snaps from the runway last night - CHRISTINE FERNANDO FRISONI GINGER AND SMART LUCETTE MANNING CARTELL MEGAN PARK NICOLA FINETTI THURLEY

the show opened with an inspiring short film... which preceded a show that did not quite live up to the hype of its introduction... flop or not:

but there were plenty of racy models...

CHRISTINE - very russian inspired

this looked gorgeous on the runway - reasoning well why you come to the shows

I discovered Megan Park at this very festival 2 years ago. I went home and opened Vogue and there she was! This Australian designer is fast becoming one of my favorites (http://www.meganpark.co.uk/boutique.php)

if you are familiar with any of my work - you can see why I love Megan Park so much. Her attention to detail gives me titillate! (didn't think that word was in my vocabulary)

shimmie pants! this were outrageous! love

... though not quite sure what was hanging off her jacket...

go the red heads ;)

Nicola Finetti showcased ready-to-wear collection without the oomph! fail.

Ginger & Smart cleverly paired their chic designs with a Parisienne feel - cigarettes and all!

Manning Cartell had a fun Oriental theme. The conical Asian hats looked sharp and elegant pulled low over the models faces, only revealing bold lips

Front Row. I dare say was more inspirational than the fashion on the catwalk

I love the bodice on this gorgeous lace Thurley dress

the models after the show were hilarious:

The Man I Was Taught to Fear

There are people we grieve twice in a lifetime. Once for who they were. And once for who we were never allowed to know. My father is one of them. When I was a child, my mother told me he was a paedophile. She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hesitate. She said it plainly, as fact. As warning. As control. When we misbehaved, she would drop us at the greyhound station and force us to spend sleepless weekends with him. I remember the noise of the station. The way my stomach would knot. The terror that would sit in my chest at night when the lights went out. I was absolutely terrified to sleep. He was a workaholic. Twelve-hour days. Long hours. Absence disguised as provision. He would leave cash on the bench, stockpiles of food in the fridge, and the television on - a wild luxury I couldn’t enjoy because fear had already moved in. At home with my mother, we weren’t allowed a TV at all. Looking back now, my father was unemotional, but never unkind. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer hims...

Versions, and “Versions”

I’ve already written about The Wiiyaan as a journalist. That piece lives in the Tweed Weekly . It’s careful, respectful, measured. It honours Bundjalung origin story, place, and the quiet authority of listening. It was written for a broad audience, many of whom - like me - come from settler families, carrying our own histories alongside the land we now call home. But after filing that story, I knew I wasn’t done. Some stories ask something back from you. This one did. So this is the version that doesn’t fit in a newspaper column. This is the version that explains why that exhibition cracked something open in me - why listening to Kyle Slabb speak about holding one version of Country, with care and restraint, felt like a mirror I wasn’t expecting. Kyle spoke about perspective. About how this telling is not the story, but a story - shaped by lineage, responsibility and law. He was clear, careful, and deeply respectful of other versions held...

The Painter on the hill

I went to meet Scott McDougall deliberately underprepared. This is not how journalists are usually meant to begin. We are supposed to research, cross-check, read the biography, study the exhibition history, arrive with neat questions and enough knowledge to sound vaguely authoritative. But Scott had been recommended to me by artist Hobie Porter, who told me he was someone I might find interesting. That was enough. I did not want to arrive with the internet’s version of him already sitting between us. I wanted to meet the man, see the work, stand in the room where it happened and absorb it without the corruption of other people’s opinions. I am not an art writer. Not really. But I am an artist at heart. A fashion designer by training. A lover of light, texture, form, fabric, structure, composition and the controlled drama of a perfectly judged line. Becoming a journalist has opened a new lens. It has also made me realise how often I underestimate people. My general disappointment in hum...

Rada Priya

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