When you don’t like Monet

So I love impressionism, looking at a Monet, even in the diminished capacity of a computer screen, I feel joy, passion, hope, beauty. Few things stir my spirit more that Monet. This is why I cannot understand when people don’t like impressionism. I should be able to understand when people say ‘nah’ to impressionism, because heaps of people are passionate about cubism which I just don’t get.

Art is SO subjective. How can one piece make one cry while another person merely passes by?

It’s strange that I love impressionism when I think about it. Generally I love even lines, order, parallels; there is a sharpness all around us, a clarity, a distinction between one thing and the next. I feel like I’m escaping the world when I’m taking in impressionism.


Illustrations of Women by Carol Rossetti

…wow… loving this

Project Naked

This is one of the reasons I love facebook and can’t quite give it up because I come across amazing things like this from the various pages I follow. This is the amazing work by Carol Rossetti, so simple yet so powerful! I wanted to share on the blog because I felt it so fitting and something a lot of woman will relate to. Also the illustrations are just too KICK ASS not to share.












Posted with permission. Please go to http://https://www.behance.net/carolrossetti to see more of her amazing work!

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Beware of stickers

You may be casually roaming the halls, thinking everyone else is at class…
You may be in the library, as the words on the page before you push that evolutionary instinct of awareness too deep…
You may be getting blind with a supposed friend, defenses lowering as your blood alcohol level rises…
Before you realise it has egan happened, there, on your shoulder, is a sticker. Yes, you’ve been tagged, you’ve been bagged, you are out.

As I write this, dozens of thumping footsteps are pounding down my corridor. I still haven’t decided whether I should begin my own hunt…

My uni res is currently playing a cunning game of tag ’em and bag ’em. You get a name, stickers and some anxiety pills. You have to tag your target, get their victims name, and begin again with someone new.

I’m excited, highly suspicious, and ready to play!

On Magazines

When I was in primary school, I used to get Dolly magazine. Dolly magazine was (and I would guess it still is) a magazine for girls too young to read Cosmopolitan or Cleo. It had quizzes like what Disney Princess are you and are you a go-getter or a wall flower. It had a celebrity interview, it had Doctor Dolly, it was mass media for a soggy mind.

Of course it wasn’t complete trash, I’m sure at times I found it interesting or educational or funny, but I’m talking on the whole, as an average, there was no substance! For a long time, I thought that was a summation of the magazine industry. I looked at the covers of all these magazines that had celebrities without make up, shock headlines about divorces and cat-fights, 10 amazing things you didn’t know about the orgasm, and I was turned off. 

My dream is to work in publishing, a number of things contributed to this, one of them was the discovery of Frankie. This magazine was so different, so beautiful, so interesting, that in one issue my entire opinion of the magazine world was transformed. For the first time, I bought a subscription, I eagerly anticipated each new edition, I did happy dances when I saw it lying on my front step, I muttered curses when the post-man rolled it up and shoved it in the too-small mail box. 

After a while, I began to explore niche magazines more fully. I searched the net for publications in fashion, literature, art, fitness and the publishing industry. I made sure to have a proper look when in the newsagents, scanning for magazines that looked different, artsy, honest; things that looked like they had something to SAY.

I have Frankie for lifestyle/joy and Lula for fashion photography and Popshot magazine for new literary talent and women’s fitness for health. I think niche magazines are genius, they’ve revived an industry, they educate us, introduce us to new things, allow us to obsess over hobbies and connect like minded individuals. I love reading the ‘Dear Frankie’ letters, I get to see what people think and feel when they read something I too have read.
If you take the time to look, you can find a magazine for yourself…maybe several.

future prologue? pt 1

It was unusually loud and bright in the village of Unkor. Normally dark streets and empty windows were full of movement. People buzzed to and fro, drunk men began brawls in alleyways, women sold food and cheap wine off trays and young children escaped their beds, leaning out windows and calling out to one another instead of sleeping.

In the main square, a large bonfire crackled, menacing flames reaching high into the sky.


On Jiggling


to move up and down or to and fro with short, quick jerks.

Today I found myself contemplating jiggling. Such a strange word, a word that holds within it many contradictions. Is it good, bad or ugly. Is it sexy? Is it unhealthy? Does it cause permenant self loathing or pride? When do you admire a jiggle, and when do you shun it?

As a young woman, I struggle with the ‘jiggle matrix’ almost daily. It impacts on my choice of clothing, my ideas of womanliness, of attraction and sex appeal; my body image in gereral.

I was the stick kid through most of school. I was skinny all over, even in places you wouldn’t think could be skinny, like your underarms. Later on, I got some little curves, a few bumps, but nothing really all that spectacular. I had no concept of jiggling as it pertained to me.

I thought my body had settled into its shape, but I was wrong. I got a second go of it in my final year of highschool. I went up two cup sizes, my thighs got to know eachother- too well for my liking- both my hips and ass were “upsized” and my arms became soft and rounded, rather than straight and lean. I became aware of jiggling.

I got anxious when running in P.E was required, embarrassed by my body’s excess movement. I liked that I looked more womanly, and I wasn’t unhealthy, but I didn’t like the jiggle. I was worried, because I was taught that fat jiggles, and that people thought jiggling was ugly, and that you should cover jiggly bits because no one want to see them. That’s what I thought, I believed that for quite a while.

I generally have a positive attitude towards my body. I like my face and my hair, my skin tone and my proportions. I usually consider myself relatively attractive. And yet the jiggle was that thing, the thing I was worried about people seeing, I thought that they wouldn’t be able to see past it; I was right, and I was wrong, and this is where the contradictions begin.

The truth is that people will see what they want to see (I really want to say haters gonna hate, do people still say that?) A person who wants to think of you as ugly, fat, unhealthy or unworthy will see your jiggling thighs and arms and stomach, and let that image taint everything about you; they probably don’t realise it half the time. If you have no jiggling, these people will find something else to use to validate their hatred and bias.

A person who wants to think of you sexually will generally focus on the ass and breasts, and they will love the jiggling, and it will taint their view of you too. Then there’s you, yourself, in this case me too. I choose to think that I like some jiggle, I dislike some jiggle, but my jiggle is not me, despite what my haters, or my objectfiers might think.

Hopefully, you have people outside of yourself who see any jiggles as a tiny faction of who you are. Friends, family and partners shouldn’t love you inspite of your jiggle or for your jiggle; they should just love you as a whole!


Reading ‘Eleanor & Park’

Earlier this week, I finished ‘Eleanor & Park’ and I was deeply moved by the story, and incredibly invested in the futures of the characters. In a relatively short novel, Rowell has managed to create whole, well rounded characters; not once did I feel an action or thought out of place. Richie’s character is ‘rank and rotten’ AND he makes sense. So often I struggle to understand the motivations and movements of “the bad guy”, but in ‘Eleanor & Park’ Richie’s horrible and depraved behaviour is weaved through the dialogue and action with such skill, he’s one of the best examples of a horrible person that I’ve ever experienced in fiction.

‘Her mother was standing at the stove, standing more still than usual. You couldn’t not notice the bruise on the side of her face. Or the hickey under her chin.’

The love between ‘Eleanor and Park’ is fantastically refreshing, with enough cliche teenage love to keep it realistic- in the style of melodramatic adolescents- and lots of truly beautiful and sincere connections and expressions.

I thought the pacing in some parts was too fast (perhaps I just didn’t want it to end) so when the end came, I felt I’d been robbed of a few months of romance. Regardless of this, ‘Eleanor & Park’ has already earned a place in my heart… and on my repeat read’s shelf.