Images/Creative Direction/Styling: Jonathan Rae
Assistant: Jewel Horton
Model: Wendy Ma
“About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.” - Virginia Woolf To the Lighthouse
As in Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, the sea broods at the edge of the faded horizon. And pools of cool brine ripple on the borders of rocks, each their own stony hamlet. Discarded forrest green bottles drown in motes. The bay, Moreton Bay, is silver glass, or black glass with iridescent white streaks. The sea carves the sand with its forever tidal habit. It leaves its own sandy calligraphy. But the liquid surface shatters and the hard ridges and troughs on the dunes break under foot. Toes enveloped in muddy quagmires. The landscape is bleak and eternal, stretching forever, going nowhere.
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