• Swiss-Water Decaf and Other Signs of Gentrification

    Swiss-Water Decaf and Other Signs of Gentrification

    Without giving too much away (like my personal address) it is with great neutrality that I confess that my suburb is finally getting a makeover, and that my childhood home is most likely going to double in value within the next 5 years.

    There’s no denying the steady, almost bubonic sprawl inching further west with each passing year, as more and more funding goes into gentrifying our western suburbs to accommodate a growing population.

    At university, I quickly learned that most of my friends had no real idea where I lived—geographically or otherwise. Anything beyond the northern side of the bridge might as well have been regional.

    Maybe it was the internalised insecurity of growing up in a no-name suburb. Maybe it was the stigma of living somewhere that felt cryogenically frozen in 2002. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was all my friends’ proximity to the coast, and my forty-five minute commute to a body of water, that really solidified our socioeconomic status on opposite sides of the spectrum. 

    But it’s 2026 now, and the living crisis in Sydney is at an all-time high. This means, for the first time in history, my suburb has been declared desirable by enigmatic TikTok real estate agents.  

    At a new coffee spot just minutes away from me—a converted warehouse, naturally— I sipped from my $10 cold brew, perusing the cafe’s Google reviews until the critique of a local foodie piqued my attention. 

    {Redacted} is the beginning of the end for this suburb: a sign that the creep of gentrification has truly reached its door.

    Try living next door to two high-rise apartment blocks, I thought.

    I kept scanning the familiar letters of my suburb’s name, in disbelief that anything remotely trendy could be synonymous with it.

    For as long as I can remember, the main promenade of my suburb could be compared to the likes of a vibrant international strip––growers and sellers spilling onto the road, crates stacked too high, fruit sweating in the sun. It was too unorganised to feel metropolitan, yet the war memorial standing proudly in the centre was enough to snap you out of the hallucination. 

    Fragments of my suburb brought great comfort to me—a Cash Converters, permanently wrapped in “Closing Down” banners that had gone all sun-bleached and torn at the ends. Butchers that shouted in foreign tongues: cash only. Produce bartered by little ladies perched on milk crates, who boomed incoherent specials into a karaoke mic. The token charcoal chicken shop we frequented for a Friday night treat. And other fronts. I’m sure. 

    I didn’t spend much time there, it was slightly out of the way from my side of town, but I often passed through on the way home.

    To me, it was iconic: bursting with no-frills culture and fast-paced calamity. It wasn’t my culture, exactly (you’d usually find me at the European deli in the adjacent suburb), but sometimes I wish I embraced it more, growing up. 

    For years, my friends and I caught up for coffee in the next suburb—fifteen minutes by bus felt like a necessary pilgrimage. I used to mourn the absence of a local cafĂ© within walking distance from my house. Not just any cafĂ©, but the kind tucked into the dormant remains of an old milk bar, or carved into a heritage building—you know the ones that line the streets of Surry Hills.

    Now we have Swiss-water decaf on our doorstep and pilates studios, multiplying at an alarming rate. It feels strange to realise things aren’t just changing here, but they already have.

    Recently, I immersed myself into the world of alternative medicine (because you either train for Hyrox in your late twenties or you start healing your gut). In the process, I discovered my suburb was riddled with Chinese herbalists, reflexologists and spiritual readers—services I had once travelled interstate to access. 

    What the hell? 

    With a smile, I tucked my medicinal herbs into my bag, waved at the jolly elderly couple, and walked home—peering into sage-infused studios, housing palm readers and other spots I’d saved on Google Maps along the way. Until recently, I would never have guessed I’d be wandering through my own suburb like a tourist.

    Upon reaching my street, I took in the emptied blocks of land, standing awkwardly beside five-storey apartment buildings, the drilling humming like white noise at the back of my mind. A young-ish woman in Doc Martens and purple hair slipped into the brand-new complex, a family trailing behind her with their two golden somethings. I took notice of the mass immigration of purebred oodles cashing up around town. 

    But in all honesty, it is nice to see new faces, from all generations and demographics. There’s a strange comfort in being surrounded by families and younger couples choosing to build a new life here. Choosing my childhood suburb to call home. 

