fashademic

A Child's Christmas in Australia

2012-02-13T18:44:00.000+11:00

This year I'm participating for the first time in The Sketchbook Project, a cool initiative run by the Brooklyn Art Library in which you register to get sent a notebook to fill with whatever you please and then mail back. Your sketchbook will be hired out by browsers at the Library before travelling to other libraries around the world, and you can chart its progress online, seeing who has borrowed yours and looking at other people's work.

All the content must be original, and this year, after hearing Dylan Thomas' wonderful 'Child's Christmas in Wales' by chance on the radio, I was inspired to write an Australian version of my own. I am the first to say that I do not have the warm, resonant voice of Thomas, and also my 'Child's Christmas in Australia' isn't properly finished- it's just a draft. I did, however, want to record it to see if it flows, and I think it does, and so I thought I'd upload it for you to have a listen, if you like. I'll write the link in my sketchbook so the borrowers of my sketchbook can listen in while they try to decipher my scrawl (hey! hope you're enjoying the sketchbook, future readers). For everyone else, there's my odd Australian accent ('Are you sure you're not British? Really? You're sure?') and the sound of Lindy's footsteps walking up the hall around the 5 minute mark.

Ivy League.

2012-02-10T10:51:00.003+11:00

This is, perhaps, my favourite pre-fall lookbook of all time. I like it because there are books and sheet music in it, because the girls look like friends, because it's so old-school University in a kind of wooden-seats-in-the-lecture-halls-and-gin-toddies-in-the-dorms kind of way, and also, um, because the clothes are lovely. But they are by Raf Simons at Jil Sander, so are we surprised? (We are not.)

Images shot by Ben Weller and accessed at Fashion Gone Rogue

Hooray!

2012-02-10T10:21:00.000+11:00

As my public diary of PhD adventuring, I feel it only fitting to share here on Fashademic that my very first academic article was recently published in the Australasian Journal of Popular Culture. It's about outfit posting, how it relates to fashion imagery and bloggers' self-representation, with some thick description of me doing an outfit post thrown in for good measure.

For those of you playing at home, getting articles published is important because the process of being accepted and working your writing towards publication helps you hone your academic writing skills, it gets your work before the eyes of experts who will peer review it, and once published, your ideas will be circulated to a wider audience. There is a little pressure (or a lot, depending on the people around you) to publish a number of articles before you submit your thesis. I heard a talk by Lisa McLaughlin, the editor of Feminist Media Studies Journal when I was in the first year of my PhD. She said that when she was a post-grad, maybe twenty years ago, if a student published anything at all before submitting, that was exemplary. Now, she said that most students seem to be aiming to have between 4-6 articles published before they submit- i.e. the system has sped up exponentially.

I really can't imagine managing to churn out another 3-5 articles before I submit (which will be sometime late next year, I should think.) Two, maybe three, publications in total seems more likely; this one alone took about four rewrites, countless re-reads and weeks of solid researching to beef up my reedy conference paper into a robust article. It's not a huge deal, but I guess because it's my first one, I'm a little proud of it. And a few of you have mentioned that you'd be interested to read my work, so... and now I'm bashful. Any interested readers can access it here for about $18, or go all out and buy the journal here. Do let me know what you think, unless you find any typos or grammatical errors in which case, never, never tell me.

On Thesis Writing

2012-01-24T15:40:00.005+11:00

Image from backstage at Tsumori Chisato, here

I love writing, in general. Contrary to whomever it was who said that she doesn't love writing, she loves having written (which I loved because of the phrasing, of course), I actually do love the process of writing. I love the unfolding of ideas that seems to occur on its own, I love how new ideas spark as you write, leading you in unexpected directions. I love how, when writing fiction, characters spring from your fingers and swiftly leave off to lead their own lives, while you hurry behind, trying to capture their light and shadows before they fade. I love making an argument and proving it, I love rhetoric, I love thick description.

So why is writing up this material that I've spent the past two years living, reading about and thinking through so difficult? I can literally sit and talk for hours about blogging, but ask me to set it out in writing and all of a sudden, I'm struggling to articulate myself. I start a paragraph, get about one hundred words in and find that I'm writing something that I had planned to put in another chapter. I sit for a minute or ten, wondering whether I should keep it for the other chapter or whether I should proceed. I have an argument with myself about where this bit best fits. I make a mind map, a new chapter plan, jot a few points down about the progression of my argument. I decide to stick it out and keep writing because I can always jigsaw it around somewhere else later. I finish the paragraph, shrug the tension out of my shoulders and start the next one... only to have the same experience begin all over again.

I'll go home at the end of the day, having crawled out maybe a thousand new words, berating myself because I was an undergrad student who could research, knock out and polish a 5000 word essay in a two day turn-around. I'll know in my heart the words I did just write are muddy, contracted, vague and dull. I resolve to get up again the next day and keep on, just keep on until they're better.

Overall, this endeavour is like crawling a marathon when you want to be running forward steadily and smoothly- in other words, pain-staking. Satisfying too, of course, but mostly just in glimmers, and usually only when it's done. The key is not to become discouraged but to keep going, to always keep going. Keep reading, writing, thinking, editing, because it's in that slow, constant work that your thesis accrues and strengthens.

I'm glad to report that chapter one is coming along nicely- I am quite pleased with my history of style blogging, and am looking forward to extricating Part Three (all about the embodied placehood of digital spaces) from the tangled recesses of my mind. To all you research students- courage! And remember when you feel disheartened that we all feel that way at times, and if that fails to hearten you, there's always cake and British Vogue.

source unknown.

2012-01-17T14:25:00.000+11:00

This is how I want to dress right now.

written portrait.

2012-01-17T14:05:00.000+11:00

Well, I don't know about you scholars but whenever I get deep into theory and writing, my mind starts sparking off a hundred different ideas for stories, poems, magazine editorials, jewellery and so on.

It happened again today as I was sitting on a wooden bench in the courtyard above the new PG-ARC office space, having just finished a particularly toothsome ricotta cake from Ralph's (apologies if I sound like a wanker with my words; 'toothsome' may be outdated but it well warrants some contemporary use, especially when the object being described is as this cake was, but never mind.)

Anyway, I was sitting in the shade, thinking about my chapter-in-progress, when a story slowly infiltrated into my mind, sort of like a whorl of cigarette smoke, and then I was typing quickly into a blank email on the old Blackberry. Here's what I typed out (minus the image, which was found on The Last Doll Standing, and which is really there for visual appeal.)

Written Portrait on Madison

She is the most precious thing in the world to me. Her hair is like fairy floss. I mean, it's not pink, but it's soft. Her neck is like the stick, and her smile is a rush of sugar in the blood. She has hips shaped like a violin, and long legs and long hands and narrow feet. Her torso is long. She has no bottom to speak of until she turns sideways and there it is, like someone hailing a taxi.
Last time I saw her we were standing under a shop's awning. It was pouring with rain and we had no umbrellas and no raincoats. Well, I had a newspaper but she was afraid the bad news would dissolve off of the pages and soak onto her dress. She kept looking out at the rain. I remember the gleam of her eye-whites and her grin.

Well, it was coming down pretty hard. All I could hear was the water beating the dust up out of the pavement and the wet roar of tires shouldering through the knee-deep puddles at the kerb. Everything was coming out brilliant in the wash; tree leaves were brand new, and I guess that's why her eyes were so bright too. I took her long hand in mine, careful not to strangle those long, narrow fingers. Her palm was smooth and cool. I guess I felt like we belonged together, just standing there waiting for the rain to ease. Her and her grin, and me watching the cars disappear under the grey rain and the people running for shelter.
When it had eased some, we walked back downtown. Water fell from tree arms and streetlights from time to time, catching on her cheeks like diamonds in velvet. The damp made the shampoo scent rise from her curling hair.

SURVEY

2012-01-10T17:28:00.003+11:00

Well hi.

You may have noticed that when you came to Fashademic just now, a pop-up window boasting a survey just asserted itself all over your browser. That is, unless you have disabled pop-ups... but never fear if you have because here is a link to the survey: Click here to take the Reading Style Blogs survey Relief!

As you may have deduced from the title of the survey, it's all about reading style blogs. I'm currently writing up what I think about reading blogs, but I want to balance it out by hearing what you think! If you read style blogs, if you have a style blog, heck, even if you just read Fashademic (and I love you for it) please consider taking five to ten minutes (or maybe fifteen if, like me, you can't stop the deluge of words) to fill it in. I tried to leave as much room as possible to let you answer whatever you like. Please don't feel like you have to make the answers sound a particular way or anything. I'm the only one who will read them and it's completely anonymous, so I will never know whose answers I'm reading.

I will use the answers to write about what it is to read style blogs- it will go straight into my thesis and nowhere else, unless I publish it in a journal or as a book eventually (I can dream, right?)

It's worth saying that I have ethics approval from Sydney University to proceed with this and even though I don't know who you are, it would be so wonderful if you fill it in. The more responses I get, the broader and more comprehensive my picture of readership will be.

So, okay... make my day? Help me with my research? Or else pop back over to Fashion Gone Rogue, your choice x

Clever Dressing.

2012-01-03T15:06:00.005+11:00

You know what irks me? When magazines smugly subtitle an image by explaining that 'it's called clever dressing.' I felt compelled to ugh about it to you because a. it's a relatively recent development in the grand lineage of Fashionspeak (for a comprehensive guide, see previous posts one and two on the matter) and b. if there was such a thing as 'clever dressing', surely it would involve wearing a jumper with a tongue-in-cheek reference to Elsa Schiaparelli or, you know, Deleuze or someone, rather than just being another synonym for 'we think this is nice.'

Anyway, there is a point to my grouching, really. Because I think one Australian designer who actually IS being clever and whose designs DO warrant the term (minus the smug, please) is Kym Ellery. I think that her work is clever because each collection has a few features that distinguish it as an Ellery collection, while feeling fresh and interesting every time. Some key Ellery touches are a preponderance of luxe fabrics (leather always makes an appearance, feathers often do, and Kym is no stranger to glass beading and brocades) as well as a distinctive sculpted shoulder and waist silhouette. It's little wonder the label has a devoted following after only two years.

Aside from the clothes themselves, those behind this label have been savvy about creating a world around it- to go to the website is to go to 'elleryland' and each season they produce the 'Ellery Gazette', a compilation of images that inspired the collection (reminiscent of what Phoebe Philo does at Celine, and there's a comparison to be proud of.) Also, after having worked at RUSSH for four years prior to establishing her own label, Kym Ellery is obviously well aware of the power of a well-crafted image as the following Resort '11 lookbook can attest. I first came across these images a couple of months ago but didn't post them, apologies for being late to the party, style blogosphere. They're too good not to share now.

Photographer: Darren McDonald

Model: Kim Noorda

Creative Director: Kym Ellery

Hair and Make-up: Romina Manenti & Tiina Roivainen
images and credits via Oyster

'Playing With Fire'

2012-01-03T11:08:00.000+11:00

Summer is here at last, and while I didn't mind the indecisive weather of December, I am certainly loving the steady, still, golden heat and the opportunity to knock off early from the ARC for afternoon swims, ice-creams, and reading in the sun followed by more swims. Yesterday I found myself sitting on a pontoon, legs in the water, hanging on with dripping wet hands as it bucked and dipped every time some seal-slick kid bombed off the side. My head was still in my chapter but dang! It was glorious.

Even now, sitting back in this stately, cool space, I fancy I can hear the reedy thrum of cicadas (it could be the air-conditioning, though, can't be sure) and it makes me glad to live right here in Sydney, right now. Even with the weird patches of sunburn where my sunscreeny hands couldn't (or didn't) reach, and even as I see summer out the window, knowing full well it's not for me to plunge into today.

But then, a gift from my research (let me believe that my research reciprocates my devotion, please) as I found this great editorial on my travels through the style blogosphere. I find it so evocative of Australian summers, where the days are virtually indistinguishable from the nights, and it's so radiatingly hot that one more degree will spark a bushfire.

