Be the Death of Her

Like a horseshoe crab coming to shore to find its mate, Anita felt the need to trawl the shore of Venice Beach every 6 months. She would leave a planned dinner, walk out of an art-house film, jump out of a moving vehicle, whenever she felt the calling to get her heels covered in the salty-fresh spray in the Pacific Ocean.

Today, Anita had attended the opening party for the new Vogue Los Angeles magazine. Mingling with all the usual suspects, Karl, Anna, Anna, Giorgio, Lady and the sorts, when the tingle in her heels began again. She brushed the feeling away as she smiled at Gandy's come-on: "your face looks absolutely radiant today...". She smiled and nodded staggering to the bar asking for a Martini with extra salt edging. Her Prada pumps were driving her crazy, she knew buying a size smaller would be the death of her.

The pulsing electro-hip-hop beats were driving her crazy, it all sounded like noise to her. She wondered the dance-floor in a daze, party blacked out, spinning around dizzily, the tabloids marked her as the soul of the party as her layered tissue-dress fluttered about the room.

Thirty minutes later, without any recollection of how she had gotten there, she was wondering wading in the sea shore with her wet Pradas, feeling the refreshingly cool water on her burning heels. She wondered about, dazed, until the burning sensation and primal instinct faded away. On her way back to find a taxi, she took a shortcut through the skate-park, that due to recession cutbacks hadn't had its lighting repaired since January 2010. 

Her bright red pump got caught in a grind-rail, she lurched, the sharp red stiletto heel snapped violently, she lost her balance, her perfectly manicured hands swung out, the tissue-dress fluttered beautifully (just as the shopping assistant had said), the dress fluttered beautifully to the concrete floor... billowing lightly around her recently... alive... body.

Images by Sonny Vandevelde - Autumn/Winter 2011

Left to right, top to bottom [Martin Grant, Foaming Waters of the Errol Dam by the US National Archives, Victor & Rolf, Victor & Rolf, Moonlight by the State Library of New South Wales)

Hound Couture, Paris

Max likes his soft-chewable pellets with liquid filled center served directly from a custom made Louis Vuitton doggy-travel case, with brushed aluminum bowl and accessories.
His dog-bones and treats are made in Paris at the best Boulangeries in the world.
He only wears a select range of dog-spectacles from the dogs S/S 2009 Tom Ford range, which hit the covers of Puppy Vogue later that year as the new rage in canine vision accessories.
He loves long stroles on the beach, moving cars and fire hydrants.

On the Street….Hamish Bowles, NYC

I caught Hamish walking out of Vogue HQ on his way to a secret luncheon with Anna Wintour. He was sporting a matching coat and face mask. H1N1 paranoia has made its way to the top of the fashion crop. Anna and Karl have recently released a series of black sequined, triple ply, 99% bacteria and virus reduction, medical masks that compliment large, dark, sunglasses. D&G have also come into the fray, releasing colour matching masks to their new scent anthology.
Hamish apparently likes the classic, paired down look, of a traditional medical mask.

She Never Gives Up, NYC

I don't usually shoot homeless people, they too often remind me how their style sense is the epitome of unpretentiousness, but every now and then I find that one person that has obviously gone out of their way to make themselves look homeless/snazily dressed to get me to shoot them.

The pictured person went to extraordinary lengths, spending 6 hours in a hair and make-up van with 13 make-up effects specialists turning a 45kg female supermodel into a 80kg homeless man with fashion flair.

I didn't know at first why i photographed this obvious impostor, but later while I was drinking apple martinis with Anna Wintour in a top secret Vogue meeting. I just couldn't resist taking out my Mac Air and showing her the extraordinary man.

Anna took all but two and a half seconds to react. She slowly dropped her sunglasses and said: " Honey, it's not homeless chic if Naomi is sporting a man-suit in a desperate attempt to get photographed by you." She quickly whipped around (her bob narrowly missing my face) and left the room in a waft of Alien by Thierry Mugler.