Class of 2011: Phoebetography

Like so many photographers, Phoebe Cheong's story begins with family photographs. "I know it's a cliché, but I was the photographer in my family," is the 'Once upon a Time' of the photography world.

It was in her teens when Phoebe, now a first year student of commercial photography at the University of Arts in Bournemouth, first discovered fashion. "I was 15 or 16 when I did my first photo shoot. It was my birthday and I fooled around with my friends and a camera. We hung up bed sheets like a backdrop, had a lamp and experimented with lighting. We had a summer fan and a big piece of cardboard that we waved. I remember thinking, this is so much fun."

Fun is definitely a word that could be used to describe Phoebe. As we chat her answers are interspersed by the Phoebe giggle. When I ask her how she would define her style, fun is number one. Also on the list: "inventive. Sometimes over the top. I think big - I don't know what the word is for that but every time I do a shoot I want it to be big. I am also hugely inspired by clothes and accessories. When I look at an outfit I get inspired and that's how I compose an image."

But second to fun is 'motivated'. "Nick Knight comes from my uni," says Phoebe, "No pressure then." When we talk on Skype Phoebe has only just got back from a photo shoot. Asking about her plans for the rest of the day I get an unenviably long list; mainly editing images from the frequent flow of editorial shoots Phoebe organises. "One thing I've discovered at uni is that I love editorials."

Where would Phoebe like to see said editorials? "The usual top magazines: Elle, Vogue. But I also love Lula. It's got a nice soft, feminine, Tim Walker feel."

With Nick Knight and Tim Walker already pinned on the inspiration board, Phoebe is quick to offer her admiration for other photographers. "Kirsty Mitchell is a big inspiration and I'm doing work experience with her this week. And Kai Z Feng has been a huge inspiration. Of everyone he is the person I would love to work with." Australian photographer Russell James is another influence, and the same photographer who recently awarded Phoebe first place in the 'Take your Best Shot' competition he organised on facebook.

Phoebe may have won the prize of 'best shot' in the competition, but she is hesitant when it comes to describing what makes a good photograph. "That's a really difficult question. We have had this conversation on my course and decided that there's no such thing as a perfect photograph in fashion," she says. "Anybody can take a beautiful photo of a beautiful person, but there are some elements in photography that only photographers have an eye for. It's like a good feeling, a good feeling in your gut. I call it my guttling."

After growing up in Malaysia Phoebe lived in Australia for two and a half years and Singapore for three before moving to London then Bournemouth. Phoebe the young woman may have already been most of the way around the world. But I have a 'guttling' that Phoebe the photographer is going to go far.

Libby

Follow these links for Phoebe's sites:

http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Phoebetography/187066654637741?sk=info

http://phoebecheong.sites.livebooks.com/

Home Sweet Hackney Home

It should(n't) have been me

It was only the other day that it finally hit me. Contrary to the beliefs of my childhood self, I am never going to be a princess. It was quite a blow. The first thing I did was head to the hairdressers to have them cut the Rapunzel rope I had been cultivating for well over a year. 

I am still recovering from the trauma of the sickening realisation that I will never, ever marry a prince.

I don't know who I was kidding really. I suppose Princess Libby would be a little out of the ordinary. But luckily I have always had my far more regal christened name, Elisabeth Ann to fall back on. Despite the name, things weren't really looking that great in the princess department. My carriage is the bus, my glass slippers are a pair of heels that are too high to walk in, and as for a tall tower - well I live on the third floor.

The funny thing is, I don't envy Kate Middleton at all. I am positively delighted for her, don't get me wrong, but has anyone else noticed that Prince William's hair line is receding faster than high tide?  I also don't particularly fancy seeing my face on every china (or, worse, plastic) surface in Great Britain. It would be like walking through a labryinth of (sometimes scarily skewed) mirrors.

No, the princess I wanted to be was one whose life began with 'Once upon a time' and ended snugly with 'Happily Ever After'. I wanted to be a fairytale princess. The castle, the fairy godmother, the twirling dress, the pumpkin carriage and most of all, the dashing prince... I dreamt of it all.