For the full series and a brief interview with the series' nineteen-year-old photographer Ryan Kenny, go to Ben Trovato.

Sofia Coppola & Marc Jacobs by Juergen Teller, Vogue Paris

2012-01-01T17:04:00.000+11:00

2012-01-01T14:20:00.002+11:00

Happy first day of the new year, nerds!
art by CdG

Whoa... Christianity.

2011-12-19T10:27:00.000+11:00

Usually around this time of year, at least one of the major Australian newspapers will publish a feature article claiming to debunk the Christmas story as recorded in the Bible. Perhaps it is their backhanded vengeance on a group whose faith has inadvertently unleashed such terrors as frantic Christmas shopping to the incessantly chirpy strains of 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.' On behalf of Christians everywhere, I can assure you: it was never meant to be this way.

Such articles usually take on the historicity of the Gospels, and throw in a few jabs at Christians as they go. My favourite from Fenella Souter's 'Divine Intervention' published in the SMH's Good Weekend on December 3rd was the claim that Christians are accustomed to suspending disbelief, 'something of a prerequisite when reading the Bible', which was approximately the time I rolled my eyes.

I have never directly written about my Christian faith on Fashademic. I'm absolutely not ashamed of my belief in Christ, but it didn't seem like the right context to write about it, or that it was even particularly relevant to most of what I include in my posts. Of course, my faith inflects almost everything I do (how could it not?) but I wanted to keep the focus on my research and on fashion rather than write about God. Even if I had wanted to, I wouldn't have known how- how can you write with nuance and care about something simultaneously so deeply personally felt and with the potential to be so offensive to others? Without being able to chat in person to answer any questions that might arise from such a revelation, I decided to let it trickle in where it would and just be honest if it ever came up. I guess this is one such time.

I can personally handle being construed as credulous- it's not like such claims about Christians are anything new, and there are many verses in the New Testament that tell followers of Christ to expect ridicule for believing in Him (1 Corinthians 1:18, John 15: 20-21 are just two for those playing at home.) What frustrates me, though, is the false picture of Christianity painted by such assertions: that the Christian faith is blind, and that Christians cling to fantasy instead of fact, blithely ignorant to the "reality" that there is no reliable historical basis for such beliefs. This adds to the general portrait of Christians as unanimously socially conservative, narrow minded and dogmatic.

It bothers me because such a portrait is destructive and is simply not true. I think dismissing the Christian faith as absurd is easier than applying rigor to the claims of the Biblical texts, which I suspect generally makes people uncomfortable because if they're true, they must engender a response. The Bible flies in the face of the modern belief that we are entitled to be gods of our own lives, and instead demonstrates that we were created to be in relationship with God Himself. I also think taking the Bible seriously and treating it with academic rigor (whether you believe what it says or not) involves more time and care than most people can be bothered spending on it.

For the record and for what it's worth, I don't believe that faith is blind or naive. On the contrary, I have found from personal experience that it fluctuates, it is frequently challenged and must be fought for. I bring the same rigor I bring to my academic studies to the Bible and it continues to astound me. I strongly disagree with social conservatism, Christian pop culture makes me cringe, and I want to strongly remind people preaching "Christian" messages of hate about what Jesus had to say about judging others.

My relationship with God is the most precious part of my life, and the most difficult. I love him but I chafe with impatience at times as I struggle with things that the Bible says and as I fail to see His hand in what happens in my life and those of the people I love. I have believed in God for as long as I can remember, being brought up by two loving parents who taught me about Him but gave me room to make my own decisions. They taught me to read and understand the Bible for myself. That's not to say that there aren't times when I have struggled with Christianity, when I haven't come to the brink of belief and thought seriously about walking away from God. At such times, I have never been able to convince myself fully that He does not exist- for me, the evidence that He is who He says He is resounds across the entire universe, even as I can comprehend only a tiny fragment of Him.

I have many friends who are Christian. Friends who are solicitors and judges and scholars, friends who are scientists, engineers, businesspeople, artists, feminists, doctors, and social reformers. We have vigorous debates about what we think and believe, yet share the conviction that God loves every person and desires to have a relationship with them.

I know that many people have been burned by organised religion, and also that many people have had awful experiences with Christians- so have I. It's painful and sad to hear such stories; and I am by no means trying to say that Christians don't really do God a disservice sometimes or that we have the market cornered on anything except speaking from experience of our own faith. I just want to send out another story, however personal, to say that despite how it is widely construed, Christianity may not be what you think it is. I'd encourage you to read the gospels and check it out for yourself.

Merry Christmas, everyone x

NB: people who read Souter's article and are interested in a Christian response, I recommend this and this.

I Love(s) AnOther Loves

2011-12-13T21:54:00.000+11:00

Every week I get a newsletter from AnOther Magazine in my email inbox and I always click straight onto 'AnOther Loves.' It's a part of the website where international curators upload an image of something they love- a photograph, a luxury item, an artwork. It's always diverse, interesting and oftentimes intriguing, so I couldn't help sharing some of my recent favourites with you.
I'm not even on their payroll, but you should totes sign up for it if you haven't yet. If nothing else, it will make a change from the constant 'Just In: New Items in Your Size!' notifications from various luxe e-tailers... or is that just me? BLUSH:

Jil Sander 1996

Michigan Theatre Detroit. Used as a theatre in 1926, now used as a car park.

Aqueous Floreau, Mark Mawson

The inimitable Jean Seberg in a rockin' jumper.

All images from AnOther Loves.

Orri Henrisson

2011-12-13T11:58:00.000+11:00

You know how I feel about menswear. And then this happened:

We have Melbourne-based label Orri Henrisson to thank for these snappy clothes (not to mention the campaign, the colours of which are paradise.) So. Cool.

Get on that, gentlemen.
Especially as these images are fairly old now, so certain items are now on sale! I have my hawkish lady-eyes trained on the green/blue nylon parka. The fact that I rarely wear parkas is BESIDE THE POINT.

l'espace et la rose

2011-12-12T13:58:00.001+11:00

I was trying to find some information on the expanding universe and ended up on the NASA website. There I beheld this incredible image. This beauteous cloud has been named 'Puppis A' and it was formed around 3,700 years ago when a massive red star "ended its life in a supernova, the most brilliant and powerful form of an explosion in the known universe. The expanding shock waves from that explosion are heating up the dust and gas clouds surrounding the supernova, causing them to glow and appear red in this infrared view" (Whitney Clavin, NASA).

How incredible is it?! And how endlessly fascinating and vast is human thought, human life, the life of stars, the spread of our universe and a cloud of dust and gas somewhere beyond our solar system.

I'm reading Bachelard again and appropriately came across this quote from Jules Valles at the beginning of his chapter, 'Intimate Immensity': "l'espace m'a toujours rendu silencieux.' In English, it reads 'space has always reduced me to silence.' Yes, quite.

Song for Today

2011-12-09T11:11:00.001+11:00

Lana Del Ray's 'Video Games.'
Sidling, a bit folksy and a lot amazing.

I particularly like how it looks like Del Ray filmed some of the footage of herself using the camera on her laptop (who doesn't recognise that slightly fuzzy greyscale?) and how the director of the clip cut together reams of old reels in a seamless non-narrative that beautifully mirrors the winding song.

as you become a habit to me.

2011-12-06T15:19:00.001+11:00

A day for the comfortable kind of love, old woollen jumpers, more and more coffee, socks with no shoes, and the warm, caramel-and-tobacco voice of Otis Redding.

I'm editing the first three thousand words of Chapter One and it's kind of a boring chapter at the moment but I hope it will get more textured and poetic soon. I'm looking forward to editing it until it brims into the phenomenological, where I can use words like 'enmeshed', 'embodied spaces' and 'flow' instead of 'Web 2.0' and 'precipitating factors.'

Yet it's the kind of day where these little queries don't really matter, and you just keep on because that's how it has to be. The kind of day where everything seems possible and the future is sure to be cosy, ink-stained and loved-up.

images from the pages of RUSSH and the Internet.

Bjork X Bernhard Willhelm

2011-12-05T15:15:00.001+11:00

Bjork and Bernhard Willhelm for Dazed and Confused October 2007.

Still incredible.

Forever stuck in the background.

2011-11-29T12:06:00.001+11:00

I don't think I've ever appreciated anything Miranda July has done as much as I appreciate this spread. While I admire her skill and versatility (actor, writer, artist) none of her other work has resonated with me as much as these images, created by herself and Roe Ethridge and published by Vice (I'm as surprised as you are, really) two years ago. I only saw them this morning, so pat on the back for me, for being so on it!

Basically the premise is a letter between two girls in which the writer Sandy asks the recipient Julie if she ever feels like an extra in her own life. There follows a series of film stills from Kramer Vs. Kramer, Grease, Dog Day Afternoon and others, each coupled with an image of July recreating one of the peripheral figures in identical costume and posture.

By removing the main characters and situation from the scene, we're left with people who look small by contrast but who, at the same time, are very much immersed in their own lives. The feeling that you don't matter, that the 'big stuff' happens to the people around you and never you is, I suspect, something that is universally felt from time to time. This series draws that feeling out, puts it in the centre of the frame, and by doing so seems to gently suggest that however much you feel you are "in the background" (literally, for these unnamed characters), you are still immersed in life (your own, of course), that there is dignity, playfulness, drama, and focus to be found there. I found it a tender, carefully realised and surprisingly powerful series.

Image by Miranda July and Roe Ethridge

Women appear.

2011-11-28T14:37:00.001+11:00

I've been thinking about cupcakes a lot recently. Not because I enjoy eating them all that much, but because they're one of those things that modern young women are supposed to like. Other 'things' (for want of a better word) in this category are: 'Sex and the City', girls' nights out, champagne, shoes, things that sparkle, having straight and/or glossy hair whilst being otherwise hairless, and being 'naughty' by 'pampering yourself.' These seem to have become symbols of young womanhood, a litany of seemingly inoffensive activities and consumables that keep women in the realm of the decorative. I want to rail against them because I don't want to be sweet and pretty and dainty. I don't want to be smooth and groomed and perfect-looking. And most of all, I don't want anyone telling me that I must be a modern young woman by doing modern young woman the way that I am supposed to.

Why? Because I find that this litany of things are founded in how we appear. This impression was only reinforced by John Berger's canonical 'Ways of Seeing', which I recently reread. It seems like the subtext hasn't changed since the 1970s, when he first wrote that men act and women appear. If we have leisure time, we must want to use it to groom ourselves. Our relaxation is having a facial, a manicure, getting our hair done. Or else we'll experience satisfaction by appearing in places where we will be seen, perhaps admired, perhaps approached. If we eat, and that for pleasure, it is "girly" fare: cupcakes, macaroons, champagne, cocktails. Colourful, sweet, insubstantial.

It is not that it is 'bad' to get a manicure (I got one last week, in fact) or enjoy cupcakes or what have you. I am not criticising women who enjoy those things. Yet at the same time, I am so frustrated at how the ways in which we're urged to be women is so unceasingly based in our appearance. Why are cupcakes so popular? Are they really the best invention to ever spring from a cake pan? Or is it because Carrie Bradshaw and co. liked them on 'Sex and the City' and we want to align ourselves with their glossy lifestyle? Is it because eating cupcakes marks us as a particular kind of girl? The kind of girl who has taste, who knows what's current and cool, but who is also typified by what she is 'not'- that is, not-threatening and 'not one of those girls who watches everything she eats.' The kind of girl who has her cake and eats it too. Do we like cupcakes because that's just what women are supposed to like?

Women, ladies, girls, I'm throwing my gauntlet down. I'm far from the first to do so, and I highly recommend delving deeper at Rachel Hills' excellent Musings of an Inappropriate Woman. But as for me, I'm not shaving my legs or underarms for the foreseeable future. People who are grossed out, deal with it. I don't have a problem with body hair and I think your disgust is bizarre. I must admit that I always feel a little sick after eating cupcakes (and yet a treasured memory is sharing a red velvet one with Mum on my birthday in New York two years ago.) I like 'Sex and the City' (the television series, the movies far less so) but it's definitely not a foundational text for me, nor one I want to model my life upon. Not that any of this really matters, anyway, does it? What I'm advocating is thoughtfulness and questioning. I want my femininity to be more than an appearance, and I don't want to do things just because everyone else is doing it. Because that's what I'm supposed to do. I think being a young woman is a far more interesting, original and dynamic experience than that narrow purview allows for.

