Sunday, October 31, 2010

ghouls in the pool.

{almost twenty four full hours later and I still have splinters of glass embedded in my feet. Painful. Great party though.}


So I was gazing at the elbow patches in this image and all of a sudden brilliance struck. My beloved Witchery cardigan that is suffering gaping holes at its elbows should get together with my Scanlan &Theodore shirty thing which was a hand-me-on from a friend of a friend and which always made me feel about forty years older than I am (I think it was the oversized rounded collar.) Well, that collar was sacrificed to line a wild feathered headdress last night and now I have this gorgeous twilight navy sheer cotton at hand. SHEER TWILIGHT COLOURED COTTON and an OVER-LOVED NAVY CARDIGAN. Do you see where I'm going here?


I feel a DIY coming on.

Image from Street Style Aesthetic

Today is brought to you by the letter 'H'

H for hair.
H for Hanneli.
H for 'hoo-boy!'

Hair on my mind, guys. To cut or not to cut. I can confidently say that neither pink and blue food dye nor shaving foam will be approaching my straggly red any time soon but that Michael Kors show knot right here? Hmmmmmmmmmm...

All images from Hanneli

he will take you. if you run, he will chase you.

A headdress of feathers torn from wings, stitched together with scraps of lace and string. The heartbeat rush of flight still a ghostly tremor at my temples. Stark. White. Stretching soft fingers to scrape the howling sky.

Midnight spilled over eye sockets. The stain of souls being sucked through delicate skin, past wide eyes that blink blind in terror. Black, black, deepest black.

 Hands dipped in ink, skirts trawled through knee-deep blood. Silver rings are shackles that weigh these bones to the ground. Bare feet cut on glass, carnage wiped on skirts. Fingers, face, feet all filthy.

 Her voice an cry in the night, lost under the crash of gargoyles stamping their cracked stone feet. Beheaded dames waltzing with a murderous Riding Hood, a maniac cardinal weaving through the wreckage with his crucifix aloft. Blood trails silently up the sides of the empty swimming pool. There is a delicacy amongst the madness- spiderwebs slow-dancing with the night breeze, the shine of a light in the curved cheek of a shard of glass. But the bass shakes the concrete beneath our feet and what was white is dusty and torn. There is a fierce fury at the heart of this night that can only be met with abandon.

Friday, October 29, 2010

that's why she's my ysic.

In my inbox this morning.

"Here's looking at you, the flo"

And that's why I love her <><

Thursday, October 28, 2010


The 1920s flapper, who seemed to live 'only to consume', was a potent symbol of a lifestyle promoted through advertising and popular culture as a means to create a truly modern identity, which capitalised upon new freedoms. She seemed to live for the glamour of the moment, apparently without a past, and oblivious to the future.
- Rebecca Arnold, Fashion, Desire and Anxiety, 2001

Hello precedent.

You know, you're the second guy I've met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail.

 baby got a new hat.
soft-as-soft rabbit pelt combed into felt, charcoal grey. Goes by the name of Bogart.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Jade? Alexander.

A couple of weeks ago I was invited to name some 'must-haves' for summer for the Australian Women's Weekly's website. (That sentence looks strange to me but I think it's just the consecutive 'w's? Carry on.) It was a huge honour to be considered an authority by such a well-loved and widely read magazine and so I had to get creative, seeing as I usually pull the contents of my summer wardrobe from Vinnies, Bondi markets and my mum's wardrobe.

So instead of naming labels I went with items that are driving me crazy. In a nutshell, I'm feeling Seventies all the way- white crochet and lace, flopsy felt hats, straw baskets, leather sandals, dreamy floorlength skirts. With the one summer exception of the beach. For the beach, friends, it's got to be high waisted. I feel that the more the swimsuit screams '50s screen siren!' the better. I've been expending (too much?) energy trying to think how to style my hair so that it doesn't just look flat and long (as it usually does) because I think that looks kinda strange with the hourglass cossie. Maybe I'm investing too much energy into this, especially seeing as there is a stack of articles at my elbow demanding to be woven into new prose.

Anyway. I found some images to inspire and though I'm in the Dungeon today, and the only sunlight I can catch sight of is glimmering bravely through the 15cm wide medieval windows, I look at them and imagine I can hear the crashing of waves.