I have accepted the fact that I will never be a real life princess, or a fairytale one come to that. But perhaps I should take advice from young Sara in Frances Hodgson Burnett's 'A little Princess'. "I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren't pretty, or smart, or young. They're still princesses. All of us."

In this case perhaps I shouldn't give up on the princess idea altogether. Maybe I'll just go for my own version of princessdom; one that involves baking cakes and drinking cider and steers well clear of dodgy skirt suits. That sounds much more fun.

P.S Applications for prince should be made in writing. Sense of humour and cooking skills essential. Castle optional.

Libby

Week 2 at the Guardian

On the first day of my second week at the Guardian it happened again. I was there half an hour early. This time it wasn’t the glass-fronted office I was standing outside, but a battered looking warehouse that happened to be a convenient two-minute walk from my flat in East London.

Checking the address I had been given on Friday by the Guardian’s resident stylist, I looked at the wooden door with its peeling paintwork. The street I was on ran adjacent to Hackney’s proudest Tesco and the cement cuboid of a block of flats. Yet the number 18 shining on the door was unmistakeable; I was in the right place.

“Hi, I’m here from the Guardian. I’m assisting on the shoot,” I said into the buzzer. A moment later the door was opened and I was met by a smiling woman and a cold tongue licking my legs.

“You’re the first to arrive, come on through,” said the woman as a smiley Jack Russell continued to lick my legs.

Dog and I followed the woman into the innards of the warehouse. The front half of the huge room was set out as a photographer’s studio: white painted floor backing onto a white wall with leads and tripods set up in front. Unlike most sterile studios, however, the second half of this room was home to an old pool table, three faded sofas and a kitchen complete with retro fridge and tin road signs. As I found out later (after having been introduced to the photographers, make up artist and assistants who were soon to arrive) this studio is also the envy of all hip East London homes.

As I chatted to the woman who had led me in I leant down to stroke the Jack Russell who had by now given my legs a thorough cleaning. I soon discovered, however, that the dog wasn’t a Jack Russell. Despite having the face of a Jack Russell this dog lacked one feature key to any Jack Russell. Hair. I felt tricked. I wonder if that’s how the dog felt when it realised that despite its face (his father’s), his mother was actually a Chinese hairless dog. I quickly aborted my plan to stroke the dog as this, I discovered, was impossible. You can only, sort of pat, a hairless dog, which I did in an attempt not to hurt his pride. If it is possible for a dog to look put out then this one (Louis) did just that and returned to his basket as I headed into the spare room come fashion cupboard.

A van had just arrived piled high with bags of clothes for the shoot, which I carried through (I wonder why you don’t see ‘arms of steel’ on more job requirements in the fashion industry) and started hanging things up before the rest of the Guardian team arrived, soon followed by the models.

We were shooting for the Guardian’s ‘All Ages’ section so the models were aged 62 and 39, and although gorgeous, toned and willowy (I would kill for legs like that at any age, let alone 62) also refreshingly normal. As the Guardian stylist picked outfits I chatted to the models, steamed their clothes (also succeeding in burning my face in the process – who knew fashion could be so dangerous?) and helped to dress them. This in itself proved an interesting experience. Dressing someone else is a whole different ball game to dressing yourself, and dressing someone much, much taller than you who is debilitated by drying nails and a nest of rollers in their hair is a completely different sport altogether.

Whilst the photo shoot took place the photographer’s wife cooked for us all so that at the end of the shoot (after the Monica inside me had finished organising the clothes and writing notes on what was used) we all sat down and ate and chatted. Seeing everyone (models included) tuck in to a table piled high with freshly cooked couscous, pasta, stew and salads was a brilliant end to the day.

“That was the best meal I have had in ages,” I said honestly. In my head I was thinking, “so this is why the Guardian come to this old warehouse in Hackney…”

On Tuesday we were back in the studio for a second day of shooting, this time with three models from 19 to 35. Being greeted by everyone on day two I felt very much part of the team, a feeling I could very easily (and happily) get used to. Seeing everyone working together (models, make-up artist, stylists and assistants included there must have been ten of us) made me think all the more how no good idea in this industry can be credited to just one person. The days of covering your work so your neighbour can’t copy your homework are long over: a photo shoot is like a big stew pot of ideas.

