I must thank YOU, dear flogstars, for your patience while I just don’t post. I hope you are getting your fix/keeping abreast of all things Imogen Maxwell over on my Instagram and Facebook, which have been more requently updated than this poor neglected flog.
I have been busy doing lots of exciting things, so I have lots to show and tell you – sadly I have also been very busy doing lots of shitey boring things like working, doing homework etc so I haven’t had much time to flog it all up for your reading pleaure.
This week just gone was the Glasgow School of Art Fashion and Textile show, held in the new Reid building.
Myself and classmate Angie were the ones liaising with the organisers at the art school on behalf of our class, and if anyone ever asks YOU to take that task on, I highly recommend you scream “NO” in their face and run far and fast in the opposite direction. My grievances are college-related and shall be detailed in GREAT detail in my evaluation of the whole experience, which is the final part of this assessment, so you shall be spared, flogstars.
Anyway. Despite all that, the end result – the actual catwalk show itself – was a resounding success, very professional-looking, and received national media coverage for days. The fashion and textile designs were stunning, and everyone behind the scenes (the fashion students, models, organisers, hairdressers) was a pleasure to work with.
Everything was alright on the night, as they say – and that’s all that actually matters. And ON the night, it must be said, I really enjoyed the work, the backstage atmosphere, and being part of such an interesting and creative production.
So here are some photos for ye. Annoyingly I don’t have the designers’ names etc so I’m not sure who did what, but these are just to show the overall feel of the show anyway. If you’ve come across this and know who I can credit for any of it, drop me a line!
space was at a premium so we ended up doing makeup in the corridors
walk-through to check timing
Angie doing between-show touch-ups
waiting to go on
view from the makeup room upstairs above the catwalk
Ciao for now, flogstars – I’ve got so much homework to do I think I might go and have a little cry and eat some chocolate.
I have been sitting here for a few hours now, trying to think of how to start this flog post, and more importantly how to end it. As dedicated flogstars will know, I could talk about Bowie until the cows come home, but I am without cows so it’d be a bloody long wait. I still don’t think I’d run out of things to say about David, his greatness and how much I luuuurve him.
So, this post is all pictures, not because I have nothing to say, but because I feel slightly overwhelmed by how much ground I could cover. We’d be here all night. And day. And then all night again.
I took these today on my camera but the real photos will be even better – these are just a cheeky little sneak peek, just close-ups of makeup but you just wait til you see the fully styled and finished shots.
Today’s team was:
Mega-babe models: Rebecca Goldie and Aaron Bird
Photographer extraordinaire: Paul Wylie
Hair magician: Gillian Cleminson
Wardrobe/styling genius: Kim Wallace
Bowie makeup specialist: Imogen Maxwell (that’s me, kids)
Location: The Buff Low Cafe, Glasgow (who very kindly allowed us to shoot on their premises when our first location fell through at the very last second!)
she was winking, you just can’t see it
my dedication to Bowie rivalled only by Aaron’s – shaved eyebrows. My hero.
Goldie by name, goldie by jacket/lip colour/forehead circle.
I’m messy and I take up ALL the space and I’m NOT sorry
I had the best day doing this; normally there are some butterflies that come with rocking up to a shoot not knowing anyone, not knowing how it will turn out, who will show up, what the atmosphere will be, whether my work will be good enough etc etc etc. But this was my total happy-place in every detail: doing my very favourite makeup amongst calm, focussed, organised, dedicated, professional creatives at work. Now, to find a way to get paid for this shit! 😉
Thanks to all those who were involved in making this shoot happen; I can’t wait to see the finished shots! Now just watch this just quickly.
You’ll be miffed to hear that in the beauty industry, this most evil of machines whirring away to sell us our own insecurities, a lady is classed as “mature” once she’s 27. LOL!
As such, throughout this flog post, the word “mature” will be appearing in sarcastic quotey marks.
“Mature” makeup is one of the looks we cover in basic makeup (along with basic bridal, Asian bridal, basic female and male makeup, and evening makeup). As with any makeup you’re doing on anyone, you start by (gasp) asking your client/model/Chloe what they want, what they usually wear, what kind of look they’re going for etc etc. Then you moisturise their mug and get busy.
Tutor Caroline did the demonstration on the lovely, remarkably good-skinned Mum-of-Rachel, Elaine.
like mother, like daughter – gorgeous!