    Despite the passage of time and everything that comes with it, the bustling, unassuming version of the town I grew up in is forever etched into my memory.

    And for now, I can’t deny the small indulgence of a $10 cold brew within walking distance.

    Is that so terrible to admit?

    Words by Yianna Tromboukis

  • A Disquisition on Innocence: Dilara Findikoglu’s Cage of Innocence Collection

    A Disquisition on Innocence: Dilara Findikoglu’s Cage of Innocence Collection

    This article contains themes and discussion of sexual assault.

    You are thirteen years old, walking towards the creek at the end of your street.


    Small pieces of rubble from the middle of the road come loose and disperse under the tires of a passing car. The metal rims scintillate under the last afternoon light.


    The grass bubbles from the pulse of the creek bed. You take your shoes off. The crickets are singing, the stream rumbles softly, the wet ground vibrates with the hum and bustle of insects between your toes.


    In the reflections of the ripples, browns and mossy greens blur like paint stripes. A reddish leaf is pulled along by a string of currents. The leaf floats across the reflection of your cheeks, the current dragging the edges of your face.


    The ripples flash a warm yellow as the street lights flicker on behind you. Time to go home.


    Later you would come to realise that this was the last time you visited the bank of that creek, and as a result, that curious, innocent version of you would be imprisoned behind those tides irredeemably.


    We all have a version of that creek – a hidden ghost of our former selves, entrapped within the blissful ignorance of a time prior to knowing what we know now. Dilara Findikoglu’s SS26 Runway, Cage of Innocence, is an exploration of the treacherous plight back to that place.

    Emerging from a conservative upbringing, Findikoglu has
    pioneered her fashion house as a tool to deconstruct patriarchal confines, as much as a gothic dreamworld filled with visions of escapism and symbols of the occult.


    Born in Istanbul, Findikoglu moved to London at the age of nineteen to study fashion design at Central Saint Martins. Her looks became associated with outcasted crowds after she staged an unauthorised ‘guerilla’ collection to showcase her graduate thesis as well as other student collections who didn’t make the official press show. Even as Findikoglu transitioned into a mainstream designer, her fearless handling of ‘otherness’ has become a signature trait of her work:


    “In Islam, they tell you about an unknown world, the world of spirits – they’re called jinn in Arabic – and these creatures that live in other dimensions. I was scared of this world but, at the same time, felt close to it. I used to wish I was psychic so I could discover more about it.”
    (Another Man)

    Each look in Findikoglu’s runway is a disquisition on how innocence moves with us as we emerge as women. In the beginning of the show, models appear shaky and disheveled, with mud smeared up their legs and branches entangled in their wild, teased hair.

    Unkemptness and disarray transition into something much more structured as the show progresses, with hair falling smooth and tightly braided, and flowy ripped fabrics transitioning into stiff boned leather. ‘Cages’ appear in metaphorical forms – chainmail ornaments are applied directly to the face as an armour shielding the eyes and cheeks. Necklines reach high to choke its models. Latex gloves and tubed silhouettes tighten and constrict the form.

    In one look, Findikoglu gives her model a horsebit buckle headpiece. This look in particular achieves a certain ‘shock value’ – the ‘cage’ becomes so literal here it almost mimics some kind of torture device. As confronting as it is designed to be, Findikoglu never allows us to fall out of the underlying narrative, each garment flowing into the next as designs pulsate between constriction and release.

    It’s hard to express the specific and complex relationship women have with innocence, yet Findikoglu’s looks imitate it well. For young girls, childlike innocence is extremely precarious. In Australia it is estimated that females are twice as likely to have experienced child sexual abuse than males. That’s more than 1 in 3 girls who are robbed of their childhoods – the most liberating, untainted time of their lives. Those who do not fall victim to CSA are not exempt from falling victim to other predatory behaviours delivered predominately at the hands of men, throughout the rest of their lives. Think of every time you’ve been catcalled, stared at, followed, sent unwanted explicit messages. Would it be too provocative of me to assume that inside every women is a fundamental belief that she is unsafe in this world?


