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'On why every man should wear florals'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 6th January 2016, available here.

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When I was 19 years old, I used to shoot for a popular womenswear boutique in Hawthorn, Melbourne. Every week I would saunter in and photograph the garments for each stocked label. 

It was also the time I bought my first pair of floral denims. They were “girl jeans,” worrisomely thin, and had a waistline so small it could only be fit into after a three-day food-free bender. But when I saw that vibrant print on the racks of the womenswear boutique, I simply had to have them. Gender be damned.

Pictured above are the actual pants on my actual legs. As Rachel Zoe so famously says: I die.

Cue what has become a love affair with floral prints of all kinds. Not just florals: Anything wild and unabashed. And fortunately for decorative menswear lovers such as myself, there are a variety of Australian labels out there stocking some seriously kewl threads.

Jayson Brunsdon’s Spring/Summer ’15 collection showcases intricate attire; glossy suit jackets with delicatedetailing, defying the notion that elegant menswear must be ‘simple’ in design. Jack London’s Summer ’15collection is awash with exquisite and flowery shirts (Mother took me Boxing Day shopping there and casually let the staff know, “he’s obsessed.” Cheers, Mum). And I can’t go past a pair of colourful summer shorts by Franks Australia.

Those floral denims I purchased at 19 years old garnered me much praise the following weekend, as I sashayed them through the city streets. 

Yet at the same time, they earned me some remarks I could have lived without – a slew of slurs by strangers walking past. Many by men. Many homophobic in nature.

Let’s be real. As a gay man, I’m no stranger to homophobic slurs. I’ve worked enough nights to know that dickheads are gonna dickhead, and sometimes it’s best to Just Keep Walking when someone shouts abuse.

But those floral denims made me something of a walking target. People seemed much more willing to depart with hatred while I had flowers on my pants than if I were holding hands with a boy. I stopped wearing my florals out after that, in spite of how much I loved them. 

It really begs the question: What’s the deal with gender roles in fashion? Are there clothes a man mustn’t wear? Where do these judgments about what we put on our bodies come from?

There’s an unspoken gender script in society about how each gender must behave and how they must present to the world. It’s part of a larger unwritten how-to guide on being a ‘real man’ or a ‘real woman.’ 

Flowers are soft and feminine – ergo, only girls can wear floral-print denims.

To be a man is to be masculine, and nothing is more threatening to the social dynamic than a man in a pretty floral shirt. Stick with plain jeans and a tee – or heaven forbid, camo khakis.  

Although we get a hall pass if our shirt is very obviously Hawaiian. Because it’s summer, bro, sweet threads, let’s go to the beach. 

Anyone who diverts from the preconceived social script is asking to be shamed, or – gasp – labelled a homosexual. My attempts to express individual style were met with aversion and disgust. Hell, it’s even considered alternative for men to take a mere interest in fashion. Them’s the rules, kids. No messing with tradition. 

I’d like to be the first – and hopefully not the last – to say, fuck that. 

If I’ve got the pins to rock a pair of floral jeans, then my God, I’m gonna show them off. I’m gonna wrap myself in Jack London shirts and rose-printed short-shorts until I look like a damn Christmas tree. 

I’m thankful for the fashion icons of Instagram, for donning eclectic styles that make it easier for the rest of us to don our floral denims. You kids keep me young (and pretty), I love you so much.

Every man should wear florals – or whatever makes them feel good. Defy the social script and throw on what you love.

And all of the slurring shouters, the poorly dressed macho bros yelling comments from their cars can go screw themselves. Screw themselves in their tacky camo khakis.

'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.

'5 Golden Rules Of Gay Online Dating'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, Thursday 26th November, 2015, available here. Some contributions made by SameSame's editor.

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Back in times of yore, gay men had to go down to the local cruising spot wearing a handkerchief in their back-right pocket to score on a Thursday afternoon.

Nowadays however, we rely on nabbing tail through a variety of colourful online dating apps.

There’s several apps which vary in function: Grindr, Scruff and Hornet, for the homos who want everything from good conversation to a quick root-and-boot. Then there’s Tinder andOkCupid, for those who might just be looking for someone to love. And if you’re a gay man on a desktop who wants to get down to the point, you can even hop on Squirt or Manhunt for some ready-made action.

There are many more – trust me – and I’ve just named the ones I’m most familiar with. They are also apps solely for gay men – bar Tinder and OkCupid – as I’m less inclined to reference services I have no business exploring.

Each service provides a different appeal, and the characters that frolic in each one vary like the colours of the rainbow. I’ve experimented with all of them over the past several years. And ultimately, I’ve witnessed some behaviour and learned a thing or two about online dating through the process of my exploration.