So what’s different about makeup on the more “mature” skin, then?
Basically, matte powders – rather than shimmery cremes – are more flattering around the eye area as they sink less obviously into fine lines. Also, you apply all the makeup about an inch higher than you would on an “immature” face, so that when the skin is relaxed (ie not being stretched hither and thither for the makeup artist to be grinding their powders and potions in), it’s where you want it. On a less-elastic lid, for example, your lovely liner might disappear under a fold of skin when your model’s eye doesn’t have your finger propping it open.
owww
And that’s basically it.
Angela (27) and I did our “mature” assessments on each other’s dewy skinned faces.
Nubile as.
So that’s that, kittycats. Here are some other “mature” faces for you to admire before tonight’s singalong.
Dame Edna Everage: Australian superhero
My bosom buddy, my wig hero, Dolly Parton I LOVE YOU
And now, a song. Here’s someone’s hillwalking video I weirdly stole from YouTube. Soundtrack is In a Big Country, by our friends… Big Country. Band and scenery are Scottish.
Oh hi flogstars. This week I was the model for two of the Belfast Babes’ wig assessments.
Here’s wee Saoirse (hi, Saoirse’s Mummy! I can totally spell your daughter’s name without looking, now. Hope you have a nice weekend!) making me in to a geek:
no mullets were harmed in the application of this wig
my view
Saoirse’s view
braces weren’t really designed with the larger-busted lady in mind, but I did my best to work it
And then it was Sinéad’s turn:
Terrified Mum’s going to see these and march over here all the way from Australia to slap the cigarette out of my paw
I’m going to sneak in a wee mid-post video for you, flogstars, cos it’s Friday and I feel like we all deserve a treat. It’s the legendary burping contest at the end of Revenge of the Nerds. Youtube won’t let me embed this one for some gimpy reason, but I highly recommend you click through and watch it. I used to have that burp as my answering machine message. Classy lassy right here.
The LOL-fest continued at home with the Mhairis (yes, 2/3 of my housemates are called Mhairi). Inspired by some Promise Tamang videos I’d made them watch last night, the brown powder eyeshadow and brown eyeliner came out and we bearded up.
Mhairi doesn’t normally wear a towel-cape and plastic bag on her head; it’s a hairdye thing
beard LOLz
you would, admit it
It was decided that I looked like somebody’s hot visiting Eurotrash cousin, or a surfer dude from Home and Away, or Gannicus from Spartacus (who is Australian actor Dustin Clare, who was on Home and Away apparently, so once again we’ve come full circle).
Yeah, I can live with that comparison
mmmm
I love you too, Gannicus
Before we go on, can I just say that I have only ever seen a fraction of one episode of Spartacus, and only because Chloe was basically making me and one of the Mhairis watch it. It’s dismal beyond description, but I really did enjoy making fun of it.
Moving on, Mhairi then compared me to the angel from Barbarella:
The angel was not very happy to be compared to beardy me, and while I am flattered that my facial hair brought to mind the overall impression of a bronzed, buff god, I’m not loving his special-ed fringe. Not at all.
Right you lot, it’s after midnight and I’m sitting in the kitchen Googling “collective noun for bronzed buff gods” – still with my beard on. This madness must come to an end.
Speaking of beards. Watch this magical video from Beardyman, a beatboxing legend (stay with me) recording and looping his own voice to build up a pretty incredible rendition of Massive Attack’s Tear Drop.
The reason I have opened today’s post with an old photo of Bon Scott smiling through the agony of a badly infected testicle that you can practically hear straining against the seam of those skin-tight grey jeans is…. sorry, I’ve completely lost my train of thought.
well hello
Oh yeah. Something to do with an idea I had for one of my wig assessments. Any man out there willing to let me apply mascara to his chest hair to achieve the look? Get in touch via my contact page. I’ll make you look cool, promise.
This being-in-a-new-city-and-not-knowing-many-locals-well-enough-to-ask-if-they’ll-let-me-paint-their-bare-bodies situation is going to quickly become a problem for me at college. All I ever had to do in Oban was pull a ‘having a creative idea’ face and BAM, everyone’s volunteering to get naked, painted and photographed. Where are you, Glasgow exhibitionists?
Perhaps I should be careful what I wish for. Remember what happened when I put an ad on Gumtree looking for a flat-share? Yeah.