Disclaimer: this photo is not from Vogue. It's of me two years ago being silly in Nice. I got that vintage onepiece for FREE from a friend- it was in pristine condition, cotton, and even though it takes forevs to dry, it makes me feel fantastic. 

Images all from Vogue (Googled 'em) except for the last which was taken my my delightful travel buddy Carmen. 

taking you and me to the next level.

I'm not supposed to be thinking about the readership chapter-that is supposed to be in the 2011 study schedule and I am still working through the 2010 one. However. Ideas rarely accord to plan and articles rarely have just one thing to say. So this article I'm reading now argues, among other things, that a blogger and their reader/s have a personal and emotional relationship (because they connect through the sharing of personal information which is received at an emotional level on a personal device) which only becomes active at the point that the reader responds by commenting.

I disagree. I feel like an active participant of the blogs I regularly read yet I rarely leave a comment. And, having kept this old rag, I know that many of you guys click over from time to time yet the majority of you dematerialise back into the ether without leaving word- and I still think of you as active participants on this blog because you come back.

I'm not saying this is true of every single reader but based on my experiences which are surely not isolated, the relationship is enacted through returning and reading; with continuity. I may not know any (!) of the bloggers whose blogs I regularly read personally and yet I feel like we do have a relationship of sorts. Ours is one of me being interested in what they have to say, who they are and what they have been up to (whilst wearing what?)
I return, and in that action, reconnect with an invisible community of equally curious readers. I feel like I know the bloggers in some way and I don't need to write a comment because even reading over their work makes me feel like we've caught up. I don't think that this is vastly different in nature to the relationship between readers of other kinds of personal communications like published diaries and journals, either- it's just more continuous.
Also, as a blogger, you know that people are reading what you're writing so if someone makes a 'real-time' (ha!) remark to you about something you wrote, it's not a huge surprise that they have been able to access that information. You assume that people are sharing (in whatever capacity) by the one act of publishing information.

But this is just me and my thoughts- what do you think? This would be the time to try commenting- I have a privacy check on them so I read each comment before it is published, so if you want to share your thoughts about this but don't want anyone else to read them just write DON'T PUBLISH at the beginning of the comment and that way I'll be able to read it either way. And for those of you who are shy- a pseudonym can be a wonderful thing. It would be so great to hear what you think.

So, to condense the question: do you think your relationship with the bloggers you read is active (ie. reciprocal in some way, and acted upon)? Do you think you have to comment to be an active reader? Don't let my opinion blinker yours- debate away, you know I love a rigorous chat. And if you didn't know that- now you do! Let's go.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

in no particular order.

Gemma, if you ever decide to model again, I would be well pleased.

Feels the best ever.

 Heck yes we do.

 Me today. Drizzly, grey, TRAPPED AND ALONE. (But it's ok really, I have the model burnbook archives to keep me company and STELLA JUST CAME IN WITH COFFEE. I LOVE STELLA!)

The fingernail moon and Diana Diaphanous on their wedding day. Many happy returns.

Girl's got it goin' on.

I was gonna cut my hair. . . but then I changed my mind.

 Spent much of this day reading other people's Tumblrs. I'm ok with that but my eyes are covered in hazy-white film right now. oops. All images are poached from the woods of model burnbook and rock n' roll requiem.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

I want to wreck my stockings in some jukebox dive.

Heyo. Saturday afternoon- did you see the sky gathering its fist in a thunderstorm punch? Deep blue- who has words for the colour? Like the colour midnight blue would be if it shone in mid-afternoon, slightly confused by the brightness of day, a dusky interloper who is out of place but mighty nonetheless. Heavy individual droplets are the best kind of rain, I think. They're so decisive in their weight- 'yes, here I am, person who is hurrying home. Yes, you are too late. See me drop myself with glee all over your white cotton singlet- bad choice, lady! HA HA!' Sort of portly and malevolent?


I have some new blogs to introduce you to and apologies if you know them already. Some are more style bloggy than others. Let's go.

Numero Uno: Oh Jamie.

In a nutshell, Jamie is a guy blogger from the Melburbs (o wordplay.) If there was such a word as 'edgy-cool' in a dictionary somewhere, the definition would include a link to his blog. He makes black look never-ordinary and he has the rockin'est haircut I've seen in a while. It's better if you go read him for yourself because he gets invited to cool parties with cool Melbourne people and he takes rad photos and all I can offer you is made-up words and self-deprecation. Be back soon?