Which is why I’m qualified to be your gay app Agony Aunt. Lie down and put your feet in the stirrups, because I’ve got some firm advice to ram home…

Include a clear photo of your face

Dating in the online realm is meant to present a convenient alternative to dating in real life. To go without a clear face photo is to suggest one is hiding from ASIO. If I ever found myself on a blind date with a headless torso, I’d be more inclined to run screaming into the night than put out after my third beer.

Use a photo of your face. We want to see your marvellous mug, not your shirtless torso five years ago after you’d conveniently gotten back from the gym.

Of course, some folks are closeted. Stay strong, soldiers, and provide a face pic as early as you can in the conversation.

Engage in conversation

Nothing gets the ball rolling quite like using “Sit on my face” as your opening line.

Some apps give you more leeway. Grindr and Hornet in particular will let you discretely plug that you’re looking for fun ‘Right Now’.

But still, context is everything. Ask yourself: Is enquiring about fisting a query best saved for later? He asked how my day was going – do I need to let him know about my diaper fetish? And more importantly: Would I ask this person to urinate on me – over coffee at the local cafe?

Wait for the opportune moment.

Similarly: I know dating apps are referred to as ‘the fast food of sex’, but surely you can do better than ‘Hey, hru’. Get creative with your texting. There’s a world of words out there.

Don’t send unsolicited nudes

I’m guilty of this, but that’s only after 3am on a Sunday morning while plastered off tequila. My Grindr profile genuinely reads “Regularly delete this app out of shame.”

I always wonder what goes through the mind of men who decide to send unsolicited nudes. “How best can I win this strange man’s heart?” There’s really no reason to send a photo of your genitals straight off the bat.

Especially not when it’s poorly angled with harsh bright flash, and I can see your toilet in the background. Classy.

Although, on some of the raunchier apps – like Squirt – it’s acceptable to show off your Prince Albert.

Don’t be racist

This is referring to the trend of ‘no blacks, no asians’ – and other racist garbage written on dating profiles. If I had a dollar for every time I heard “It’s just a preference” from a man on a dating app, I could buy an island to maroon them on.

Remember: When hooking up, it’s best to say what you ARE looking for, not what you’re not. It makes you sound like an idiot with attitude if you’re saying “no” to various groups of people right up-front.

If you’re not into an entire race of people because you’ve met every single one of them and decided to broadcast that they’re all unappealing, then go for it – but be quiet about it. That’s only if you’ve met and engaged with every single one of them, though. Every single one. Otherwise you’re just an ass.

And lastly, be a decent human being.

If you’re on a dating app and aren’t interested in being romanced by a stranger, the best thing to give is a simple ‘Sorry, I’m not interested’. Their heart will go on.

But if he’s taken the effort to send you a creative what’s up – if he simply wants to chat – then is it really necessary to leave him in total silence? Or worse, tell him to fuck off?

Ask yourself: Am I perhaps a bit of a disappointment? Did something happen in my childhood to make me this way? Do I maybe need to log off?

Welp! I’m spent. That’s the end of my guide. You’ve taken my wise words, my well-seasoned advice – and you’re now ready for online dating. Or Grinding. Or Scruffing. Or hell, even Squirting.

'How chinos taught me to get over myself and stop being a judgmental twat'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 17th November 2015, available here.

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It takes a wise man to know that he was wrong - but it takes an even wiser man to admit it.  

For years I passed judgment on people, based on what they threw on their bodies.

I have been a judgmental tween, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Joan Rivers hosted Fashion Police (rest her soul).

Exhibit A: Kids running around the clubs wearing Nike tracksuits and lad jackets. I’m sorry, but you just look suspicious. 

This may have had to do with growing up rough and gay in the suburbs of Melbourne, where the only person you knew hanging on the street in trackies was your weed dealer.

This suspicion only transformed into horror as the look became mainstream, when it trended on Tumblr and became ‘sports luxe’. 

But that was, of course, before I discovered the look was crafted for comfort over style. Turns out the advancement into an Internet fashion trend was just a bonus. 

Exhibit B: Wearing activewear to anywhere but the gym? You must have something to prove. Your capacity to register leggings as pants is strange and terrifying. There’s a reason why that activewear music video is so damn popular.

Which is how I felt until some gal pals let me know that sometimes brunch on a Sunday doesn’t demand a fashion show. That, and it’s great for tricking people into thinking you really care about fitness.

All of my judgments, however, paled in comparison to the ones I held for chinos. 

Exhibit C: Chinos.

For so long I saw chinos as the legwear of pompous yuppie dickheads. 

This may, again, be due to my upbringing: growing up in the suburbs, surrounded by other regions of a higher class. Places populated with people from wealthy backgrounds – who deemed quiet residential areas further out from the city as lower-class shitholes. And they were never afraid to let me know. 