Anyhoo. Here are some other rock-god chests I wouldn’t mind painting, since I’m feeling particularly self indulgent today.
Reckless Love, who I shall be seeing next Thursday with Carissa – we are returning to the scene of last year’s crime…
Jettblack. When you google images of them, two pictures of me come up, which pleases me immensely. Lick lick.
Alright, that’s enough of that. We’ve got a lot to cover today.
Autumn’s here. Next week it will be October. I’m a little shit-scared of how fast time is galloping by.
I feel both settled and still very new in Glasgow. The very first time I arrived here in March 2008, I had a budget of £15 per day – £2 for food (Subway 6-inch of the day), £13 for my hostel bed which included breakfast, and dinner was a row of chocolate from the enormous stockpile I had bought in Belgium.
There is something about having absolutely no money that is kind of liberating. I mean, it fucking sucks, but it simplifies things. I walked and walked and walked around, day and night. I ‘saved’ all the free museums and art galleries for shit-weather days, and just walked the rest of the time. I would sleep in until right before free breakfast ended, so I wouldn’t be awake for too long burning calories and getting hungry. Late at night I would sit in my bunk writing, watching the others in my 14-bed dorm, wishing I was travelling with a big group of friends like they all seemed to be, wishing I knew where to go and what to do.
Everyone I spoke to raved about Edinburgh. Nobody seemed to think that Glasgow was up to much. I didn’t necessarily agree but after nearly 2 weeks walking and walking and walking around, I thought I could probably justify forking out for a bus to Edinburgh to see what all the fuss was about. There began a chain of events that lead me to running the backpackers’ hostel in Oban for 5 years, but that’s another story for another time.
What I didn’t immediately realise was that I’d developed quite a good relationship with Glasgow in this formative period of my early backpacking days. I didn’t have a head full of shit about how dangerous Glasgow was, so it didn’t occur to me to feel unsafe cruising the mean streets on my own in the middle of the night. I think I have always been reasonably sensible so I wasn’t going anywhere actually dodgy at night, but in retrospect I think the whole experience would have been different, and ruined, if I had been scared.
Instead, I felt Glasgow’s friendliness, I felt like it was a good place to be if you weren’t from here. People heard my accent and were interested. I was a young woman travelling alone so people went out of their way to make sure I was ok. I got invited into people’s homes for cups of tea and to look in their old family photo albums. They wrote down their addresses so I could send them postcards from wherever I went next. No one stabbed me, and I was never even offered heroin.
Glasgow is my Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Glasgow is my hooker with a heart of gold, my rough diamond. Glasgow’s reputation might not be the best, but you have to cop a feel for yourself, make your own mind up.
And do you think I can get the effing gif of Julia Roberts and Richard Gere in The Diamond Necklace Scene to work? Gah!
Anyway, here I am again, back where I first started my Scottish adventure five and a half years ago. My budget is about the same again, but the new job I start tomorrow will hopefully have LOTS of overtime and put an end to all this being-broke bullshit. It’s really cramping my style.
Are you still reading? Good for you. This week at college!
Kim Kardashian-style kontouring!
Saoirse kontoured to within an inch of her life
and just to think, most people try to get their makeup to match their skin tone and NOT leave a streaky brown tide mark around their jaw.
Wig work!
Ashleigh rocking the 90s-kids-TV-presenter look
She would have been the coolest girl at my high school in 1998
not pubes, just another wig sitting in front of the mirror
… and posing, bitches.
So here’s AC/DC with their 1980 hit, You Shook Me All Night Long, because it’s Friday. I know this flog has attracted the attention of many classic rock puritans internationally who are going to light up the whole internet with bitter posts about how you can’t have a photo of Bon Scott’s crotch one minute, and be signing off with a Brian Johnson hit the next, but all I can say is bite me. Also, AC/DC are Australian*. Ha!
Chloe and I travelled through space and time down to London last week, for the David Bowie Is exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum. She bought us flights and a night in a hostel right by the museum for my birthday, and THAT, boys and girls, is how you win employee of the month.
So here is a little photo essay, scroll down really fast to animate and it’s almost like you’re there with us. Soundtrack: us screeching “HOW FUCKING MUCH?” every time we had to pay for something.
it would probably be quicker to WALK from Oban to London but public transport is just so much funnnn
After … about 30 hours in transit, we finally arrived in London. It was HOT down there – up in the highlands, summer so far has been humid and freezing, the worst of both worlds. But in London, blue skies and legit t-shirt temperatures!
