OHMYGOD DAVID BOWIE EXHIBITION.

I suppose I should really get around to posting this before it ceases to be relevant.

So, last Friday night Misa came over and stayed the night. It was a night filled with pasta and chocolate mousse and Enchanted and Rekorderlig. Saturday morning largely involved the devouring of criminally delicious and soft strawberry shortcake (Strawberries were on sale that week! Always ask your friendly supermarket staff members which ones are nice.), the recipe for which I will use again when the Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei shoot rolls around.

I'm proud, okay. It's not David Bowie but it is delicious.

So after that bout of deliciousness we parted ways, and after meeting a couple of my theatre friends and taking the train with them, I was off to South Yarra's Mossgreen Gallery, for the first day of the SPEED OF LIFE exhibition.

For the unenlightened, SPEED OF LIFE is a limited exhibition by the Japanese photographer Masayoshi Sukita, featuring twelve different photographs throughout 40 years of collaboration between him and rock god David Bowie. Aside from prints of the exhibited photographs, they were selling the eponymous photobook.

I literally heard about this only the week before from my friend and fellow David Bowie fangirl Ebony (HOW DO YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT WHEN FAMOUS PEOPLE COME TO MELBOURNE. OH MY GOD), and we decided to meet at the gallery itself. She was a little late, so I walked in first, and saw a little old man, clearly of Asian descent.

"Please don't let it be Sukita, I'll feel all awkward and things," I thought, as I perused the sturdy photobook at the entrance, a comprehensive and emotive essay of Bowie's professional (and sometimes not-as-professional) life, smiling at all the pictures of him as a lithe young thing, with his prominent and beautiful bone structure. Ziggy era Bowie is my favourite kind of Bowie, though I think all his styles hold merit in their own ways.

"If you want to ask him any questions, tell me, and I'll translate for you," said a young girl, also of Asian descent.
It was him. Merde. I felt my hands sweat in the presence of the man who took all the photographs of this beautiful man, and was momentarily thankful that the gallery had provided gloves to people wishing to peruse their copy of Speed of Life. "God, woman, don't sweat on the page. David Bowie and Sukita both signed this book. Their hands have touched it. The hands of two amazing men. Don't go sweating all over something their hands have touched, dammit," I thought.

I wonder after David Bowie. I wonder about those hands. I wonder how they feel. But that is a question for Iman and Lexi to answer.

Ebony appeared soon after, and when she realised it was Sukita (almost immediately) she had a bit of a fangirl moment. We perused the book together, as Sukita told us things about the photographs. "The circle on his forehead represents the moon," he said.

"I've been looking at this costume for a long time, and I still don't know what it's made of," I mused to Ebony when we got to the page with this picture.

The interpreter told Sukita, who laughed gently. "He says he doesn't know either," she replied.

What he did know, however, was that this costume was not initially made for David Bowie. It was made by Kansai Yamamoto for a female model, but Bowie happened to fit into it, so they did a shoot with this costume.

We took a look around at the exhibition itself, and it took a lot of strength for me not to reach out and gently stroke David Bowie's cheekbones in all the photos. Immature, I know, but it's David Bowie. He's fabulously handsome enough for me to want to do something like that in public, but not fabulously handsome enough for me to do that in front of his photographer.

We returned and continued looking at the book (the most expensive photobook I have ever set eyes on, but also the most magnificent), and heard someone ask after Bowie. He is fine now, Sukita said, but he's not performed for a long time because of his heart. He knows everyone's waiting for him to come back, though. Sukita also said he was looking forward to photographing Bowie next year.

During a slow period in the time we were there, Sukita brought out photographs from his travels. "These are from his exhibition in Japan," his interpreter explained, "Not just David Bowie. There are other stars there too, like Elvis Costello."
He then produced three copies of a Japanese circular, took out a marker, and signed them before giving one each to both of us, and the interpreter. We gasped in delight, and I mused inside about how it would be a terrible time for a grand piano to descend from the ceiling upon my head.

