Visionneur d’histoires Instagram

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

Beautiful people of the @jazz___marche this month xx woo I love Sydney

Secret cafe by @lilyinnis and I
Food by @christiana_mooy
Music by @nick_ruberg and @biglittlemax
Coffee sponsored by @bertos_espresso

Excited for round 2!!

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

I don’t think lives end I think they just slow right down, and stretch right out forever.

She was the most beautiful person to everyone that ever met her. I was her biggest fan. The first girl I met in Sydney.

Putting these on here for people to save and keep.

Menu for Jazz Marché — food by @christiana_mooy
Jazz by Max Little and @nick_ruberg
By @lilyinnis and @ruby___norman

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

I’m deejaying at the @acehotelsydney on Friday April 10th, the festival of Freda’s continues. Sexy music in a hotel lobby! So nice. #fredasforever

6.30-8.30pm

@kimberleyjonjiin and I at @utsfashion afterparty
Flyer by @cacarrracha
A sign in my lounge room
A dying hibiscus
Karma sutra dot-to-dot
@ko_yamada_ ‘s awesome dance class
Jubilee park meditation spot

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

Wrote this on a plane (I was really thinking about the big things bc I had the flu and fever probably fried my brain) and then here are some pictures that I love but don’t know what to do with

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

WOMADelaide and so many nice things

Also I bought this Rae Ganim set from the Adelaide arcade I’d save it first in a fire

@fredasforever @harveykarate

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Goodbye Bar Freda’s, you were so chic and loving ! Thanks to my Freda’s teachers @cacarrracha @fireonthedecks @_artefacts___

Happy birthday beautiful boy @harveykarate

It’s almost photo day ~ This is my big archival project for this year! I want to document every woman (and non male person) in Sydney, put you in a year book and print them off to keep in the archives forever.

Bring yourself and a yearbook quote. If you’re uncomfortable showing your face, I’ll take a picture of the back of your head, your pinky finger — I don’t mind!

From 5pm Thursday 26.2.26 ~ till we close. Drop by! Have a drink. Wear something nice or come in your work uniform. It’s free!

The other day i was walking to the sauna and a girl was singing from her window with a microphone. Dreamt that a horse galloped fast whilst tied to a tree

Art by @koh_ey and @_marinakawabe
Curated by @bleubyapricot@jackjacksaha

The other day i was walking to the sauna and a girl was singing from her window with a microphone. Dreamt that a horse galloped fast whilst tied to a tree

Art by @koh_ey and @_marinakawabe
Curated by @bleubyapricot@jackjacksaha

The other day i was walking to the sauna and a girl was singing from her window with a microphone. Dreamt that a horse galloped fast whilst tied to a tree

Art by @koh_ey and @_marinakawabe
Curated by @bleubyapricot@jackjacksaha

The other day i was walking to the sauna and a girl was singing from her window with a microphone. Dreamt that a horse galloped fast whilst tied to a tree

Art by @koh_ey and @_marinakawabe
Curated by @bleubyapricot@jackjacksaha

The other day i was walking to the sauna and a girl was singing from her window with a microphone. Dreamt that a horse galloped fast whilst tied to a tree

Art by @koh_ey and @_marinakawabe
Curated by @bleubyapricot@jackjacksaha

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.

The house is towering red brick beside Sydney Harbour.
I’m greeted by a curly-haired chap who immediately interrogates me in a friendly, high-vibration but intense way.
“That is a fucking cool top,” he says.
“Thanks—it’s actually a dress I tucked in.”
“Ugh. None of them ever come in my size.”

He sends me toward the other photographers: about ten young ones in black button-ups, big cameras on tripods, sensible shoes. I feel a bit out of place in my bustle and black pumps, so I dart to the bathroom. Inside, I find my friend Kim, who’s opening the show, and her friend Corina applying makeup in the mirror.
Out the back, models perch around a heavy wooden kitchen table. Their monochrome bodies look ghostly against the warmth of the wood. They drink water, get their hair done, draw pictures in a sketchbook.
I take Libby into the garden.

During rehearsal, I sit in the sunroom, the scene laid out like a diorama. Models float in and out of the doorway. Paris calls directions from the stairwell, but the details get lost as they travel through rooms and halls before reaching us. Nervous at first, the models’ faces soften into easy confidence by the second take, mirroring the ethereal ceiling painted like a blue sky.

I talk to a girl who works as a costume PA in film. She points to the hair tie on my wrist and tells me to loop it under my skirt—“so it’s hidden.”
Then it’s time for me to exit backstage and mingle. The guests’ giddiness rubs off on me, and I’m excited to watch the show again for the final time. The models—or actors, which feels more accurate—travel through the rooms like it’s a stage and not a runway, interacting with objects and clinging to doorways. They carry tall red candlesticks; black smoke shudders upward, replicating the sheer black fabric of their suits and gowns.
Glasses fall. Pizza is ordered. Everyone loosens at the seams. Paris takes me up to her dressing room and brings out her yellow snake, housed in a large glass enclosure in the middle of the room.

The party draws out while people chat on the lawn. Chat of the house, the show, their pleasure to be there.