Curatopia starts from a wound: the body as a house that no longer fits. Architecture, clothing, and skin collapse into one another; we inhabit envelopes that have been cracked, displaced, or violated. Art history has treated the body as an object to examine, diagnose, and dissect, while fashion treats it as a surface to correct, conceal, and beautify. Curatopia proposes another path: what if clothing was not a mask, but a site of care? I build garments like rooms. I operate like both surgeon and architect: cutting, opening, exposing — not to dominate the body, but to understand what it has survived. Diagnosis reveals the layers that memory leaves behind: bone, scar, fabric, fear. Then comes healing. Textiles are embalmed like relics, perfumed with hibiscus, resin, salt; prepared through gestures usually reserved for the sacred. Clothing becomes shelter. The body becomes a house again. Finally, I arm the skin. New layers are woven, structured, reinforced — not to hide weakness, but to protect what is finally soft. Curatopia imagines clothing not as decoration, but as infrastructure — a system for survival, a home the body can carry. It is not a fashion collection, not a clinic, but a place where trauma is metabolized into material, and where the body slowly learns to inhabit itself again.