Australia: So who the bloody hell are you?

It always makes me cringe with second hand embarrassment when people compare Melbourne to Europe without irony; that people think Australian cities are even comparable to some of the major European ones makes me snort. Apparently the differences between Sydney and Melbourne — in culture, fashion, music, lifestyle – are vast and many.

I’m no snob, I love Australia, I love Sydney, and Melbourne charmed me when I visited, but to be quite honest they’re both much of the same, really. (I.e. There are wankers in both cities.) The only difference is Sydney has the ‘big city’ feel that I crave in a city, which gives it more of a dynamism; but it also comes with many of the big city problems.

Regardless, this rivalry does reveal something about the Australian consciousness which I think is a shame: this desire to be something else, to be comparable to something else. Sydney is apparently a global city — so much so it’s been dubbed the ‘Harbour City’. Melbourne would rather die than be compared similarly to its popular, older sister and has decided she’ll forge its own identity as the younger, ‘precocious’ sibling with a chip on her shoulder and something to prove.

You know it's true. And Tasmania is Alice.

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.

The Whores of War

Rape. It’s a great, feel-good topic of discussion, isn’t it? Sexual assault isn’t really considered dinner table conversation. While ‘Sex’ is everywhere, and talked about quite openly, sexual assault is that retarded cousin you go to school with but don’t acknowledge in the hallways. It’s embarrassing, a source of shame, and with it comes equal parts sympathy and revulsion. So much so that even victims of sexual assault don’t talk about it; and, sadly, in many cases, don’t report it either.

But how about incidents of sexual assault that everyone knows about but ignores? How about sexual assault as a policy of government? How about sexual assault used as a weapon of war?

Amnesty International report that rape is being used as a military strategy; and it was in Rwanda that acts of sexual violence against Tutsi women were legitimised by government backed, Hutu military leaders through organised propaganda. As a means in which to break the morale of their enemy and increase their own, loot their enemy’s prized possessions, taint the women’s standing in their villages and tribes thereby interrupting their social structures, and to spread AIDS and other STIs. These women were raped, in the most disgusting ways imaginable, solely because of their gender and ethnicity.

When these facts came to light, the world made like Helen Lovejoy and collectively gasped, flabbergasted by the indecency and the inhumanity of it all.  But this wasn’t the first instance of rape used in war. Rape and war have been linked since antiquity. Like most — if not all — cases of sexual assault, rape was used to exert dominance and power. This war is a silent one.

How to be photographed by the Sartorialist.

Personally, I’m more of a Garance Dore girl myself.

Minor internet celebrity, Style.com favourite, top of the Street Style hierarchy and every socialite

 

Here’s a quick how to:

1. Don’t wear black.

2. Following from 1. Don’t be tempted to pull out that little Seduce dress that you bought for your year 12 formal after party, no matter how like, omg so totally hot you think it is, even though that sleazy doorman at Dragonfly hit on you in it in like, 2003.  Not cool.

Uni — ooh! ah! — what is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Well, actually…

The other day in my tutorial we were discussing the “culture” of the current university I’m completing my Masters in. After much discussion and comparisons with our undergrad experiences at other universities, a few themes revealed themselves. Apart from the Fail Boat that University Administration seemed to find themselves sailing in, the most common observation about the culture of the university was that it was focused on churning out “well-rounded professionals”, as opposed to liberal Arts wankers who could wax poetically about Baudrillard and simulacra, but couldn’t lodge a tax return to save their life.

 

Arts Degrees: Please take one.

Law School: You Got Served

 So tomorrow is a big day for me.  After a year’s respite in the Arts department, I return to Law School.  This morning I wandered into the kitchen clutching a 1000 page textbook called Land Law by someone called Butt (which incidentally is where I’d rather shove this book than read it).  My mother smiled and tried to reassure me.

  ”Look at it this way – you only have two years to go!”

  The cyanide tooth option is looking pretty good right now.  But, I am nothing if not an optimist.  So in the hope of inspiring myself, I called a lifeline – one of my favorite law friends, who is almost completely not-crazy (although her eye does occasionally twitch when she’s studying for exams).

Death of the Flower Child

 

Fight your impulse to make out with the man

So I have a confession to make: I hang out with a lot of squares.  Perhaps it’s because of my first day back at work after a blissful six week break, but I suddenly feel the urge to comment on the strange trend I find in my day-to-day friends and acquaintances.  As the specter of unemployment haunts our city streets, it seems that the young twenty-something year old is suddenly convinced that at any moment they could be exiled from their computer console in their corporate jobs and thrust into the no-man’s-land of…well…retail, I suppose.  

  Not only does it seem like every young part-time corporate hack is living in constant fear that the dagger over their heads will drop, but they seem to be thanking their lucky stars for their status as Office Bitch.  Perhaps it is the now very real prospect of unemployment at the tail end of a five or six year university slog, but it just seems that the days of picking up your backpack and taking to the road seems less and less likely.