NB. A great question is 'where does this message come from?' My gut feeling is that it emanates from the stories that we tell ourselves about how we should be, and many of those are circulated by the popular media and entertainment industries- your women's mags, chick flicks, chick lit and so on. Moreover, I suspect that it wouldn't be perpetuated if we didn't buy into it so wholeheartedly. But we do- and there's escapism in glamour, sure. But when those cultural messages start to restrict the expression of who we are and how we should be, we move onto uncertain ground. That's what I want to resist.

The dice were loaded from the start.

2011-11-25T11:30:00.001+11:00

It's cool and rainy today, as has been the case all week long, and so I'm realising afresh how deeply inculcated I am by lifestyle magazines and catalogues. Because what's my default setting when I see grey skies? It goes a little something like this:

1. I instantly reach for my definition of "comfort wear"- a trusty triad of worn-out jeans, a woolly jumper and a woollen accessory. Being a particular brand of fashion dork, the woollen accessory changes depending on, you know, my emotions and stuff. So what may one day be a boiled woof scarf the colour of jersey caramels might another day be a coalblack cashmere beanie- I'm spontaneous like that. The key ingredient here is WOOL. The softer and more figure obscuring the better. I ultimately want to feel like I'm being digested by a giant angora rabbit. That's the goal.

2. I regress to childhood, the duration of which I perpetually lingered around the kitchen in the hopes that Mum would churn out some of her amazing cooking, be it banana bread (hold me), simplicity chocolate cake (iced, with glacé cherries on top, obviously the only way to finish a chocolate cake) or a bottomless pot of soup, cold days were when my brother and I hit paydirt vis a vis freshly cooked deliciousness, courtesy of Mum. Unfortunately, such deliciousness now has to churn out of my kitchen by my own hand yet also unfortunately, cold days are lazy days, are they not? Days designed to make pots of tea and not drink them cause what you really want is a skim flat white but you're too lazy to go out in the rain and get one (when I say "you" I may, in fact, be talking about myself again.) Days measured by how many pages you've read in bed. And days where...

3. Throw rugs start to look like a good idea. I have a love/hate relationship with throw rugs. Sure, they look so casual-chic draped on your sofa but really, when you drag them up, they always disappoint. They do. They're too brief to cover you properly; in fact, the rule for all blankets should run along the same guidelines those for Victorian swimming costumes: nothing should be visible from from neck to ankle. Considering this, you might as well drag a normal blanket off your bed and mummify yourself in it. This, coupled with dot point 1. leaves you resembling a cross between the Michelin Man and a Mongolian on the Steppes in midwinter. This is a good thing.

4. Finally, I find myself becoming cheery, chirpy and homemakery. I want to nest in cold weather. I want to whitewash my grubby furniture and make stacks of books to rest my undrunk pots of tea on, organised by colour of spine, naturally.

And so I pause like a deer in headlights, surrounded by scattered Penguin Classics, movement restricted by the fibres tripling the girth of my limbs, I realise what I am really trying to do...

...is make my day look a little something like this.

The big question weighing on my mind, though, is how can plant holders possibly get more exciting?

dance dance dance

2011-11-18T16:36:00.001+11:00

Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart.

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

(shoes by Natacha Marro, donated by Karen Langley and being auctioned here by Dazed & Confused for their 20th anniversary. What Christmas dreams are made of.)

Is there anything Helvetica CAN'T do?

2011-11-18T15:52:00.001+11:00

If I was a fashion magazine, I would label this post 'FASHION OBSESSION' because I fell into the colourful, cat-decorated world of Tsumori Chisato this afternoon and I don't want to ever leave. No, I want to enfold my mosquito-bitten, increasingly mole-spotted limbs in skirts that look like palm trees and tops with tassels hanging off at random. YES.

I don't think she has an Australian stockist (correct me, someone?) but it's probably a blessing in disguise because I wouldn't be able to stop at one piece of magnificence, o no. Could you? I mean, just look!

Do you ever experience that sensation where your heart salivates? Almost like when you catch sight of sour gummi worms and your mouth liquefies, but in this case the part of the gummis is played by pink tassels and beading imitating the ocean? And it's your heart that's all melty with shock and anticipation not your mouth, even though your heart has no salivatory glands? You know what I mean, I know you do.

Susie Bubble even made a collage out of this collection, and I think it's just crying out to be made into desktop wallpaper, I do.

Liu Wen

2011-11-14T21:36:00.001+11:00

image

Quotation.

2011-11-14T15:32:00.001+11:00

The spectator-buyer is meant to envy herself as she will become if she buys the product. She is meant to imagine herself transformed by the product into an object of envy for others, an envy which will then justify her loving herself. One could put this another way: the publicity image steals her love of herself as she is, and offers it back to her for the price of the product.

-John Berger et al, Ways of Seeing 1972

image

The Sartorialist is killing it lately...

2011-11-14T11:35:00.001+11:00

Is this the coolest girl ever or what? I hope that motorbike in the background is hers, and that her plait flies behind her like a Maypole ribbon as she weaves through traffic and mutters 'Merde!' at the cabs trying to cut her off.

I don't know whether to look at her sweet bloomers or her killer thighs (look at that muscle tone!) so my eyes are ping-ponging back and forth, with the odd bounce down to the back line of her metallic loafers.

This somehow doesn't look costume-y, even though it's so heavily inflected by Fifties pop culture. Soda pop culture, even (ho ho.)

Well, this is just moodily beautiful, isn't it? As with some of the best outfits, the individual components don't shout 'necessary for a killer outfit!!' A floral multicoloured top that could moonlight as curtains in a motel in Albury-Wodonga and what looks like a purple lamé skirt sound "risky"... but when worn by a strikingly beautiful young woman on a shadowy afternoon, you have one of the best photographs to be uploaded to The Sart in recent weeks.

"Are you in a fraternity? Are you Steve Jobs, the billionaire CEO of Apple? No? Then you have no reason to wear New Balance shoes. Ever!"

I didn't even know this was my credo until I heard it spark from the lips of Ryan Gosling in Crazy Stupid Love (try not to become too distracted by the mental picture of Ryan Gosling's lips.) But my credo it is, gentle reader, with the one single exception of this gent. Here's what I've got, with the working title of 'Why New Balance Sneakers Are Not A Dealbreaker In This Image.' His sneakers are not those big, lumpen white ones that look like giant marshmallows are attacking your feet neither is he wearing them with otherwise unsporty attire. Moreover, in addition to being dark, his sneakers are streamlined, and thus work visually with his skins, his structured jacket and his pose. Very nice, Miss Pam.

Of course, I cannot reblog photos from that site without being in mind of the frank, somewhat controversial interview with Schuman recently published by website The Talks which sent waves around the internet recently: "one of the other problems of many blogs like Tavi’s is that they are people who write about fashion, but in order to have a visual element they steal pictures from other people."

Would we call it "steal(ing) pictures"? My feelings are that reblogging images has always been an integral part of style blogging, and that it should generally be done with respect to the photographer (where possible), with links to the original source to indicate that the images are not the bloggers' intellectual property (and I am first to admit that I have not always been as diligent about this as I should have been.) Reblogging can also further the name, work and reputation of the photographer/illustrator/what have you by disseminating their images to a wider audience, which costs the photographer nothing but may result in more opportunities and recognition...

What do you think?

All images from The Sartorialist

Time for a change

2011-11-11T13:00:00.000+11:00

Every time I get my hair dyed, it storms. This is a meteorological certainty. In fact. I am sure that all that would be necessary to turn the Simpson Desert into the Simpson Inland Ocean would be the timely construction of a salon and an appointment for myself therein.

So here I am, sitting in the chair. The amazing Sheree is standing behind me, holding up strands of my streaky hair, one part natural regrowth to two parts orangey-blonde. We're talking balayage, as I want something low maintenance for summer (do you know how fast the summer sun strips red hair? Coupled with the saltwater of the ocean? In a red hot minute, that's how fast) but I feel misgivings because... well... it feels like there's a congaline of blonde-brushed girls from California to Coogee and I didn't want to just blend in, another Erin Wasson wanna-look-alike. So Sheree opaquely tells me that she's been taking a lot of girls pink lately... looking down at my hair... not noticing the huge grin on my face. It took all of a minute to think it over- "let's do it!"

Which is how I ended up like this:

My hair is a combination of salmon sherbet and Goth-girl hot pink and I only love it! Of course, as soon as we were sudsing the colour out at the basin there was an ominous rumble above. The sky out the window had deepened almost imperceptibly so that the cobalt clouds seemed like an extension of the blazing blue afternoon that had preceded their arrival. Then down came the deluge: angled sheets of rain throwing themselves at the windows, growling thunder, and the odd fork of silverwhite lightning carving open the sky. My hair was as wet as if I was standing outside and, once dried to the colour of cotton candy, dangerously pink above my white dress. Luckily they kindly lent me a huge umbrella to shield the colour and I dashed up to catch the bus... to go greet my Granny for a cocktail party. I think the change was somewhat of a shock, so I comforted her by telling her that at least it was temporary... but I chose not to elaborate on how 'temporary'... because I might just keep this crazy for a while yet!

There's a reason she's a supermodel

2011-11-10T23:32:00.002+11:00

Kate Moss by Albert Watson, 1993 via British Vogue

Happy days.

2011-11-07T17:21:00.002+11:00

I have written 1200 usable words today and in a procrastinatory moment I subtracted the words I've already written from my final word limit and realised that if I write 1500 words a day for the next 42 days, my thesis will be written. YOW.

Suddenly 70 000 seems like no words at all. I think this calls for a celebratory dance courtesy of Daria and our friends at W magazine, whose editorial 'Movers and Shakers' from April 2010 was just crying out to become a .gif...

That's dedication

2011-11-02T10:17:00.000+11:00

"She is a fashion phenomenon. The most dedicated follower of fashion pales into insignificance beside a woman who has spent months travelling by train because the exaggerated crinolines she was affecting at the time would not fit through the door of an aeroplane."
- The Observer on Anna Piaggi, 1 May 1983

Image by Carla Coulson

An Addendum

2011-11-01T18:18:00.002+11:00

Right after recording some of the intoxicating descriptions of dress quoted in Wilson's Adorned in Dreams (see previous post), I found myself short of breath in the next chapter as Wilson describes the style of the various factions of anti-bourgeois revolt in New York, London and Paris.

In New York, 'at a period when everyone, men and women, invariably wore hats in the street, these bohemians went hatless, bobbed their hair and wore a 'bluestocking uniform' of loose shift and brown socks. Djuna Barnes herself made a black cloak her signature. Her appearance was at times so bizarre that children laughed at her in the street. One of the most extreme women in the Village, who called herself the Baronin von Freytag-von Loringhoven, wore black lipstick, yellow face powder, and shaved her head.'

Then there was the 'arty', 'gipsy' fashions in London: 'at that time it was fashionable in artistic circles to wear one's hair in a bun on top of the head and a velvet ribbon round one's throat to match one's lipstick'; and up and down King's Road in the 20s and 30s, women resisted the flapper style by dressing in 'full peasant dirndl skirts, tight waists, kerchiefs.'

Wilson also writes that 'one early nineteenth century romantic fashion was cropped, unpowdered hair for both sexes. Neckties were worn loosely and casually knotted; an air of dishevelled beauty suggested, paradoxically, a mind above mere dress; and, ever since, untidiness has been used to suggest an artistic or intellectual calling' (!)

