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Under the Skin is an eerie tale of an extraterrestrial being who has taken on the form of a human woman as she drives around Scotland luring unsuspecting male prey into her van, before taking a journey of her own self discovery. Directed by Jonathan Glazer and starring a vacant-eyed, strange and seductive Scarlett Johansson, Under the Skin is mesmerizing, haunting and unsettling from start to end, with a perfectly matched score by young British composer Mica Levi.

Under the Skin 2013, directed by Jonathan Glazer, based on the novel by Michel Faber and Starring Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy McWilliams and Lynsey Taylor Mackay. Score by Mica Levi.


I remember my first trip to New York. I was living in London at the time, it was my birthday, and the first thing I wanted to do as soon as we landed at JFK Airport was to visit the Kate Spade store and treat myself to one of her bags. This was pre-2006 before Kate Spade sold the company and it turned into the multi-million dollar business that it is today. I remember walking into the store in Soho, and seeing it for the first time: a black fabric tote with the most exquisite embroidery on the front (not frou-frou at all, more vintage boho-chic), sassy pink lining on the inside and glossy cane handles that reminded me of an antique umbrella. I fell in love with that bag there and then.

I’ve seen many similar stories shared on social media today following Kate Spade’s sad passing, I really hope she knew how much joy she gave to so many women.


It was Christmas Eve the night Erin and Sean moved into the apartment in the Rosemont Building on Railway Terrace. They’d met at a party only three month’s earlier through a mutual friend who predicted they’d be slow dancing by midnight and living together by New Year’s Eve. Sean was an art school drop-out with wild raven hair that made him look like a cross between a young Robert Smith from the Cure and a Japanese Anime character. He had a lazy, effortless style, oversized grey sweatshirts worn with baggy indigo denim jeans, half-tucked into paint splattered boots which he scuffed and stomped around in like a moody teenager. Erin was definitely Sean’s type, a tall icy blonde of Danish descent with a 60’s vibe borrowed mostly from Edie Sedgwick. After the party Erin went home with Sean and never left, which irritated Sean’s housemates who felt she was living there rent-free. Suffice to say, this living arrangement didn’t last long, so Erin and Sean soon found themselves three month’s into their new relationship, unpacking boxes and drinking Prosecco from chipped china tea cups in their new home.

The lobby of the Rosemont was what most people described as faded grandeur. Dusty red velvet curtains framed large sash windows, chandeliers in dire need of a clean and polish lined the ceiling and the black and grey Terrazzo tiled floor had cracks so big that women often got their heels stuck inside of them. Some of the tenants believed the owner of the shoe repair store across the street was in cahoots with the owner of the Rosemont as those heel-destroying cracks gave him so much business. However regardless of its faded grandeur and slow descent into disrepair the Rosemont had stories to tell which is what Erin liked about it the most. In the 1920’s a famous writer and his wife lived in the Penthouse apartment, throwing decadent parties where guests would dance and drink martinis until they could no longer stand. In the Spring of 1955 a man wearing a shiny blue suit with a red rose in his lapel shot a Mob Boss as he walked out of the elevator in the lobby, you can still see a small hole in a wooden panel next to the elevator where the first bullet missed. Towards the end of the 1980’s a strange man named Dieter von Saturn moved into the Penthouse apartment with his entourage of five men and five women who believed Dieter was an alien being who would take them back to his home planet before the World ended on Tuesday September 13, 1988. On Monday September 12 Dieter mysteriously disappeared, leaving his believers heartbroken and a large amount of unpaid rent. Some say Dieter travelled back to his home planet and died there alone, while others say he is alive and well and living on the Island of Tahiti with a new entourage of believers.

A few weeks after Erin and Sean moved into the Rosemont Sean’s parents, still tanned from a Christmas holiday in Hawaii, stopped by with belated Christmas presents, a mountain bike for Sean (useful as he’d recently lost his driver’s licence due to a D.U.I. charge), and a DustBuster for Erin (which she thought the most condescending gift anyone had ever bought her). As Sean’s parents surveyed the apartment Erin told them the stories of the Rosemont’s past, the famous writer and his wife and their decadent parties, the Mob Boss assassination in the lobby and the strange Cult Leader named Dieter. Sean’s father nodded in amusement, his smile framed by a Tom Selleck-style moustache grown during his Hawaiian holiday while Sean’s Mother slurred out the words “rubbish” and “ridiculous” and rolled her eyes as she drank a large glass of Shiraz in two gulps. Erin noticed both Sean and his Mother were the type of people whose eyes would glaze over and speech would slur after only two glasses of wine. As Sean’s Mother opened another bottle and Sean’s father fell asleep upright on the sofa, Erin looked at the clock on the kitchen wall and wished they would hurry up and leave, she had an early start at work the next morning.