At the end of the day came the long task of packing up all the clothes and labelling them to send back to their prospective shops and PR companies. Which meant lots more lifting and carrying and tidying. But after such an interesting and fun two days assisting on a Guardian photo shoot I was hardly about to complain.

The rest of the week was spent in the office. I spent the last few days doing chores and trying to take in as much as possible before the sad time came to leave. On Thursday Jess Cartner-Morley was back in the office and although I sadly didn’t get the chance to speak to her (I was working in the fashion cupboard that day) passing on the stairs one of the reasons I wanted to become a fashion journalist was enough for me. We smiled at each other and perhaps it sounds bizarre, but seeing her in the walking, talking, breathing flesh made me think, “I could be you.” Well, not you exactly, but I could be me doing what you do.

Every year the debate comes around again about the morality of unpaid work experience. Well I may have the added bonus of living in London and a government loan to make me able to afford to work for free at the moment, but in all honesty feeling this inspired and spending two weeks at a newspaper I would love to work for is something I would be prepared to sell most of my worldly goods in order to PAY for. I still live in hope that one day I will get a job but for now at least I am still extremely grateful to be given opportunities like these. Each work experience placement brings me closer to knowing what I want to do in the future; I have now fallen in love with the idea of working for a newspaper, for example. And above all I have realised the thing I have always known; that whatever else I do I always want to write.

Friday arrived like the sad yet inevitable end to a good book. It was a quiet day in the office and I felt guilty not doing anything so asked if I could tidy the fashion cupboard; I wanted to do something to say thank you and to keep me busy.

“Yes please,” was the reply. I’m not sure, however, whether they quite expected me to take on this task with quite such a worrying level of enthusiasm. I took out three bags of rubbish to the recycling bins and scaled a coat hanger mountain, untangling the angry mesh of metal and sorting them into ‘clippy hangers’ and ‘normal hangers’. Excessive? Perhaps.

When the time came to leave my mouth couldn’t quite keep up with all the ‘thank you’s in my head.

As I left I heard the delicious words, “do come back if you ever want to.”

I might just hold you to that.

Libby

Little Miss Sunshine

Short and simple there is just one excuse for my blogging inactivity this week. Sunshine.

I have decided that if it wasn't for this country's largely aqueous / chilly climate I would be wonderfully fit. When the weather is this beautiful being outside seems not just desirable, but imperative. Add to this delicious weather the expanse of fields and stretching views that are waiting near my home in Dorset (where I have been for the last week) and you have a winning combination for exercise. I have spent the entire week either jogging or going for long walks. You could nearly even call me 'outdoorsy'.

Sadly I know that my new-found energy cannot last. Firstly, it is not sustainable (miss one day of jogging and the excuses soon follow for day two, keep on and my thighs may give in). Secondly (and sadly) past experience and a rare flash of pessimism tell me that the rain won't be far away.

Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. But perhaps I'm not cut out for 'outdoorsy' after all. Far too much need for sensible shoes and cargo pants. And sadly khaki has just never been my colour.

Libby

Politics and Fashion

Over at my other blog...

http://lamodeandotherthings.blogspot.com/

A week in the life

It has been a brilliant week, and I'm not just talking about the weather.

Sunshine has a wonderful way of brightening the streets with smiles. The first tickle of a sunbeam and everyone seems to shed a winter coat of stress and gloom to reveal the fresh-faced contentment lurking beneath. When I am doing something I love I feel like sunshine. This has been one sunny week.

I think they may have to escort me off the premises come next Friday; I certainly won't be leaving the Guardian HQ willingly. Maybe it's something about the people: everyone I have met has been incredibly down to earth and friendly. Walking through the building there is always someone ahead of you to hold the door open with a smile. "Oh what a lovely spring skirt," someone said to me in the lift one afternoon. "Fab red jacket," said another with a huge beam.