Left: Sukita awesomeness
Right: Sukita awesomeness

The following is an accurate description of how I feel about receiving this:
sjdtgdayvhsahtdkjdhfklasjgvdsbjkghsvuasobn
aeiguhasljfasliffdsdfkfdhjkahjkfhsvksjklcsejae
hgsjvkcfdskvdjvklineoqhefncascomdqowfnfo
vinaioevneuonaunvegfeouvgeaovo!!!!!!!!1

After nearly an hour in the exhibition space (really, who does that?) we decided to go get lunch. But just before we left, we got a picture with him.
"Which picture would you like to stand next to?" we were asked.

We let him choose.

After that, Ebony and I shook his hand, thanking him for his work and for having us for so long. His hands were old, certainly, but by no means were they frail, as his firm grip showed. It was a beautiful day out, and we left the exhibition to perfect springtime sun.

From left: really handsome man, me, really quite paradise,
really awesome photographer, really crazy fabulous girl,
really talented musician.

If you have time to spare and want to see pictures of forty years of ch-ch-ch-ch-changes (old joke, I know), SPEED OF LIFE closes on Saturday, the 8th of September. It's open today from 10am to 5.30pm, and on Saturday from 10am to 4pm.

310 Toorak Rd,

South Yarra 3141, Victoria

A new costume?

Yesterday, a thought came into my head. Not that the thought hadn't come into my head before, but this time, I was actually in a post-Manifest slump.

This thought was about dressing as a certain Game of Thrones character I've had my eye on for some time now. While Lancel Lannister's been on my mind for a while, he's not of enough consequence at the moment to be to my (or anyone else's) liking. Viserys Targaryen was an option for some time, but (and I know how this really shouldn't ever bother me) a certain particularly charming cosplayer I know has it on his agenda as well, and I'd like to leave him to it.

So those two were out. Tall, slender men who didn't do much fighting? Not many in Game of Thrones, I would imagine. Violence! Death! Sex! Explosions! It's not common to find someone in GoT who doesn't fall under one of those four categories.

But now I know who I want, and I have the hair/makeup test to back it up. And while my face balked at the preparation work for it, it's probably the best character for me.

Here's a test shot of the character I picked:

Petyr Baelish, Game of Thrones.

Certainly, I'll fix the mo and the hair...I grabbed those from my cupboard for this trial and coloured the sides with white body paint. Baelish stubble was made with an old toothbrush, and the hair under his lower lip (does anyone think it resembles hair of the feminine nether regions? I think it's intentional) was done with an angled brush, using dark brown shadow. I remember his eyebrows greying out from the halfway point on, but otherwise I haven't concealed them. The non-pale sections of my eyebrows were darkened as well.

There was going to be a lot more liquid latex than what made it into the final picture, but the work it took, oh god! I've never been good at smoothing out the seams, and it hurt a little (pansy I know) to keep it on and work all of the facial muscles to try and find wrinkle lines. (I'm turning 20 next month. The revelation that I have to try really really really hard before anything resembling crow's feet turns up was a proud moment for me) Then I pulled off the liquid latex on the sides of my mouth and the outer corners of my eyes, and went and drew lines with bronzer/medium brown eyeshadow based on the memory of where those wrinkles sat.

I gave myself a bit of token eyeliner and lined under my eyebags, and then I raised my eyebrows and frowned and filled in the lines that appeared on my forehead and between my eyebrows. You know, standard stuff. And of course, there was the fake moustache, which I attached with spirit gum.

That fake mo makes Littlefinger, kay. No arguments. I looked at myself without it, and it just wasn't the same. No mo, regular old guy. With mo, Littlefinger. :'DDDDD
That mo is like a caterpillar on my upper lip. I've never had a caterpillar on my upper lip before, and I never want to, but that's probably it. It will harass your sorry ass and threaten to fall off if you laugh too hard (I speak from experience), but it makes the Baelish Look. So if you do this you absolutely have to keep it on. That is your #1 priority. If your clothes fall off in the process of keeping your mo, that's okay, because it's Game of Thrones. Either everyone dies, or their clothes fall off. Sometimes both. Unless you are a kid. Or Littlefinger. But let's ignore that deeply contradictory point and move on.

