‘I shamed a man for stealing nude photos. And I’m not sure if I’d do it again.’

This article was originally published on Mamamia.com.au, on the 21st of March 2016, available here.

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For the past week, I’ve been in touch with more strangers than I can count.

I’ve received both positive praise and numerous insults. I’ve been called hero, beautiful, fuckwit, poofter and queer. I’ve even copped death threats. I’ve had my name plastered on multiple media outlets, and had my face on nationally broadcast television for all to see.

And I haven’t even had to leave my house.

Around a week ago, I made a public post on Facebook, ousting a total stranger for despicable behaviour.

A nineteen-year-old boy snuck into a woman-only Facebook group using a fake account. He stole what he saw as scandalous photos – snaps shared by a woman for body-positive affirmation – and reposted them to a less-than-friendly ‘lad banter’ group. These images were captioned in the explicit interest of “roasting sluts” – and not in a Comedy Central kind of way, where people submit themselves willingly for laughs. These were intended for vicious ridicule.

Someone in that ‘lad group’ decided that his actions were over the line, and a screenshot of the post began doing the rounds on the Internet, with people trying to contact his workplace. Eventually the warning reached me. 

Knowing that the boy and I worked in similar industries, I decided that the best way to break ground was through a public call-out post. It blew up, and his contract was terminated.

But that was just the beginning.

Suddenly I was getting calls from The Age, the Daily Mail, Pedestrian – and even this here Mamamia. The post I made took on a life of its own, and before long I was staring down the barrel of not just a camera for Channel Ten’s The Project, but Australia-wide media concentration and criticism. All in one short week.

I am what they call a “whistleblower”.

The reactions have been fierce and divided. I’ve received loads of messages from heaps of people – a huge quantity of them total strangers – with opinions on my behaviour.

They’re ranged from “What a swell guy”; I’m a dude with the apparent bravery to ‘break the bro code’ – and publicly call out another dude on shit behaviour. But there’s also a stack of men in the crowd, who want to let me know that I’m a ‘narc’, an ‘attention seeking fuckwit’, and a ‘piece of shit’ who ‘ruined someone’s life’. 

I could never have expected the story to blow up like it did. To me, it was just a call-out post on the Internet, highlighting the abhorrent behaviour of a boy towards a young woman.

It’s important that men stand up to one another regarding misogynistic behaviour towards women. That’s the principle that guided the post I made, and what led me through every interview. But when this became a matter of public scrutiny, I was forced to watch as men made loud attacks on my character, and coloured my behaviour in whatever shade they liked.

If they’re ‘haters’, then I was always a ‘keyboard warrior’, just an unhinged and unstable kid obsessed with ‘social justice’ – like that’s a bad thing. If people were fond of me, then I’m just the kind of person who would put himself on the line. There’s barely credit where credit is due, or reasonable criticism.

Being a whistleblower essentially steals your humanity from the public eye; you become a character in a storyline. The woman whose photos were shared without her consent became The Victim. The man who stole them became The Villain. And I became The Vigilante. That’s not always a good thing.

Sure, you can keep a strong public image, and reassure everyone that you know you’ve made the right choice. People will tell you that he ruined himself, and you should stay the course and hold your head high. But you will not see it that way.

People don’t see the stress, the anxiety or the self-doubt. They don’t see you have the revelation on repeat that you’d potentially damaged someone’s life – someone who isn’t a two-dimensional character in a story, but an actual human being, capable of wrongs and redemption just like anybody else.

They don’t see how you might stare up at your ceiling at night, and wonder if you’re a Vigilante or a Villain – or perhaps vigilante is villain?

One hundred percent of the negative feedback I received on my behaviour was from men. One hundred percent of women, who responded to my story, responded with positive praise. And out of all those women, every single one had been, or knew, a victim of this kind of behaviour.

That should be enough for me to do it again. But would I? 

I want to be a moralist, and I want to say, “Yes, I would do it again. Because it’s so important and crucial to changing minds and hearts and lives.”

