Lackluster escapes

1 Alice McCall

2 and 3 Bassike

4 Flannel

5 Kirrily Johnson

All photos Style Hunter

Runway Six on Wednesday night of the L'Oreal Melbourne Fashion Festival, sponsored by Madison, featured the likes of Alice McCall, Bassike, Flannel, Kirrily Johnston, Life With Bird, Lisa Ho and Morrison.  A somewhat modern selection of looks, the expected exuberance of evening pieces that so often smatter runway shows was overwhelming replaced by minimal daywear.  Despite the opportunity to exhibit elevated looks in the face of a national culture that is resoundingly casual, Runway Six was largely unexciting.

Alice McCall's trademark cut-out detailing was well out in force, and Lisa Ho presented the audience with printed, geometric alternatives to her legendary evening wear.  Both Flannel and Kirrily Johnston, while both possessing their own distinctive styles, merged into forgettable presentations. Although able to pinpoint what their customers want, neither exhibited the revolution or excitement often associated with the change of season or trends.

The stand out of the night however was Bassike's elevated interpretation of basics, which were simply understatedly polished and perfect in structure. Cropped pants and shaped blazers, separate and together, achieved a carefully considered look.  While the uneducated might argue the label goes against the experimental role of the industry all together, Bassike's achievement sits in their ability to reinterpret classics while still retaining their quintessential value.  

Colour-blocking's transition to the head saw models also play with two-tone ponytails, slicked back in a meticulous colour gradient which was distinctive and beautiful.

Perhaps curated to appeal to the everyday consumer in a challenging time for fashion retail, or simply reflecting the intent of designers in a minor misstep, Runway Six was underwhelming.  The allure of the industry and the quality of garments was still there, but the passion and the excitement was not.

stream; two

You don’t know what’s made you question it but it’s there and you’re real, sitting alone and silent as the train cracks towards its destination, your mind and its thoughts lost as quickly as you think you’ve finally captured it all; so it escapes and you can't hold it all because there’s too much to contemplate and you’re racing away within yourself, the scuffed floor filling with your secrets as they pour from your heart, the one that always questions its beat but still loops itself in you; something you can’t even understand but know, or maybe hope, that everyone else feels it at least once inside their breaths, of human emotion and sufficiency; of that time you spent sitting motionless with your head gently tilted towards the stars despite the company, and how when his eyelashes awakened the back of your neck it was all untouchable and you couldn’t stop any of it even if you wanted to, because you were real and you were there, as one, safe despite the day slowly fracturing it; and now you were here, divided, questioning it out of fear or sentiment or the looping thud or something, anything, to convince you that you’re all okay and it’s normal, you’re real, the train cracking down the line, tearing you apart with it.

February 2012.

when the water floods down

Three minutes of liquid suspension film, it's as simple and as complicated as that.  These are stills from the video for The Temper Trap's new song 'Rabbit Hole'; I'm not a huge fan of their music but this has been popping up everywhere I look over the past few days, and it's sublime. I've tried super hard to source the maker of the video but to no avail.  Something I've mentioned before; it's not specifically the context of auteurism but a considered approach to different art forms in the one entity.  That depth I think leaves something missing for the audience to deduce, something that perhaps might not even be there in the first place.  And I mean it just looks cool, amiright? 

stream; one

And when you’ve had enough you close your eyes in the shower and you listen to your muffled heartbeat up your neck and through your ears, each throb biting at you before sliding slowly down your wrists and fingers and off their tips, the water gushing through them like a perfect extension down the drain and as you rest your head on the tiles it becomes all of a sudden too real and sharp-edged but before it all falls away the piecemeal returns of water flowing around your feet and of the flutter in your stomach that split itself without warning; something that you don’t even try to understand except that you’re sure that that was you once, but you can’t remember it through the heat in your cheeks and no matter where you stand the sun seems to be right in your eyes, but its rained for the past two days and you don’t want to think of your limbs forming tired lines of space that run listless behind you like they don’t even belong to you at all because this isn’t you but you can’t help it so you do and it is, your curvature stuck on the white sheets and your body in the opposite corner with your wet hair dripping down the small of your back in fleeting strokes, while the jab high in your ribcage when you breathe becomes more forceful and determined with every inhale but your mind is too slow to catch it so instead you stand there longer and push the cool sharpness all the way down into the depths of your lungs just to remind you that this is real and that you’re okay, your fingers cradling the tissue under your breast and the looping thud of your life.  

November 2011.