Aloha from New York City – jetlagged and chilly, but content in my home away from home, wrapped in naught but a faux fur and my underwear, keyboard bashing to the likes of you, my Mother, Alex, and unsubscribing from strange newsletters and mailing lists that have wormed their way into my miserably obese inbox.
Fear not – you’ll get your whiteout snowy snaps in good time. I just thought that before we get ourselves too far in to the show circuit abroad and all too freezing, we ought to take a bloody breather and rewind to the sweaty half hour my tripod and I spend wilting in my backyard, pumped only on that embarrassing photographer’s glee that comes with receiving a fresh new paper roll backdrop in the charming shade of ‘Sand’.
In that barefoot, hot tin roof moment of carefree Tim Winton Australiana, I found myself ensconced in flowers. Not of the cool, Game of Thrones-esque Mi Violeta variety, but rather of the flower power print species – beautiful on ethereal Nordic blondes, but very much up for debate on any other line of human being. On a tanned Asian with a baby face, for instance, a flowering affair does not necessarily speak to the impeccable Italian tastes of Dolce & Gabbana as one would hope.
If I’m honest, it’s difficult to remember the last time I wore floral print at all. My site archives and a few dodgy search terms would indicate that it was over a year and a half ago in the south of France, where one might argue that floral print and all-white are the only fabrications acceptable in the vacational
circumstance. Indeed, on the whole, I’ve come to avoid the Spring/Summer staple over the past few years, and further, to realise that designers’ readaptations year to year only succeed when in celebration of sculpture.
I’m not terribly interested in the cute printed shift dresses or the blooming happy pants or the “statement” cotton tees for ironic skater boy factor. I want to know about this midi-length peplum situation or a fanned out knotted bustier that in fact resembles a palm leaf or the boxy space station sweater that boasts the tropics amongst the stars.
Of course, heels are entirely impermissible here. The same is to be said for make up, styled hair (leave your barrel curls at home), and accessories of any kind.
Floral sculptures like these, contrary to widespread belief, are not for the manicured, prim and pretty, conservative and middle-aged. They’re for the loose cannons with beaten up kicks or none at all – the tomboys who yell “HEY!” instead of “Excuse me”. Isn’t that so, my fair lady.