praying for warm day

The weather has been so cold the last few weeks in Melbourne, so when the sun popped out and I was down at the Mornington Peninsula visiting my sister, advantage was to be had. With the help from my mum's friendly eye behind the lens:

Swing coat from my upcoming Spring collection

I love tie dye - naturally being a Byron kid. This tunic is from the Uki markets

Backyard barbecue - Summer at my sisters house is going to be divine

perfect spot for arfternoon tea

Ive had these vintage Givenchy sun glasses for more than 5 years, and Im finally getting to use them. The lens is perfection, so I wear them when Im driving

I love this caramel coloured jewel ring I found at the markets in Florence - You paid by what the stones weighed - this was 15 euro - bargain!

I fell in love with this when I saw it in Accessorize in Florence. It was a bit out of my price range on my holiday budget, but I had to have it.

My favourite piece of jewellery at the moment is this H&M suede and chain woven bracelet

H&M have some great little accessories

Prayer Beads that my Mum bought me back from India

stacked bracelets - new fav accessory
My watch is an antique left to me by my late grandmother

- XOX -

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

Search This Blog