I am:

My drag persona is a play-off of punk or pulling different things together, trying to tell a story through emotions when I can't always speak them. I've been doing drag since I was 20, so about nine years now. I perform all over the place, but I typically perform in the club scene.

My fashion sense has been shaped by:

I'm drawn to bold shapes and straight influenced details, so I'll grab weird motifs and push it until it feels a bit dangerous, or even a little bit tender. Fashion gives me a language when words feel clumsy and it lets me show feelings I don't want to explain.

I have like so many influences in my drag and how I dress and how I want to be perceived by people. My fashion sense and drag image is a weird braid of things that will hit me at different times. I steal from runways, even moments in the club or my community that feel electric. Specific people also as well – like the older queens who have taught me to make something from something thrifted that looks like a treasure.

Designers who dare to be messy and theatrical. And some of my favourite musicians whose videos even taught me how to move in a costume.

My relationship with fashion is:

Fashion to Margarita is really important. It creates a scaffolding that my drag hangs on, to tell a story. It's like the first loud decision that I make before I start building a character through the types of fashion that I'm putting on. And then when I'm in makeup and performance, it all locks into that.

My relationship with fashion is like a living conversation. I'm in constant dialogue with fashion, pulling from different places like something that's twisted to feel personal and a little off centre. I love when something beautiful has grit in it, when a clean line gets smudged, when softness sits next to something sharp.

Putting together an outfit / inspiration:

When someone looks at Margarita, I'm telling a story through my aesthetic choices about survival and tenderness. In the same breath. I'm telling you, I'm sensitive but brave. That queer joy can look armoured and glowing at the same time, and that the mess is part of the magic.

I design things, I sew bits when I can, I mash up found pieces and I love collaborating with designers when the vibe clicks.

Ownership matters a lot to me, but not in a controlling way. It's about making sure the voice of the look is mine, even if someone else helped cut the fabric or paint the patch. If a collaborator gets the concept and adds something unexpected, I think that's gold.

Constraints are real, especially in the drag scene in New Zealand. Budgets are always tight, so I thrift or repurpose things that I'm already using. Availability matters. Sometimes the exact fabrics that I want don't exist, or there's not time to construct a whole new silhouette. So I compromise and make something that reads the same energy.

A lot of work goes into a single look. It could take weeks or months of brain work sketching, fabric hunting, little experiments, then a few intense days where everything either clicks or has to be fixed on the fly. Maintenance is its own beast. Repairs after a show. Touch ups to costumes, but anything like washing, keeping makeup tests or prosthetics.

Some pieces need rewiring, resizing, or just a fresh paint between performances. I don't think audiences are aware they don't understand, like the invisible labour that goes into one minute on stage. You know, and they see the finished thing and feeling it gives, which is what matters.

There's also a kind of a quiet respect in the wings when someone brings a look that's clearly been laboured over. People will comment on the details, the way that they've hand-stitched appliqué or hemmed or put in that extra work. For those of us doing the designing, building and styling ourselves those moments of recognition feel validating.

Drag evolution:

I've witnessed drag fashion in New Zealand evolve from underground DIY survival mode into something more visible, resourced and recognised. Back when people were mostly making everything by hand out of thrifted scraps and glue, the scene still had that brilliant, scrappy energy, but it was invisible to most of our era.

Now there are platforms, more designers willing to work with queens, and more shows that treat drag as fashion rather than just a costume. That means better access to quality fabrics and skilled makers. But it also means looks get photographed and archived and critiqued in new ways. Sourcing has also changed.

Thrifting, upcycled things are still vital. They're part of the DNA of drag. But I'm seeing more direct collaborations with other designers and labels referencing drag in their collections. Also, social media and festivals make it easy to find weird materials. Or a maker who gets your vibe, but they also create pressure to constantly be on and create a new look.

Power of drag:

Putting on a full look is like walking into another skin that already knows the lines of the scene before it hits the room. There's a small, quiet ritual, like everything seems to change in my posture, even the way that I move with shoes on. And having makeup doesn't just paint on my face, but it draws like an emotional map.

By the time everything's on I've chosen an attitude, a history and a permission slip to move differently. Clothes are like a bridge between the audience. In a place I land emotionally. Like the texture or something that triggers a memory or desire that makes them open to the performance I bring for my community.

For instance, those same pieces carry lineage and reference thrifted fabric, a patch jacket, a braided detail can say I'm one of you, or I remember where we came from. When someone in the crowd sees a familiar scrap or an icon twisted in a new way, it sparks recognition, solidarity, or even a private laugh that, instead of understanding, feels electric.

When I’m not in drag:

Offstage fashion is still really important, but it kind of changes its job. It's less about spectacle and more about how I carry myself day to day. I like throw on a jacket because it makes me feel braver walking into meetings. Or choose a weird necklace because it sparks ideas for a new look and fashion.

Offstage also holds my community. Wearing things that nod to queer codes or to other makers is a quiet signal to people who get it. And those small recognitions build connection and rehearsal spaces, or even between gigs. It's like a language that lives all the time, not just under the stage lights. It helps steady me, sparks my creativity and keeps me threaded to the people in the places that matter.

Portrait by Denise Baynham, 2025.

Audio engineering by Finn Hopley.
Video by Rochelle Ivanson.

Last published January 2026.

This exhibition was created for the New Zealand Fashion Museum for Pride 2026 with support from Britomart Group, Foundation North and The Rule Foundation.