Market Re Launch Party

The South Yarra Re Launch Party on Saturday was not so much business, as it was a whole lotta fun. Young stall holders selling their Vintage wares provided the entertainment, while the DJ's kept us on our feet, twisting to the beats. The organisers looked after us with beverages and Vege hot dogs :)

We met Bloggers, fashion students, kids from the bands, designers and stylists, plus my bestest friends came for support and a bargain hunt and the gorgeous face of my collection, Jackie, popped in to add the cherry on top.

New vintage purchase

Pink - our fellow stall seller

the gorgeous flyer girl

DJ's next to our spot left my eyes ringing all weekend... but the classic swing tunes were worth it

Sea of Ghosts Blogger Alicia Hannah Noami

Tweeting...

Dani was our personal shopper and Treasure Hunter for the day. We just sat back while to goods were brought to us! Thank You lovely - it was a treat having you there

Dani gave herself a $40 challenge - this is the result:

Metallicas White top / H&M Yellow Shorts / Topshop Denim top and Leopard print kicks

Gorman Top / Levi's Shorts / Red herringbone cardi - background. Voila! $40!!

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...

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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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