Inspired, Not Faked.

Day 426. The others have still not realized I am not one of them...

That narrator above would be, of course, my 'Celine Nano-inspired' tote from Charles & Keith, hiding among actual Celine handbags. Crouching handbag hidden Celine hahaha.

  

 I bought it last year as a treat for myself when I started working for Harper's Bazaar Malaysia in February. I have so much love for C&K, it's my favourite Asian high-street label and they do fantastic 'inspired' versions of designer 'It Bags', perfect for a frugalista like me who likes experimenting with trends but just can't commit what I think is a ludicrous amount of money for a design I have only a fleeting interest in. 

Digressing. About the real Celine handbags...they're mama bear's. All my designer bags are either gifts or hand me downs from her. Thanks mum! I've only ever bought 2-3 designer bags with my own money, but even those were cheap because they were preloved (vintage CHANEL and Pucci from the '70s-80s, yay!). I'm far from my parent's spending power so casually dropping £7k on a handbag is but a distant dream.

  If I like a designer handbag---for the aesthetics and it's design---I'd never buy something for the sake of carrying a brand, why would you? It's so pointless and...aspirational, in a cringy way---I make do with an 'inspired' version.  I don't get the concept of buying designer things as aspirational symbols to elevate your perceived status---you buy something because you love it, regardless of how middle-market or highbrow it is---and I'm not afraid to say so. 

Charles & Keith no longer sell the 'Celine' bag but Taobao sell Celine fakes for 1600 yuan (£160), here. I love the colours! The pink and yellow are my favourite, and I'd buy them in two, maybe three colours but I just don't like that they've got the Celine logo on. That's no longer an 'inspired design', that's counterfeiting. It makes me uncomfortable...more than just the ethics of it (ie trying to trick people into thinking I'm carrying the real deal) I'm pretty sure it's illegal. And also embarrassing, why pretend to be something you're not? My little C&K will do. That, and my mother's (real) Celine handbags. Mum, if you're reading this I swear I have no idea how they ended up in my apartment. Really.

Today's going to the library to work outfit; 

Topshop "Apudne te vel me" (Your place or mine) jumper

ASOS skinnies and kicks

Charles & Keith Celine inspired tote 

Vintage trenchcoat

No makeup, glasses, and messy hair out of practicality (and laziness). Ain't nobody got time for that!

xx

Dream. Desire. Visualize. Believe. Achieve.

Those closest to me say I'm not unlike a Disney Princess. More than my long, flowing hair, tendency to speak to animals and to burst out into song and dance at any given moment, I'm certain my friends are talking about my relentless optimism. Sure, my inevitable teenage emo phase evolved into a dedicated gothic state of mind---as evidenced on my Tumblr---but beneath it all the romantic in me lay dormant, like Cthulhu sleeping beneath the waves biding his time. I suppose it takes more than a penchant for melancholy, darkness, and melodrama to keep a Disney princess down. After all doesn't love, justice, and hope always triumph?

Put all that shining optimism into a pot, add a healthy amount of new-found spiritualism, heaps of belief in the power of The Secret, and a dash of creative effort... 

...and one has a dream-board pinned with pictures of things one wants to achieve in the near future. 

Made from; a picture frame I found, clean, and painted white, some foam board, wrapping paper, and leftover Hermès ribbon.

As always, the project starts with perusing Tumblr and Pinterest for inspirational images.

All I want is; love, success, a family, to travel, a city townhouse, a studio loft to rent and work in with other artists, a home in the suburbs, an Aston Martin to share with my soulmate, a mint green Nissan Figaro for myself, to take up the piano again, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, and to wake up everyday inspired and excited and content.

Certainly, if you can dream it, visualize it, and believe it then one can achieve it.

Print.

Prep.

Pin.

And hang.

My dream-board hangs across my bed and will be one of the first things I see in the morning. Nestled right above a mirror ensures that I will look at it dozens of times a day---Disney princesses are vain.

What I want to achieve becomes so much clearer now that I can see it with both my eyes. 

