Over my past four years at University, I’ve learned that contrary to what your lecturers and tutors will tell you, doing things at the last minute actually ends up being infinitely more productive and efficient, if you’re still a fully-functioning human being under pressure. Let’s be honest – at seven weeks out from a due date, you’re just going to be highlighting and photocopying pointless pages as part of your “research process”, you waste time revisiting the little progress you made during your last sitting, you get distracted by food, people, other subjects, the Kardashians… and all of a sudden, you find yourself awake for 36 hours straight, trying to reference as quickly as possible (keeping in mind that ‘to reference quickly’ is likely the most outrageous oxymoron of our generation).
Awkwardly enough, this happened in some parallel incarnation for this post. I’d been planning on writing some extensively sentimental prose around
the idea of growing into a fragrance – how I’d spent my tween years wearing choosing my favourite sparkly Impulse flavour at the Woolworths down the road from my ballet studio (the bathrooms at the academy packed a heavy cocktail of the stuff), discovered Marc Jacobs’ Daisy during my HSC (and am still partial to it in the sunny months), and fell in love with Chanel’s COCO Eau de Parfum the week before my 18th birthday. But of course, Chanel No. 5 was the one. I never knew why – Marilyn Monroe said so, Audrey Tatou said so, and I had always secretly wanted to be blonde and/or French. Today, at 21, I’ve achieved neither, but contemplating seven hours in the hairdresser’s chair and roaming Le Louvre seems to be sufficiently contributory towards some form of scent graduation.
I’d shot a fabulously girly, uncomfortably fahshun-blahger-y (God forbid) still life of flowers and personal bits and pieces. It was laughably pretty.
After attending the screening of Baz Luhrmann’s new Chanel film last Friday (complete with Chanel popcorn and Gisele-induced heart palpitations), I couldn’t get Lo-Fang’s cover of The One That I Want out of my head – which is not ideal at all times because it raises every hair on your body, and when you’re still jetlagged, you end up on the verge of joyful or wistful tears at several points during the day. My music teachers would have been proud.
As a matter of rounding out this tale, over the weekend I went for the first proper surf I’ve been game enough to brave icy water for in months, and after a couple of hours of humming to myself in and out of water, dragged my salty, sodden self home and shot what I felt to be a far more personal, less commercial, interpretation of the fragrance that I’ve started to wear on special occasions and Sunday surfs since my 21st. Not to say that I hold even half a candle to Gisele’s sensational wave-riding and
emotional gazes into the distance – nor would anybody, for that matter. She’s really one of a kind. I do think, though, that Lo-Fang’s track would flow just as well with this dark and moody series. D‘accord?
On a surfing note, does anybody have any solid recommendations for full-length wetsuits? I definitely prefer my short one, but bruised knees and elbows are getting a little to blue to conceal on shoots.