Hey, I’m Tanja Gacic, Croatian-born, Sydney-based, and still figuring out how I got here without a map. A woman who has stumbled through several lives, mostly by divine chance : playacting a runway diva in the late ‘90s, I swapped Sydney for the New York haze, danced till dawn with Duran Duran, got catwalk tips from André Leon Talley, posed for Jürgen Teller and Terry Richardson, wore vintage Gucci like it might save me, and crawled out the other side with more questions than glamour.

Born at the first twinkle of spring 1980 in Zagreb, then Yugoslavia, mere weeks before Tito died and a decade before the former federation erupted in a flaming dumpster fire of violence, nationalism and xenophobia. Society shaped my developing mind with ideals of brotherhood and sisterhood, freedom, hard work and hope- a rare gift compared to oppressive bleakness of neighbouring communist countries under Stalin’s Curtain. 

An 80s tomboy latchkey kid with a nerdy streak and an obsession for glam dress up , I lived in a kaleidoscope of a rich inner dreamland therapists later hinted is ADHD. As Yugoslavia gasped its last breath, I watched my childhood crack open under war. 5 years later we fled to Auckland, New Zealand where a modelling scout signed me up while shopping for shoes. Soon, Australia took pity and kept me and I’d attack the runway at Fashion Week with shameless confidence of my Tanja G alter ego then run in bare feet to salt streaked sand, chasing fading light and seafoam. 

My Empirical Life started as a creative experiment — somewhere to pin down memories, stories and experiences, photographs of things and places that made me feel something real, a place to admit living on your own terms is equal parts luxury and terror. Vogue Australia wandered in and stayed for 8 years, Farfetch called me ambassador, collaborations with Louis Vuitton, Tiffany, Cartier and the rest arrived like dream guests. Yet, the real current pulled deeper: the girl who couldn’t stop reading medical journals and psychology books at night, turning her health issues and traumas into furious curiosity, refusing — however clumsily — to stay in a pretty cage.

Life kicked the crap out of me more than once. My daughter, Coco Valentine, arrived and split my heart wide open with love while I survived domestic abuse chapters, generational ghosts, and the special loneliness of being the one who speaks when everyone else would rather scroll in silence.

Blunt machinery of cancel culture during the mandates threw me for a while — I lost contracts, friends, footing, and whatever thin illusion of control I’d been clutching. Still, I stood up for bodily autonomy, free speech, and the right to call bullshit when the emperor is naked and lived to tell the tale. 

These days all I want to do is laugh at the absurdity of the 21st century , including my own contradictions, not curating a flawless facade. Weak for vintage fashion, French champagne, estate jewellery, mid-century interiors, and the exquisite tragedy of aging disgracefully while mourning being born too late to audition for Dynasty.

I’ve been cancelled, heartbroken, lost  and reborn, rebuilt, restored and blessed more times than seems fair. I’ve loved wildly, lost big, built back bigger , found myself at the end of questions and kept the receipts. 

Welcome to My Empirical Life. Tired of a one dimensional veneer filter placed on women, I write for both sirens and intellectuals , survivors and sensualists, those who are tender and wide awake, who like me want to walk through fire smelling of Tom Ford, Palo Santo and something real. 

 

Come closer. The champagne is cold, the ideas are warm, and the night is young enough for beauty and heresy.