grown up

TL-180 Voyageuse passport wallet

Grown-ups take care of their documents. Grown-ups plan ahead. Grown-ups take solo trips. Grown-ups are never caught without a pen. Grown-ups are organised. Grown-ups know what they want. Grown-ups have travel wallets. I want to be a grown-up.

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winter wonderland

one, four and six: looks from Amy Kaehne's A/W 2013 collection: The Name is an Anagram // two and three: nidhi // five: daniella marie // seven: daniella marie // eight: nidhi

Amy Kaehne's latest collection is a dream. It's a winter wonderland, paper bags filled with roasted chestnuts, warm apple cider and empty streets, blanketed in snow. It's the kind of thing I spend my whole life thinking about: warp cardigans to tie around your middle, baggy polka-dot print pants with elasticated waists, talored jackets with batwing sleeves and pockets to rest your hands in. A murky winter colour palette of greys, khakis and beautiful, wine-stained burgundy (my favourite colour!) - are evenings tucked in the cosy corner of brasseries and bistros, drinking carafes of something red and tucking into bracing, warming plates of meaty ragus. The milky beiges of silk shirts and trousers have that white, marshmallow-y quality of winter's hour. They capture those scant few moments at dawn when winter seems truly manageable and the rain and the snow (!!!) and the cold seem supremely unimportant.

Amy just really gets winter. Her past collections of tweedy coats and baggy handknits and silky shirts are mainstays in my wardrobe and have been saviours on trips to the blue mountains and melbourne this year. I can't wait to take my favourite coat (which Amy has re-cut this season in a beautiful striped fabric!) to Paris and London and Tokyo next year. And I can't wait to make winter memories with this collection too. That's the best thing about the way our world works: it's always winter somewhere.

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the end

I really thought Uni was going to be like Love Story. Maybe not the whole death thing, but definitely the college jock and poor girl thing, and definitely the cinched-waist camel coat thing. Couldn't have illustrated this post with anything else, really.

It's my last week of university this week. I just got hit with that realisation, just now. I mean, I've got exams, and I think I'm going to do honours next year - I'm having separation anxiety, I'm not ready to give it up! - but this is the end of my degree. This is the end of carrying around cases of video equipment and the monoliths of obscure french structuralists theorists, this is the end of those awkward icebreaker introductions in tutorials, this is the end of my studies in media and communication and english, this is the end of undergraduate history. I'm aware, quite powerfully aware actually, that next year everything is going to be different. Not as different as I'm worried about - they're telling us that we have to give up our lives to do honours, but I think that me and them and fisher library and my need to go to cafes can work out some visitation rights - but it's going to be different. Honours is supposed to be harder. It's supposed to be more grown up. Gone are attendance marks and essay outlines. Now is the summer of our discontent.

I was talking with one of my oldest friends the other day about our first day at university. We both remember it so clearly. We got up extra early to catch the bus so we wouldn't get lost, we got off one stop early because we weren't sure, we told a stranger on campus that it was our first day, we spent an hour before either of us had class mapping out our entire day, walking each other from building to building. We were so green, young and fresh like spring grass, so excited and eager and with canvas tote bags full of new things. First year moved seamlessly into second, more raucous and messy. Going to class with wet hair. Third year was grown up and sophisticated. I met friends for coffee and cigarettes. I studied at night in the library. Fourth year has been a bit of a shambles. It feels like I've hardly spent any time at uni this year - which I know isn't true - I feel like I haven't learnt anything. I feel like I'm not ready yet. I feel as shy and confused as I did on that first day, sitting alone at the back in lectures, not sure if you could bring a water bottle into your tute. 

I went looking through my archives - with some trepidation - searching for a post that I thought I had done about finishing up school. It turns out that I didn't write one. It feels so weird, almost like going back in time, to click the buttons and bring up those posts from 2008. Some of them are so silly, the words of a 17 year old who thought she knew so much. But then I found this. And reading it again gave me a lump in my throat. I really can't believe that was more than four years ago, that more than four years ago I was so sure that I would go to sydney university, and I was so excited, and that I could hardly hold it in. I'm not sure if I even thought about the end at the beginning, I rarely do. I focus so hard on the short term that I often forget about the long term completely. Well, I'm at the end now, and I'm thinking about the beginning. I'm thinking about my friends from school, and how to move on, and how to stay the same, and how to lose nothing and gain everything. I know that something has to go. But I'm not ready. Not quite yet.