Earlier in the book, she cites Anne Hollander who argues that because of visual representations of historical periods on stage and in film, our view on what people used to wear are often inaccurate. Our vision of the past is conflated into symbols that signify an era, whether people wore them or not: "'powdered hair' equals the eighteenth century, 'a ruff' the Elizabethan period and a 'Juliet cap' Renaissance Italy (although the latter garment was invented for Theda Bara in 1916 and did not even exist in the sixteenth century.)"

Fascinating!

ps. I just pressed 'publish', kept reading and came across this gem on mourning dress during the First World War. In England during this period, the Victorian custom of wearing black crepe and jet whilst in mourning was abandoned because so many were dying 'it came to be felt as a kind of mockery.'
And in Paris, "young women went about all day with tall cylindrical turbans on their heads ... and from a sense of patriotic duty wore Egyptian tunics, straight and dark and very 'war', over very short skirts; they wore thonged footwear ... or else long gaiters recalling those of our dear boys at the front [...] the fashion now was for rings or bracelets made out of fragments of exploded shells or copper bands from 75 millimetre ammunition ... and it was also because they never stopped thinking of the dear boys, so they said, that when one of their own kin fell they scarcely wore mourning for him, on the pretext that 'their grief was mingled with pride.'"

No wonder fashion designers are always trawling the past for inspiration, my mind is firing in the direction of where to find thonged leather Egyptian style sandals that I can wear with a tunic and a turban.

De-lovely

2011-11-01T17:27:00.001+11:00

Sometimes, theoretical books include the most wonderful descriptions of clothing. I have been reading Adorned in Dreams by Elizabeth Wilson, a book that traces fashion through modernity, and from time to time she tosses in a brilliant excerpt that is so evocative. Consider this comment on the style of Hollywood actress costumes in early days of cinema:

Colour drained out of elegance [because film was shot in black and white] ... draped lamé and sequinned satin offered rivulets of light to the eye as they flower and slithered over the shifting flanks and thighs of Garbo, Dietrich, Harlow and Lombard. These visions were built on the newly powerful sensuality of colourless texture in motion... sequins, marabou, white net and black lace developed a fresh intensity of sexual meaning in the world of colourless fantasy. (Anne Hollander, Seeing Through Clothes)

Also wonderful is this description of women and men promenading along the new Regent Street in the early nineteenth century. The Illustrated London News reported that by day,

the fireflies of fashion glance rapidly hither and thither ... the pavements being crowded with fashionable loungers. With what dignified ease the gorgeously bedizened footmen attend to their mistresses or lounge about in the attitudes of studied grace ;

whereas by evening,

on the wide stone pavement the promenaders mingle, beautiful girls in shining dance frocks, pearls braided in their hair, promenaders of all nations ... laughing, whispering, disappearing through the brown mahogany doors of the cafés. ... The night air is impregnated with the scent of patchouli and 'Eau de mille fleurs'. The trains of satin dresses rustle on the stone, scarves float, rose-coloured ribbons flutter; sparkling eyes, caressing words; there a greeting, here a whisper and a laugh. (Ivan Bloch, Sexual Life in England)

And I wonder if Haider Ackermann's recent collection was influenced at all by the personal style of Alexander Plunket Green (Mary Quant's husband). I couldn't help but think of the louche tops, gleaming silks and contrasting jewel tones of Ackermann's SS12 collection as I read the following:

He seemed to have no clothes of his own. He wore his mother's pyjama tops as shirts, generally in that colour known as 'old gold' which usually comes in shantung. His trousers also came out of his mother's wardrobe. Beautifully cut and sleek fitting, the zip was at the side, and they were in weird and wonderful variations of purple, prune, crimson and putty... They came to a stop halfway down the calf. (Mary Quant, Quant by Quant)

And on that note, back to note-taking I go...

By the printers.

2011-10-28T12:36:00.002+11:00

It went a little something like this.

Scene: Two young women are standing in the alcove where the three printers are set up. One stands by the shelf laden with the industrial staplers and three overflowing trays of scrap paper and unclaimed printing. The other has just walked in and peers at the printer distractedly. She is unusually well dressed for a post-grad student (surprise! it's me!)
The printer on the right hand side wheezes into life. It coughs out two pages. It pauses. It coughs out another page. This sporadic printing continues as the two women converse.

Me, leaning over to pick up the first piece of printed paper: I think that's mine.
Her, eyeballing the page, printed with bloggers doing outfit post poses: What is your research on?
Me: I'm researching style blogs and fashion online?

Aside: I always inflect up into a question when delivering this line, a pre-emptive reflection of the customary response- 'what's a style blog?' This tentative inflection is a mark of solidarity with the bafflement of my questioner... or of my own insecurity... Whatevs, your psychoanalysis is distracting me from my tableau.

Her: I was wondering what you were working on. Whenever I walk past your desk I always see you looking at pictures of fashion, or on your Twitter...

She falls silent. I feel judged but in a funny way, as if my research is a practical joke I get to play on my peers ('you think I'm the biggest bludger in the ARC but surprise! It's work! Gotcha!')

Me: Yeah, it's pretty great. I read style.com for "research."

We both laugh.

Me: So what's your project on?

She, in the polished tone of voice we all unconsciously adopt when introducing our work: Japanese woodcut erotica from the nineteenth century.

End scene.

Movie time

2011-10-28T12:20:00.003+11:00

Here at Fashademic HQ (today's hot desk in the ARC) I am once again experiencing the strange sensation of my mind melting into jelly. The reason for this bizarre occurrence is prolonged blog archive trawling, a necessary activity in order to finish my prologue. And I am almost finished! There are fragments of perfection in there (to satisfy the pedant in me) but it's not there yet... but oh, how I wish it was!

In the interests of preserving what little of my sanity remains, I turned to fashion films. Let me then present to you some of my favourite recent releases and may you also enjoy their surreality, their bizarrity (deal with it) and their showstopper clothes.

AnOther Magazine Issue 21 featuring Rachel Weisz from AnOther Magazine.

Kenzonique from KENZO .

EXCUSE ME?!?!?!?!

2011-10-21T14:15:00.006+11:00

I just gasped out loud in PG-ARC. (A hanging offense- NO NOISE MUST BE MADE AT ANY TIME EVER AT ALL. EVER.)

But... LOOK!!!! NEON GREEN PROENZA IPAD CASE!

We'll just add this case to the ever-growing list of reasons why I want an iPad including but not limited to:

Reason 7. I could play Angry Birds on the bus whenever I wanted to;

Reason 11. It looks so profesh when academics present at conferences using them and I want to look profesh too;

and Reason 23. It closely resembles the slates that 19th century children did their sums on at school, and I have always wanted one of those but have paused because, really, what am I going to do with a slate? Except write on it in chalk a couple of times and pet it absently before putting it down and reaching for a notepad. This way I get the tablet shape of a slate but none of the pesky chalkdust on my Ann Demeulemeester leather pants (my what?! that's for an upcoming post... hi Dad.)

via Kingdom of Style

Voracious reading

2011-10-21T11:48:00.003+11:00

If you had come looking for me lately, chances are you would have found me curled up in bed, pouring over a book. Actually the location doesn't matter- I would make a nest anywhere comfortable where I could easily hold the story open and forget myself amongst the printed words.

First, I read 'The Tiger's Wife' for the Irregular Bookclub I'm in, the club that meets whenever we've all read the book (or, at least enough of it to have something to say about it between mouthfuls of cheese, pastries and red wine) and that was a savage, swift experience. I ripped through it, made impatient by the glimpses of answers the narrator would tease us with before whisking us back into her labyrinthine world where folktales had legs and lungs, doctors followed ghosts uphill and gypsies hunted for ancestral bones in the orchard. For the most part, I enjoyed it very much- I relish stories that relish stories, if you know what I mean. The ending was frustratingly obtuse, but that's a quibble over a book that kept me flicking back pages to see how she had turned me upside down without me noticing her sleight of hand.

But then I saw the film 'Jane Eyre', which finally achieved limited release in Australia, and it filled me with a furious need to snatch my copy to me and drink it in again. Mine was originally my mum's, awarded to her when she was at school, and it boasts a green cardboard cover, stiff but soft to the touch, painted with miniatures of Miss Ingram (front cover) and Rochester (back cover.) It originally came in a box with a big portrait of Jane on the front but that got dog eared, careworn and eventually crumbled, whereupon I rescued the novel and now lament that awful Blanche Ingram's is the face I have to see every time I pull it towards me.

'Jane Eyre' is the kind of paradoxical book that whisks you up immediately but also demands to be savoured. So restrained, so passionate this heroine, that sucking it down in one draught would be to miss her shadow and light. So I buckled up under covers and slowly revisited Lowood School, Morton, the vast Thornfield Hall and most of all, the wild moors of Jane's own life, and reader! (Disclaimer: whenever I read a book written by a Bronte or an Austen, my language and even my sentence structure gently shifts to assume the cadence of the characters. I notice it in how I have been composing emails and I have to rewrite them before I send lest I say to a good friend, 'it has warmed my heart to see you so frequently of late, dearest L----') So many things struck me about this book, but I think the most interesting thing for me this time around was the prevalent Christianity at work in the story.

Charlotte Bronte's faith is writ large throughout the novel ('writ large'- I told you my language changes!) It makes me wonder what modern, Bronte-loving atheists do with the beliefs she accords her characters. Would a non-believing reader be sympathetic to Jane's motives for leaving Rochester? She is convicted that it would be wrong in God's eyes to stay with him after finding out about his wife, lest she be overcome by her love for him and agree to be his mistress. By leaving, she walks into destitution and poverty, must start again from scratch and deny her heart- her solace being that she has chosen the 'right' path, and she thanks God for the strength and blessing she enjoys as a result of being obedient to his will (her ascription.) The faith that permeates the novel- that God has mercy as equally given as his judgement, that to follow him is of paramount importance, that strength of character, honesty, charity, mercy (in the novel, flowing from faith) are infinitely more valuable than beauty, wealth, social prestige- or even, unforgiveness- and even the theological debate implicit in it (Bronte takes on Calvinism, and challenges what it truly is to be Christian in the St. John vs. Jane chapters) is quite extraordinary, and it's a rare modern novel that could so faithfully depict such complex themes.

Interestingly, Jane doesn't unjustly judge people who wrong her but has compassion on their iniquities. You could argue that all of the characters are Christian by default, living in the England that they do, where going to church was as much a social as a spiritual obligation. But the novel is full of characters who might claim that title for themselves but act in a decidedly unloving way- her aunt Mead and cousins, her benefactor uncle who would not forgive his brother, even on his deathbed, and even St. John, who wants to be a missionary, but is so furiously fixed in his belief that he alone can decipher the will of God that he has more in common with a Pharisee than someone reoriented to the loving heart of God. (Am I making you uncomfortable? Soz.) Arguably, Jane is the model of Christianity we warm to- forgiving those who have harmed and abused her, compassionate in love but clinging to her faith, even though doing so will cause her to sacrifice everything she holds dear.

I guess what I could draw from this is that books speak to people differently, and different messages sing out alongside the stories themselves every time they're read. What struck me so strongly this time has never struck me like that before- other readings have left me gasping at the tenacity of Jane's character or the perplexity that is Rochester's. It's a magnificent book, though- I kind of wish I hadn't finished it, so I could keep walking through it.

And now for something completely different: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. I am late to the party, it having been awarded the Pulitzer in 2002 which was light years ago in fancy literary circles. We are not in a fancy literary circle, however, so I am luxuriating in it without compunction. A woman who sat down next to me on the bus on Monday leaned over and said, 'I loved that book.' I grinned at her, 'it's good, isn't it?' to which she fervently replied, 'it's great.' I love a book that compels strangers to chat. And I love a book that draws you in so rapidly that all of a sudden you're elbowing Lefty over to his side of the bed and helping Desdemona pin up the blanket that hangs between Theodora and Milton, reminding her of her own blanket and how well that worked and shouldn't we maybe try something else to keep them apart?

