back to school .

And so it begins again…and with a bang! David Jones Fashion Parade here I come . Will keep you posted on the back stage antics!

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M xx .

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vintage patchwork .

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Love everything about this photo, particularly her dress .

M xx .

close to home .

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Admittedly snapped this hippy because I knew j would think he’s a babe . I actually did like his outfit…even the bare feet; a colloquial aphorism conventionally practiced back in his roots of Byron . (story based on assumption not actual fact, clearly) .

M .

impetuous demure .

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“Us? Really? Ah…ummm…alright?”
Snapped mid hiatus these guys still exude utter tranquility .

M .

nomadic eccentricity .

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In a crowd of thousands she sat there by herself fixated on braiding the infinite strings to her ankle . She manifested the disposition I wish I could . Nomadic eccentricity . A life beyond anguish, encumbrance and duress .

M .

froufrouu .

Apologies for the lack of posts, feel free to dob J&i in to DOCS for child neglect!

On the flip side, proud to announce we have both scored internships! J with Repeat Button and myself with Willow .

moving along. FrouFrouu;

Nadia Sarwar . i discovered this blogger via instagram .

Self described as;
City hopper
eBay stalker
Menswearer
Hat collector
35mm worshipper
Wordplayer
Micture Paker
Story creator
Syllable jiggler
Stranger watcher
Blashion fogger
Hair swisher
Camera hoarder

its quite evident from this description that she doesn’t create a ‘whimsical world’ of cupcakes, lollipops, macaroons and bullshit . What attracts me to Nadia’s blog is her unique style coinciding with her aptitude to capture a single moment insensible to most (a sound ability of j’s!). she successfully evokes emotion through a simple photograph conveying an unwritten story, one of which forces you to infinitely stare in order to put the pieces together . it makes you wonder what she is doing, where she is going and what she is thinking.
I am in awe of her long dark hair, fair skin, and dark lip tones . my attempt of a similar appearance would result in near resemblance to a withered sea witch… Her prodigal choice of clothing consists of simple individual pieces, yet, put together it’s just fucking amazing! can definitely envision her in a Balenciaga ad tailored for Russh Magazine!

She’s very Johnny Depp-esque…strange to some, but fucking cool! and obviously without the prominent bottle  of whisky glued to her hand .

all photos from FrouFrouu .

M xx.

animal instinct .

Arriving 45 minutes early for my class I thought I would initiate the painful task of my financial planning and funding homework . Notorious for leaving things to the last minute (homework/assignment wise) throughout uni, which surprisingly saw some of my best results executed, I knew leaving it until the night before would only encourage my tendency to procrastinate until 2am, inevitably hitting my peak fuelled with coffee and redbull…though I’m determined to not repeat that process .

As 6pm approached, one by one, more people began to enter the room . But one in fact caught my eye with just a brief glimpse of her shoes…so naturally I looked up to check out the rest of her outfit…I must admit I was slightly intimidated staring at this perfectly poised, tall, thin, sun kissed entity who in my opinion had an amazing outfit on…whilst there I was in my daggy Zara pants, a white T and baby blue Chuck Taylors .

Amber L’estrange, former model turned stylist (and my teacher for the night), was surprisingly excited when asked if I could photograph her outfit for Honey&Hook (it only took me 2.5hrs to build up the courage to ask) .

“make sure you get the boots, they’re my animals” . and she was right . Whilst her outfit was femininely chic, those little “animals” exuded a captivating distinctiveness with her attention to detail on her accessories…her aura was very Byron Bay-esque…a very admirable look to pull off effortlessly .

I have a feeling Amber will be a frequent resident on Honey&Hook .

xx M .