But ultimately, putting oneself in the spotlight can sting your eyes. I don’t know if I’m a strong enough person to do it again. I don’t know if many people are. I think the people who presume it’s a publicity thrill ride are those who have never experienced it.

To shamelessly quote Lieutenant General David Lindsay Morrison: The standard you walk past is the standard you accept. This time around, I wasn’t going to walk past.

But anyone who puts up a fight for long is going to cop some blows.

'The Red Lady' - Writing Exercise

Today in a third-year university class titled 'Experimental Poetics', we were given a writing exercise.
We were to "envisage a contemporary situation in which one person watches another watching, watching an act or acts of conspicuous consumption".

This was my piece. I called it The Red Lady.

An explanation comes after the piece which is heavy on the detail and particulars. Only read the explanation if you're keen on having the mystery ruined.

I hope you like it:


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Thumbing through the clothing racks, I caught you, eyes wandering, down and up like a thermometer rising, across the body of those people in the building.

Though different pieces caught your eye, and you pulled them out to weave your fingers through their lace and cottons, none entranced more than the body and the face of that nearby woman in red.

She, a statuesque figure of seemingly effortless divinity, crimson skirt sequinned, elegant design, and you, an acne-scarred adolescent, pant-tears stitched by grandmothers hands, eyes moaning and glimmering blue and chasing hope and dreaming and expectation.

The Red Lady smiled and laughed at the speaker before her, one who slipped fingers between hangers on the racks, donning dresses and shirts with cuts as fine as the lashings of his tongue. One who cast words like spells and plush pillows, beckoning bodies to fall between them, seemingly entranced by his script.

And when the speaker brought out that long lace gown, off the racks you so flippantly thumbed through, with threads that weaved diamonds through your imagination, The Red Lady blushed. As only she could blush. As you might one day blush. But only in your dreams.

Because what you knew, is that this world is but an ocean, with tides ceaselessly throbbing, and you are an outcast stranded in a craft at sea.

And only red ladies gain a sail.

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Explanation:

I based the piece off a recent experience shooting at a fashion festival.

The festival partially hinges off the selfless acts of volunteers; from dressers to ushers to interns. These people fantasise endlessly about the prospect of becoming important parts of the industry.

And standing before them, so often, are the endless parade of beautiful people. The important faces. The stream of names. The VIPs. The entrepreneurs.

A volunteer might look affectionately up towards these entrepreneurs, who gain access with a flick of the wrist and a name dropped of a successful person whom they've known for years. Thus, the lady in red, being seduced by the salesperson wiles of the speaker, said speaker and seller of garments representing conspicuous consumption.

A volunteer might aspire to be them, and work tirelessly, for hour upon hour a day, at no profit to them, in the hope they might one day make those dreams a reality. Thus, the one being watched who watches another.

But what reality dictates is that so often these entrepreneurs were often born into circumstances well-off enough to allow their goals, strives and businesses to blossom. Whether by luck, by genetic lottery, or by sheer calculated exploitation. Such is the nature of the entrepreneur, one which is becoming far too apparent. 

Like those beautiful people never had to don pants sewn back together by grandmothers hands, so too might the volunteer never don her red dress.

And the red lady gains her sail.

'The closet is a lonely place: Defending the Safe Schools Coalition and Minus18'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, 15th February 2016, available here.

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Once, not too long ago, I was a frightened pre-teenager, living in the shadow of a fear that my secret might one day ‘get out’. I feared would never find a group of people who would accept me for my sexuality, and allow me to be who I truly was.

That was until I stumbled upon Minus18 – an LGBTI youth organisation, run for and by young people, to unite queer teens. To give them a space to feel safe, to provide support, to feel appreciated, and to meet others like themselves who would otherwise have no avenue.