I was surprised at how little contouring I did (practically none) beyond aging things, but I might mess with with the temples a bit the next time I try something like this. Either way, I'm so doing this costume now. :'DDDDDDDD He's such a fun character to do, after makeup process. All the scheming and creeping and being really smart and obsequious to everyone! Fabulous.

Now, who wants to be my Varys? ;D

Bad theatre fanfiction.

Straight Theatre adjusts his tie and checks out his collar. He fusses over how his glasses sit, and looks down to ensure he can see his reflection in his leather shoes.

All of a sudden, his neck snaps up...he hears the sound of footsteps he knows too well. Two metal panels on split-soled shoes.
This cannot be good.

"Ohhhhhh, so this is where his dressing room is!"
Straight Theatre has only this as warning before the door bursts open. He winces as he takes in the sight of his brother's form...Gay Theatre.
Dressed in red sequins and feathers, Gay Theatre sashays in, casually flipping the end of a feather boa over his shoulder.
"HEYYYYYYYYY GURLLLLLL," Gay Theatre leans in and curls his hand over the side of his mouth, despite standing merely two metres away from Straight Theatre, obviously bothered by the intrusion.
"Why the sad face? You should really smile more, you know. Oh. My. God, I know -exactly- what would cheer you up."

The lights come on, as twenty backup dancers materialise out of nowhere at all. Together, they engage in a short but lively dance routine.

Straight Theatre's right hand meets his forehead for what is certainly not the hundredth time by now.
He squints at his brother. At least, it is his brother for now. Sometimes it is his sister.
Sometimes it is neither. He has ceased to question this, and instead mutters an inaudible prayer thanking the Lord for their lost cousin, Avant Garde.

"Will you stop being so gay," Straight Theatre used to ask Gay Theatre.
"Well excuuuuuuse me, princess," Gay Theatre would playfully slap Straight Theatre on the back, complete with a broken wristed flick and a giggle, "It's Musical Theatre for you. Get it? Musical? Because I'm faaaaaabulous?"

Straight Theatre doesn't call Gay Theatre "Gay Theatre" to his face. It comes across to him as quite mean. And while Straight Theatre is uppity sometimes, he doesn't want to be mean all the time. Sometimes, certainly, because the effect is important, but not all the time. The effect is--

He barely has time to continue his train of thought when suddenly, clad in black, a figure tears through the door, a look of abject horror on his face.

"No! NO! IT IS TOO LATE. SAVE ME, SAVE MEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

The figure falls to the ground, clutching at his neck, still pleading for mercy.

Straight Theatre looks at the man. Black tights, but no gloves, and no whiteface. So it's not his uncle Mime.

He glances once more at the writhing fool. "Ah, of course."

Avant Garde has returned.

Straight Theatre looks at the door, now broken into a million pieces. If privacy was an issue before, it clearly wasn't any longer.
He does his best to avert his eyes from the random but extremely well-endowed females changing openly in the communal dressing room. Gay Theatre assures him they no longer care, but for his own sanity he refuses to look their way nonetheless.

This unfortunately shifts his line of sight back to Avant Garde, who has ceased to thrash about like a recently captured fish. Now he merely lies, his face frozen in a picture of despair, hands still placed firmly around his neck.

He tries to keep his cool. "What is it this time, Avant Garde?"

Avant Garde sits up slowly, breaking eye contact with Straight Theatre. Looking into the undefined distance, he gingerly takes one hand off his neck, and points into the distance. And after an interminable silence, he reaches a conclusion.

"The world," he stage-whispers, his other hand sliding towards his chest. 

Oh great, Straight Theatre sighs. The world. When hasn't it been the world? This could go on for hours.

"What is it about the world," Straight Theatre replies. It isn't so much a question as it is an expressed desire for Avant Garde to move on, but Avant Garde continues nonetheless.
"The world...it is dark and cruel. People full of hate and fear perpetuating hate and fear and pain and darkness. The world...is a prison."

Straight Theatre thinks. He knows the answer to this. He remembers there being an answer to this...no. That's not the answer at all. Avant Garde just used the answer.