2. eau de ooli: the 212

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all this makes me wanna say is: “whats ya dick like homie what are you into?”

for those of you who aren’t blissfully aware of Azealia Banks’ lewd, crude bordering on obscene tune ‘212’ this is my most favourite line from it.

we all know that the world loves a hot black chick with attitude: macy gray, lauryn hill , M.I.A, beyonce, santigold and the newest member of this genetically blessed, overly talented group…Azealia Banks are just a few. whats not to love? they’re sassy, sexy and just so fuckin’ cool that they’re allowed to say ‘cunt’ more than 26 times in the space of 4 minutes. i’m not sure whether to bow down in thanks or punch myself in the face. us white girls, notorious as ever for being the biggest culprits of perpetuating the idea of ‘wanting what we can’t have’ make no exception in trying to imitate the ultra-cool-as-fuck look that these babes carry off so well.

denim shorts, boys kappa jeans (remember those?!), vintage basket ball singlets, chuckie taylors, oversized hoodies, genie pants, bandanas, adidas trackies and threadbare tees with rasta slogans on them get paired, no rhyme or rhythm with clashing garish tribal prints, hoop earrings, patches of glitter, flat brimmed hats and diamond encrusted bling teeth to create a look thats perfectly constructed yet looks more like it was haphazardly thrown together after priscilla got in fight with 50 cent. (my bad. fiddy.)

in her clip for 212 azalea looks like she’s rolled outta bed and on the way down to the local ball court to kick it with her homies has thrown on her shortest denim cut offs, favourite mickey mouse knit from kindergarten and high top nikes.

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(picture from www.laurajul.dk)

aside from gwen stefani, though, i don’t know many white gals who can carry this look off without looking like a tom-boy drowning in their big brother’s basketball kit, or britney spears impersonating lil’ kim..in other words, white trash.

perhaps ooli knew that a white girl stepping into the sass boots of a black girl was treading a fine line between being  mothafuckin’ dope asssss or being buried but never one to shy away from a challenge she promptly changed her name to ooli-eeesha, snapped her fingers and got her ‘ooh run run’ on with the full fervour of snoop sippin’ gin & juice.

i like to think that 212 homegirl ooli developed before my very eyes in europe while we were clutching at fashion angel straws desperately attempting to construct some sort of original/borrowed/painted/stolen version of an outfit we’d been wearing for 3 months already. i was already vaguely aware of ooli’s bizarre penchant for flat brimmed hats but it really peaked when she dragged all of us into a surf shop, very inebriated, at 1am to painstakingly try on and then purchase a hat bearing the slogan ‘girls sk8’, or something similarly as ‘original’.

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and, don’t even question why said shop was open at 1am, everything is upside down in Lagos, or, perhaps it was a sort of ooli type secret wardrobe shop which opens for precisely 47 minutes following the consumption of exactly 3 tequila shots, a nibble of a smurf, 3 sickly pink drinks and 12 high kicks then promptly disappears in a puff of smoke several minutes after her exit. with the flat brimmed cap as a sort of secret ghetto weapon, ooli’s outfits, dancing and whole demeanour steadily became more ghetto until ‘the 212’ was a fully fledged, rude, crude, poppin, crip walkin, crunkin, grinding new addition to ooli’s repertoire.  behold.

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i don’t know about you but i get a very gwen stefani feeling from this. at the time of the ooli-gwen-212 debut i was too drunk to fully appreciate the gloriousness of this outfit. its only with the beauty of hindsight that i realise that this is where ghetto fab ooli really booty popped her way into the world. the best bit about this whole outfit is the gym bra/crop top which looks like it should belong to scuba steve. moreover, i have NO fucking clue where this top came from. clearly ooli had a private moment where she rubbed her paws together and prayed for biggy to fed ex it to her via ‘dope ass express’ cuz i sure as shit never laid eyes on it before.

 as ooli-esha grew more bold she proved to the world that an inner tinkerbell can blossom into an inner tupac. she took her home girl staples of chuckie t’s, the flat brim caps and oversized bling and married them with denim overalls, tye dye bikini tops, superman undies, suspenders, cheerleader socks and bandanas  crip walked around town and perfected the ‘hey, boys can we kick it?’ look with just the elements of sassy and sex chucked into the mix.

now she sits balanced perfectly on the very small platform of gwen-stefani-esque ghetto chic where most white girls never make it dressed in a midriff bearing t-shirt with the words ‘we cool‘ doodled haphazardly across the chest in gold sequinned cursive writing and yelling out to the rest of the world “bring ya doo rag too son?!”

peace out homies,

j. xx