An Illustrated Fashion Blog by Angie Réhe

In the words of Brad Pitt circa I’m-switchin’-Jen-for-Ange, although for completely different reasons, “I have family on my mind”.

Meet Jaclyn Réhe, aka Jaclyn.  Tattooist extraordinaire.  Youngest daughter of Tex and his first wife Merilyn.  My niece. Our painted lady. 

Currently tattooing at Westside in Brisbane, but working on her return to Melbourne.

You’ve got to love watching someone you played with as a baby grow up and find what they love and then do it, and rock it.  And you’ve got to give it to Tex, it wasn’t easy seeing his daughter become a human canvas, but he rolled with it and even admitted his pride at her tenacity and success.

So here’s to the next gen.  And where I previously would have winced as long-unseen relatives at the recent funeral exclaimed “Oh, Jaclyn looks like you when you were young”, I can count the first lesson learned from the deaths of three family members – It’s a privilege to grow old.  So bring on the smile-lines and frown lines I’ve spent a lifetime creating, and may I live to be a lot more wrinkled than this.

In the meantime, check out this unwrinkled babe.  When you see her baby-faced parents below you can see where she gets it from.

The gene pool…

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The Patsyfox blog is taking time out to mourn the death of my beloved brother and sister in a car crash on the 3rd May.  This is not a tribute to them, just an acknowledgement for now.  

I have very few photos of myself with Tex, but this is by far my favourite because I remember how happy I was to hang with him, and I remember exactly the feel of that hand-knitted jumper. 

As for Suzanne, I challenge you to find a prettier child.

I’d also like to say thanks for the really nice comments I had about my Sartorialist sketch.  More soon.

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Because it’s Friday.  Because it’s late.  And because I’ve done it before.

I see me tomorrow morning.

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The Sartorialist, GPO Melbourne 24th April 2009

Garance Dore, GPO Melbourne, 24th April 2009

How is it that Patsyfox got to photograph Scott Schuman (aka The Sartorialist) and Garance Dore, and illustrate them on her blog?  Well, a  funny thing happened last week….

I’ve been a fan of The Sartorialist for some time now, but admittedly only discovered Garance Dore’s blog recently while ear-bashing my friend/neighbour/ghost researcher Mary about my new blog (“bla bla bla, my new blog, it’s all about drawing, bla blog, bla”), who promptly sent me a link.  Instant fan.

Then last week I read that The Sartorialist was coming to Melbourne and realised, to quote coach Lily, that I “must meet him and draw him!“.  Well of course I must, let’s start my new blog with easily achievable realistic goals, right?

So a quick e-mail to Mr Schuman via his website ensued – the modern day equivalent of  stuffing a message in a bottle and tossing it into the pacific.  Didn’t I spit my coffee all over my lap top when I turned it on in the morning and saw a reply?  It wasn’t a yes, but a maybe, and enough.  I may have mentioned to a few people that day that I got an e-mail from The Sartorialist, although really just people who happened to call.  Or maybe I called some.

Cut to Friday afternoon, it’s 2.30pm and I’m at my computer in my pyjamas, because I can.  Mary, apparently deep in data research, mails me to inform me that he is in Melbourne today and tomorrow only.  Holy crap.  A little sleuthing on his blog tells me he is “shooting downtown” first day, which narrowed down Melbourne dramatically, and at about that minute, like Diana Prince twirling around and becoming Wonder Woman, I became Stalker Blogger, jumped into the bat car and sped into town.

It’s 3.10pm and driving along, it occurs to me how enjoyable doing something as ridiculous as this is, and consider the idea of only doing ridiculous things for the rest of my life.

It was a simple plan:  If I was advising The Sartorialist where to shoot, where would I suggest, keeping his aesthetic in mind?  I’d say the GPO, and then maybe Flinders Lane / Degraeves st.  Nowhere to be found on the GPO verandah, so I stroll up the outside to visit my ex (once removed) at his crepe stand, to ask if he’s seen a guy taking photos.

I pass a familiar looking guy with ice blue eyes ripped straight out of Daniel Craig’s head, look down and see a camera in his hands.  Oh stalker blogger, you are good.  He had been talking to a pretty woman, who I approach in his absence and ask if she is indeed here with Scott Schuman.  She is, and she is Garance Dore.  It is 3.30pm, une heure depuis les pyjamas.