Numero Duo: Model Burnbook

Another daily-basis-read blog got me switched on to Cailin's last week. She's a Canadian model working in Tokyo writing about her life over there. She is hilarious, dry as a martini. She has what I would call a 'smart mouth' if I was a disapproving Ma from the Deep South. I might clock her over the head if she spoke like that in my house, young lady, but as it is, the girl is sassy and I can't help but like her. The excerpts of conversation with other models that she relates are achingly amazing. 
And I quote:

so, will we be wearing those track pants to the club tonight...?
yes, i don't care about fashion. i'm not 'fashionable'.
humor me...what do you do with all the free clothes you get from shows?
i give them to the Red Cross.
you give Marc Jacobs and Versace to the Red Cross.
yes, it looks weird.

both waxing and waning.

You tell me that you are going fishing tonight and immediately I am surrounded by lush darkness, water slipping like wet skin all around the boat. The oars slap the surface and cut in, so loud over the low lapping of the river on the boat's hull. The night comes close around you. Nylon lines cast in, and they're like lines on paper, too thin to be unimaginary, and now you are pulling off your shirt, throwing it down by your kicked-off shoes, now you are in the water.
Your friend protests that you'll scare away the fish but you are unworried- you could both be out here all night. Above you, endless sky peopled with stars, planets, moons, celestial lights that shine down exactly how you feel and reflect it in the water around you. It is broken like mirrors, the evening above and below and you swim through it. Cooler now than it was before, but dangerous, delightful. Your hair drenched to your grinning face, indistinguishable, like your form in the water, like your heart.
Who are you? You are a mystery in the night, taking the form of a shadow as your friend pretends to row away. You may have salt in your hair. You may be dripping the seven seas all over the deck, but you don't exist. Your laboured breath, your voice saying something I can't overhear, well both the breath and the voice are imaginary, like how you feel for me. I look out the window onto a sunny, motionless afternoon and in that moment you disappear.

Friday, October 22, 2010

it literally did follow me into the dark.

I've started having dreams about my blog. Just before I woke up this morning, I dreamt I was looking at the stats for how people find this blog, and saw that a blogger I have been reading lately had visited. I realised that he must have seen traffic to his blog from mine from a post I had written about him. Then I angsted because I wondered what the last post I had done was, thus what his first impression of this blog would be based upon. Then in my mind's eye I saw the last post that is really on here and breathed a dreamy sigh of relief because it's edgy and dark enough to inhabit the middle ground between my multicolourful peripatetic ramblings and his steeped-in-ink images. 

Then I woke up and thought in succession: 1. ugh, weird dream; 2. arh, disappointing that that didn't actually happen because he's a cool cat and it would be interesting to meld minds; and 3. huh. The reactions of my dream-self are remarkably identical to my awake-self. 

It's just a matter of time before I start dreaming email conversations between myself and Kris R. Cohen. Just a matter of time.

Image styled, modelled and photographed by me. I also sewed the dress and made the set. Did the lighting. Cooked food for the crew (myself) on location at my mansion where we (I) shot this. . . JOKES. It's from Vogue Brides Spain, photo'd by Eugenio Recuenco. Hadja fooled for a minute!

Thursday, October 21, 2010

just cause I stole some eagle's wings





Fashion images from Grey, Vogue Paris, unknown. Street art taken in Melbourne and Sydney. Words from Leonard Cohen in my handwriting.

My hands will be writing everything out over the next two days. In my head is a tangle of words and ideas that are bound and flourishing together but if I don't start to map them using the alphabet and a blank page, they might just stifle and dry into a deadened clump. My imagination is teetering and taking wing.

Monday, October 18, 2010

a bird's skull made of brass and an arrowhead carved out of night.

