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cinematic style - Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain
So you know how you know who your first crush was? The one whose poster you plastered all over your walls, the one you fell asleep looking at, the one you secretly (or not so secretly) planned to marry. 'My future husband' you would say. It almost doesn't matter who it is. It could be Leo, it could be a Backstreet Boy, it could be Seth Cohen (a thousand teenage girls of the noughties sigh). Well, for me, that first crush, last crush, always crush was Jake Gyllenhaal. Oh Jake. You have no idea how bad it gets. I wish I knew how to quit you. Not even when my friends tell me that his eyes are too close together (on the weekend, while in an absolute dive bar, my oldest bud said to me 'look I'm not saying that if he took his clothes off in front of me I'd say no, but seriously, on a scale of one to cyclops he's like a 7, maybe 7.5'). Not ever. I have loved him since Donnie Darko. I saw Prince of Persia three times in the cinema. And don't even get me started on Love and Other Drugs...
I remember seeing Brokeback Mountain. I remember falling in love. I remember double denim. I remember crying so hard I thought people might ask me to leave. At the 2006 Oscars I remember wanting so bad for Brokeback to win the best picture award. I remember feeling gutted when it didn't. But there was Heath and Michelle (in that dress!) and Ang's speech and Jake being hilarious. My sixteen year old self wondered how such a beautiful, haunting, overwhelming film could miss out on the top honour. A slave to awards shows even then, I had not yet realised how political they could be. I still had stars in my eyes. I'm lucky that that first realisation didn't kill the whole enterprise. I laughed along with the rest of them at 36mafia 1, Scorsese 0. I hoped, rather than knew, Ang Lee's (and Heath's and Jake's) time would come. I remember crying like a baby when Heath died, thinking the whole time of this.
What's so good about this wardrobe? it's the cowboy thing, firstly. I've always been drawn to a good felt hat and have recently adopted double denim as my unofficial wardrobe of spring. Shearling I know well. But what I am drawn to at the moment is the whole 70s vibe. I have recently watched a few movies set in the 70s (Rush, Jobs), and god, it was a sexy era. The open shirts, the tight jeans, the big belts, the big hair. Men looked masculine. They acted masculine too - rode horses, smoked cigarettes, punched things - but most of all they looked the part in their denim and shearling and shirts. I think the normalcy of the wardrobe in this does much to advance character development. The torment of the Ennis and Jack is only heightened by their relative anonymity. They look the part, they just can't act it. That tension between reality and fiction, the tension of living a lie, is always the major theme I take away from the film. I think the costumes express that tension so, so admirably.
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kinfolk
Next week me and Rachel are going to a kinfolk lunch. Are we excited? Oh yeah. Are we ready? Ready for new friends at a shared table, for Kangaroo Valley in all its sweet simplicity, for the picturesque, for the exquisite, for the spectacular, for the kind of afternoon that we dream of? Oh yeah. We were born ready.
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don't worry, be happy.
Margot Robbie in Vogue Australia November 2013, styled by Stevie Dance
Okay, things are about to get a little bit silly. Things to do if you want to be instantly, irrevocably happy. Watch About Time. Listen to Kiss You (I said silly!!). Read The Rosie Project. Go to The Noodle Markets. Eat popsicles. Think big.
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on the end
This post has been in the works for a while. You could even say it's been in the works for five years. Five long-but-oh-so-short years of my degree. Five years of sore shoulders, five years of smudged nail polish, five years of bad coffee and burnt noses. Five years of studying in the nooks and crannies of old forgotten buildings on campus, five years of running for the bus, five years of making friends with girls who had designer handbags in lectures (there are worse things, right?). When I sat back to think about it, and I mean really think about it, recently, I worked out that this is the first time since I was four (four!!!!) that I haven't been studying. I started school at four, I moved through junior to high until I was eighteen, I went straight into university without a gap year. The result has been eighteen continuous years of education. So really, you could say this post has been in the works for eighteen years. Eighteen long-but-oh-so-short years.