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cinematic style - Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris

 screencaps

I saw this three times at the cinema. Three times. And it wasn't enough. It's one of those movies that speaks to you instantly - speaks to so many people - that opening montage of Parisian streets, those wide, far-reaching boulevards that everyone knows, without even a shred of doubt, are in Paris, the lovers kissing on bridges, those blue skies, the way the light falls, golden and honey-hued on everything. I saw it firstly for an amazing PR event put on by Katerina, celebrating a French lingerie brand's launch in Australia, then I saw it with Rachel, a fellow Paris-lover, who was as wide-eyed as me, dreaming of a world with Si Tu Vois Ma Mere as the constant soundtrack. The third time, though, was the best. With my mum - the world's ultimate francophile - the person for whom this kind of film was made. Art and history, Versailles and Giverny, Hemingway and Fitzgerald... Midnight in Paris.

It's funny how Woody Allen movies always seem to present different or even maybe idealised versions of the same self. Men in Woody Allen movies always have a crisp, J-Crew kind of look to them, they're hapless and neurotic and a bit lost, wearing their too-long chinos with thick leather belts and polo shirts tucked in. It's endearing, it's the look of a man dressed by his mother (if the mother ran the country club with a pearl-clad fist). I was watching To Rome With Love the other day, Allen's latest paean to a foreign city, and I was reminded by how much all of his more recent movies look the same. Vicky Christina Barcelona, Midnight in Paris and now this one - they all share that same summer shimmer, that same light, irreverent touch, that same nonchalant, masculine styling. The comparison between Lea Seydoux in this movie - who has a beautiful wardrobe of high-waisted denim and blush coloured shirts, but she's only in 3 scenes so I couldn't really justify doing a whole cinematic style on her, maybe something else though - and Gerta Gerwig in To Rome With Love was so striking. It's as if Diane Keaton walked out of Manhattan and into Incu or Bloodorange and started wearing Acne and K.Jacques. It's startling, and it's kind of a bit telling to look at.

But, back to Owen Wilson. I love the palette of his wardrobe in this movie - the beiges and the greys at first, and then the more daring reds and mint greens and even a bit of a pattern later. I love how relaxed it is; a true writer, solitary and simple. I love how he seems to always be wearing that one pair of chinos and that wide leather belt, and how it's so similar to what Lea Seydoux wears, you're just desperate for them to get together - even over the radiant Marion Cotillard, and the radiantly bitchy Rachel Mcadams (so spoilt for choice). And I love how the simplicity and the preppiness of this wardrobes allows Gill's quirky, slightly neurotic humour and personality to shine through. He was the perfect person for this part, he always seems to have that dazed, wide-eyed look, like he's not quite sure what's going on. It works so well in this scene (and how great is Corey Stoll, hamming it up as the Hemingway with all of the stereotypes and all of those long, grammar-less sentences that we knew existed), and really in the whole film. The slightly too-long pants and the low-slung belts have just the right amount of childishness about them to make all those stunned gazes and those disbelieving stammers work. And it's so relateable, not because we all want to time travel back to the time of hemingway, and not because everyone wishes they had met picasso. It's believable because those stunned gazes and those disbelieving stammers are exactly what we all do when we're in Paris in summer, and everything is just so, so beautiful.

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traveller

 source

I want to explore. Give me land, lots of land under starry skies above. I want open roads and horizons that are always one day away. I want something new. I want places that I haven't visited with people that I don't know. I want one way tickets and overnight trains. I want packed suitcases. I want python leather perfume dispensers. I want a passport filled with stamps. I want the keys to an apartment that's all my own. I want no routine. I want to see things, really see them. I want to forget about books and lectures and eastern ave and tutorials. I want to make my own way. And I want to start now.

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la marinière

Armor-Lux bretons from The Standard Store - The original and the best.