    The hand that so unjustly takes innocence away from young girls, is often the same that places unrealistic expectations of purity upon adult women. The concept of ‘purity’ is so deeply engrained in the metrics of what is deemed ‘attractive’, or even ‘acceptable’ within society, a ticket to extend your desirability long past your use-by date of 30. How many men’s skincare brands can you think of that make products to reduce the appearance of wrinkles by 20 years? ‘Skinny’ is back, but only for women. Is the recent Ozempic Pandemic a pursuit of appearing young and waiflike rather than managing health? Why is it that the idea of men’s body hair is innocuous, yet having a bush is a ‘political statement’?

    Findikoglu’s collection explores the effect that the control of female innocence has on women’s relationships with themselves, and with each other. On the runway, she presents the idea of ‘innocence’ and the idea of the ‘cage’ within the same equal plane. The looks speak to each other – for example, the cherries used to stain a corseted ivory tube dress are echoed in another look where cherries and feathers spill out of a handbag. In the latter look, the model also wears a corseted dress, however this one appears tightly tied at her shoulders. Her hair is braided like a rope, her eyes are wide and mud is smeared across her forehead giving her a ‘hunted’ appearance. In a third monochromatic red look, the girl is ‘contained’- her extremities are bound in latex gloves and socks, her arms are cuffed to the elbows with metal bangles, and her dress conceals her body from her neck to her ankles, with metal stitching running down between the legs.

    The communication between her designs was not unintentional – in an interview with 032C Magazine, Findikoglu shares her deliberate use of red in her clothes:


    “I love the colour red because, when I was graduating, I had the sense that red was my personality. It has so many tones, and it is so difficult to get the right one. And it can mean so many things. It can mean love, passion, fearlessness. It is so bold, so out there. If you’re wearing red, it’s difficult to hide. I just want it to be heard and seen. It’s not a mid-tone. It’s red. It’s not black, and it is not white. It’s also the colour of blood—it’s quite crazy. When it’s
    diluted it becomes pink and cute.”


    Findikoglu marries red tones despite their contrasting playful and restrictive contexts. By changing the opacity of colour within a look – be it diluted cherry stains or head to toe striking red -Findikoglu builds a sense of power and reclamation. She wants both voices – the hunted girl with sticks in her hair and cherry juice across her legs, and the caged woman with a sleek silhouette and smooth straight hair, to be equally seen. In fact, both women are one and the same, just expressed differently. Findikoglu illustrates that our child self is always living inside of us- their red passion, and fearless thirst for life remains internally unbounded despite how constricted by social pressures we may
    become.


    In this runway, Findikoglu takes us back to that creek bed at the end of the street. We can feel the textures of wild nature, yet perceive it through an older, more contained lens. It’s like looking at innocence from the other side of time, from within the cage. Yet, it is in the way the garments accentuate the female form, the way that the models gaze with steadfast assurance, the walks that transition from shaky to strong, that indicates to me a certain power in femininity. Perhaps a knowledge that our innocence is sacred, and the fierceness we possessed as girls is our compass into womanhood.

    @dilariafindikoglu on Instagram.

    Words by Lola Haylock. @the.divine.archive

  • The Afterlife of the School Uniform

    The Afterlife of the School Uniform

    When I think of school uniforms, I think of polyester polo shirts and creased, knife-pleated skirts, black dress shoes with scuffed toes, or socks that are permanently grey from wear. And, if I really want to get visceral with my description, the lingering smell of sweat from PE class and Victoria’s Secret Love Spell.

    In theory, the school uniform is supposed to symbolise equality and functionality. In practice, each uniform eventually becomes individual to the wearer, be it by a name scrawled on a fabric tag or the controversial choice of skirt length. The hyperreal uniform, by contrast, erases this messy, lived-in reality. It sanitises the worn, the dirty, the unfashionable, reducing the uniform to a set of recognisable elements: loafers, tartan and white blouses.

    The school uniform has become a clean slate—something that can be warped, projected onto, and eagerly leveraged by capitalism. There are both positives and negatives to this. On one hand, there’s the perpetuation of fantastical and harmful tropes about girls in uniforms that overwrite the reality of lived experiences in school. On the other, the aesthetic’s revival opens space for reinvention. For the uniform to become something new, detached from its old connotations.