Erin worked on the perfume counter in a department store only a few blocks from the Rosemont. It was a store frequented by people of a certain age, wealth and plastic surgeon. Erin would have preferred a job in the store’s younger and more accessible sibling across the street however it didn’t pay as well. Most of Erin’s customers were rich business men who’d buy expensive perfumes for their mistresses, discreetly slipping a fifty dollar bill into the palm of her hand to keep quiet when she saw them back at the perfume counter the following week with their wives. Erin kept the money in a silver biscuit tin inside her locker, saving her participation in their deception for a rainy day.

As the year went by and the cracks in the black and grey Terrazzo tiled floor in the Rosemont’s lobby grew bigger, so did the gaping holes in Erin and Sean’s relationship. There would be no stories at the Rosemont worth remembering them by, just tales of Erin and Sean’s growing disenchantment with each other. Every Tuesday at 6 o’clock Erin’s favourite Aunt would meet her after work to take her out for dinner. Her Aunt lived in a five bedroom townhouse in a more affluent part of the city and spent most of her time carving statues of peculiar people out of pale pink stone which she sold in small galleries and antique stores owned by her friends. She was the sort of woman who dressed in Yohji Yamamoto and wore large resin bangles that stretched from her wrist right up to her elbow on both arms. She liked to tease her hair into a bird’s nest style bun on top of her head and was never seen without her favourite shade of cherry red lipstick which over the years she had become an expert at applying without the need for a mirror. At the end of these evenings Erin wished she could escape to her Aunt’s townhouse than go home to an uninterested Sean, drunk and asleep on the sofa, a glass knocked over on the coffee table and red wine spilt all over her Vogue magazines. As a child Erin stayed with her Aunt every weekend while her Mother spent time with another new boyfriend. Erin always stayed in the same room, one she helped her Aunt decorate with luxurious yellow velvet drapes that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and silk cushions with elegant line illustrations of fashionable women sipping coffee and eating Macarons in a Paris café. These were the only decorative pieces in Erin’s room apart from the large flower bed on view outside the windows which were full of the most vivid yellow daffodils in the Spring. The thought of being picked up by her Mother on Sunday evening and leaving her Aunt’s stylish townhouse for the long subway ride home to their dreary apartment always gave Erin a terrible feeling at the pit of her stomach, much like the thought of going home to Sean after dinner with her Aunt every Tuesday evening.

It was Christmas Eve, a year after the night Erin and Sean moved into the apartment in the Rosemont Building on Railway Terrace. It was a rainy day so Erin emptied the silver biscuit tin in her locker on her lunch break and bought two Christmas presents, a tub of Chanel hand cream for her favourite Aunt and a green cashmere roll-neck sweater for herself. As she walked home after work Erin smiled at the Christmas lights adorning the streets and people rushing home with bags full of last-minute Christmas gifts for their families and friends. When she arrived at the Rosemont a rotund woman in her sixties, a long-term tenant who held raucous bridge parties in her apartment every Wednesday night had managed to get both heels of her two sizes-too small, red patent leather shoes stuck deep inside the infamous cracks in the Terrazzo tiled floor. By the time Erin arrived the woman’s eyes were coal-black like a panda where her mascara had bled from crying and her feet had swollen so much that two Firemen had to cut her out of her ill-fitting shoes. As the woman sobbed uncontrollably and other tenants of the Rosemont looked on horrified, some dressed up to the nines and on their way out for Christmas drinks, others dressed in fancy dress costume it reminded Erin of one of the ridiculous, out of control scenes from the film “The Party” starring Peter Sellars.

Back in the quiet and solitude of the apartment Erin found a note on the kitchen table from Sean: “I’m at my work Christmas party drinks. Don’t expect me home until the morning. Sean.” Erin kicked off her shoes and tried on her new cashmere sweater. Then she packed her bags and wrote Sean a note:

“Dear Sean, do you remember Moloko, the band who sang ‘Sing it Back’ where the lead singer dances around in the music video in a 1920’s flapper-style mini-dress made of tiny square mirrors? Lately I feel as if you and I are starting to resemble another one of their songs called ‘Bankrupt Emotionally’, so metaphorically speaking I am filing for Chapter 11 on our relationship and moving on. I’ve left my half of the rent for the next two months on the kitchen table in a red envelope. Oh and your Mother can have her DustBuster back too. Erin.”

Erin stuck her good-bye note to the fridge with a magnet Sean’s parents had bought them from Hawaii which said “ike’ oe mahope”, Hawaiian for “see you next time”.

Image: Steven Meisel, Andy Warhol Museum, Vogue Italia 1996. Visit: and


I’m so in love with this show and devastated it’s been cancelled so maybe I’ll just have to watch seasons one to four all over again. Bingeing on the sex, drugs, love, ambition, ego and classical music of Mozart in the Jungle.

Mozart in the Jungle, created by Alex Timbers, Roman Coppola and Jason Schwartzman. Starring Gael García Bernal, Lola Kirke, Saffron Burrows, Bernadette Peters and Malcolm McDowell.

Inspired by the book “Mozart in the Jungle: Sex, Drugs, and Classical Music” by oboist Blair Tindall and produced by Picrow for Amazon Studios.