Or perhaps it is the office itself. The building hugs the bank of Regent's Canal so at lunchtime I sit in the buzzing cafeteria looking out over colourful houseboats and the odd kyaker drifting up the canal. Throughout the building are dotted clusters of sofas and chairs where informal meetings take place. Everything is beautifully organised; colourful signs tell you which way to head for different sections and announce the uses of different rooms. It was only on closer inspection that I noticed that all of these signs are made from cardboard.

But maybe it is simply the fact that I'm getting a glimpse at a job I would kill for.

Watching the fashion editors in action is impressive to say the least and, more so than anything I have done before, shows me what I want to do in the future. They sit and they write. A few phone interviews and some frantic typing later and their writing can be up on the website or sent off to print. The pace of the daily newspaper is something that I love and feel so fortunate to have experienced.

Although everyone here is down to earth and friendly, I have had nervous moments when it has suddenly hit me: this is the Guardian. This is big and I am small. One such moment arrives every morning as I sit down at my desk. Because the desk I am sitting at is not my desk at all, it is Jess Cartner-Morley's desk. The fashion editor of the Guardian, she is one of my favourite fashion writers: the admiration stretches so far that I mentioned her in my LCF interview. Perhaps it is silly, people are all just people after all, but it has still felt very surreal and poignant to be sat in the chair of someone I look up to so much. At the moment I am borrowing the chair and feel like a child playing dress up in her mother's heels, taking nervous wobbly steps. But one day I hope to be able to walk tall myself. Jess Cartner-Morley has been away this week, but watch this space for when I actually meet her.

It has been inspiring to watch everyone in the team work. And it is very much a team. If someone gets writer's block they ask for help and when a piece is finished they will show each other and get feedback before going to print. It makes me realise all the more that although it can attract a certain genre of ambition (that can often manifest itself as bitchiness) this is not an industry for people who don't like working with people.

As well as getting to know the fashion team I have also met some other interns working at different sections of the paper. One lunchtime three of us sat in the sunshine by the canal and chatted. My heart sank somewhat, however, as they reeled off the different papers they have interned at. Then I realised they were all 25 and 7 years my senior, and my heart bobbed up again a little bit.

After lunch it was back to the office to research the exes of Kate Middelton and Prince William. It has become a joke at the fashion desk that the royal family should take a restraining order out against me. This week one of my tasks has been to research the royal wedding; one of the fashion editors jokingly dubbed me their royal correspondent. What she really meant was that I now know an unhealthy amount about all things royal.

This time last week I didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Five pages of a newspaper dedicated to what brand of loo roll the soon-to-be-weds would be using at their wedding? Really? (Ok perhaps I exaggerate... But still.) My problem was that I just didn't see how a royal wedding had anything to do with anyone who didn't holiday in Balmoral or who didn't have friends with names like Tatty or Hetty or Titty or Totty. That was until I discovered the joys of the street party. One of my jobs this week was to look through archive pictures from the royal wedding in 1981. It was like an epiphany of bunting, pimm's and picnics. So THAT's what all the fuss is about. All it took, it seems, was the prospect of dressing up in a Union Jack and spending a day partying in the sunshine to turn me into a royalist. My family were more than a little shocked when I came home for the weekend and discussed at great lengths over the dinner table the different modes of transport the royals would be using at the wedding. I could almost hear my Irish, Republican step-dad sharpening his guillotine.

Another one of my jobs was to look through pictures of ladies day at Aintree as research for a piece. The Daily Mail recently published an unjustifiably cruel comment on the same event. Yes the outfits were loud, (or, as I said to one of the fashion editors who laughed at my tact, "aren't they vibrant!") yes some women decided wearing 5 inch heels, spray tan, feather boa, ball gown, plus an explosion of butterflies in their hair and their weight in sparkle around their necks was the way forward, but for me the Daily Mail missed the point. Perhaps it isn't very 'fashiony' to admit this, and I brace myself to be struck down by the Goddess of Chic in the sky, but looking through the Aintree photographs I spent the whole day with a smile on my face. Liverpool ladies: I think you looked fabulous. Here are women who know how to have fun with their clothes, who dress up for themselves and no one else. I want to wear an obscenely large hat, so I'm going to wear an obscenely large hat. Pink and red floral print? Go on then.