I'm swilling bootleg hooch in the Zebra Room, painfully conscious of Desdemona sitting upstairs at the kitchen table, my fingernails are gouging into the edges of my car seat as Zizmo manaically veers the car across the frozen lake, screaming, and I'm anxious for these characters. I'm careful for them. I love how Eugenides doesn't judge them, how he is tender and fair and sly. It might be a good one for the Irregular Bookclub, in fact, but before we get there I must finish this stunner and then inhale 'The Line of Beauty' (talking of being behind the 8-ball.) Are you reading anything gripping at the moment? Do tell.

the lady in red (hair)

2011-10-21T11:27:00.002+11:00

To me, she can do no wrong.

All images by Tommy Ton.

Unrequited love.

2011-10-20T20:17:00.003+11:00

I defy you to go eyeball-to-eyeball with these Haider Ackermann shoes and come away with your heart intact. These shoes are like the coolest boy in school. They're like that slouchy waster in the second-from-back row in your English tute who spends the whole semester avoiding eye contact with everyone and who then recites whole chunks of 'Leaves of Grass' by rote in his tute presentation (o wait... that's not your idea of sexy? The great thing about a blog is there is no such thing as an awkward silence after you've made a gaffe. I feel like Fashademic is an arena where I can really be free of my crippling case of foot-in-mouth disease (not literally... ew?) Don't even make me tell you about the time I almost asked an academic I'd just met what his research area is, and only stopped myself in the nick of time thinking, 'maybe not the smartest move?', to later find out that he is world-famous in my own field.)

Just look at the shoes that will draw you into a tumult of unfulfilled desire and ignore you all semester long, but that are so good-looking that they distract from all wrong-doing, even career suicidal gaffes:

Haider Ackermann shoes, in the immortal words of The Beatles, 'I want you so bad it's driving me mad, it's making me sad.'

tangerine lipstick and neck moles. O YEAH.

2011-10-20T19:53:00.003+11:00

Miss me?

Today was gloriously like summer and yet it stopped just this side of 'sweaty mess' and so I lingered a while in 'healthy glow.' So I took full advantage of the late afternoon sun and the free application of a new shade of neon orange lippy at M.A.C. and here are the results, in unedited glory for your viewing pleasure: ta da! My inimitable pout. (I say it's inimitable'... but I really just like using the word 'inimitable'... yep.)

I really like this lipstick. It's $36, but. Unfortunately I've hovered around it in the M.A.C. store too many times to do a quick swipe on my way to work every day and go on my merry way while escaping notice. RATS!

I wish I was one of those girls whose lipstick stays on their lips but alas, that's not me. I'm all about the smeary edges and flecks of colour on my teeth and enthusiastic drinks-drinking, so I inevitably end up with the outline of lip pencil and just-stained-lips colour where the high gloss/cool matte should be. Shame.

O hai little eye-wrinkles. You're cute! You can stay.

Taylor Tomasi Hill

2011-10-18T17:43:00.002+11:00

TTH in Emilio Pucci shot by Tetsuharu Kubota for The Block.

On discovering (and appreciating) vintage

2011-10-12T17:24:00.001+11:00

A younger, more romantic* iteration of myself used to claim that I liked vintage clothes because I liked imagining the people they had belonged to. Looking at a pair of sheer cotton Georgian bloomers, for example, would put me in mind of the slip of a girl who used to tie them over her tight-laced corset, her layers of cotton, then lace, petticoats, before drawing a drop-waisted cotton-linen and lace number over the top. All this for a summer picnic or some such fancy, where she and her chums would gad about by the riverside.

Sure, okay (I roll my eyes at myself.) That's what I thought about as I breathed shallow and fast over the tiny hand-stitched hems and the loom-woven fabric? Yeah, no. I was thinking about whether they'd fit, how fast I could find out, and in what parallel realm I could pull them off.

I'm sure some people actually do look at vintage clothing and imagine the past lives of the clothes. There's definitely a romance to clothing of a bygone era: it is difficult to come face to face with beautifully wrought garments without feeling wistful that we no longer have reason to dress in hooped skirts, outrageous bustles or floor-length silk cheongsams. But let me tell you a little secret. Lean in, because I'm revealing my hand here: I loved vintage because of what they offered me and my hot little grasp in that very moment.

The workmanship was such a contrast to the slipped overlocking and the cheap cottons of the chain stores that my casual wage could afford. I loved the whiff of romance around the garments. I loved the unusual shapes and individuality of them- what are the odds that anyone else will own a padded emerald green polyester jacket covered in white and gold daisies? But most of all, most of all- I loved (and still love) vintage garments because they were made in a time when garments were generally made to last, and with a quality of fabric and craftsmanship which I could only find in one other place: the boutiques that sold devastatingly lovely clothing that I imagined I might be able to afford some time in my mid-forties. If I bought a precious vintage bomber jacket or a silk teagown, I was embracing an aesthetic of fashion which breathed beauty over my skin. The exclusivity, the strikingness, the quality of high fashion labels which was (and still is) so, so very far from the high street.

I suppose, in a way, I did escape into another world after all, so my grasping towards an explanation for why I gravitated towards vintage was on the right track... but instead of inhaling a world of the past, I was in a world of the present. My present, to be precise, as I was enveloped in clothes of a calibre I had believed would elude me for many more years.

*More romantic? you skepticise. Yeah, yeah, move along, joker.

PFW: Haider Ackermann

2011-10-06T10:14:00.001+11:00

How can you not warm to a designer who says that he was 'thinking along rockabilly Lord Byron lines' for his new collection? You can't is the only valid answer.

And so I present to you "my edit" of the Haider Ackermann Spring RTW collection, curated in true "style blogger style"- that is, they were all selected because they were my favourite looks. 'But there are eighteen photos here', you protest. 'That's almost half the collection.' Exactly.

But let's just talk for a moment about Haider Ackermann's incredible tailoring, his beautiful fabrics, the attention to detail... or, better yet, let's just look at what we've got here.

In the words of one of the grooms from one of my favourite childhood pony books, Summer Pony, "Very nice, Miss Pam. Very nice." Substitute 'Pam' (the horsey rich girl who lived up the road from Ginny, who kept her horse in her garage) with 'Haider Ackermann' and you're right there with me. Giddy up.

All images from style.com

PFW: Dries Van Noten

2011-10-06T09:35:00.002+11:00

Sometimes, I feel that words are just superfluous.

One of the utterly standout collections of the season for me.

Why? Because of the island colours and the city shades, the extravagance of couture shapes tempered by the restraint of deft tailoring, the long and feminine lines- I could go on.

I think I emitted a faint gasp when I first saw it.

And don't even get me started on these shoes!

All images from style.com

All it takes is 1000 words a day.

2011-10-04T08:44:00.006+11:00

Oh! You know what? I got up at 5.30am this morning to write. That's twice in one week now. I don't know whether to be pleased at my efforts or pale at the fact that I actually thought 'I'm so productive first thing! Maybe I should do this every day?' And not only did I think it ... I then agreed with myself.

Worrying.

You know what else is worrying? Dancing to 'Gold Digger' with your curtains open when your bedroom is at street level and people are walking by on their way to work. Yeah. I did.

freaking me out.

2011-09-28T12:06:00.004+10:00

I was reading fashiontoast yesterday, and I came upon this funny little story. Rumi rocked up to the Topshop Unique show to find her seat in between those of Scott Schuman and Susie Bubble, the three of them positioned at the end of the runway and facing the photographer's pit.

In the words of Rumi, "we nervously laughed about being in the background of the Style.com images, and, well, now we are." True story.

It's like a world within a world within a world.

hear hear!

2011-09-27T15:45:00.000+10:00

via the inimitable Rachel Hills

Wisdom sits in articles by Keith Basso

2011-09-22T13:35:00.000+10:00

Some news: I have my very first peer-reviewed article shortly to be published! As a result, I have spent the better portion of this morning going over the proofs with a fine-tooth comb. I have now seen the page mock-up complete with pagination and the suggested citation and o jeez! It's so exciting!

The thought that people might cite me... or better yet, take issue with something I've said- marvellous. But as I'm a bit superstitious or have taken heed when warned not to count chickens before eggs have hatched, I will refrain from giving away too much information on the off chance that something goes awry before the volume is printed and bound.

If and when that happens with my article included in the number, then I will boast proudly all over Fashademic and hyperlink in a very unsubtle manner in case you want to rush over and buy a copy (o, come on! You totally will.)

Meanwhile, in cross-referencing my cited page numbers (I do lead a thrilling life) I came across this gem. So here's one for all the post-grads out there:

As Isaiah Berlin remarked somewhere, it is better to write of things one believes one knows something about than to anguish in high despair over the manifold difficulties of knowing things at all. And better as well, having taken the plunge, to allow oneself to enjoy it. Doing ethnography can be a great deal of fun, and disguising the fact on paper, as though it were something to be ashamed of, is less than totally honest. It may also be less than effective. Current fashions notwithstanding, clenched teeth and furrowed brow are no guarantee of literary success. In crafting one's prose, as in going about one's fieldwork, it is always permissible- and sometimes highly informative- to smile and even to laugh.

-Keith H. Basso, "Wisdom Sits in Places: Notes on a Western Apache Landscape" in Senses of Place, 1996

What a year it's been!

2011-09-22T11:31:00.001+10:00

The year is far from over- being only the tail of September and all- but the influx of balmy mornings, my sudden unstoppable hankerings for salad and finishing at (yet) another job have left me feeling reflective. (Not 'reflexive' for a change (academic joke! SNAP) (Sorry I said 'snap'.))

I started the year ~~reading~~ selling magazines at Mag Nation, where I impeded a shoplifter trying to filch four magazines at once, discovered L'Officiel Hommes, and made a brief cameo in Monocle magazine (apparently I looked "angry"; damn. I was going for "pensive".)

Then I embarked upon a brief career as a nanny that lasted about as long as Autumn. I did the 'school run' (even using that phrase made me feel like an Eastern Suburbs mother of three), mastered the art of Mighty Beanz battles, and also learned how to make a mean pikelet.

Then I stepped onto the other side of the counter as an admin assistant in one of the schools of the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at uni. Here, I drank a lot of coffee, sympathised with a lot of panicky students (who were hopefully a lot less panicky after our conversation), and saw first-hand just how much stationery Arts scholars go through (read: a lot.) It's been great, truly, but here I am about to assume a new role- one that I have always been curious to try. Shopgirl in a beautiful clothing store.

I won't tell you which one because you might come and visit and I would get tongue-tied with embarrassment that you have read my blog. Even though I'm stoked that you have, for some reason I get abnormally shy when I meet you for the first time. But suffice it to say that the clothes are DEVASTATINGLY LOVELY and I am thrilled to have a reason to linger near them all day. Which is not even to mention how lovely the other girls who work there are (read: very.)

Anyway, there you go. I am pleased to report that these changes are mostly due to changing circumstance and never because I've been fired (!) Jess told me once that every time we hang out I have moved house, changed job, or done something new to my hair and I guess that's true. At least it keeps things interesting. And maybe wading through four years on one project necessitates a little periphery change from time to time? DEEP.

For now, though, let's try not to get distracted by the psychological motivations underpinning my life choices and instead consider something infinitely more interesting: street style images from New York and London fashion weeks.

Sometimes you have an opinion and then you realise you're wrong. Alexander Wang heel flaps, I never knew you until this moment. Or maybe like so many of us, they just needed to be seen from the right angle to shine (literally.)

I want to believe that this is what I will look like in summer. But I know that even if I double denim a shirt and shortie-shorts, I will constantly shine with perspiration, my shirttails will elbow out of my waistband and... well. It might be uncharitable to myself to continue to catalogue the differences that will abound between this lovely model and myself.

However- double denim. Feeling it. Ready for round two, summer wardrobe?

I love this photo. She seems so comfortable, relaxed and happy. Also- a 'how to' do sneakers with non-gym attire and do it right.

Bangin'.

It's Roz! Did you know this talented young lady also just won the Vogue Talent Contest and has her first piece published in UK Vogue this month? It's well deserved, as I'm sure all of her blog's readers will agree. Congratulations Roz!

Just enough 'Rosie the Riveter' to keep things interesting.