I visited my hometown Adelaide in South Australia over the weekend and like most I ended my stay at Adelaide Airport on Monday morning, waiting for the fog to lift and the departure boards to announce the time of my delayed flight back to Melbourne. Rather than use this time to scroll though social media, take a nap on an uncomfortable airport departure lounge seat, or yell at airline staff who have absolutely no control over the weather, I chose to take in “She Talks to Rainbows”, one of four annual curated Art Exhibitions in Terminal 1 at Adelaide Airport, which brings together the works by seven South Australian Women Artists, including this incredibly rich and layered work by Jasmine Crisp which I couldn’t stop looking at and kept coming back to.

Image: Her Rituals Commenced After Five 2018, oil on canvas by Jasmine Crisp

She Talks To Rainbows, curated by Carollyn Kavanagh, showing at Adelaide Airport until 4th July 2018 and featuring art by:

Annette Bezos
Jasmine Crisp
Kate Kurucz
Julia Townsend
Laura Wills
Margaret Worth
Eleanor Zecchin

Visit Jasmine Crisp at: and @jasmine_crisp on Instagram.


ASK FALLON: Why do I always leave the Disco alone?

Ask Fallon, solving unreal problems for unreal people.

Fallon Carrington-Colby is an Heiress, Hotel Manager and Interior Designer. She lives in Denver Colorado with her long-suffering husband Jeff and their two dogs Misty and Jensen.

Dear Fallon

I am a thirty-five year old man looking to date again after finalising a relatively amicable divorce. My ex-wife Bunny and I used to love to go out dancing every Friday night so I have recently started to frequent Shapiro’s, a Discotheque in Manhattan where sophisticated people go to meet. I seem to have no problem meeting women. The sparks fly, the conversation flows, they laugh at all my jokes, then as we move to the dance floor and I show them my best moves, they tell me they have a headache or suddenly don’t feel well and have to go home. Fallon what am I doing wrong? Why do I always leave the Disco alone?

Fallon replies: Honey while I’m sure you have no problem meeting and conversing with women and they laugh at all your jokes, do you think that maybe your best moves on the dance floor could be the reason they suddenly feign a headache or illness, i.e. maybe your best dance moves aren’t so hot? Well I have one word for you “Alejandro”. Get yourself to Unity Dance Studios, right across the road from Shapiro’s, and book yourself into some dance classes. Alejandro will have you winning everyone over with your dance moves in just two weeks. They don’t call him the latin maestro in cuban heels for no reason and you know, in the words of Sister Sledge “he never leaves the Disco alone”, so why should you?

However before you shimmy off to the capable hands of Alejandro, I do want you leave you with another thought. You say you and your ex-wife Bunny used to love to go out dancing every Friday night. Now forgive me if I’m wrong as I don’t know the details of why you and Bunny parted in such amicable ways, however I’ve never known a woman to divorce her husband on the grounds of poor dance moves, so maybe all you really need is to find another Bunny who laughs at all your jokes and appreciates you both on and off the dance floor.


So Jennifer Lawrence claims she only “got through about three minutes” of Phantom Thread. “I put in a good solid three. I’m sorry to anybody who loved that movie. I couldn’t give that kind of time. It was three minutes and I was just [oof]”.

This isn’t gossip, and it is no exaggeration as I actually heard her say this to Marc Maron in his WTF Podcast. I finally got to see Phantom Thread on the big screen last night and thinking about it today, as most people do when they see a film that moves and stays with them, I now feel compelled to respond to Ms Lawrence’s claims.

a) I got through all two hours and ten minutes of Phantom Thread, loving every word, performance, the costumes, the cinematography, the sublime music and yes that juicy plot line that no-one is talking about; and

b) I wish I’d turned “Mother!” off after three minutes. I’m sorry to anybody who loved that movie. I wasted my time. Yes if I’d been smart enough it would have been three minutes and I would have just been [oof].

Phantom Thread 2017, directed and written by Paul Thomas Anderson, starring Vicky Krieps, Daniel Day-Lewis and Lesley Manville.

Main image: Vicky Krieps. Image below: Daniel Day-Lewis and Vicky Krieps in Phantom Thread


1932 is known to have been an intensely creative period for Pablo Picasso and is the focus of his first ever solo exhibition at Tate Modern. With more than 100 paintings, sculptures and drawings it also features family photographs, providing a rare glimpse into Picasso’s personal life.

The EY Exhibition: Picasso 1932 – Love, Fame Tragedy at Tate Modern Until 9 September 2018.


Main image: Pablo Picasso The Dream (Le Rêve) 1932, Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS, London 2018


Olympia Zagnoli describes herself as a creative who drives a Vespa, wears stripes, has large round glasses, listens to T. Rex., and “draws like an ambidextrous octopus”. Her colourful, charming and funny creations have featured in the New York Times, The New Yorker, Apartamento Magazine and The Guggenheim Museum and she has recently designed a number of graphics for Prada Spring Summer 2018. Her website is also really, really great.

Visit (you won’t regret it):


All images via: @olimpiazagnoli on Instagram