    Outside the schoolyard, the uniform becomes a storytelling device in popular shows. Rory Gilmore’s (Alexis Bledel) innocence and intelligence is reflected in her modest, neatly pressed Chilton uniform. Meanwhile, the confident and fashionable Blair Waldorf (Leighton Meester) styles her uniform with loose ties, headbands, and thigh-high socks paired with heels.

    In Japanese anime, sailor-style uniforms signify youth, purity, and cuteness. Sailor Moon would not be herself without her blue-and-white sailor suit. In Ouran High School Host Club, the crisp male-style blazers parody privilege and aspiration, while the female characters in pleated skirts become symbols of both conformity and comic subversion.

    In South Korea, amusement parks like Lotte World have entire rental shops where visitors—many of them long past high school age—can hire a uniform for the day. The photoshoot is the point: giggling in blazers in a picturesque location, eating candyfloss, posing with cartoon mascots. These are all things we rarely did as actual students. School was, in reality, a full-time 9-to-3 burden, heavy with rules and growing pains.

    At risk of sounding dramatic, wearing the school uniform, and in particular the school skirt—as a real girl in real school—is a historically, politically and socially charged experience. The earliest school uniforms for boys in the 16th and 17th centuries were based on military dress. When girls were finally included in mass education, their uniforms were designed not for equality but for modesty, domesticity, and clear visual distinction from boys. The skirt was chosen to reinforce “femininity,” whatever society deems it to be.

    There’s something to be said about how successfully this idealised image of girlhood infiltrates the average woman’s wardrobe. Even I have a soft spot for tartan-patterned-anything and socks with black, shiny, Mary Janes. But perhaps there is a subtle message within all this—one that women have always been told: to never grow up. To never age.

    So what’s the alternative? Non-gendered uniforms?

    Maybe it’s not just about what we wear, but the freedom to decide—whatever that could look like. To view the uniform as something fluid, unbound by gender, age, or expectation. Designers like Sandy Liang are already doing that, turning the once-rigid silhouette into something playful, genuine and universal. That’s the best outcome of the uniform’s afterlife: a fantasy we can finally control.

  • Third Space Talks: Misbah Shaikh

    Close friend and muse of Third Space, Misbah, shares her beauty secrets, childhood memories, and the tender reckonings that come with womanhood in your twenties.

    Tell us! How does it feel to be the debut voice for Everyday Muses?

    Hehehe I’m both nervous and honoured!

    What do you know now that you didn’t know a year ago?

    Look, it took me 26 years to get here but I’m finally learning to trust myself more.

    Where do you go—mentally, physically, or otherwise—when you need quiet?

    I picture myself back in my childhood bedroom looking out the window, watching the snow fall quietly at night with the street lights reflecting a dreamy orange glow.

    What does your “third space” look like?

    Mentally and physically I’ve found solace in prayer!

    What’s your earliest memory of watching someone you love get ready?

    I don’t know if she’ll like this answer, but my sister and I shared a room for most of our childhood, and she would draw on the thickest line of eyeliner EVERY MORNING in high school. I remember just sitting on my bed, watching her get ready.

    Is there a scent, product, or practice that makes you feel most like yourself?

    I know everyone and their mother raves about Glossier You, but it genuinely is my holy grail scent! And always, L’OrĂ©al Telescopic Mascara.

    What’s one beauty ritual you return to when everything feels a little off?

    Doing my eyebrows always resets it for me.

    We live for your sporadic fit checks on IG. What’s the secret to building an outfit that’s both chic and practical in Sydney’s unrelenting winter?

    Layering with Uniqlo HeatTech has been a saviour! Also: chunky knits and dark denim—I feel like I’m Rory Gilmore. Sydney’s winter is all over the place, so being able to layer is essential.

    What’s one piece that’s on your current rotation at the moment?

    My oversized black coat and black knit maxi skirt are worn at least once a week! A staple in my winter wardrobe.

    How does your culture influence what you wear?

    Ah, this is such a good question! I think when I was younger, I’d shy away from my culture, but as I grew up, I began to appreciate it a lot more! Now I’d say it influences every aspect of my life, including what I wear—I love me some modest fashion, which is a lot easier to hone into with current fashion trends. Also, a dupatta is not a Scandinavian scarf!!!