The first one was an impulse buy, and you didn't really think too much about it. It was raining and you rushed in because you were cold and you bought something to warm you up. That's life. The second one was more considered, an out-of-the-way trip to find a present and you walked out with something for yourself. Woops. The third one was planned. You asked them for it, and they delivered (and how!). It was even better than you imagined: the comfiest thing you own, something you haven't taken off for three days straight. It's so easy it's as if you're not wearing anything at all. Bretons are, to me, ringers-in of spring. Slip into one and you're sleeping lightly under jacaranda trees, eating mangoes barefoot, buying flowers from the market. I prefer my bretons extra wide, with lots of room to breathe. I shrug them on over denim or cropped trousers and I don't even have to think about it. In Spring, and then in Summer, I like to wear clothes that don't require any thought at all. They don't need you to plan ahead, they don't need you to co-ordinate accessories. I like clothes that you can pull out of the cupboard in the morning 15 minutes before you leave.

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braces

one: turned out // two: badlands x confident liar

"I hate them."

"They're not that bad!"

"You're only saying that because you feel sorry for me. And besides, you've never had braces, so how would you know?"

It was true. I had never had braces. I was lucky I had teeth that were straight and simple and not too fussy. I was in year 9 and all of my friends had metal wires and funny coloured bits and pieces clamped on their teeth. Some were pink, or orange, or blue. I felt like I was missing out on something. It seems kind of silly now, especially with a little brother who has just had his put on, and who cried himself to sleep on the first night, but they kind of seemed like they might be fun. Braces en rose, like a Teen Vogue editorial, on a girl with good skin in a luella dress with a sweetheart neckline. Braces were ice cream sundaes for lunch.

 It was only when faced with the actual, real, tangible prospect of having them that it became clear that I didn't really want them, not even a little bit, not at all. When the dentist surveyed some minor problem in the bottom of my mouth (which right now has reared its ugly head as wisdom tooth debacle, great timing, teeth) and said, grim-faced to my mum that I might need braces I bolted upright in the dentist's chair and almost yelled out NO. Braces would mean no more spiders at Mickeys, no more smoothies after school, no more redskins at Saturday sport (which, let's face it, was probably the root of all problems). I wasn't going to give those up, not for any sweetheart neckline dress or pink-stained lips fantasy. At 15 I realised, as I would time and time and countless times again, that the reality was always so much better than the fiction.

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cosy

style by kling

The world works in funny, mysterious ways. Today in my French history lecture my professor talked about how when a socialist president came to power in 1981 there was an exodus of capital from the country, with major entrepreneurs leaving France for more viable, free economy shores. One such person was Paul Marciano, one quarter of a family run fashion business who packed up their bags and moved to America when Francois Mitterand came to power. Their company was called Guess. And in that same lecture, while I was listening very hard and writing lots of notes of course, I stumbled across this picture of Elin Kling, wearing her much talked about oversized sweater from her collaboration collection with - of course - Guess. So, as you can see, Professor, I was paying lots of attention and learning loads!

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love

 one // two // three

One of my best friends has a Cartier love bracelet. It's golden and simple and true, it doesn't mess around and it never leaves her wrist. It has history - as all love bracelets ought to have if they possibly can, this isn't the kind of thing you can buy for yourself, at least not when you're 21 and they cost $4000 - and significance, and it was a bitch to get on: the both of us sitting on my bed, me twisting her arm around so I could get that tiny little screw driver into the hinge. We must have looked funny, the two of us, an unlikely pair. But it hasn't changed my love of the bracelet. One day, not now but one day (maybe on the same day I stroll up to the Repossi boutique in the place Vendome and buy myself a diamond-encrusted ear cuff) I'll have a Cartier love bracelet. It's an old idea, that you should wear something that's locked to you to show that you're someone else's. I'm not sure I agree with that, not really, not even in the depths of my romanticism. My friend actually got hers from her father, and I've got another who received one from a sister and vice versa. Wearing something that celebrates love, because you love it, because someone loves you, now that I can get behind.

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ballet shoes

I've been wearing ballet shoes a lot recently, and re-acquainting myself with their dainty, delicate selves, after a few months of loafers, boots and sneakers. There's something really lovely about tapered pants and ballet flats - it's like Audrey Hepburn is looking down on us and smiling. It's a comfort thing - as most things I do are - but it's also about style. I love the line from ballet shoe to ankle, from ankle to pant, from pant to oversized sweater. It's a gloriously elegant line, straight and true.

