"My son has followed fashion since he was a punk. He and I agree that fashion is about sex." – Vivienne WestwoodI have always loved clothes, shoes, and 'accessories'. Even when I was young and broke, I cut my outgoings to the bone so that I could save for a few pairs of beautiful shoes. I swapped some of my very first enamels for several thousand dollars-worth of clothes at a boutique that stocked Karen Walker and other designers before they became well known (and less interesting). And yet, for the past five years, I've worn the same thing nearly every day. Black, always black. Like an old-school nun. Now my 'office' clothes are plain white, cotton men's shirts, blue Levi jeans, and a pair of grey suede, paint-splattered, rubber-soled Tods loafers that I bought fifteen years ago. My modest collection of classic clothes and shoes is still in storage in Sydney. It includes black, knee-high boots in soft leather by Robert Clergerie, a hot pink, high waisted knee-high pencil skirt that I found in a small-town charity shop during a road trip, a sexually explicit manga t-shirt in clashing colours, a handbag from Thailand made of cobra skin – with the head still attached (fangs bared), a chocolate brown leather jacket by Alexander McQueen, a white, fluffy, short-sleeved angora sweater, a woven leather hobo bag by Bottega Veneta, and a backless evening dress with sheer silk 'apron' by Nicola Finetti. I'm not into novelty and I couldn't care less about being 'on trend'. I long for the sensual experience of different fabrics, different textures, on my skin, especially if they're beautifully cut and sewn. I want what I wear to turn me on.