Yet another post about the end of Harry Potter

I was so sick yesterday, and have been for the past few days, so I had to miss the last ever Midnight premiere of a Harry Potter film, which was pretty tragic, but at least I've delayed the end truly ending for a bit longer. I feel as if, when I go to see the last film, it'll feel the same way as going to see the first film. I went on a school excursion with the quaint little private school I attended in primary school. We all dragged along Harry Potter toys- I had a fuzzy Hedwig that I had adorned with glittery clips, and a three-headed Fluffy. We sat in the cinema with our teachers, giggling and feeling as if we attended Hogwarts ourselves, and had arrived here on the Hogwarts express, rather than being chaperoned by parents and teachers. Our tiny feet didn't touch the ground. We ate the Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans and Chocolate Frogs they used to sell (where did those go!? I always loved giving my brother horseradish flavour and telling him it was raspberry). We spilled popcorn, and then the curly golden font we've all come to know so well descended onto the screen and we were in awe. My friend Lauren pinched me when Harry came on screen. The cinema was decorated with tackily beautiful gold streamers and cutout owls and black and gold glitter. Everyone was silent, and my friend Matilda started crying when Professor Quirrell unwrapped his turban and exposed Voldemort. That first screening was magic, as we'd spent our whole childhood with Harry up our sleeves. Our dog eared copies of The Philosopher's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets came with us everywhere. There were count downs until the books appeared in delicious smelling local book shops (I always bought mine in Balmain- the really old store with the ladders and the soft carpet). There were competitions in the primary school playground as to who had read the books the fastest. We grew up with Harry, with our own imaginings of Gringott's and Hermione. We laughed at how we imagined Crookshanks to look, and the quips made by Fred and George. Harry was ours, he was everyone's.

And then the films came out, and our imaginings of the characters were replaced by Rupert Grint, and Daniel Radcliffe and Maggie Smith, and the magic of the owls descending for the first time on Privet Drive. We grew up with Harry. Everyone who says that this is the end of an era, is right. This is good bye to our childhoods. We can no longer make new trips to Hogsmeade, or watch as Harry and Ron play Wizard's Chess. We can no longer eagerly anticipate the release of a new film or book. The characters grew as we grew. When Ron first showed an interest in Lavender Brown, we'd started getting crushes too. As Hogwarts crumbled and the ministry was taken over, our innocence was lost too. Harry was no longer the young boy staring into the mirror of Erised, and neither were we. We'd all grown. We were older, things weren't as simple as buying a packet of chocolate frogs, and avoiding Snape in the corridors. Things were new, and sinister, and imbued with a never before felt sense of responsibility. This is why this last film is so monumental. The Harry Potter Generation, we're all around 18, 19, 20 now. We've grown up- as Harry has. We have to say goodbye to Hogwarts, and childhood, and magic. This last film is how we're all going to do that. We're going to sit in the cinema, and cry our eyes out, because we really are letting go of something important, something precious within ourselves.

Map of Hogwarts hand-drawn by J.K. Rowling

This is an important goodbye. I hope we can all keep the magic somehow. Childhood is over, and the world we're faced with now certainly holds less Hogwarts feasting, and rivalry with Draco Malfoy. However, J.K. Rowling's final dedication included us all- 'and to you, if you have stuck with Harry until the very end.' We have, and he will always be a part of us, even when we're forty and working in an office. When we're doctors or lawyers, or real estate agents, with children and mortgages, we'll still know whether we're Ravenclaws, Huffelpuffs, Gryffindors or Slytherins. We did stick with him until the very end, and he stuck with us. For this, we should all be proud. We may have left Hogwarts, but we will never forget it.

The Rise of the Local

After living in Sydney’s Inner West for a whole eighteen years (minus time spent overseas) I think I can officially call myself a local. An elusive title, The Local seems to have formed into a breed of its own. There are varying degrees and sub-categories of Sydney locals; as the Two Thousand and blogspot generation, we’ve put labels on everything, and being a local of a particular suburb has become almost like being in a particular scene or clique. 

Whether people unconsciously mould to their surroundings, or purposely buy their way into the vibes of a particular suburb, there are the obvious differences between locals and non-locals.
For example, the Eastern Suburbs. After a brief foray with a tanned Rose Bay (born and bred) ex-Cranbrook boy, it occurred to me just how much I’ve dug my heels into my local surroundings. Not to say I don’t get wanderlust every now and again, but whilst Nameless Boy and me were together, it became blatantly obvious just how different our two area codes were- and more surprisingly, how dependent our mindsets were on these areas. Just to clarify- there are exceptions to every rule. I’m sure Inner West-Eastern Suburbs relationships can be fantastic, we aren’t separate colonies, but this particular experience just reinforced how things in Sydney really do differ from suburb to suburb. For a start- everything was clean. We walked down the main street in Rose Bay, amid rushing businessmen, BMWS lazily cruising, and nannies walking yapping daschunds, and all I could think was: Where is the litter? I could see no cigarette butts squished into the pavement, cans of coke rolling at the base of overflowing bins. Does the Rose Bay city council have superior hygiene and waste facilities to the rest of us? Or are we, in areas like Newtown and Annandale, just slobs? The air feels different out there. The nights are quieter. People are more reserved; they look at their feet as they walk, not out around them. I couldn’t tell whether it was just my particular experience, or whether there really are unwritten “cultural” differences between suburbs with less than fifteen minutes distance between them.

