Tree’s fishnet sits exactly at the intersection where punk rock silkscreen collides with Tiny Worthington’s Cape Cod alchemy. It carries the blunt force of ink pushed through mesh—repeatable, imperfect, unapologetically handmade—while honoring the earlier moment when fishnet first slipped its dockside role and entered the language of dress. Like Worthington’s early experiments, this isn’t net pretending to be lace; it’s working material insisting on beauty without surrendering its toughness. You can feel the grid as structure, the body as armature, the garment as something built rather than styled.
What makes Tree’s version unmistakably now is its refusal of nostalgia. Where Worthington dyed her nets in sand, sea, and sky, Tree locks the pattern into high-contrast urgency—signal red, hard black—closer to warning flag than fashion accent. The net becomes a graphic statement, a silkscreen logic worn on the body: repetition, pressure, alignment, resistance. It’s the same radical gesture, decades apart—taking what was meant to haul weight, absorb strain, and survive salt—and repurposing it as identity. Fishnet hasn’t changed. The stakes have.