Nelson’s Column, London Eye in the background.
We checked in to our hostel…
good luck with that
… and beetled straight over to the V&A to check out our chances of getting in the next day. We put on our broadest Australian accents and advised the staff that we had travelled a very. long. way. to see the exhibition, and we were only in London for one day so what did they suggest we do to guarantee a ticket?
Sadly they didn’t usher us into the exhibition after hours so we could dance about trying on the priceless Yamamotos.
Chloe (left) and me dancing about in the priceless Yamamotos. Thanks, yeah, I work out.
But they did tell us to get in line quick-sharp the next morning, and all going well we’d be allowed in. The museum opens at 10am so they told us to come around 9am, but we didn’t take any chances. We were there at 8am because we’re hardcore.
good thing too, this was the line by 9am. We were 15th and 16th from the front, coiled like steel springs ready to fly through the doors at 10:00:01am
We got stand-by tickets to the first showing…
BOOM
and the exhibition was friggin’
squeeeeee
We had to go and drink some vodka in Regent’s Park afterwards to calm down before our flight back up to Scottyland
So then we spent the night in my new flat in Glasgow, which I will be moving in to in 2 weeks from today.
Sad to leave my awesome housemates and weird to leave the town and job that have been home for the last 5 years…
… but excited for the change of scenery and the bloody amazing fun and opportunities that are to come!
So that’s me, kids. I’m spending the next couple of weeks trying to sort out things at work and get my move a’happenin’. I know I’ve really let this flog die in the arse and I do apologise to any disappointed stalkers out there. I’ve got some good ideas for future posts so hang in there and one day I will get my shit together and make it worth your while.
meantime, here are my nails! Silver flame wraps that I bought in Reykjavik earlier this year.
Right, now I’m off to bed, and when I wake up I’m going to make August my BEEEEAATCH. Stay tuned, best beloved xX
Did you know that most of the winners of the Academy Award for Best Makeup are men? I was kinda surprised by that. I think we have some sexism here, folks.
Not sure who is being most sexist; me, for making assumptions about the makeup industry being chicks-only? The film industry for giving all the good jobs to the boys? Or the Academy for overlooking a shit-ton of talented women and only recognising the relatively few men in the industry?
Anyway, we’re not here today to delve too deeply into that. I just thought I would draw it to your attention, as when I win an Oscar, I will be even more special because I’m a woman, and the world will be 0.00000000000000000000000000000001% less sexist in that moment. I really am making this planet a better place for us all.
So. As previously discussed:
while makeup CAN change the world;
no one NEEDS makeup (by this I mean you look fine just the way you are), but if you LIKE makeup and WANT to get involved;
makeup can be enjoyed by EVERYONE, and ANYONE can be good at it.
Glad we’ve cleared that up.
Speaking of men, makeup and the Oscars. Whenever I am chatting to a male and they find out that I’m an aspiring makeup artiste, they’ll react in one of two ways.
Either ‘cool/that’s nice/tell me more/good for you/who cares let’s talk about the weather’, OR they’ll leap about screaming “NO WAY would I ever let you do my makeup!!! Argh! You’d make me look like a girl, do you even have a spare skirt with you and do you think your heels would fit???”
One thing these two types of men have in common is that I didn’t offer to do their makeup. Of course, I love doing male makeup and I also happen to think that:
there’s nothing wrong with men getting done up to look like girls, if they want;
there is such thing as makeup on men that still has them looking like men.
Have these people never heard of Jack Sparrow, Alice Cooper, Brandon Flowers? Sheeeeesh.
I put the brown-eye contact lens in for this. Considering that I knew all along the picture would be in black and white, I hope you admire my dedication and attention to detail. Dedicated enough to have an orange mullet in 2013, but not dedicated enough to shave my eyebrows off.
There is an exhibition at the V&A in London called “David Bowie is” until some time in August. I am desperate to get down to it, so I think that’s what I’ll do for my birthday in July. Yes. Go down to London for a few days with Chloe.
Mum and Dad are talking about visiting from Australia in July. Dad could take us to see where he grew up and tell us stories while we throw rocks into the Thames. I could have almost my whole family there to watch me get old (minus big sis Phoebe, who is also my birthday buddy – we were born on the same day but three years apart).
digital imologue 