 A Detacher coat // Acne tee shirt // Van Rycke necklace from My Chameleon // HOPE sweater // Porselli x APC ballet flats // Wood Wood jeans // Isabel Marant bracelet // Me & Ro bracelet // Saskia Diex bracelet // Benah large zip wallet from my chameleon

 Organic by John Patrick trench coat // COS sweater // Me & Ro necklace // Linda Farrow glasses // NARS Greta lip treatment // Byredo La Tulipe // Sofia Coppola x Louis Vuitton bag // A.P.C chinos // Repetto ballet flats // Araks bra-lette and knickers

Zero + Maria Cornejo coat // Acne tee shirt // La Garconne Moderne sweater // Diptyque Philosykos // Porselli x A.P.C ballet flats // HOPE new trousers from My Chameleon // Cartier Love bracelet // Michael Kors watch // Celine phantom bag

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the one

just jared

Just when I need it the most, inspiration strikes in the form of Ashley Olsen, resplendent in The Row and straight leg jeans. How she does it - make things that are kind of wrong, like stripey fur jackets or camouflage totes all scrunched up in the hand - seem so right I'll never know. I want to be her.

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smile like you mean it

 self service

A good designer should always inspire you - or at the very least, comfort you - even when you have not even the smallest desire to buy their clothes. It's like that with Dries Van Noten and sometimes even Celine, but I find that for me the designer that operates most in this sphere is Isabel Marant. I adore Isabel Marant. I worship her. I love her older collections and cherish the pieces of hers that I own. I've found that her items are always the ones that I pack first for a trip overseas; I just can't live without them. Tweedy overcoats. Suede ankle boots. Oatmeal sweaters. Her stuff has that inimitable quality that renders them instantly classic, instantly signature, instantly indispensable. Even - or perhaps because - of the hype, it's like you've discovered an old friend. Isabel Marant clothes are designed to be loved.

All this, and her past couple of collections have left me completely cold. Of course, Isabel is often best off the runway: the Etoile chunky sweaters that pop up in stores, the repeat styles that never make it onto the catwalk, the silky shirt that looked so, well, plain on Arizona Muse becomes wonderful on the hanger at a local boutique. It takes a couple of views to warm up to it, and sometime you never warm up to it at all. But a good designer should always inspire you - or at the very least, comfort you - even when you have not even the smallest desire to buy their clothes. Partly because I have all the good memories of Isabel past and partly because, even though I have no wish - no wish at all - to run around town in ruched lurex mini dresses and chandelier earrings, I always love looking at her collections. Partly because - and this makes her a good designer, despite what anyone says - you can find something great in every corner; some beautiful embellishment, some combination of colours, some beautifully rendered print. But also because she designs for a world that everyone wants to be a part of. A world of glamorous travel and champagne breakfasts and girls who aren't afraid to wear jeans to a party. These pictures show it best. The Isabel girl has great hair and clear skin and, more than anything, she's radiantly, glowingly happy. That's truly inspiring.

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Shopbop giveaway!

le 21-eme

I loved the Alexander Wang show this season. It was modern and urban like always, but it was also so, so sexy. It was like the Wang girl had grown up a bit, ditched her ballayaged hair and denim cut offs and headed out to a fancy dinner at The Standard in a slashed mini dress. I loved it. It actually has renewed my interest in Alexander Wang, and I went to scour the selection of Alexander Wang sweaters and bags at Shopbop. They've also got some Alexander Wang sale at Shopbop at the moment... until next March when the new collections start trickling in there's still plenty to look at.

The kind people at Shopbop have teamed up with me again to give away a $100 gift card to one of my readers! All you have to do is become a fan of Shopbop on facebook, and follow me either on Bloglovin or Google connect. Leave a comment when you've done that so I know, as well as your email address so I can contact you if you win. And let me know what you'll be spending the voucher on! I'll be drawing the prize at 8PM EST on October 28th, so you have 10 days to enter. Good luck!

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EDIT: Giveaway closed! Will be drawing the winner shortly.

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sweetest thing

one and five - into the gloss // two and six - kinfolk // three and eight - laduree x lanvin by me // four and seven - Chloe S/S 2013 by Purple Diary

I may not dress like it, but I do love sweet, pretty things. At least to look at. Side fringes, rosy cheeks and a box of the prettiest, prettiest macarons ever. It's a hot weather thing. It's a Kirsten Dunst in Wimbledon thing. And it's a Laduree thing.

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