Saying that my education is over would not be strictly true, it would be like saying that no-one could possibly learn outside the classroom, and we all know that to be false. But this is the end of formal education, or at least it is from where I stand right now, and even if I start studying later (I feel like my life is peppered with 'even ifs' at the moment) it's going to be different. Right now I feel this odd sensation of rudderlessness, combined with the lingering thrill of the adrenaline rush I was running on all of last week after handing in my thesis, the ever-present fear of the future only compounded by the dreaded 'and what are you going to do next?' question, and the dull thud of exhaustion pulsating in the background. I spent all of last week catching up on my sleep debt, cooking lunch for my mum and reading. Unsurprisingly, I still feel like a student. I wonder when that feeling goes away? When you get a job? When your life starts to come together? And when is that going to happen, hmmm?
What can I say. I have just finished five years of university and come out on the other side unscathed, but also resolutely unemployed. I studied journalism and spent most of my degree sure in the knowledge that that was what I wanted to do, but now I'm not so sure, or at least I'm not so sure that the traditional, tried-and-tested way I wanted to go about it is the best way. I'm going away to America for a bit and that will take care of some of my anxiety and idleness, but there is still that worry, that nagging fear, that concern about what is going to happen when I come back, and after that after that, every day for the rest of your life. It's not supposed to be easy, I know that. It wouldn't be called 'life' if it was supposed to be a walk in the park. So yes, I am scared. Or to be more correct, I'm nervous. But, for me, nervousness has always walked hand in hand with excitement. How do you know if the butterflies in your stomach are floundering or flying? I wish I had an answer for people - and for myself - better than 'I have no idea' but I've always thought honesty was the best policy. I don't have a grand master plan. Sometimes I wish that I did. But the rest of the time I realise that not having a grand master plan is actually a blessing in disguise. I didn't go through eighteen long-but-oh-so-short years of education to jump headfirst into the next long-but-oh-so-short phase of the rest of my life. So here's to the future - my future! - in whatever form it takes, and no matter how long it takes for me to get there. I've got time. In fact, I've got a lot of it. I've got every day for the rest of my life. And that's scary, yes, but my god, isn't that exciting!
X
Saying that my education is over would not be strictly true, it would be like saying that no-one could possibly learn outside the classroom, and we all know that to be false. But this is the end of formal education, or at least it is from where I stand right now, and even if I start studying later (I feel like my life is peppered with 'even ifs' at the moment) it's going to be different. Right now I feel this odd sensation of rudderlessness, combined with the lingering thrill of the adrenaline rush I was running on all of last week after handing in my thesis, the ever-present fear of the future only compounded by the dreaded 'and what are you going to do next?' question, and the dull thud of exhaustion pulsating in the background. I spent all of last week catching up on my sleep debt, cooking lunch for my mum and reading. Unsurprisingly, I still feel like a student. I wonder when that feeling goes away? When you get a job? When your life starts to come together? And when is that going to happen, hmmm?
What can I say. I have just finished five years of university and come out on the other side unscathed, but also resolutely unemployed. I studied journalism and spent most of my degree sure in the knowledge that that was what I wanted to do, but now I'm not so sure, or at least I'm not so sure that the traditional, tried-and-tested way I wanted to go about it is the best way. I'm going away to America for a bit and that will take care of some of my anxiety and idleness, but there is still that worry, that nagging fear, that concern about what is going to happen when I come back, and after that after that, every day for the rest of your life. It's not supposed to be easy, I know that. It wouldn't be called 'life' if it was supposed to be a walk in the park. So yes, I am scared. Or to be more correct, I'm nervous. But, for me, nervousness has always walked hand in hand with excitement. How do you know if the butterflies in your stomach are floundering or flying? I wish I had an answer for people - and for myself - better than 'I have no idea' but I've always thought honesty was the best policy. I don't have a grand master plan. Sometimes I wish that I did. But the rest of the time I realise that not having a grand master plan is actually a blessing in disguise. I didn't go through eighteen long-but-oh-so-short years of education to jump headfirst into the next long-but-oh-so-short phase of the rest of my life. So here's to the future - my future! - in whatever form it takes, and no matter how long it takes for me to get there. I've got time. In fact, I've got a lot of it. I've got every day for the rest of my life. And that's scary, yes, but my god, isn't that exciting!