Introducing our English friends to a few Sydney localities- namely, goon.

              An impromptu house party during Newtown Festival, with the band Sticky Fingers  

Which brings me to my next point: What makes a local? Our parents are local- more local than us. They’ve lived here longer than us, know how to drive anywhere in Sydney in under twenty minutes and (usually) don’t have to use a GPS. They can say with authority, “Kings Cross was never that dodgy when I was younger! Things used to be safer around here!” etc, etc.
However, when you think of an Inner West local, your mind doesn’t automatically jump to the Baby Boomer generation. You think of someone young, trendy, and possibly with a hipster beard. Someone with an intricate knowledge of markets, concept stores, underground concerts and amazing cafes. You think of the people you see on the streets of Surry Hills, riding blue bicycles and carrying shopping bags from Cream. They truly seem like they own the area. The very pavement is theirs; they wave jauntily at café owners and know where hidden wine bars are. But do people look at us, and think the same? How can you determine whether you’re a local? Does it just depend on where you live, or how immersed you are in that community? Does it depend on whether you can wave to your neighbours or whether you only just moved from Adelaide? 

Being a local is also dependant on your institution- where you work, where you go to school or university is just as important as where you live. You begin to feel, with an undeserved sense of pride, that you represent that suburb. After spending years 11 and 12 at school in Glebe- we all felt as if Glebe was ours. It became a patchwork of memories for us. We became oddly possessive, our bus-stops, our cafes. Everyone else, even the residents, were outsiders. No matter where we caught the bus or train home, we were Glebe locals, our uniform a badge of locality that we flaunted relentlessly. Is this attitude, that we’ve all felt, snobbery or participation in our local community? Is it simply, a feeling of home and familiarity, or something deeper? More akin to the primitive marking of territory? Of owning turf, and having your own space.

I think being a local is about your knowledge, not just your address. Not in a way of superiority, just how you make your own environment yours. The secret tree houses and marks in the pavement. The way you walk home. Your favourite clothes stores, the bus you catch home. Not everyone can be a local, it takes dedication. Being a local has become an ideal and an image. Every suburb has a stereotype you should be promoting, but I think it relates more to how your surroundings become exactly that- your surroundings. Something you can wake up to every day and enjoy regardless. 

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Snapped for Myer's Sydney Street Style

Hyde Park- before school

On that note, as a self-professed Sydney local, here are my recommendations for where to start:

Step One: Coffee at Sappho’s. You can smoke in the Courtyard and buy second hand sci fi

For dumplings ready made by Kylie Kwong, or breakfast by Neil Perry-

Eveleigh Street Markets

Granted, I can almost never buy things from here, but they are delicious for looking around!-

Bloodorange Boutique and The Corner Store

Samauri in Balmain for Japanese (always a reliable option), Bar Italia in Leichhardt for Italian and Hannibal's in Surrey Hills for Lebanese.

And of course, Sydney would not be Sydney without Jet Cafe!

Blackberry Diaries pt. 2

Sunny mornings in Hyde Park, arguing with mothers in different states.

Ellie's 10th birthday party, bless.

I like to believe he was holding my hand.

Sappho's

Looming clouds 

Sugar Mill, Kings Cross.

Sideways Majra at Hogwarts

Winter Wonderland Party

Gypsy Wiles

Port bottle with candle (made by my secretly hipster mother), Tony Bianco wedges.

Vintage shirt, once my grandmother's, home-made skirt

 This shirt reminds me of Romance Was Born- Yeti Magic AW/09 (http://www.romancewasborn.com/)

I couldn't get a good photo of the whole outfit, it was so frustrating! 

(all photos my own)

What I Wore Today

Quiet suburban England after the rain. Vintage cars, spotting foxes behind dustbins. Schoolgirls fantasizing about 'glamourous older men.'

Sitting in the kitchen, dreaming and dipping your finger in the sugar jar.  

Vintage bone/shell pink collared blouse, sweater from my Mother, originally from David Jones (?) Vintage tailored leather skirt, sourced from King St Vinnies. 

Mismatched socks from school days, summer clogs. 

Bracing yourself against the cold, skipping to tell your friends about your weekend. Dreaming of going to Oxford to study English.

Obnoxious cheetah ring borrowed from Margarita. 

Boarding school- midnight feasts, lying on the lawn, drunk with summer, pollen and blossoms and English breeze- always a chill around your ankles. 