Collapsing time. In between what came before and what I'm writing now was a warm walk to uni, a drop in to my work for a grimace and a commiseration with my manager who is shut in on this glorious day. I tried to pretend to him that it was horrible out but the sunlight streaming through the glass shopfront glittered right through my shamming words.
And now at the Arc, a large flat white (yes, my order has changed! 2010 will be a year for the annals) and a coverless old Grazia scrounged from my bag. Why am I lugging around an old Grazia? Because of what editor Alison Veness-McGourty said in her letter last week:

When I first started going to the shows in Paris, we usually had to send couriers (usually fashion interns) to collect the film from the photographer, and they would fly back to the office where it was processed in a dark room, and then the transparencies were edited. (Aside: gotta love another woman who loves a long sentence. As if your reader is fooled by your twelve apostrophes which give it a second, third, fourth... eleventh wind) That was way back. Imagine no digital, no iPhones, no BlackBerry, no iPads. . . It was a Really Big Deal to be there. Now it's all instant, but make the most of it because there is a growing backlash against all the easy fashion access and a yearning for a return to elitism- where only a small, hand-picked audience accesses the shows. Bye-bye bloggers, they won't be invited. Bye-bye backstage photographers. And bye-bye the hordes of style snappers out front who wait for the fashion crowd and feed off them like demented piranhas.

The blogger backlash. Well, this is fashion, kids, and maybe the tide has turned. As the sage Heidi Klum reminds us on a weekly basis on Project Runway, 'in fashion, one day you're in and the next you're out.' (Can I quote Heidi Klum in my PhD? o please o please?) 
Veness-McGourty's letter opened a new question in my mind that really should have occurred to me before now: what happens when bloggers go out of fashion, as they may very well do? Courted while they are enfants terribles, knowledgable, stylish, feted for the daring and new eyes they bring to a collection- only to be unceremoniously dumped off the front row and out into 'General Admission' line? Perhaps, perhaps. 

I don't think that this will happen to all bloggers. Rumi Neely has a sweet thang going on with Stolen Girlfriend's Club, for example- she seems to embody their ideal customer, and with her high profile amongst what must surely be their target market (young women, roughly 16-35), it seems unlikely that they would snatch away her Air New Zealand boarding pass and send her back into the wilds of California where, no doubt, people will keep logging on in droves anyway to see how she's styled her leather shorts and Andi clogs (ARGH) today.

But as for the high fashion labels- who knows? Tom Ford staged a show to exhibit his first collection for women since leaving Gucci in 2004. There was a moratorium on photo-taking, so there are no images available of it at all despite the fact that it was shown on September 13. If it was a regular show, images of each look would have been on and almost instantly; bloggers would have already posted their favourite looks and picked apart why they like them. Instead, the only visual I found was this sketch by Grace Coddington and Hamish Bowles from US Vogue

And if you want to read more about the vibe of the show, it's worth reading the Vogue breakdown- it sounds like a very sweet, intimate and warm showing. 

As for what will happen to the new wave of bloggers' access to shows? Well, let's take it with a grain of salt- 99.99% of bloggers never get an invite in the mail in the first place but it hasn't stopped the flow of their words and self-styling. As for the rest, I guess we'll just have to wait and see. . .


Good Monday morning (sunny and fine.) 
My (excellent) Plan A (that I was so looking forward to) was thwarted by the bank and a delayed pay cheque so my (less excellent but no less studious) Plan B has to be kicked into gear. This plan involves: a short walk to the Arc, a long day in the Arc, finally writing (eep) and finding some sure-to-be fantastic books among the library shelves. I am willing them to be there, hoping that the chancey roulette of finding a book that's supposedly "available" in the stacks falls in my favour today.

But first I'll take you back briefly over my Saturday afternoon, simply because I can. What to do when your pay hasn't populated and you're penniless? You know where this is going.


And then I repaired to the bedroom.

 I love this necklace, it looks to me like a piece of petrified sea foam. It's by A.D., bought at Alice Euphemia last time I was in Melbourne. Minerals and raw crystals in jewellery- I have a feeling about this, guys. I think it's going to be huge, you heard it here first.

The dress was a gifted vintage black lace one, the crimson boots gifted vintage DKNY. The knick-knackery is some of my costume and not-costume jewellery.

The face of a woman with $3.62 in the bank. Don't judge me. All right, you can judge if you want- I need to be better at saving and budgeting, I know. 
Resolution 1: be better at managing money. 
Resolution 2: Improve at photography. 
Resolution 3: Go do some good writing today.

So heigh-ho heigh-ho it's off to the Arc I go. . .