X
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so cool
What made him so cool? Was it the way he carried books; gripped by the spine, resting on his shoulder? Was it the fact that he had stubble always, even after he shaved? Was it the way he would lean back on one arm and look at you and not say anything at all? You remember so much about it, you remember how it started and how it ended, you remember every glass of wine and every keystroke. You remember the sound of his door opening. You wish you could forget the sound of it closing. But when you saw him, that first time, that last time, what made him so cool? Was it the hair, the jeans, the white tee shirt, the smile? Was it the way he held a pint of beer? Was it his name, his stories, his laugh? There really was something about him. You hadn't met anyone so cool. And he really was. When you think about, and I mean, really think about it, you know it was, more than anything else, that leather jacket, the way it creased at the elbows, the little tear at the collar, the pockets you put your hands in when it got cold, the zip you played with while watching the trailers at the cinema, the smell - that particular smell of oil and cigarettes that all motorcycle jackets have - and the way it felt when you put it on.
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the only
'Almost overnight she had become beautiful. She had grown from a small darting-about figure to a gliding, drifting, fuller one. It was a speckled beauty. She was so covered in small brown-black moles she attracted men, every sort of man. These few too many birthmarks of the first-born tipped the balance of her face and throat: men felt free to wander their eyes all over, across the pale spaces and back again to the factual dots, the way a full stop brings to a halt a meandering sentence. And she allowed it, her face was unresisting, she didn't seem to notice them. So the men felt unstoppable, going from one point to the next, even under her chin and back to the one touching her top lip, and it was as if they were running their eyes over every part of her nakedness.'
Murray Bail, Eucalyptus
Sienna Miller in Elle US November 2013
Oh Sienna. Always my favourite, no matter what, especially in catbird rings and knee high socks and draped languorously across comfy armchairs. Proof that the best things get better with age. Proof that blondes really do have more fun. Proof that it really does help to look that good. With every picture I can't quite get over how beautiful she is. The enchanting porcelain beauty of an Austen heroine. It's a beauty you never want to stop looking at.
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happy snaps
How do we remember? In snapshots or feelings or the shadow of a movement long forgotten? What happened casually remains.
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soon
Thesis is due on Friday. I might be a bit MIA this week, only because it's crunch time and I'm starting to feel the stress. The stress but also the impending, almost-there, just-not-yet feeling of elation mixed with exhaustion of finishing uni. It's finally here. In just four days I'll be sitting outside in the sun, hopefully nursing a really, really, really big alcoholic drink, laughing about how tired I am. Wish me luck!!!
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more
I want more piercings! There's something very chic about a row of delicate piercings snaking their way up your ear. Someone needs talk me out of it... Until then, congratulations to Kate Ford, Modette, Mermaid78, Marnie and Rachhud who are the winners of the Gatsby giveaway! Thanks for all your Gatsby inspiration. I love hosting giveaways so please keep checking back over the next few weeks!
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left alone
'How hard it is, to be forced to the conclusion that people should be, nine tenths of the time, left alone! - When there is that in me that longs for absolute commitment. One of the poem-ideas I had was that one could respect only the people who knew that cups had to be washed up and put away after drinking, and knew that a Monday of work follows a Sunday in the water meadows, and that old age with its distorting-mirror memories follows youth and its raw pleasures, but that it's quite impossible to love such people, for what we want in love is release from our beliefs, not confirmation in them. That is where the 'courage of love' comes in - to have the courage to commit yourself to something you don't believe, because it is what - for the moment, anyway - thrills you by its audacity. (Some of the phrasing of this is odd, but it would make a good poem if it had any words...)'
Philip Larkin, Letters to Monica
Some people found the Stella McCartney show boring. A letdown. Not me. And maybe this quote doesn't quite work but I thought it summed up well how I feel about fashion at the moment and how I feel about Stella McCartney. That sometimes it's nice to be left alone. And that these beliefs of yours - to wear baggy clothes, and simple things, and no make up, as well as to wash the cups and work hard - are yours, habits and convictions formed over years of knowing yourself and becoming comfortable in your skin. It is something of Zoe's letting it settle, of taking a breather. I remember when I used to do Public Speaking the coach used to say how important the pauses were. 'They're almost more important than the speech itself,' he would say. 'Because a pause lets the speech sink in.' Stella McCartney is like one big pause for the whole industry. She doesn't always get it right, but there's something about her conviction that makes up for the mistakes. Left alone, this is the kind of stuff that I would wear all the time. So simple, so clean. So fresh, yes, fresh even in its simplicity. The problem with fashion lies in this innate, ingrained search for the new. How tired that phrase seems, now.
X
ps. don't forget to enter my Gatsby giveaway!
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