Maybe the Aintree style isn't my personal cup of traditional English beverage, but when you become too absorbed in being oh so cool criticism can sometimes flow a little too easily. Because the truth is underneath all that cool we're all thinking one thing: they look like they're having more fun than me. The truth hurts.

Libby

Day 1 at the Guardian

If I counted up all the half hours I have arrived early for things, I would probably find that I have spent a year of my life waiting. 365 days of lurking awkwardly outside cafés and buildings checking my watch and waiting for it to tick down to an acceptable 10 minutes of earliness.

Today was definitely a day to live by my mantra that arriving 30 minutes early is far better than arriving 30 minutes late. It was also a day for my lucky red heels.

Today was my first day of two weeks work experience at the Guardian’s fashion desk.

Of all the offices I have waited outside, the Guardian HQ was by far the swishest. And as I discovered when the 10 minute mark eventually arrived and the escalator carried me into the belly of the building, it is also the biggest. In fact, it is huge.

You can tell a lot about a company by its reception; the way they choose to welcome you always seems to me to convey (or at least attempt to convey) certain important messages. So what about the Guardian? Two friendly receptionists in black dresses and matching green cardigans (mere coincidence, or a uniform acting as a reminder of ‘green’ credentials?), spacious landing and scattering of colourful chairs that looked like open mouths ready to envelope you in a kiss. So far, so good.

Despite being sat in a kiss, I was nervous. I have got quite good at tricking myself into feeling confident. Most of the time when the nervous Libby inside me gives a little shout I just ignore her. Sometimes, however, she is so insistent on being noticed that she gives a little dance that sends my stomach jittering.

My nerves were calmed somewhat when I was met by Sara, one of the fashion team who was all smiles and friendly chatter. As she brought me up to the fashion department she showed me around the building. Yes, it may have been my first day of work experience, but my mind was already wandering as I imagined myself working in the modern and dynamic hub of a building. Everything felt fresh and bright and (what appealed most to the Monica inside of me) organised.

After arriving on the third floor and being led past coffee stations (“Help yourself!”) and through the open plan office, I met the rest of the team; equally as friendly and thankfully down to earth.

I was sat at the desk of one of the fashion editors who was away, and spent the morning cutting fashion stories out of newspapers and organising look books. In the afternoon the team were heading out of the office and I was to go with them to a very familiar destination: Selfridge’s.

The lowest floor of the department store is currently home to the Oxfam Curiosity Shop, a vintage den with a difference. As well as the usual silk scarves and printed jumpers raided from Granny’s wardrobe you can also find vintage with a special twist. Next to one colourful rail stood a faded and love-worn aviator jacket. Not so unusual for a vintage pop-up shop. It was only on closer inspection that I noticed the tag: “first worn and loved by Colin Firth.” Next to the jacket: a dinky dress donated by Kylie Minogue. Celebrities from Helen Mirren to Scarlett Johansson have given items of clothing to the pop up shop, items which are all on sale to raise money for Oxfam.

As part of the event various newspapers and magazines are getting involved, styling several outfits for a ‘Style Off’ that will take place on the Oxfam website, votes being taken for the favourite looks.

Watching and assisting as the fashion team scoured the rails was a great learning experience. It was particularly interesting to watch them work and compare it to my time at Cosmopolitan; just from looking at the outfits laid out and by listening to them make their decisions it was clear that these were outfits Guardian style. Fashion or no fashion that is perhaps the main thing I took from day 1 at the Guardian: a good journalist has to know their reader inside out and back to front.

It was interesting to see Selfridge’s behind the scenes (“Selfridge’s: Uncut”). At one point we were taken down into the depths of the store to a basement housing additional stock. What a contrast to the bright shop floor thronging with Chanel bag toting fashion darlings and a battalion of shop assistants spritzing perfume and brandishing hair straigtheners. Because beneath the pussy bows and perfume this is fashion: one of the world’s largest industries chugging away in offices, factories, workshops and basements. In an industry built on dreams it is best to keep that quiet. The basement is fashion’s best kept secret.

An interesting Day 1 at Guardian HQ.

Libby