though i confess that i covet some celebrities’ style so much that i frequently claim that i want to ‘fucking cut off their skin and wear them’ i’ve never been much good at being a loyal follower of anyone In particular. quite simply my attention span mirrors that of a goldfish. nonetheless the idea of profiling is a writing style that i like. so here i go with the amalgamation of visuals, love and many-a-personal joke type description.
ooli (as her alter ego is so aptly named), isn’t a celebrity, (though she sure as shit should be) but is the one person, out of all the people i know who claim to be similar to carrie bradshaw who actually is. i’ve stolen that sentence directly from her mouth. she used it to address me, but, in contrast to her vision of me perched all bradshaw-esque at my window sill, tap-tap-tapitying away at my lap top, chain smoking, sipping an espresso martini and inhaling banana chips (yeh thats right 3 hands – que pasa bitches?) leg up on the desk, dressed in some amazingly ridiculous outfit of sparkly grandma bloomers, a basketball singlet and happily whiling away the hours deep in analytical virgo thought about ‘black hearts’ or ‘the death of chivalry’… my vision of her is interwoven with bradshaw’s by her wardrobe, though i like to think of ooli’s wardrobe more like a treasure box.
in actual fact victoria (the aforementioned ooli) presents nothing like bradshaw but it is her utter disregard for rules (both societal or style) and reckless abandon with which she approaches dressing that links them together.
having met victoria overseas and travelled to many a dusty paradise our friendship has evolved over countless primping, outfit assembling, fashion angel sessions. despite the obvious restrictions that travel places on you in terms of rules of practicality and following weight guidelines on aeroplanes victoria heeds none and apologises just as often. her ‘bags’ (multiple) spew out the most bizarre, wonderful and ludicrous items of ‘clothing’ imaginable; denim overalls, skirts, skorts, maxi dresses, mini dresses, ponchos, genie pants, boy’s t-shirts, one-zies, promo shirts from EVERY bar in town, body suits, scuba suits, drances, and more bikinis than you can find at bondi on a summers day. and i say ‘clothing’ because it doesn’t stop there…somewhere she manages to find room for flat brimmed caps, suspenders, platformed sneakers, head wreaths woven from plastic flowers, bandanas, scarves, water pistols, blow up bambi’s and all the other shiny objects she manages to collect – not dissimilar to a maternal magpie carrying out their interior decorating chores.
ooli follows no rules or style guidelines; she wears jackets as skirts, bandanas as bras, sunflowers as big as her head on her head, skirts as tops, pairs florals with stripes, paisley with football socks and rainbow crochet with tye dye denim.
when you watch ooli dress (very pervy!) you start to comprehend that its not so much a chore or a human process, it’s a fucken full stage theatrical performance complete with shiny props and mishaps where she trips over a wooden platform or gets a lacy pink g-string stuck to her foot (usually mine). when she sets out to dress this girl isn’t just covering her body or even endeavouring to impress a boy.. no, i fully believe that vic dresses to character every single time she goes out, or at least she conceptualises a certain look and evolves with it until it is her. one day she’s a dishevelled, guitar playing gypsy in a white lounge-suit, the next she’s a frat boy-esque meets science nerd cheer leader, a munted yellow-haired golliwog in deep orange overalls that look like they were made out of heshian sacks stolen from the bakery or a barefooted sunflower so innocent looking you think she has rainbows flavoured nipples.
you’d be right in thinking that this is a lengthy process. correct. every single fucking night whilst yelling at her ‘ooli SIN MAMARDERING, i swear to god woman…STOP FUCKING SHUFFLING’ she carried on this ritualistic dance and every single night i thought to myself ‘what the fuck is she doing? (of course with all respect and love intended) there is no way those knee high socks will go with that bowtie/sequinned sash, tribal print poncho, polka dotted onesie, crocheted body suit, high waisted mustard denim shorts’ or that she’ll be able to carry off ‘preppy school boy meets debbie does dallas’ but every night, as i looked down at my own maxi uniform of denim cutoffs and a plain white/grey/black loose singlet I WAS WRONG.
so, herein lies my point; the girl takes risks, and yeh, so do a lot of people but i’m not convinced that for them it is purely organic. with vic, i’ve seen all of her superheroes floral and other develop from a miss mesh of colours and textures on the floor, i’ve seen her dance around her obese, exploding bags tripping on bikini strings and half sucked chupa chups and build it all from scratch. the risk bit is what makes her more carrie-esque than anyone else i know, who claim with a superficial affinity for labels or ability to (mis)match dior with something vintage or ‘from topshop’….whoop de fucking vintage fur whoooooop. remember that fugly newspaper dress that carrie wears to confront natasha after having an affair with Big? nobody likes that dress but carrie doesn’t give a fuck. nor would ooli.
without any further mamardering let me introduce you to eau de ooli; the princess herself, and, all the captivatingly, wildly beautiful facades, themes and characters of my wonderful friend victoria.
(all photographs stolen from ooli herself)