Even now, I can see them on my news feed, standing together in Instagram pics with other genetic lottery winners, holding glass flutes in their hands filled with Dom Perignon. Expensive haircuts, shirts buttoned to the neck, suit jackets…

Chinos. All of them, in cream chino trousers.

Pair those with boat shoes, and you have the quintessential posh Cool Dude yuppie. His shirt is Ralph Polo, he can personally relate to Gossip Girl, and his car cost more than my HECS debt. 

But one day, something changed.

One day, my skin-tight denims couldn’t hack the heat.

One day, I slid on my first ever pair of cream chinos.

And it was a revelation. A comfortable, breathable, aesthetically appealing revelation. 

They were beyond a summer comfort, and never again will I doubt their wearable beige bliss. I have embraced them like a mother might clutch a newborn, or a Xanax when that child reaches high school. 

My wardrobe and attitude has shifted. My scathing prejudgments were never based in truth, but a bitter, scorned, self-made fantasy. I was wrong about chinos, and I’m sorry. I was wrong about them all. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Ralph Lauren for some new slim-fits.

'Why nightclubs are just like Fashion Week'

This piece was originally published in full on FashionJournal.com.au, 2nd of November, 2015, available here.

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I’ve been a frequenter of the clubs for several years, working as a nightlife photographer. Long nights have been spent shooting nightclub babes, who slink past the velvet rope in droves, then chug tap beer and cocktails which cost as much as your rent.

I’ve also relished in #fashun, having snooped around with my lens several years in a row at Melbourne’s fab Fashion Week and events, shooting street-style, runway and backstage. This is contrary to the fact that despite utterly adoring fashion and all it entails, I have no personal style to speak of, preferring jeans, tees, and overworn leather jackets that repel passers-by with the party smell.

If there’s one thing I do note, however, it’s how strikingly similar both are to one another, in terms of patrons, etiquette and my general sense of ennui.

So let’s delve, shall we? Put down your gin for a hot minute, because here are a few reasons why nightclubs are just like fashion week.

They’re really not that hard to get into

Contrary to what bloggers and professional Instagrammers would have you believe, fashion shows are no longer the refuge of business executives and fash mag magnates. Nay, gaining access to a fashion show is about as easy as punching in your credit card details and buying a ticket.

Just like nightclubs, they want you to believe they are exclusive events for the crème-de-la-crème of society. As long as you don’t dress like you spend your weeknights at the pub, you’ll be just fine getting through the door.

Gay people reign supreme

Unless you’re the type of gal who hits up clubs that play Melbourne Bounce, the chances are you’re going to run into your fair share of homosensuals while visiting upon the local discotheque.

And why wouldn’t you? In spite of being a marginalised group, we’ve managed to plant our roots in every creative industry we set our minds to. We are the fashion execs, the stylists, the directors and the producers. We practically invented disco.

If you’re a bit of a bigot, I would shy well away from Fashion Week and quality nightclubs. With our gal pals by our side, we are the queens and kings of the fash-club circuit, watching models sashay down the runway.

As RuPaul famously says, “now sissy that walk.”

The ‘cool girls’ exist – with much embarrassment to be had

With every new club opening and runway show, there exists a conglomerate of known socialites who flock to designer threads and free booze like A Current Affair to suburban hoarders. These familiar faces frequent each launch on the social calendar, being somehow acquainted with every executive, designer and public figure in the room.

Sure, they might seem like your typical fashion-forward culture queens with an interest in the arts. But after a strained conversation involving much Stepford smiling and subtle digs on their part, it becomes clear that they’re less interested in fashion and nightlife, and more keen on boosting their Instagram following. Just smile and back away slowly.

The personal style will ruin your life

As mentioned previously: I am not particularly fashionable. That is to say, I’m not ‘on trend.’ I am both a glamour lover and a serial re-wearer. You can call me a fashion lover undercover.

If you’re someone who desires fashion icon status, but can’t seem to achieve it (like me), your self-esteem will be crushed like a kitten in a blender. Though many outfits stalking nightclubs and Fashion Week range from smart-casual to utterly disastrous, every now and then your eyes will fall upon a look that is so innovative and on point, it turns your future Vogue dreams to dust.

I look down at my floral shirt with cream chinos and sulk. Find me at McDonald's for a post-event feed, after feeling woefully inadequate for five straight hours.

I guess the most important similarity between Fashion Week and nightclubs, is when the going gets tough – when the vapid babes and superficial banter gets a bit too much – there’s a bar around the corner. And a Cosmo with your name on it.

And when a man takes his shirt off… he’s probably a model. And he’s probably about to stalk the runway, all for your viewing pleasure. Unless you’re at a club, in which case he’s some drooling bloke from the western suburbs looking for a root. If the latter happens: take that Cosmo, and drink yourself to oblivion. You have my permission. I believe in you.