On the wall opposite, a different kind of board faces my dream board. 

Similarly upcycled from a salvaged wooden frame and given new lease of life with the same materials, right now it's empty save for a few necklaces, photos and postcards. 

I look forward to filing the other board with more lovely things, mostly nostalgic and filled with warm memories. Then the good feelings between those two boards can bounce off each other, back and forth, and create a kind of force-field of hope and happiness. Sounds ludicrous? Disney hair, don't care. *starts singing to Coolio* Ah-ah-aaah-ah!

xx

Giving Good Face--- Makeup Tutorial & F**king Young! Photoshoot

I can't fathom why anyone would ask me if I'm a makeup artist, or to teach them how to wear makeup, or even for a tutorial. It's flattering but surely they overestimate my ability...? I'm fairly good at painting my own face, but that's where it ends really...I'd never so boldly claim to be any good at it or of any real help to anyone else. Or maybe when people tell me "You've got some makeup skills!" they actually mean to say"You sure know how to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear ie. your face" *mutters darkly* Maybe I'm reading too much into it like, how I read "You're incredibly photogenic" as "You look terrible in real life". 

Digressing.

Korean style makeup is all the rage in East Asia now. I myself have picked up a few tips from the ulzzangs and StyleNanda models---

Full, straight eyebrows with little or no 'arch'. Dewy skin with minimal coverage (just a tinted moisturizer and concealer under my eyes). Coral, peach, and orange tones for cheek and eye colour. A single flick of eyeliner on the upper lids, no makeup on my lower eyes. Clear, shimmery lipgloss by day, bright pink lipstick by night.

But I can't bring myself to abandon the long fluttering falsies the Japanese gyarus love and favour. Delicate and quivering, batted just so these lashes are coy weapons of emotional manipulation. *sniggers cynically*

I'm wearing---

Face and cheeks

Laura Mercier tinted moisturizer, Cle De Peau concealer, Sleek Blush by 3 in Lace

Eyes: 

Laura Mercier black caviar eye liner, Laura Mercier warm brow definer, Sleek Blush by 3 in Lace, cheap drugstore falsies

Lips: 

Chanel Rouge Allure 93 Exalte, L'Occitane Fleur de Brignales lip gloss 

I just realised the makeup on my face costs more than the clothes on my back. But then again, a well presented face is the best thing you can wear. 没有丑女人只有懒女人 (There are no ugly women, just lazy ones).

To redress the excessive---even for me---amount of selfies, here are some photos of half-naked male models gallivanting about from yesterday's photoshoot for Fucking Young! magazine. 

There were 50 male models for this editorial, a couple dozen of which passed in and out of my apartment door for this photoshoot. Some of it took place in my bedroom, some in my living room, some on my roof garden, some on my balcony...

Models pass in and out of my apartment door every so often. There was once a time when twenty beautiful young men dressed in their skimpies draping themselves ever so languidly on my furniture would make me raise an eyebrow. Now...I'm just jaded. They're lovely young lads, but not only am I not 'buying' I'm not even 'window shopping' anymore. I only have eyes for my work.

And for Coolio, of course.

Max with the ever-popular Coolio, star of the day. Everybody loves the little fuzz ball, he's so tame and good-natured even when woken up constantly to be gawked at. And he's so trusting that he sleeps on his back, belly exposed, with his little paws in the air...! Too cute. Warm hamster, soft hamster, little ball of fuuuur...

Coolio posed for a couple of photos. I wonder if those shots will make their way into F*cking Young?  That would be his modelling debut!

xx

A Change Of Scenery...

...is all one needs to overcome a mental block, or in my case jump over a creative hurdle.

Yesterday I hit a new zenith of work related frustration. A whole week of hard work---diligent sketching, careful pencilling, extremely detailed inking and fine pen work---all gone to waste with one hour of poorly planned, badly executed colouring. 'When you fail to plan, you plan to fail' and I certainly destroyed many hours worth of line work when I blindly jumped into colouring without a strategy. Who on earth colours on the originals?! At least have a soft copy just in case. My own fault really. 