Where to start with this photo? The Givenchy snarl, the cool coolness of TTH or the look of consternation on the face of the investment banker bringing up the rear?

Hanneli channelling the late Sixties and all I see is Orangina. I think it's the blue wall behind.

Well this is just fantastic for so many reasons. I want to be wearing the entire ensemb. Right now.

Lamé pants. That's all I see. There was a gold lamé skirt for sale in a vintage shop in Toronto three years ago that I didn't buy but SHOULD HAVE. Midi length, thin pleats, waistband that sat under my natural waist but above my hips. Three years and it still burns. These pants are just mocking me.

O hai Mary Katrantzou. Lookin' fine, girl. Also: double denim in the background, I see you there. It's still not over.

This is just a brilliant shot...

As is this.
Float on.

On (Literary) Criticism

2011-09-22T09:35:00.000+10:00

The following is taken from David Cecil's Library Looking-Glass: A Personal Anthology. Cecil is speaking here of literary criticism but I believe the same could be said of any criticism of arts and culture:

[the literary critic's] aim should be to interpret the work they are writing about and to help readers to appreciate it, by defining and analysing those qualities that make it precious and by indicatiing the angle of vision from which its beauties are visible.

But many critics do not realise their function. They aim not to appreciate but to judge; they seek first to draw up laws about literature and then to bully readers into accepting these laws ... [but] you cannot force taste on someone else, you cannot argue people into enjoyment.

Quite.

LFW: Giles

2011-09-22T09:30:00.000+10:00

Dear Giles Spring 2012,

There's only one way to say this- you took my breath away.

In much of the criticism of style blogs by members of the mainstream fashion media, the sticking point is blogs' subjectivity. Style blogs are criticised as being breathlessly euphoric, their reviews of collections utterly subjective, and the bloggers' opinions are exactly that- only bloggers' opinions. Fair enough- though whether that is good or bad (or whether a value judgment at all needs to be made) is also a subjective position.

But then I come across Giles' recent LFW show, feel my heart drop out from under my ribs and settle somewhere on top of my stomach and I feel like a cliche (and, quite possibly, in need of urgent medical attention.)

Looking through the show was painful- I actually felt my heart constrict. I think I even forgot to keep exhaling, just taking air in and in as if I could somehow make more room for the supernova explosion inside my rib cage.

Is this love? I think, perhaps, yes.

Truly, deeply, and especially madly.

Images from style.com

LFW: Mary Katrantzou

2011-09-21T14:49:00.002+10:00

I don't know quite what it is about Mary Katrantzou's latest collection that's kept me fascinated for the past fifteen minutes. It's not just the incredible colours and prints... maybe it's they rewrite the linearity of a woman's shape, writing new lines of form through the way the garments direct the eye. Designers messed with the perception of womens' bodies for years, of course; whether they're reworking what it is to present an identifiable self to the world (Gareth Pugh's effacing latex, anyone?) or playing with shape to draw attention to whatever body part is currently fascinating: the ankle, the shin, the small of the back.

But here we have pattern and print coursing over and drawing the eye horizontally across a model's body with no distinction made between torso and arms; we see legs striding forward out of almost plumage, with a fan of fabric flowing behind like the tail of a bird of paradise. Unusual cuts draw attention to the decollete, to the thighs, and the prints themselves-! So luscious they're like summer fruits, making the tastebuds ache just to look at them.

For me, this collection isn't as riveting as her interior collection shown last season but it's still well cool. And maybe more "wearable", if that matters to you.

Images from style.com

NYFW: Marc Jacobs

2011-09-21T12:49:00.000+10:00

The caravan has already sprouted sails and sallied across the Atlantic but it is worth taking a moment to savour some of Marc Jacobs' more toothsome confections shown last week in New York.

What struck me most about this collection was not the Twenties vibe- of which much has been made, probably because of the early buzz surrounding Baz Luhrmann's upcoming Gatsby (which is currently shooting in Sydney, fyi. If I come across another report on how 'Leo' is 'dodging local paps' and talking to the prettier B-grade celebrities at various whatevers I'm going to batter myself senseless with a cloche)- but the edgy un-sexy/sexy parallel working down the runway.

He played with transparent- but instead of soft sheer, the likes of which have been everywhere from Chloe to asos.com- he gave us what looked like skirts made of clingwrap, and bounced off the Mod lines and surprising versatility of transparent plastic shown at Celine and accessorised by Camilla and Marc and Jil Sander, amongst others, into something softer, grittier.

The collection, though executed with finesse, seemed to pulse with a 'can't-be-arsed' vibe, the asymmetrical hems and off-centre gathering smacking of dishevellement, which made a refreshing visual counterpoint to the polished West Egg dames sashaying down at Ralph Lauren.

Images from style.com

poetic licence

2011-09-19T11:09:00.000+10:00

Well, good morning! Another week raises its head and blinks around and, as usual, I have taken a 'soft entry' approach into my work which involves reading style.com whilst having my notes virtuously stacked around me. I feel that the near presence of "legit" work gives me licence to read on wantonly because if the mood strikes to get productive (it sometimes happens...) then I can grab 'A Welcome for Blogs' and get my nerd on. Or else continue to read show reports, either or.

As it is, I have spent a very educational morning at Tommy Ton's proverbial knee. It was a strong and interesting NYFW this year but as interesting is regarding the off-catwalk ensembs of the event's attendees and well, well, well. It looks like collared shirts are having a moment, and how.

Perhaps this is due to the 2010 reinvention of Equipment, Christian Restoin's iconic shirt label originally launched in 1975. People like Garance Doré and Carine Roitfeld have been shot in them and sung their praises and where they lead, you know you wanna follow.

Buttoned-up, tied in a knot, tucked into a high-waist, sheer, semi-sheer, whatever you fancy, it looks like the collared shirt is storming a wardrobe near you. Preferrably mine, if we're talking Equipment. I recently bought my first (cause it won't be the last) in black silk and it's like a second skin, it's so comfortable. That sounds a little gross but I wouldn't lie to you, fashnerds. (And a tip from one impoverished addict to another- if you're Australian, shopbop.com is where you need to head for these beauties. I'm sorry, local retailers, truly, but I found mine for $50 less than the lowest price I found in a Sydney bricks-and-mortar AND shopbop.com have a better range of colours and styles. And free shipping. And your order is guaranteed to arrive within three days. I'll stop now.)

So without further ado, I present to you the evidence that the collared shirt is taking over the world one back at a time and will thus implicitly argue that this is a good thing.

This represents but half of the possible images I could have shown you, and does not even take into account all of the shirt-dresses I saw. It's like a global movement, people. At times I felt like I was in a Dr. Seuss book... "I can wear it with a hat, I can roll sleeves up like that. Checked and sheer and copper tin, I can match it with Céline."

Yes, I rhymed 'tin' with 'Céline', what of it?

images by Tommy Ton for style.com

Q&A

2011-09-18T13:18:00.001+10:00

I just stumbled across this delightful Q&A with academic and self-professed Christian, Dr. John Considine. Interviewed by the Wornettes of independent Canadian fashion journal Worn, we learn the etymology of the word 'cravat' and have an opportunity to consider dressing to show respect for others and ourselves.

As an aside, I truly believe that if more academics wore kilts on campus the world would be a more thrilling place. There's something so dashing about tartan, don't you think?

(fierce) (and I don't even say that word)

2011-09-17T14:30:00.001+10:00

Can we, for a moment, talk about how TTH is the coolest woman in the world? It's actually ridiculous.

Image by Garance Doré

NYFW: 10 Crosby Derek Lam

2011-09-17T07:38:00.000+10:00

Have you seen the lookbook of Derek Lam side project 10 Crosby Derek Lam? Super cute.

Styled by streetstyle photog favourite Hanne Gaby Odiele, it's all bright stripes and fruity colours, interspersed with enough white to not overpower. It's not going to change the world but it's fun and full of styling ideas for those of us heading into a sun-soaked summer.

And that dress to the left would murder a dancefloor, it needs to be said.

NYFW: 3.1 Phillip Lim

2011-09-17T06:00:00.001+10:00

Nineties style has been slowly raising it's head above the trenches over the past year and it seems now the path is clear for it to make a full tilt at our wardrobes. There've been glimpses of aspects of the Nineties before, of course- grunge has long been a staple on the backs of models (who perhaps reject the preening and priss of the backstage maelstrom by favouring biker leathers, loose tees and grubby jeans?) apparent also in the deluge of plaid that sprang up like a weed in hipster haunts everywhere. I say 'weed' because it was almost anonymous, so total was its spread, but I love it too (call me a hipster at your own peril. Ask Ash.)

But I digress! (Hardly surprising, right?)

A new angle on Nineties is now slinking towards us and I am so excited by the prospect. Phoebe Philo's first collection for Celine was the firstfruits of this trend, I believe. She favoured crisp lines, sleek simple colours and A-line shapes that were last massive when Minimalism met fashion- in the Nineties. Fast-forward a couple of seasons and you could catch glimpses of it amongst the assault to the senses that was the colour-blocking trend- Alexander Wang's cape stilettos, for one. The cape was removable (and in my eyes, a little... redundant. Yes? So sue me) and once it's gone, revealed is a clean line, two straps crossing the foot, almost suspending the foot in a gravity-defying bow.

(I couldn't find an image sans-cape, but I know I saw it in a Vogue somewhere. A researcher's worst nightmare.)

Sure, it look painful (duh) but it is also a palate-cleanser after the clogs, the wedges, the clompy heels, the biker boots that have stormed recent runways. It reminds me of the Manolo Blahniks that early Sex and the City Carrie wore. Shot when? You got it.

And so, here we are, in New York (metaphorically speaking) in Spring 2012 (in the fashion world, anyway) and this is what Phillip Lim sends down the runway:

I see a Minimalist palette (I neglected to display the first section of the collection, featuring pastels. Unless it's on enamelled jewellery, I don't touch pastels so there's no way I'm dressing my blog in them either), clean but sporty lines, a lot of jersey, hems that skim below the knee- I see Nineties.

Lim described being influenced by them as a child of the Nineties himself, and there is something reassuring to me about recognising these looks. They remind me of Calvin Klein, Anne Klein, Jil Sander. They remind me of grey marle and faces made up to look make-up free, hair parted on the side and sleeked back. Of Christy Turlington, the Nineties' freshest fresh-face and her line of yoga clothes- Nuala?- and of hearing of yoga for the first time. Of berry coloured lipstick and dark eyebrows, dark roots in blonde hair, lots of "flesh" toned clothing. Of needlepoint stilettos, fitted blazers over fitted dresses in stretch fabric.

These are the images that people my mind when I think of Nineties- but Lim's iteration is chicer than that, more luxe and not weighed down by too much historical reference (the irony of referring to the Nineties as 'historic' has not escaped me, but there you are.) Well, there are no body stockings here. No leather biker boy hats or cumbersome denim (save one denim vest thing which was like a sleeveless parka and was quite cool. Props, Phillip Lim, for pulling off the seeming impossible- wresting denim vests back from the Village People.) The overall look is fresh, elegant and beautifully cut. My limbs shout 'hurrah' and anticipate new shapes to shroud them. Now all that remains is to see how the British and Eurpoan fashion weeks answer this fresh, fairly American interpretation. Bring it!

Images from style.com

NYFW: Calvin Klein

2011-09-16T17:16:00.002+10:00

Who has time to sit and trawl the images from show after show for the next four weeks? New York is behind us, London is upon us and here come Paris and Milan. I always spend this time of year feeling like an unfit kid huffing and puffing at the tail end of an athletics team, except in this case I huff and puff while inhaling a coffee at a computer, and the cooler kids striding ahead are doing so in neon stilettos and a haze of human hair extensions.

Who has time, I asked? I'll make time, dammit, so when op-shopping I know I want to look out for black mesh t-shirts (Alex Wang, take a bow. Better go to an op-shop in the Cross for that one), I know I want to look out for bright abstract splatter-prints (um, everyone take a collective bow, go on), and I know I want to make a beeline to the lingerie section to source fitted, lace-trimmed silk slips in shades of peach, blush and pale caramel. And we have Francisco Costa at Calvin Klein to thank for that.