Defeated, but hoping that Avant Garde wouldn't notice the difference, Straight Theatre responds with the first half of that statement.

"Then is Denmark one."

Avant Garde's eyes light up.
He understands.

"What's he saying? It sounds really depressing. I don't get iiiiiiiiiit," drawls Gay Theatre. Sorry, Musical Theatre. The sooner he gets into the habit of saying it, the sooner it'll stay, Straight Theatre muses.

"Just because you don't understand it doesn't make it depressing, Musical Theatre. Do you even know what depressing sounds like?"

Musical Theatre knows. He doesn't get much opportunity to experience it, but when he does, how it burns.
He remembers the cold Parisian nights. Of students with stupid idealism, and barricades and sewers and dirty men looting from their murdered sons. He remembers the moments in Vietnam, of a bargirl who could never go to America. He can still taste the meat pie, can still feel the cold blade gaily glide across his throat, in a dark dingy barbershop on the second floor, and the final backward tip of the plush chair.

He shivers. He shivers and tries to think of cats in hats, baboons raising baby lions into the air, and dancing nuns with children in tow. He holds back tears, only these are not the tears he sheds for the beauty of his craft, but those he reserves for the truly pitiful. He knows these are tears of weakness. No, no, he knows he must block the thoughts out. Gay Republican investment banker puppets. Gary Coleman. Young male ballet dancers in small mining towns.

He finally puts himself together enough to look Straight Theatre in the eye. "Don't. Ever. Ask that question. Again."

REMINDER TO SELF: GO BACK TO STRAIGHT THEATRE AT EARLIEST POSSIBLE OPPORTUNITY.

I'm going to regret doing this so hard.

I'm only tagging this under music because Rebecca Black, Lil' Wayne and Nicki Minaj do. That's the only reason.
I should never be allowed to cover Avril Lavigne, ever.

It's been a long time since I came around. [PHOTOS.]

"There we were - demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance - and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. Don't you see?! We're actors - we're the opposite of people!"

 - The Player, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard

It's been an eternity since my last posting here, and as I nurse my frightful Facebook addiction and my appreciation for only short, sharp status updates, I wonder in earnest when the post after this will come.

But I suppose that gives me heaps of space to introduce who I am once more. So hello hello, dear great wide world, and welcome to my blog. I'm Faith, and I'm nearly 20. And I don't know what I should do with myself.

I don't know how to introduce myself beyond what I've just said, and what you can read in the sidebar. Isn't that sad? It must be terribly saddening to be a Creative Writing major and not know how to introduce yourself. But what I can do is give you pictures. Images of where I've been and what I've done in the last long time I've had this blog and not used it. (Photos mine unless caption states otherwise. Some have click-through links).

That's about all I can give you all for now. Stories related to these things will come eventually. Stay warm!

Orochimaru, Naruto. Photo by Boon Dat. MelCosPho3

Koushiro Izumi, Digimon. Supanova 2011

Dominus, iQuest: The Musical. Mudfest.

Shinra Kishitani, DuRaRaRa!. Sydney Animania

Young Orochimaru, Naruto. Photo by Dan Holtham. Armageddon 2011.

Young Orochimaru, Naruto. Armageddon 2011.

Francis Bonnefoy, Hetalia. Just after Hetalia Day 2011.

Jo Calderone, Lady Gaga. ROC'RAISER. We covered Yoü & I. It was glorious.

Itoshiki Nozomu, Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei. Shoot. Photo by Trung. Click through for original.

Jareth the Goblin King, Labyrinth.

Jareth the Goblin King, Labyrinth. Post-Labyrinth screening at the Astor Theatre.

Jo Calderone, Lady Gaga. The Born This Way Ball, Melbourne.

Francis Bonnefoy, Cosfest XI.

Not cosplaying! Meeting Jedward :DDDDDD

The Zombified Thin White Duke, inspired by 1976 David Bowie. Ushering for Zombie! An Apocalyptic Rock Opera. Photo by Silvi.

Hoshigaki Kisame, Naruto. Photo by Tim Kong. Manifest 2012. Click through for original.