So no sooner had I explained myself to Garance than The Sartorialist appears and I explain again, attempting an apology for appearing like a complete dork stalker, assuring them that I’m actually not as incredibly uncool as I come across, and offering some pathetic but genuine compliments.  Argh, it’s painful even for me, and might I say how amazingly polite they both were – waiting patiently for me to get to the point, locate a business card, etc.

So that’s it.  I celebrated by moonwalking all the way to Flinders Lane to enjoy a coffee at Journal Canteen, where I was horrified to see my NBFs again.  Which on the good side shows I had them pegged, but on the bad side makes it all but impossible for them to belive I wasn’t following them or working for ASIO.  A quick sideways dash into the doorway wasn’t fast enough to prevent him seeing me so I had to make do with a hasty but earnest plea promising I was NOT a stalker.  Although if he reads this drawn out rant, then he will know that I am indeed a stalker blogger.  At least for that day.

I was so busy high fiving myself that it wasn’t until I was half way through my coffee that I realised that even with 2 opportunities, they hadn’t wanted to photograph me.  So what I want to know is – was it the jacket?  Shoulders too extreme?  Too many zips?  It’s vintage Nevada Duffy for godsake! Was it because my pants kept sticking to my knee socks and riding up in an unattractive manner?  Was the red lipstick with the red recycled flag scarf too obvious?  It’s made from an old flag – that’s genius!  The shoes were Anna Sui – nothing wrong with those!

Upon further study of the people they both photograph, I decide my shoes were just not “enough”.  So I bought these smokin’ shoes, and I’m thinking that if I haul my arse up to Sydney this week and parade around with landmarks behind me I might, just might, become “On the street….Patsyfox”.

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So recently I found myself back on the job shelf, after the recession-led end of my design job. 

At the advice of all, I explored every avenue open to me in the pursuit of a wage, even considering working on product I wouldn’t normally sit next to on a tram.  But there is a line, across which abject poverty starts to look as good as a Rick Owens leather jacket.  And that’s very good. 

After being stood up once for a meeting with extreme lipsticked & coiffured Melbourne “designer of note”, let’s call her Irma, I was finally granted an audience.  Sitting in full regalia she motioned for me to sit on the chaise lounge in the direct midday sun which was pounding through the window –  I immediately began to sweat profusely – I mean sheets of sweat – as my make up began its hasty retreat down my face – 1 point to Irma.

I: “So, you’re 38?”

P: “No, 40”

I: “Kids?”

P: “No.”

I: “Single?”

P: “Yes.”

I: “Are you a lesbian?”

P: “Why, No.”

I: “Do you just like to be on your own then?”

P: “No, I just prefer to take lovers.”

(Sits bolt upright)

I: “OH – Lovers???  I can’t find any men – where do you find these ‘lovers’? – bars?”

P: “Oh no, the bar thing is a myth.  I find them at funerals, airports, things like that.”

10 points to Patsyfox, who failed to be shocked but succeeded in shocking Irma.  High five.

Ah, P.S. Isn’t it not just rude but illegal to ask those questions??

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Before Triple J stole Holly C from RRR in Melbourne, I used to listen in late on Tuesday nights to The Best Of The Brat and enjoy a good chortle at their smut and irreverence.  God help any of Holly C’s friends, as their sexual proclivities became fodder for stories and laughs.  Like the one about her friend who left a guy and went home mid-sex due to lack of interest – they were all amazed, but I found it perfectly normal.  Is that wrong?

Anyway, now as I can only occasionally bear to flip to Triple J in the morning, I have to make do with the real Marieke Hardy as Green Guide columnist, and First Tuesday Book Club regular.  Last Saturday though, was Independent Record Store Day, and Marieke was doing a shift at Polyester Records, my record store of choice, and she kindly posed for Patsyfox.  Thanks Holly C.  Nice frock.

“Love your genes and move on.”

Nice work Lagerfeld.

Meet Amanda,  my choice sidekick.  Living proof that the men, they come and go, but your buddies are always there.  Ah bless.

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Packed to the rafters at Gorker Gallery Fitroy for the launch of Edition 6 of New Wooden Toy magazine.  Fashion types bumped bits with tatts, quiffs, emos, artists and a generally entrepreneurial mob.  Ah, you have to love a mixed crowd.

Tutu, aka Tutu Crazy.  A fellow blogger, check out his blog.

Gabby & Anthony.  I’ve only met Gabby twice but each time she’s happy and smiling just like this – somehow I think this is her natural state.  She told me the first time I met her that I looked like a rock star, and well, I just can’t imagine what human atrocities she could perform now to stop me liking her.

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