Not even a hamster break could lull me out of the anger and despair of ruining two beautifully drawn pages with misplaced colouring. 

My friends, peers, Twitter and Instagram followers alike insist that it looks fine the way it is. Yes well that's the problem, it looks 'fine'. It doesn't look amazing, stunning, captivating. Only Daddy (not my actual father) said it like it is, "It's not your best, therefore it's not good." Am I a perfectionist? Diana thinks I have "Van Gogh syndrome", I drolly replied "I hope you like pickled ear because that's what we're having for dinner."

Being the type to flagellate myself over mistakes I could avoid, I refused to take the normal bad-day-at-work comfort and denied myself the joy of going out to seek solace in social drinking. What can I say? I'm obsessed with my art; I can't go out and enjoy myself knowing that there is work to be done. I cannot leave the desk until I am happy with what I've created.

I made an exception, as I always do, for Shoreditch House.

After all it's my local go to for everything---gym, swimming pool, and watering hole---and nice enough for a refreshing change of scenery but close enough to sneak off for a couple of hours and make it back to work.

And you know what...?

That little break was what I needed.

I punched through that dark cloud of frustration, angst, and leapt over a creative hurdle. I left feeling refreshed from a non-existent workout and having made a new friend. And I have ideas on how to make it, as my protagonist would say, "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger."

Thank you Shoreditch House, thank you H-Diddy, thank you sunshine.

Now back to work.

And I get to keep both my ears.

xx

On Sexiness.

Here's a little secret---

I feel sexiest when I'm not dressed provocatively.

Rather, I feel my sexiest when I'm dressed casually, and that definitely comes across in the 'vibe' I project. When I go to Le Baron or The Box wearing jeans, Converse, and a t-shirt I get compliments too (although not as many as I would when wearing a dress with a plunging neckline, but then again those 'compliments' are mostly unsolicited opinions about my attractiveness). Why? Because to me, is about my smile, my confidence, the way I cock my head knowingly and the way my long hair tosses behind my back when I laugh heartily. My sexiness has nothing to do with how skimpy my clothes are.

I can't help but feel a little sad for those who have a very narrow view of what being sexy is. Especially so if that view is dictated purely by the male gaze and by pornography.

Understandably, the blessings of youth; lithe limbs, slender hips, and nubile breasts are beautiful gifts to be glorified in tiny bikinis, crop tops, and batty riders. Effortless, insouciant physical beauty is usually a fleeting thing and withers with age like cherry blossoms. So show it off while you still can. In my early twenties I loved flaunting whatever I had, wherever I could. I look back at old photos and see myself cavorting in dresses that look like nighties, creative uses of craft material covering next-to-nothing that I passed off as 'costume', and skirts so breathtakingly short that everyone around me was in danger of being a gynaecologist. Cringe! Note to self; disco pants and a lace corset do not a dinner suit make. But still, I think, hot damn, I looked good. Attention-seeking and embarrassing I know. But at least I made the most of out that small window of time; the irresponsible, feckless, wildly inappropriate behaviour that is excusable when you're young and foolish.

As Jessa would say, "I cannot be smoted. I am unsmoteable."

^ Crimes against modesty from yesteryears. Oh dear oh no oh to be 21 again. And these 'looks' aren't even the worst of it...

Now that I'm older, on the other side of my mid-twenties, I know a bit better and finally realise that nudity does not equate sexiness. 

There's something just a tiny bit desperate about women (yes, women, grown up women, not young ladies and teenage girls) who haven't yet figured that out. The ones who are constantly, inappropriately dressed in next-to-nothing at occasions that merit demureness and restrain. If one was a lifeguard or lived in tropical climes bare skin is a necessity. Evening dress with a thigh-high slit at a gothic fashion ball? Fine. Cleavage AND legs at an F1 party? Passable. But bare legs shivering in subzero winter while queueing outside that trendy but modest popup restaurant in Soho? I hear this place does a mean winter stew, but I doubt the warmth in your stomach will spread to your naked thighs.

