MARILYN in Florence

I have found my place in the world.

Below the streets of Florence, in the cellars of the famous Salvatore Ferragamo Flagship store, lays exhibition like no other. Most of my readers know that I am enchanted with Marilyn Monroe, and one of the facts I have always known is that the great Salvatore himself designed and made most of her foot ware. Living in Florence, the home of Ferragamo, going to the Museum was inevitable. I had up until now put it off, knowing that it would be something pretty amazing, and most defiantly inspiring. I had, in a way, saved it for my "rainy day", the day when the beauty of Florence and its inhabitants might cease to provide me with the inspiration to create my best work. More than 2 years on, "rainy day" yet to pass, I found the perfect opportunity with a friend who is also a great admirer of the Iconic Blonde bombshell.

Descending the dark stairs into the cavernous rooms below the Ferragamo building, glass cases with hand crafted high heels inside, caught my eye as we paid our 5 euro entry fee. On the walls where photographs, magazine covers and digital screens playing all things Marilyn. Copies of her personal handwritten diary lay open below original Renaissance artworks and sculptures of the female figure. The curators have cleverly sought to interpret the genesis of her most iconic images with art works showing similar poses and expressions, as made by the Greats of my favourite art period, and the period that Florence is most renowned for. My favourite comparison in the 3rd room; Renaissance at its finest: Botticelli's Birth of Venus and one of Marilyn's final, and most famous photo shoots (shot by George Barris) displayed on a giant LCD screen, morphing back and forth~ A perfect union of two of my most influential images growing up.

What I was not at all prepared for was the next room, hidden by a small archway and thick champagne coloured velvet curtains, a circular room filled with the actresses ACTUAL costumes. Divine dresses within the reach of my hand. Dresses that I have tried to recreate over and over, referencing old book prints and pausing movie scenes. Emotion overcame me.

Room after room followed, her 'Seven Year Itch' halter dress, the Swarovski covered gown she had to be sewn into to sing Happy Birthday to JFK, her personal wardrobe; the sun dress she wore, made famous by photographs of her and her new husband, Arthur Miller, at their summer home in Connecticut. Too much for just a couple of hours...

And so, if you need to find me in Florence, you now know where I will be!

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 Story Behind the Front Page

When I walked into the Tweed Weekly office to meet Jonathan, the editor, I was mostly just hoping I’d find the right door. I’d been asked by my friend (and journalist) Madeline Murray to fill in for her while she recovers from surgery - my first little step into local journalism. Jonathan looked up, smiled, and said: “I recognise you, you’ll be in the paper tomorrow.” The week before, Madeline and I had worked on a story about a local collaboration - I had no idea it would end up splashed across the front page. Full circle moments have a funny way of sneaking up on you. I first met Dean three years ago at TAFE - I was studying photography, and he was in graphic design. We used to talk about how incredible it would be if students from different creative disciplines actually worked together , like we would in the real world. Fast forward to now: I’m wrapping up my Diploma of Fashion Design, and Dean has just completed the same Certificate IV Photography course I once did. Afte...

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