45

National Day was always just another holiday to me-- an excuse to go shopping whilst everybody was out in the open grounds celebrating revelling in collective effervescence of nationalist fervour. Reminiscent of the religion of football or basically, religions in general. Lately I found myself thinking, 'Oh 9 August. It's National Day'. Singapore turns 45-years old. Clicking onto a few Singapore-based blogs and all posts on national pride and red-and-white stuff based on the colours of the flag made me miss home even more whilst England's summer fast-forwards to winterish weather, seemingly bypassing fall. Stumbling onto |mode.ulation| sparked the discovery of Harry Halim, a designer who studied fashion in Singapore. It's always awesome to see home-grown talents making it big on the international scene. Whilst voices inside and out of my head tells me I should really be working on prisoner rights and radical prisoner organisations at this mo.


Photo by Ridhwan Sesapar.

derelict markets

There are some things that seem to last forever; and no, they don't have to be diamonds of which their alleged perpetuity really is part of a clever DeBeers marketing campaign back in the day. I remember this bangle which I had at 2-- set in Indian stones which I used to play dress-up with. It remains near and dear to me. The Mother's collection of belts, too, which probably are older than I am-- gorgeous vintage exquisite leather belts that I know I should purchase rather than my nonsensical knockoffs. I remember wearing pom-pom or anklet socks as a child too-- something that could be found at every shop in some housing estate in Singapore, but now only to be found in sex stores online. Or the choker I made from fabric roses in pots at home whilst studying for my A-Levels, thereby rendering all the fake flower pots bald during that period. Slightly less far back in memories would be this dress. One morning in Brisbane my cousin and I hopped onto a train to the factory outlet complex. A few hours and kebabs later I left satiated whilst wondering how I would fit everything to bring to Melbourne. This dress was one of the hauls. I even remember that it was only AUD$10. That's how happy I was with it.

identikit



Faffing around with grids and becoming anal about positioning and typography for the past few weeks whenever I randomly pop into D's screen. Even though The Creative Director has been mocking my faux-Art Directorship and bruising my ego badly. Still, the entire Anality Trip has made me..  well, experiment and play too. So today I came up with these. Even if I am a little appalled at the way I now obsessively make sure how certain points must touch each other and count grid spacings. Oh God, am I really going to turn into one of those who get obsessed with even a bit of tiny pixelation errors. I don't remember ever bothering about grids even if I knew how to use them since a long time ago. Random hours over the past two days have seen me learn how to configure scripts to . . well, anally ensure that all pictures are of the same width, and make sure that I can stand the aesthetics at-least-remotely. Anyhows, red-and-black. My favourite colours. I am quite proud of these works anyway. At least I ain't sleeping my time away.

satin bangs

As I head towards my last few weeks of studies and put the finishing touches on my thesis, my personal photodiary is born. A cornucopia and repository of memories and places, people and smells, textures and sheens, flavours and thoughts. Quite possibly, chronologically displaced; a work-in-progress. A tribute to generations and years of clothes and shoes and bags-- however ancient, vintage, hand-me-down, a-few-seasons-ago, or spankin' new.
The mantra-- Everyday's a fashion parade
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