Yes, your firm buttocks are an admirable achievement and noone can deny you the priveledge to remind yourself (and the world) of your many hours of hard work at the gym. A tight figure is undoubtedly sexy, but is not the sum of your parts and certainly not the measure of your self-worth.

My point is; sexiness is not about the approval of men (or the envy of other women). Nor is it baring acres of flesh to remind yourself of your stunning physique, because you are more than your body. Sexiness is about confidence, the kind of self-possession and knowingness that doesn't come from a skinny teenage body. It comes from years of respect and knowing that your self-worth is not about how little clothes you can wear or how much skin you can show off.

^ The original photo before my 'artistic treatment'; a snap of Michiekins, Jolyna, and I at Michiekins' first wedding dinner. Jo and I are wearing cheongsams, which to me is a perfect balance of sexiness and modesty. All buttoned up to the neck and knee-length hems says business, tight-fitted with a slit says party. 

xx

Losing My Religion

...which, may I reiterate, has nothing to do with me going to church not for worship or prayer, but instead for drinks and dancing. To be fair, indulgence is a religion, or at least a movement on it's own, no? Try convincing the party animals of London otherwise. My week has been somewhat boring, at least to those looking in from outside, as my life has subtly shifted away from partying to work. Good for the soul, bad for the blog. Whatever.  I am happy to spend 12 hour days in pursuit of perfecting my panels, linework, and colouring in lieu of, say, countless Jägerbombs and wandering aimlessly from afterparty to afterparty in the wee hours of the morning. 

Despite my apparent aversion to being sociable, on Saturday I managed to drag myself away from my desk for a couple of hours of church.

One Marylebone aka Holy Trinity Church on Marylebone Road is not all it seems.

That afternoon spirituality and prayer took a back seat to champagne and socialising...

...although I was far more interested in keeping my own company, in my little corner of our table, nibbling away on tiny little wieners. 

Moi et Jess. 

I can't even 'fake kiss' for a photo the way girls do when they pretend they're bicurious. for the benefit of men. See...! I'm not only socially awkward, I'm terrible at being an attention-seeker. This is what old age does to you.

xx

Working Hard or Hardly Working?

I can hardly blame you for thinking that it's the latter, after all Shoreditch House on a hot and sunny London day can prove distracting. 

Least of all for the sight of dozens of hipsters (or at least their more affluent counterparts) adamantly resisting any physical strain on their part, instead stretching out their coloured-socked feet, and airing their plaid shirts and ambiguous sexual orientation to bask in the sun. 

The active man is a lonely one.

I celebrated a gloriously hot and beautiful day as I typically do. By moving my computer closer to the pool. And keeping my clothes on.

If only out of polite consideration for my fellow pool-goers, to spare them what I'm certain would be the blindingly bright reflection of the sun bouncing off my winter-pale flesh. When I swim my nickname is iceberg...because I'm big, I'm white, and I float.

In hindsight, working from Shoreditch House is far less distracting and much more comfortable when you're not lying on a deck chair by a big bowl of chlorine. If you want to get any work done, move downstairs. Or compromise, settle for a cocktail and pizza in the rooftop cafe slash bar.

I brought my Macbook, my freshly drafted layouts, and sketches to work on. Voulez-vous like to know what really needs working on? That awful chocolate stain on my Anya Hindmarch tote, just to the left of the Earl's head. Lesson learnt; never eat drippy chocolate donuts with your handbag on your lap while David Khoo Hsu Yang is driving.

Mason jars everywhere. Ladies and gentlemen, we are living in a Pinterest board.

A typically hard day at the office.

The chilli and passionfruit cocktail that razed my tongue to cinders. Note to self; stick to Diet Coke during working hours.

What I'm working on at the moment. All updates to be found on Facebook and on my illustration blog.

Shoreditch House, the modern (wo)man's summer office.

xx