Simon Zoric

When Simon Zoric exhibited a silicone copy of his dick and balls on the floor at West Space someone actually slipped over on it. It sounds like a modern take on a banana skin gag from a 1920s film that might have had tap dancing, or minstrelry in it—but it really happened and he says it wasn’t

Juliet Rowe

If Juliet Rowe were a car I think she would be a Porsche. Not because the artist bears a resemblance to the car itself. Juliet’s hair is long and dark and cascades in unruly tendrils over her strong shoulders. Her features loom sculpturally from her commanding face. Her dark eyes flash dramatically as she speaks.

Molly Rose Dyson

When we sit down in Molly Dyson’s bedroom-cum-studio, the illustrator and artist is waxing lyrical about her favourite topic- her occasional portrait subject, and constant companion, the dachshund-cross-chihuahua, Chippy. “Her armpits and her bottom lip are my favourite bits about her,” she says, as she nuzzles her freckled nose into the small threadbare patch of

Zoë Croggon

Zoë Croggon’s Footscray home feels like it belongs to a real grown up. When I enter I am a shy six-year-old again, trailing close behind my mother’s ankles, on a visit to an adult family friend’s house. I remember knowing, without being told, that no matter how bored I was, when we entered these child

Fiona Waters

There’s a new kind of cafe-culture bourgeoning out of Melbourne’s inner west. The spindly black-clad hipsters of Melbourne’s north have all but been replaced by a new breed. Baby-bouncing, pedigree-dog coveting, piccolo-latte sippers, the lot of them. All vying for a table at one of the cafes on Seddon’s up-and-coming strip. The words Sour Dough

Ruby Hoppen

As I enter Ruby Hoppen’s home she ushers me straight to her sewing room to see her latest creation. “It’s another portrait of Casper,” she gushes, brandishing the watercolour to the camera. Her eyes narrow into blue slits, nearing the intensity of her speech. “Isn’t it weird?” She glides through piles of dresses to the

Christopher Sciuto

Even as I enter my mid twenties- a stage characterised by a scramble towards ‘adulthood,’ my ever-receding angst-filled adolescence still holds an appeal. There is a freedom in these years to rebel, to say ‘fuck you, Mum and Dad;’ diss your elders, thumb your nose, sneer, cast scorn, and bite the hand that feeds, all