I want to tell my friends everything, I want to write you letters. I want to own a pair of Mary Janes in every single colour. I want to pass all my exams, I want to lie against ivy covered walls and smoke colourful cigarettes. I want pretend ghosts and old buildings.

I feel old, but not very wise. 

All film stills credited to http://weheartit.com/ (all others my own)

Film stills from 'An Education' directed by Lone Scherfig and 'Cracks' directed by Jordan Scott.

The Aesthetics of early Gossip Girl or "Let me attempt to validate what currently sounds extremely unworthy of validation."

I’m aware that Gossip Girl, in its current fourth season, is a show much revered by tweens and is regarded as the new OC, a New York version of Beverly Hills 90210. Trashy, teen drama- little to no substance, no real value or worth. Mild entertainment, more vicarious rich kid melodrama. This is in many ways, incredibly true. Gossip Girl is, to be blunt, ridiculous. Chuck oozes on screen, playing unrealistic power games with Blair in which private detectives are hired, and private jets are used on a regular basis. Nate begins the summer of season two by sleeping with the stepmother of British Lord Marcus, who is Blair’s current boyfriend; until Blair and Nate discover that Lady Katherine and Lord Marcus, are in fact also sleeping together. The storylines have extended to include various sociopaths (Georgina, Juliet), princes, murder, jail sentences and presidential elections. The convoluted storylines become more and more obscene, until you find yourself not caring anymore, simply watching the show because it’s there. There is by no means appreciation for the character relations, the moments of supposed love, friendship and sadness, which we traditionally empathize with. You sit in front of the television/laptop thinking “WHAT!? Wasn’t Dan going out with Serena, and now he’s hooking up with Blair, but him and Serena are half brother and sister, and Jenny doesn’t seem to exist anymore, and what’s up with Serena’s cousin?”

However, if we return to the pilot episode of the first season of Gossip Girl, a disturbing revelation is to be had. Gossip Girl was once… quality? I’m not suggesting it by any means contains groundbreaking revelations on the human condition, or amazing performances by all actors involved, but what shocked me the most was the bittersweet revelation that the show had so much potential. 

And by potential I mean, it had the chance to be beautiful. Gossip Girl could have been almost Gatsby-esque in its portrayals- it could have maintained the popular appeal it currently has due to its abundance of extremely good looking actors, and the instant allure of a ‘lifestyles of the rich and famous’ experience. But the first episode, there was attention to detail. There were gilt awnings, there were personal effects and bedrooms that looked like they belonged to someone- someone, who, despite being excessively wealthy and unfairly beautiful, you could have related to. 

The show paid attention to the small details- the difference between something of substance, and something purely artificial, created for only mass appeal. The doorman's face when Serena entered Blair's Park Avenue townhouse, the cold clouds of breath that reminded you that it was winter in New York, the photo of Blair and Serena on Blair's antique bedside table. These details got lost along the way, replaced by bland sets, Serena's bedroom as impersonal as an Ikea Catalogue- as stale as the predictable plot twists the show now offers.

And the outfit Blair wore to her mother's party, an outfit I found incredibly memorable. Cross earrings, and a black lace dress with black sheer stockings. Channelling trends that were way ahead of the 2007 context. 

Now the outfits on the show are forgettable- unrealistically opulent to the point of irritating. 

Most importantly, the show has lost it's edge. When publicised in the U.S. the tagline for the show was "mind-blowingly inappropriate"- a PR technique that would have worked if the show lived up to the promise it displayed in the first few episodes. Gossip Girl had the chance to gain the edge and critical acclaim of Skins in that regard- it could have been a Beautiful and Damned portrayal, rather than something more Bold and the Beautiful. 

The scene between Nate and Serena was dreamlike, hazy. Serena walked on the countertop of an abandoned bar, clutching a bottle of champagne. The camera seemed dizzy. Light reflected off her mane of blonde hair through the panelled church-like windows. She spilt champagne on Nate and then laughed, throwing her hair back as bubbles coated her dress. 

Finally, some aesthetics that the title speaks of to be left with. 

Happy 18th Tegan!

The only thing more fun than your own 18th is your best friend's 18th. To be perfectly honest, I don't really remember my own. I just know I was wearing nice shoes, and people kept buying me drinks, and I somehow ended up back at my friend's apartment. The Victoria Room was involved though, and an (unfortunately) hungover dinner at Aria.


but I'll stop hogging the spotlight, because Tegan is 18. This is monumental, as she's one of the last youngsters left standing. Darling Tegan enjoyed a dinner at Est of the Establishment Hotel, and then the next day we went for dinner at Hikaru in Newtown (one of the best uni student Japanese restaurants around! It's cheap and cute, and they make amazing miso soup). 

Bella and Morgana (before the failing at chopsticks and me and Bella waiting hours for our noodles debacle)

Then things get a little hazy. Location of said haziness: Freaky Tiki on King St. 

Jono

Being a tosser

Lily May Matilda

The birthday girl.

Further sentiments

Being drawn on (none of us remember this)

Obnoxious amounts of photography.