Yes, he has moved away from the sculpted, moulded aesthetic which dominated previous collections, and seemed to enclose the wearer's body in a shell, rather than fold over it as this line does. His aesthetic has thus evolved from artifice and strength towards softness, fluidity. And so here we are, awash in a modern interpretation of Forties gowns (note the insert details on the skirts of his slips, and the cut and line of those jacket suits), as if that ladylike era dropped in for an eclair with Nineties minimalism (minus the grunge.)

There's also a whiff of the Jazz Age about the nonchalant display of decolletage and details through the torso of some of the garments, like soft pleats and visible structure that recalls the strong curved lines of Art Deco. And yet, like all skillful reinterpretations, this is thoroughly modern. The details are not strident or obvious, only deft touches that add interest to a deceptively simple range.

For those who care to know, my favourites are the black dress third from bottom and the last dress shown here, tailor-made for the romantic at heart.

All images from style.com

NYFW: Alexander Wang

2011-09-16T14:07:00.001+10:00

I feel like A-Wang can pretty much do whatever he wants at this point.

Look at that carefree run. Man knows it.

I can imagine him sitting in his studio, surrounded by louche girls clad in various looks of laser-cut leather and sports-inflected daywear being all, 'what now, Alex?' And him being all, 'huh. Whatever I touch turns to gold, hey ladies? Let's shake it up a bit.'

Cue florals that wouldn't look out of place on a Willoware dining set. Cue black jackets with wide sleeves worn with matching neckerchiefs. Cue sheer ponchos over bodysuits. And aprés-ski style matchy leggings and jackets. CUE WHITE HEELS.

It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense. And yet you look at the collection and you find yourself nodding sagely. "O yeah, A-Wang. See what you did there. And those jacket-legging combos are bitchin', where can I get me some-a those?'

Don't believe me? Witness it and weep, gentle reader.

Like I said, he can pretty much do whatever he wants at this point.

Images from style.com

I want to go to there.

2011-09-16T11:29:00.000+10:00

Image at Refinery 29

Eyes as bright as sapphires and as poor as pennies.

2011-09-16T11:16:00.001+10:00

As regular readers will know, sometimes words in my mind get up to all kinds of tricks, seemingly independent of what I want or will or wish. It's like they stealthily rampaged the inside of my skull, Lord of the Flies style, and they ain't giving it back. As a result, whenever I want to use the word 'obsessed', my mind's voice reiterates it "'ob-sessed.'" And then repeats it, with a twist for good measure. "'Robsessed.'"

Yes. It does.

It's extremely unfortunate, especially as my loathing for the entire Twilight franchise (let's just call the whole joblot a franchise, shall we, and have done with?) is thorough and sure, even though I rarely give it a second thought. And yet, that cheeky nod to the more hysterical end of pop culture is seemingly here to stay.

Accepting the cringeworthy and mystifying inevitable, I admit that I am obsessed (ob-sessed. Robsessed.) with jewellery at the moment. But not just any jewellery- colourful, Swarovski-chained, load-'em-up jewellery that would drag me down to the depths of Sydney Harbour should I ever suffer the misfortune of being shoved off a ferry by a rabid Twilight fan.

Obviously, there is a little trash-fiend inside me saying 'more is more' and when I come across swagger like this, I am helpless to obey it's glittering siren call.

I give you Fenton!

I give you Tom Binns!

All I can do about this bloodlust for now is breathe heavily over the computer screen and hanker. And plot DIYs that will probably never happen because I am time poor and usually lose interest halfway through braiding and clipping the thing together. It's sorry state of affairs all around.

patti smith + ann demulemeester

2011-09-12T13:33:00.000+10:00

Full article here

coffee break.

2011-09-11T13:26:00.000+10:00

Over coffee this morning she asked what I did yesterday. I told her that I took the day off to have a break and run some errands.
She looked at me cock-eyed and replied, 'you know that Saturdays don't really count as 'taking a day off', don't you?'
All I could do was laugh.

image by Cecil Beaton.

free clothes and new friends

2011-09-10T12:55:00.004+10:00

Around the corner from my big, old house there is a great little cafe. The owners are a couple, lovely and in love. He is or was an actor too, with a face I remembered from ('Neighbours?' - 'Home and Away.' - 'Were you an evil tradie?'- 'An evil mechanic.') She teaches drama on the side and makes a mean haloumi melt.

A few weeks ago, inspired by the unfurling Spring, I did a big wardrobe cleanout. Out went clothes I kind of liked but never chose to wear. Out went the clothes I really did like but that didn't fit anymore. Especially out went anything stained, holey, or laced with that intangible not-rightness every time I put it on (you know what I mean? In theory, it's a cotton fox. In practice, when your head and arms go through, you don't even have to look at your reflection to know it's ALL. WRONG.)

So, okay. I had three bags full of clothes. I was too lazy to ebay so decided to take them to the Salvation Army bin down the road. First of all, though, I needed a coffee. Heck, when don't I need a coffee is the response to that statement. Cue a lazy stroll around the corner, up the street, slow dash across the two-lane road. Lolling against the wooden counter, probably wearing some end-of-winter inapprops costume like short shorts with a thick jumper, and they ask what I've been up to. I share my the account of my spring-clean freaker purge with them and she smiles. 'I bet you got rid of some good stuff.' I grin back.

Offhandedly, she goes, 'so... what are you going to do with them? Market stall?' Got my skim flat white in hand by this point and I tell her I can't be bothered, I think I'll just donate all of it. She pauses, smiles, looks at me then away. Sam, her boyf, interjects with a laugh, joking to me that she's about to ask which charity bin so she can go there. We all laugh and my Saturday sedate mind finally clicks- 'hey, why don't I bring some stuff in and you can see if you'd like any of it?'

Which is how, the next day, I walked over with a selection of the clothes that I thought she'd like. She promised to do a wardrobe purge too and bring some in to the cafe to swap back.
Today I went in (my feet beat a path to this place as if externally programmed, I tell you. They do things with haloumi cheese you've never even DREAMED of) and Angela had a big box for me. I got home and... alors. Tsubi jeans, reader. Vintage tee-shirts. Soft-as-flannel-flowers plaid. The best thing was, I didn't expect anything in return when I took my clothes over- I seriously just wanted to give away some things that had been precious to me that might give Angela a kick for a while.

So that's what's brought me to this point, sitting here and just feeling great. My wardrobe is looking mighty streamlined (yet still jammed hanger-to-wooden-hanger. How?) and I have some broken-in lovelies to thrill my limbs. Best of all, I'll wear them remembering our little unexpected exchange and that makes it even better.

spring almost summer

2011-09-05T15:47:00.002+10:00

Image from Vogue Greece.

the stars by which I set my course

2011-08-30T13:53:00.001+10:00

In my mind, it's magnificent. It seems sprawling but my ideas surreptitiously intermingle with one another before you realise what is happening and all of a sudden you're three pages into something new, something marvellous, and you didn't even notice my sleight of prose.

In my imagination, my words are eloquent, my extended thick descriptions are no longer than necessary and my teasing out of ideas is poetic, muscular, deft. You, my reader, are on a set course through a deep space of my own writing but it's so effortless it seems as though you are adrift. Peaceful. Punctuated by flares of excitement like supernovas as thoughts shift into place before your eyes. What I have noted are the stars surrounding you, a nebulous network of brilliance that you dip into, move between.

Yes, and in my mind it illuminates me as well as you. Things become clear as they pour out of my fountain pen or assume their place in the sentences on my screen. Each word, a small step towards the final word count which will turn out to be the perfect number to contain this majestic work.

This is my thesis in my mind. It is endlessly encouraging to me in periods like this when the vastness and intricacy of my ideas seem far beyond my capabilities to shape into one coherent body. I breathe this hope in the midst of my frustration, trusting that my persistence will lead to the eventual realisation of holding it, a bound, finished book in my hands.

What else can I do but keep on? Keep on dreaming as well as writing.

I'm still not over it.

2011-08-29T08:11:00.000+10:00

Watching this video was like an exercise in longing.
It's not even that I want to own this collection myself (although I wouldn't say no, obviously) but that it's so perfectly rendered. And it looks exquisite from afar yet then the camera peers closely at a detail and it's all, 'WHAT? That lime green section is a zipper that's built up to look like vertebrae? And that bow is a kimono knot that somehow folds seamlessly back into the wings of that bustle? Come on!'
I'm completely dazzled.

shivers down my

2011-08-28T14:27:00.000+10:00

Can we just discuss how terrific this dress is for a moment?
It's a spine. In a dress.
I repeat: a spine IN a dress.

I don't know who is responsible for this magnificence. I wanna say McQueen because it's a very McQueen aesthetic but I couldn't find it in any of his collections that showcased skeletons. I did, however, find a snazzy, jazzy number by Schiaparelli on my travels.

Check it.
The ribs on the back kind of look like giant fingers holding the torso (no? just me?) but I love the way they arc up under the breasts at the front.
I imagine it would need an emaciated Victorian harridan to really do it justice. Or...

Someone like Helena Bonham Carter. O, she'd be fantastic in this Schiaparelli.

Hang on... did I just invent the fashion equivalent of Fantasy League Football?
Fantasy Fashion Styling? All right!

I don't even need your love but you treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough.

2011-08-27T14:39:00.002+10:00

I don't usually post links to all the good reads I've inhaled during the week, but over this past week I read so many inspiring, interesting things that I simply have to share. Here's hoping they add some illumination to your mind too. And if you read that last sentence and are all, 'illumination to my mind?" let me defend myself by saying that I'm using all available brain function to draft an article that's due next Thursday so you've gotta throw me a bone. All right? All right.
Let's go!

Vanessa Bruno have released a new video for their S/S 11 range featuring Kate Bosworth. I've never been one to get breathless over her (though the girl clearly knows how to rock a Proenza dress), this featurette lets Bossie showcase an impressive range of creepy stares and dreamy gazes, as well as letting her indulge a fantastic and downright odd woman-of-the-wilderness vibe that I think the world needs more of. Film directors, take note. You can see it in full below, do enjoy. And then we can whine together about how much we want everything and how we can't afford it because we're poor students and then we can go op-shopping together to recreate the magic, DIY-styles.

Riding a bus at eighteen, Frida stood next to an artisan carrying a pouch of gold dust. When the streetcar hit them, his pouch was broken open by the force of the collision and Frida’s body, ruined on concrete, was covered in what the pouch held. Gold was sunlight on asphalt. Gold was the gleam of metal through an open wound. Magenta, on the other hand, was the color of blood. “El más vivo y antiguo,” Frida called it—the most alive, the oldest shade. “He who sees the colors.” Frida was the one who had to wear them.
-Leslie Jamison on Frida Kahlo for The Paris Review

“Today, you’re not looking for perfection anymore,” says Michael Flutie, the owner of Company Management, one of several new modeling agencies that have been founded in New York in the last decade. What matters more than any particular look is a model’s attitude, her ability to project an inner life for the camera: the inner life of someone whose surface fascinates us.
A little excerpt from James is a Girl, an article by Jennifer Regan which was published as the cover story of The New York Times Magazine in 1996. It may be a long time ago now- break: where were you in 1996? I was in year six at a girls' school, still obsessed with horses (I galloped around the playground) and already the library was my favourite place. Psych!)- but it is a fantastic (I wanna say) expose, but it's more gentle, more a revelation, through the affected don't-give-a-damn front of then-new girl James King.

I love the juxtaposition of her youth and her affected hardness, her enthusiasm and her weariness. It also reminds me of the erstwhile Tumblr of Cailin Hill, Model Burnbook. Their experiences seem similar in many ways, being perennially on the move and in-demand but so young, both so angelic-looking yet so tough. But Cailin's toughness is more than skin deep, it seemed a clear-eyed hardness that shimmered in her blood and was brilliantly etched on the acerbic Burnbook. Man, I miss that Tumblr.