Minus18 conducted many wonderful events, but my favourite were the dance parties. They’d hold them once a term in the school holidays. I’d sneak out of the house to attend, lying about where I was going – “It’s just an underage club, Mum! Nothing weird at all!” – and, as the cliché goes, dance the night away.

“Late nights after Minus18 were an adrenaline rush of utter joy and happiness.”

I still remember walking into my first Minus18 dance party at fourteen years of age, and being utterly astonished. All those queer kids, all in the one place! A veritable gaggle of gays. So many friendly faces – and so many people, all just like me.

I kissed my first boy at Minus18. I made way too many friends, many of whom I still adore. I had a wild time, once a term break, gyrating on the dance floor to raucous noughties hits and setting myself free.

And when it was all over, I went home. Back to the suburbs. Back to my closeted husk. Maybe it was the free soft drink sugar kick, but late nights after Minus18 were an adrenaline rush of utter joy and happiness. A sense of belonging and self-love. In fact, I do recall crediting Minus18 with a renewed desire to keep on going.

Because living as a closeted early teen in the suburbs at a high school, one that neglected to teach the ins and outs of human sexuality – let alone educate that being gay is okay – was a hard slog. My thirteenth birthday was spent in first aid after someone beat the shit out of me because I was different.

Over a decade later, Minus18 is still kicking on, and have done wonderful things for the community on a national and international scale. Schools are now taking a firmer stance against homophobia, and all the other discriminatory phobias that plague the LGBT communities.

They’ve introduced a new program titled All Of Us, an “innovative new teaching and learning resource that aims to increase students’ understanding and awareness of gender diversity, sexual diversity and intersex topics.” It’s funded by the government and developed by the Safe Schools Coalition Australia and Minus18. It’s designed to change attitudes in youths and work at nipping the bud of phobic discrimination.

We never had that when I was in high school. I wonder if we did, would I have had the same experience? If students had been taught not to hate people like me, would I have so desperately clung to the queer underage dance parties of the mid-term break for a sense of support? And moreover, would I have spent my thirteenth birthday in the care of friends and not a nurse?

It’s wildly apparent that some people take issue with All Of Us and the improved Safe Schools program. As our commitment to providing safety for youth grows stronger, our opponents grow louder.

There are those who desire to stop the new Safe Schools program outright, like the Australian Christian Lobby and no shortage of traditionalist pollies and civilians – which include the members of a Facebook page, simply titled ‘Stop Safe Schools Coalition’. They are vehemently against All Of Us and the Safe Schools program, and in the mere days since their launch have accrued hundreds of followers.

This group would be considered your subpar Internet troll, hiding ill tidings behind skewed criticism; all bark no bite – if they weren’t planning on taking real action.

Minus18 will soon host another one of their esteemed Same Sex Gender Diverse Formals; a popular event amongst the newer generation of same-sex attracted and gender diverse youth. It’s a ticketed event.

The owners and followers of the hate group have decided to buy out the tickets to the event, in order to stop youth from attending – in the hope of ‘saving’ and ‘protecting’ these kids from the intangible horrors of Minus18’s Same Sex Gender Diverse Formal.

Heaven forbid we give these youth a place to congregate and be themselves! Surely there can be no greater horror than a poor confused child feeling comfortable in their own skin, surrounded by people who are just like them.

The idea that people are trying to stunt one of the main events run by Minus18 – in the too-cliché and misguided spirit of saving the children – makes me want to brutalise a punching bag, or binge-eat McDonalds in spite of my waistline.

Because Minus18 gave me an escape. I’m forever grateful for that.

The fact that some people want to trash it – want to help ruin all the good that they and the Safe Schools Coalition are doing; want to take us back to a time where violence and discrimination were the norm in schools galore, all because they fear what they do not understand – fills me with dread.

Let’s not sit idle while these bigots scream their nonsense. Not while thirteen-year-old gay boys are being bashed in the schoolyard, and schoolkids must wait once a term to feel safe and secure.

Updating...

Posts published since the start of October have been shared here. Huzzah!

'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.