Another soul bounded by reality, waiting to be engulfed in a world of inspiration
Saturday, November 26, 2011
all out on the interweb
ok, so I joined Lookbook.nu, Tumblr and Weheartit recently and together with my good old blogspot, I’ve become quite inseparable with my laptop. I blame all the free time I have due to being an exchange student. However, I’m still new to it all and feel like quite a rookie
anyway, so apparently I am restricted to only posting pictures of myself on Lookbook. Since I’m more the artist & photographer than a model (damn my short genes), I can’t post my work on the site and get that targeted publicity.
I really hope someone other than me reads my blog, I’m starting to feel slightly sorry for myself since my best friend Caroline has just blossomed on her tumblr blog. V.jealous
Anyway, so here’s my first shoot, done a while back for an art project based on lyrics. I chose the song “Islands” by the XX. The models are two good friends, Annie Farley & Michele Vanzaghi and the make-up, styling, photography and editing was all done by yours truley.
Still quite proud of it I must admit :)
Friday, November 11, 2011
Incredible India
Ok, so I've been ion India since beginning-ish of October and so far it's been the most amazing experience of my life! I just didn't know where to start with my first post on India because it's really one big culture shock explosion
..in the best way possible :)
I've made the most unforgettable friendships with people from all around the world
Colombia, Scotland, Australia, Canada and even Limpopo
6 weeks is just NOT enough. So in that case I'm really considering extending. Depending on how easy changing booked flights can be. Cross fingers on convincing mom
anyway, so Exchange is a cruel program where they send you somewhere for a few weeks where they will have JUST enough time to make the closest of friendships and then have to leave and never see that person again for the rest of their lives because they literally live on the other side of the world and shortly after forget about them.
I actually hate exchange, no matter how grateful I am for such opportunities, I can't help but scorn the concept
Despite my mixed emotions, I've also had a lot of time and space to reflect and define who I am and what I believe in and I've definitely tapped into an emotional, spiritual side
[The colours, the buzz, the language, the faces, the noise and the crowds, the traffic and cows, the hot wet air and the spicy exciting foods.]
India, I'll never forget you
..in the best way possible :)
I've made the most unforgettable friendships with people from all around the world
Colombia, Scotland, Australia, Canada and even Limpopo
6 weeks is just NOT enough. So in that case I'm really considering extending. Depending on how easy changing booked flights can be. Cross fingers on convincing mom
anyway, so Exchange is a cruel program where they send you somewhere for a few weeks where they will have JUST enough time to make the closest of friendships and then have to leave and never see that person again for the rest of their lives because they literally live on the other side of the world and shortly after forget about them.
I actually hate exchange, no matter how grateful I am for such opportunities, I can't help but scorn the concept
Despite my mixed emotions, I've also had a lot of time and space to reflect and define who I am and what I believe in and I've definitely tapped into an emotional, spiritual side
[The colours, the buzz, the language, the faces, the noise and the crowds, the traffic and cows, the hot wet air and the spicy exciting foods.]
India, I'll never forget you
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
a bit of about me so far (autobiography)
So this is a taste of my life so far. I don't enjoy doing autobiographical profiles and going ooon about myself blahdie blah but this was an English task, this is a blog about me and I do love a bit of writting once in a while so here's my story:
So there I was, the fattest baby in Sunnyside hospital with so many rolls that, according to my mom, I could have very well opened up a bakery. Despite my striking resemblance to a shar pei puppy, my mother scooped me up in a cradle of immense, tender love as if I was her own new-born pup.
When I tell people I was adopted at birth, 90% of the reaction seem to be immediate gushes of sympathetic looks, apologies, gestures etc. etc. The other 10% burst into enthusiastic replies of, “I wish I was adopted!” and, “That’s so cool, I’ve never met an adopted person!”, like I have some kind of special, rare condition.
Honestly, I just think I’m lucky. Having three families want the best for me, two of them eagerly awaiting my gender to determine who I get handed to. Yes, it turned out to be an unusual situation (story of my life) because you see; the doctors were pretty convinced I was a boy until the moment I popped out of course.
Alas, I went from a cuddly bundle of joy to a terror tantrum toddler. My new little family was definitely not expecting this when they flew me only a couple of days after my birth on the 12 March 1995.
Obviously peers would observe that I have no resemblance to my parents and having to repeat the “I’m-adopted” confession started to get monotonous. So I, with my creative little mind, conjured up ingenious stories about my birth. My mom’s favourite was the one where she was walking on an island when suddenly, “klonk!”, a coconut dropped in front of her, split open and there I was, her little ball of joy! So she did what any normal mother would do, she picked me up, took me home and we lived happily ever after. I enjoyed letting my tiny mind wander and my wonderfully wonderful parents have never restricted me from doing so, in fact, encouraging every burst of creativity.
