlds. A hemline, for example, could separate the world of the living from the world of the dead. What matters to me is understanding the deeper meaning behind these elements and exploring how folk clothing can continue to live: evolving in its own right rather than becoming mere museum artifacts. 

 

Aisha: Where does tradition begin? How is it created?

Recently, I learned something about my ata — my grandfather on my mother’s side. He seemed like a thoroughly Soviet man, a chemist at the Academy of Sciences, not overtly giving much thought to ancestral traditions. And yet, he used to send dyes from his lab to my great-aunt in the village. Thanks to him, her shyrdaks — felt carpets—were always the brightest, the most colorful.

Whether consciously or not, my ata and apa — my maternal grandparents — were gathering, preserving, and passing down knowledge within our family. Now, these stories give me an incredible sense of strength. My artistic practice is about exactly that — recognizing these connections and permitting myself to reinterpret tradition in my way. That is what we all need — to create our version of traditional dress, our interpretation. And, in that chorus of voices, tradition will continue to grow and evolve.


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