'Things fashion bloggers do that I just don't understand'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 16th of December 2015, available here.

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Go to any fashion event in a major Australian city and you will see one. A fashion blogger. Standing in a corner with a champagne flute in one hand and a phone in the other. Typically browsing Instagram. 

My job, for the past five years, has been to take their picture. I’m a photographer. I don’t have a business card, I’m lacking in Wordpress, and my wardrobe looks more Sloths Of 2007 than Summer Of 2015. However, that doesn’t stop me from attending several big fashion events each year, to snap around and be merry.

For many, fashion blogging and photography have a kewl intersection. But for photographers who manage to shoot events several times a year, yet haven’t ascended to fash-blog status, bloggers can look a little strange. 

There are a few things that fashion bloggers get up to which I, a mere photographer, cannot understand. Here are just a few of the bizarre habits bloggers engage in which grind my gears:

The walking shot

Scope Insta for a hot minute and you’ll no doubt stumble upon some bloggers in a mid-walk action shot. Sure, if it’s during VAMFF or MBFWA, you might genuinely be off to a runway. 

Otherwise, where are you going? Is it to work? Because I’m picturing an image of you doing a slow motion step while your mate stands around with an iPhone. Your boss called, and he’d like you to stop pacing up and down the parking lot and get back to the register at Coles.

Flatlaying

Flatlaying is a staple of the blogger realm. The capacity to spread an outfit across a desk has made some bloggers ridiculously famous. 

Dear bloggers, does your desk really look like that? Do your Armani accessories just fall together on the table? Stop trying to make me feel bad. Show me something else. Show me what you stole from your last one night stand. 

And how is your lighting always so on point? Do you have a studio set up at home for this very purpose?  I’m pretty sure that level of object-collage and illumination doesn’t come with the Mayfair filter. My only answer is witchcraft. 

Taking photos of your food

Bloggers, for some reason, can get any meal to look like it came from a foodie advertorial. Now, I’ve photographed food before – commissioned, in actual restaurants - and there’s no way your iPhone 6s can make steak Shine Bright Like A Diamond.

Your breakfast might have come out looking like Jamie Oliver waved his wand at it, but let’s be honest: once you were done wolfing it down, it was smeared on your shirt like you wore it as a bib. 

Also, why must you tag the venue in a grateful Insta like you know the owner and ate there for free? Gurl, you went in for hungover Sunday brunch in jeggings and a cheap hoodie like the rest of us. Calm down.

Why your pictures look better than mine

This is the part where I admit that I’m really just jealous.

I take photos for a job. It’s my profession. Yet every time I glance at a fashion bloggers’ latest #OOTD, I am reminded of just how inferior I truly am. Your morning selfies look like a damn Marie Claire editorial. 

You must have studied up, because you have every clue of how to take a nice selfie. Either that, or you’ve enlisted a budding photog to do your outfit bidding. And I’ve started DMing Instagrammers for shoot location ideas.

Some of the photos I’ve seen on certain blogs have legitimately made me want to cry. I’m looking at you, Nicole Warne. 

What I’m trying to say is, some bloggers take my career and run it into the ground - with a hashtag for good measure. I guess if there’s one thing a love for fashion teaches, it’s quality aesthetics. But that shouldn’t suggest your antics aren’t still a little bit strange.

That said, tens of thousands of followers and various social media sponsorship deals can’t be wrong. I should probably just jump on the bandwagon. Can anyone help me flatlay? Or take a snap mid-walking through Woolworths?

Follow me on Insta soon, babes! Hashtag #BloggersAU!

'How I learned to love myself (a week before my nose job)'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 1st of December 2015, available here.

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It’s been the law of the land in fashion and entertainment for decades: for a woman to be deemed valuable and appealing, she has to fit a size two and resemble a Victoria’s Secret model. This notion sends the message that sample size is king – or queen – and self-love comes from bodily and facial perfection. 

But in recent times, A-list celebs and other influencers are flipping off the social script and killing it with talent, regardless of Hollywood glamour laws. 

Adele is one of the most successful musicians in the working world, and gives zero fucks for your perception of her weight. Amy Schumer regularly gabs during her sell-out shows about how media magnates criticise her body type. (She also looks absolutely killer in this year’sPirelli calendar.) Rebel Wilson will smash a burger and then the box office with her roles in various comedies. 

These are women finding success in the face of what society tells them. Yet despite these individuals crushing societal expectations, there’s still pressure to look flawless. We’re still being covertly convinced to acquire perfection – and the end results on your self-esteem can be crushing. 

I’m about five foot eleven weighing in at fifty-eight kilos, with a bump on my half-Greek nose and a receded jawline. I’ve been described as ‘lanky’, ‘waifish’, ‘alien-like’ and ‘dangerously thin’. No matter what I do, I can’t put on any damn weight. A girl might find that kind of look appealing; that might even be her goal. 

But for a guy, that ain’t right. Us dudes have to be muscular, fit and powerful. We’ve got to be strong-jawed, clean cut and suited up with stylistic flair like a Jack London model. 

I remember when I’d go out to gay clubs; I’d look around at some of the guys, stare up at how beautiful they were - and feel angry. I’d be physically vibrating with rage that I couldn’t look like them. I would stand around, grimace, cast prejudgements galore and wallow in my misery.

And I remember when it drove me to seek surgery. 

I wanted to get my nose hacked off and my jaw reconstructed. If I couldn’t be born with a strong, sleek jaw like a model, then God damn, I was going to build one for myself. When the surgeon said ‘We can take the bump off your nose, too,’ I was emotionally available in a way my ex-dates never were.

After so many years of hating my own face, I was gonna have my time. I was gonna look fantastic. All of those gorgeous guys? The ones who would probably never even look at me, let alone strike up a chat? They were gonna regret never giving me a second glance. And obviously I would win a modelling contract, because I would be just that fab.

And I remember when I changed my mind entirely. 

Because I realised something that, if you’d asked me years ago, I would have found strange and terrifying.

I kind of liked my bumped nose.

It belongs to me. It’s one of the many unique qualities that make me who I am. Why would I ever want to get rid of it? Why can’t I be proud of it? Why would I ever want to change myself just to fit a mould? Why was it so damn important?

The answer was: It wasn’t.

So I cancelled the surgery it took me years to plan, a week before it was due.

The media is changing and bending to the will of a new culture of people who are happy with their bodies and their faces. Young girls and guys are aspiring to new icons, who bravely fend off criticism and loudly disparage our culture that actively inspires self-hate. 

But in spite of all these uplifting developments, it’s still hard to ignore the stabs of envy when you see a babe in an advertorial. It’s rough to glance at a magazine advert or a dude in a club and think you’ll never look like that. Or he’ll never look at you. Or if you just had a bit more money, you could go under the knife and change your life.

So if you’re grappling with self-hate, or fighting off jealousy, this is my message to you.

All of those physical features – the jaw you hate, the nose you despise, the wide shoulders or hips you resent – are yours. They’re how you are recognised. They’re your heritage.

They’re gifts, and they belong to you.