Back in those terrible toddler years, my notorious tantrums seemed to be renowned. The one time I was sitting in a restaurant with my aunty and grandmother when the waitress came to take our order. I snobbishly announced that I would be having a dozen oysters and champagne.
When my slightly embarrassed grandma corrected the order I immediately went into a blue-in-the face rage. First to a shade of blue, purple then red, screaming, scratching, biting, kicking and using all the cursing words I knew in my infant vocabulary that I strand together in a single sentence. And to end it all it was physically impossible to pick me up because I went into a stiff-as-an-ironing-board state. The only possible solution was giving me what I wanted or to try and act oblivious to my little fit until I calmed down. It didn’t stop there, no! These tantrums were revealed in the middle of Woolworths, Harrods, Beverly Hills and Los Angeles. My delightful dad would sometimes resort to walking away from the screeching demonic child and claiming that it didn’t belong to him. My mother confided in many self-help books after being determined that she would not let having a child get in the way of her model agent, glamorous lifestyle and found that the problem was merely lack of sleep. So she had no choice but turning to the mother-baby routine.
Don’t get me wrong, my parents certainly raised me with many boundaries. With my spoilt brat years behind me, I think I’ve developed into a perfectly well-brought up, slightly deranged young lady thirsty for inspiration with many more years to live to the fullest before I write a complete autobiography.
This is only the beginning.
So there I was, the fattest baby in Sunnyside hospital with so many rolls that, according to my mom, I could have very well opened up a bakery. Despite my striking resemblance to a shar pei puppy, my mother scooped me up in a cradle of immense, tender love as if I was her own new-born pup.
When I tell people I was adopted at birth, 90% of the reaction seem to be immediate gushes of sympathetic looks, apologies, gestures etc. etc. The other 10% burst into enthusiastic replies of, “I wish I was adopted!” and, “That’s so cool, I’ve never met an adopted person!”, like I have some kind of special, rare condition.
Honestly, I just think I’m lucky. Having three families want the best for me, two of them eagerly awaiting my gender to determine who I get handed to. Yes, it turned out to be an unusual situation (story of my life) because you see; the doctors were pretty convinced I was a boy until the moment I popped out of course.
Alas, I went from a cuddly bundle of joy to a terror tantrum toddler. My new little family was definitely not expecting this when they flew me only a couple of days after my birth on the 12 March 1995.
Obviously peers would observe that I have no resemblance to my parents and having to repeat the “I’m-adopted” confession started to get monotonous. So I, with my creative little mind, conjured up ingenious stories about my birth. My mom’s favourite was the one where she was walking on an island when suddenly, “klonk!”, a coconut dropped in front of her, split open and there I was, her little ball of joy! So she did what any normal mother would do, she picked me up, took me home and we lived happily ever after. I enjoyed letting my tiny mind wander and my wonderfully wonderful parents have never restricted me from doing so, in fact, encouraging every burst of creativity.
Back in those terrible toddler years, my notorious tantrums seemed to be renowned. The one time I was sitting in a restaurant with my aunty and grandmother when the waitress came to take our order. I snobbishly announced that I would be having a dozen oysters and champagne.
When my slightly embarrassed grandma corrected the order I immediately went into a blue-in-the face rage. First to a shade of blue, purple then red, screaming, scratching, biting, kicking and using all the cursing words I knew in my infant vocabulary that I strand together in a single sentence. And to end it all it was physically impossible to pick me up because I went into a stiff-as-an-ironing-board state. The only possible solution was giving me what I wanted or to try and act oblivious to my little fit until I calmed down. It didn’t stop there, no! These tantrums were revealed in the middle of Woolworths, Harrods, Beverly Hills and Los Angeles. My delightful dad would sometimes resort to walking away from the screeching demonic child and claiming that it didn’t belong to him. My mother confided in many self-help books after being determined that she would not let having a child get in the way of her model agent, glamorous lifestyle and found that the problem was merely lack of sleep. So she had no choice but turning to the mother-baby routine.
Don’t get me wrong, my parents certainly raised me with many boundaries. With my spoilt brat years behind me, I think I’ve developed into a perfectly well-brought up, slightly deranged young lady thirsty for inspiration with many more years to live to the fullest before I write a complete autobiography.
This is only the beginning.
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