Killer spread featuring Andrej Pejic and Zombie Boy for Auslander S/S 2012

On a non-fashion related note, I have recently moved towards vegetarianism. This choice is a luxury I have, living in a country where there's an abundance of non-meat alternatives to eat and enjoy, and is one made because I've been gradually learning about the deplorable ways that animals are farmed for human consumption and I've quite literally lost my appetite for meat. My problem is not that we eat animals, but that I believe that they should be treated with dignity when alive and humanely in death. There are a bunch of ethical animal farmers in NSW and I need to do more research to find out how I can hook up with their products, but in the meantime here is a thought-provoking article arguing for ethically treating animals raised for human consumption- How Animal Welfare Leads to Better Meat: A Lesson from Spain.

i love this.

2011-08-25T17:57:00.000+10:00

that's all I wanted to say.

"It's a reference to a Chinese meal in Toronto, so I could be wrong." // 'You can be and ARE wrong.'

2011-08-23T17:55:00.001+10:00

Dear Rosie,

We are here to blow your mind.

With affection,

Mary Katrantzou's S/S 11 Collection

My first thought was an exclamation of silent sound as the construction, line and colours of this garment arrested my vision. And then. And then. I leaned forward, probably scowling a scowl of scholarly concentration as I pondered dimly, "is that a... window?"

Well, yes. Yes it is. And armchairs with pink upholstery, green walls that would make Van Gogh proud, and a brilliant red and white stripey floor that perfectly extends the line of the model's legs. If you look closely (NB: this does not have to be as closely as I looked, wherein my nose was approximately 3cm from her windowsash waist) you see how brilliantly the interior of the print frames the linearity of her body.

And that was just the beginning.

Curtains!

A mini crini lampshade!

The lovechild of a greenhouse and a dining room decorated by Liberty of London!

Of course, it's not just that the clothes are brilliantly tailored nor that they are a print-lover's wildest dreams come true. It's the cleverness of the concept.

In this collection, Katrantzou's "almost hallucinogenic" (Tim Blanks) printed interiors enfold the models, subtly realising a couple of foundational ideas in fashion theory- namely, the capacity of clothing to render visible aspects of the wearer's inner self, and the concept of clothing as a metaphorical skin, one that both protects us and serves as the interface between our selves and the world beyond us. Which is not even to touch upon the idea of clothing as a dwelling, an entity that we inhabit, a brilliant idea I first heard from Stella which deserves a proper explanation from her rather than a half-baked one from the recesses of my memory. So basically that's three theoretical ideas deftly communicated by one collection, one that also happens to be executed with impeccable construction and original beauty. Pretty darn impressive.

According to Tim Blanks' review from style.co, Mary Katrantzou had 'been looking at the highly stylized seventies photography of Helmut Newton and Guy Bourdin when it occurred to her that the interiors in the pictures were just as important as the models. "With this collection, I wanted to put the room on the woman, rather than the woman in the room," Katrantzou said after the show. You could say Hussein Chalayan attempted something similar ten years ago, but his pieces were elements of a conceptual performance, while Katrantzou's were desirable clothes to be worn. The fact that they were also surreal masterpieces of the digital printer's craft only made them more seductive.'

And now for a couple more looks because they are, quite simply, fantastic and just a little bit amusing as well. I find it kind of funny how straight-faced the models are. If I was one of them, I'd be pointing features out to the audience with a goofy grin- "look! my chest is a mantelpiece! A mantelpiece!" I guess that's the reason I'm not a model.

All images from style.com

Restructuring my thesis, being led astray by Gaston Bachelard and the fiery blaze of Cy Twombly.

2011-08-22T22:10:00.000+10:00

I restructured my whole thesis in the margins of some other notes last week.

See that inverted triangle? That's my sophisticated chapter plan. One hundred thousand words accounted for by a sketch that looks like a turnip.

It was, however, a very encouraging development. My thesis now has a definite flow and direction and I have made a deal with my supervisor to have chapter one written in three months. (When I typed 'three months' I imagined Ursula the Sea Witch holding up three fingers in front of Ariel- 'Got that? Three days.' I have the entire script of The Little Mermaid memorised (with character voices) and I don't think I'm going to forget it in a hurry.)

I'm writing out all kinds of lovely enmeshed ideas- the intersection of intimacy and immensity on the style blogosphere. The way that clothing is the interface between a corporeal self and the external world, and the parallels between that and the ways bloggers 'dress' their blogs with their dressed selves. How blogs themselves are an interface between bloggers and their worlds, their offline reality and online presence, and spaces that bloggers inhabit, create and negotiate. And so on (and on, and on.) Exciting!

Yet I'm also still reading Bachelard's beautiful Poetics of Space and it is slow going (because his evocative language is so deftly layered, I don't want to miss a thing. Aerosmith?! Where did you come from?) Well, even though it is slow going, and even though it leaves my brain feeling as lively as a cinderblock, the introduction is like a passionate manifesto for poetry and the soul.

Consider this:
"Indeed, the soul ... possesses an inner light, the light that an inner vision knows and expresses in the world of brilliant colours, in the world of sunlight, so that a veritable reversal of psychological perspectives is demanded of those who seek to understand, at the same time that they love (a) painting. They must participate in an inner light which is not a reflection of a light from the outside world. No doubt there are many facile claims to the expressions "inner vision" and "inner light." But here it is a painter speaking, a producer of lights. He knows from what heat source the light comes. He experiences the intimate meaning of the passion for red. At the core of such painting, there is a soul in combat- the fauvism, the wildness, is interior. Painting like this is therefore a phenomenon of the soul. The oeuvre must redeem an impassioned soul."

Marvellous, huh? And also evocative (to me, at least) of the late Cy Twombly's work who, although not a Fauvist, also seemed to paint from an impassioned soul.

And that's how I spent the larger part of today Googling images in the exact shade of red I had on my mind and how I pondered deeply the poetics of the soul... and how my word count stymied. I'm just going to blame Bachelard and his terribly wonderful musings and have done with.

the colour of blushes and blood, of anger and love.

2011-08-22T15:36:00.000+10:00

Coveting.

2011-08-19T13:56:00.044+10:00

I've been torturing myself lately by poring over The Coveteur. I stayed away for the longest time because I well know that, as Adrian said when he looked over my shoulder, "you have champagne tastes on a beer budget." Quite.

But they have featured people that make my breath shorter with (let's just call it what it is) envy. People such as Sally Singer's assistant/fashion writer who received Balmain cast-offs from Vanessa Traina and Teen Voguette Mary-Kate Steinmiller, whose bracelets are an exercise in pre-Proenza lustworthiness. They've even profiled Canadian jewellery designer Maryam Keyhani whose Tumblr is a personal favy dave as regular readers well know.

Sure, it feels a bit voyeuristic to go behind peoples' front doors and snoop at all of their vintage Chanel 2.55s, top hat collections and Alaia shoes, but you quickly became incogniscent of that you come face-to-face with images like this:

It's practically obscene.

So in the interests of turning those hours into something vaguely relating to work (if it goes on Fashademic it's totally PhD related, right?) here is my list of the most gut-wrenchingly, gorge-risingly, evisceratingly lovely things that I would buy if I had a champagne salary at my disposal. They will either break your heart or your wallet, depending on your solvency.

The way the sequins graduate down the bag SLAYS me.

I imagine wearing this jacket + feathered necklace combo would be akin to looking like you have plumage sprouting from your thyroid.

I wants them, precious.

And, The Coveteur, if you're reading this I have lots of suggestions of people who you should Covet. Like Michele Lamy, Hamish Bowles and Christine Centenera. And if you want to feature a fashion-nerdish nobody, may I humbly offer to throw open the doors of my own bedroom. I have Salvatore Ferragamo shoes with the heels torn off by the cobblestones at Sydney University, I have piles of junk stuffed into my huge wardrobe that would only take the right eye to be transformed from 'messy' to 'artistically arranged' and if it's jersey dealbreakers you want- well! Ho ho.

images

On talking about being a fashion researcher.

2011-08-14T12:53:00.002+10:00

Valerie Steele told us this great story during the question time after her talk last Friday.
Whilst she was a grad student at Yale, she attended a cocktail event where a senior academic asked her what she was researching for her PhD. When she replied, "fashion", he reacted enthusiastically, "Oh, how interesting! German or Italian?"

She recalled feeling puzzled: "Italian fashion- you know, I thought of Dolce and Gabbana, Versace, Gucci- but German fashion? Is he talking about Lagerfeld, Jil Sander...?"

Then the penny dropped.

"Not fascism," she replied. "Fashion."

The senior academic looked at her blankly, before turning on his heel and walking away. "And that was the end of the conversation!"

Cue uproarious laughter from the audience.

a very fashademic photodiary

2011-08-11T22:54:00.003+10:00

Knowing how supernaturally gifted I am with a camera, you must be waiting on tenterhooks to see my photodiary from the Sunshine Coast.

However, allow me to gently remind you that save for an impressive effort whilst I travelled the world from Summer '08-Summer '09, my reliability as a visual recorder of events can best be described as "sketchy."

On this trip, as inevitably is the case on all trips I go on, I pack the camera with the best of intentions then forget all about it until the last night away when I suddenly remember, repent and end up taking multiple shots of myself in various poses in hotel hallways/guest bathroom mirror reflections/what have you. I get on the plane, kick back all of the two inches allowed by those Economy seats (love your work, Virgin) and eagerly... realise how supremely lame my documentation of the trip was. Again.

I vowed that this time, this time, things would be different. I would capture a stream of sun-filtered, pretty shots a la the photo diaries of Rumi, Mandy and Sandra. I would have glowing frames of my healthy lunches and uncannily natural looking outfit shots with me lolling in some cool Cali-girl pose outside of GOMA.

All I can say is, I tried.

Can I help it if I don't have the patience to photograph my food before I inhale it? Can I help it that I got a mystery stain on my peach silk pants the very first day I was there? Can I help that the closest I got to 'Cali-girl cool' was twirling in excitement because they had paper, scissors and glue in the kids craft area for us to make Max Ernst-esque collages?

I cannot.

So I offer you what I can:

I looked at the double 'm' and just really wanted it to be a double 'n'. If wishing could make it so...

In which I pose as if I am about to commence downhill skiing.

I call this "Still Life (With Fries.)"

This is a new vintage silk top which reminds me of Gucci Spring 2011 every time I put it on. Worn here with some very short green denim highwaisters courtesy of the early 90s, a dying ponyskin belt and what looks like lycra shorts underneath but which is actually the closest thing to opaques I had in my suitcase. Setting a nationwide standard for style.

A few things:

-McDonalds fries with Sweet and Sour sauce as a taste combination cannot be beat. Fact.

-Adults can get scarily competitive when there are glue sticks and artistic reputations at stake. I saw some things at that kids craft area I won't be forgetting in a hurry.

-Sometimes you can find a Christian Dior cashmere jumper for $15 in a second-hand shop. I found the best way to enjoy said jumper was to make a chocolate packet cake stuffed with melted chocolate and to eat said cake from the baking tin with a spoon, bucket of ice-cream at the ready. Has anyone ever worn Dior while baking a packet cake before?

WE MAY NEVER KNOW.

All photos by me except for a few that are by Jamie Davidson.

cue the beach boys.

2011-08-04T09:34:00.003+10:00

Adios nerds!

I'm flying to Brisbane, Queensland* for five days to hear Dr. Valerie Steele give a talk (which will surely be an exercise in self-control as I try very hard not to gush about how much I love Fashion Theory, the journal she founded and is the editor of), to meet a bunch of other lovely fash-nerds (I'm assuming they're lovely. They research fashion, how could they not be? I mean, really), and then to have a glorious three days of Surrealist art viewin', sun-lovin', friend-catcheruppin', non-theoretical readin' holiday time.

It's going to be grand.

I even packed my bikini, guys, so you know there's some serious beach-time in my immediate future.

Have a great rest of the week/end!

*ps. not sure what Queensland looks like?

IT LOOKS LIKE THIS.