Video killed the radio star

Long before the days when The Devil Wears Prada entered the everyday lexicon and before Lauren pretended to intern at Teen Vogue, I dreamed of finally growing up and joining the shimmering mirage of media and magazines.  In one of my many media internships, I chanced upon a high up staff member who had worked everywhere from The London Review of Books to the Economist and was one of the editorial directors of an incredibly prestigious, “wow” brand type of magazine.  In the most diplomatic way she could, she basically advised me, the young, eager and willing upstart, to look for a career elsewhere.  Obviously it wasn’t because of my less than burgeoning talent in picking up coffees or running errands – necessary jobs of an intern, and something you cannot stuff up.  Instead, it was more along the lines of her likening the magazine industry to dinosaurs.

Now the whole “oh, old media is dying, new media is taking over the world” kind of gist isn’t new of course.  What is frustrating however is that the traditional media seems more or less unwilling to change, instead they seem to be taking the passive angst route, where they sit silently, and bite their fingernails while waiting for their imminent death.

The way she wore

I like the Obamas as much as the next (non-extremist-right-wing) person.  Barack seems like a decent guy on an amazing run on his own, without any underhanded jokes concerning his performance in comparison to Bush.  Michelle I like too.  She’s statuesque, Amazonian, incredibly photogenic and is just as accomplished as her husband. Now I realise that it’s Barack who’s the president, but I would have hoped that our definition and understanding of a First Lady would have evolved with the times.  

Now, I love clothes and fashion and I’m of the ilk that understands that clothing is a means of expression.  I wouldn’t go so high-falutin’ saying it’s art (hasn’t Any Warhol taught us anything?) but the constant obsession on Michella Obama’s clothing is odd. Disturbing.  Frustrating.  I’m not saying it’s completely wrong and unfounded.  The way costume is utilised in art is truly riveting (says the Art History major…).  Art works depict members of court as literally being moulded into their status and rank – the fact that the French liked a bit more cleavage in their dress than the more prudish Spanish with their massive stiff hooped skirts belies more than just colour and fabric preferences. The role of art history and theory in analysing dress is that they also consider the context and background.  With Michelle Obama, it seems like there’s such an intense focus on what she’s wearing that all her other accomplishes are disregarded.

It is fascinating to an extent to see that she’ll pull out that Junya Watanabe on her European tour, but sticks to Michael Kors stateside, just as how Jackie Kennedy diligently wore American clothes in favour of her beloved Parisian designers, all in the name of patriotism (and good press).

Complacency is the Anathema to Progress: An Open Letter to My Homeland

It is easy for me, as a second generation Filipino-Australian, to sit atop my high horse and dispense commentary on the political, social, and economic conditions of a country that I have little first hand experience with. And, it is easy for me to tell my kababayans to resist their first impulse to become nurses, which would make them eligible for skilled workers visas. Yet such is the situation in my homeland. However, I am self-aware enough to understand that whatever I may say is insulting to the people who are currently there, and work tirelessly to “fix” the current state of affairs. After all, this is merely the simplistic observation of an outsider.

And, yet, this — being an outsider — is something I feel I have always been.

I was — am — restless. When I was younger, I straddled two cultures that were often in conflict with one another; ever burdened by being a double-barrelled Australian: a ‘Fil-Oz’. This identity crisis manifested itself into my burgeoning wanderlust — as an Antipodean, so isolated from the world, it was inevitable. So, with Kerouacian aplomb, I attempted to find myself. It was a journey that took me to interesting locales in Europe, the beaches of Hawaii, the bustling streets of Shanghai, and (twice!) to the Philippines.

But it was not just fellow Australians I came across overseas. It’s self-explanatory as to who else I met when I say: It’s surreal to eat dinuguan in Barcelona, and to know that somewhere, out there in the world, at any one time, Wowowee is being watched by an overseas worker or migrant, reminding them of home. There is something quite fantastic about that, and yet so implicitly disheartening, too.