are you ready?
WELC TO
OME
“Melbourne style isn’t just about clothes; it’s an extension of the pavement, the unpredictable weather, and the hidden laneways. It is a culture built on contrast; where historic architecture meets modern subcultures. In this debut issue, my goal was to map the geographical identity of Melbourne style. I wanted to explore how the textures of our clothing, heavy wools, distressed denim, and structured tailoring, reflect the raw, concrete canvas of the CBD and inner suburbs. From the sharp, minimalist lines found in the heart of the CBD to the eccentric, thrifted layers navigating the streets of Fitzroy, these pages document a city that uses fashion as an armour and an identity. Thank you to the creators and subjects who brought this vision to life. Welcome to Melbourne.”
Yours truely, Charli Bentrovato-Petrov, Creative Director & Chief Editor
CREATIVE DIRECTOR + CHIEF EDITOR
LET’S SET THE SCENE SHALL WE...
MELBOURNE 2026
WHICH
H FIRST?
CAN ANYONE ELSE HEAR MR WHIPPY?
B B B B B B
BEACH BEACH BEACH BEACH BEACH BEACH
FROM THE SHORES TO THE STREETS
life above t
the crowds.
Um OK, but what makes Melbourne any more special than anywhere else in the world?
FROM PASHION: Let me show you
ART IS EVERYWHERE
DRESS CODE: MELBOURNE 3000 Step out of a tram anywhere in Melbourne and you’ll notice it almost immediately, style here isn’t just personal, it’s geographic. Clothing becomes a kind of postcode. Walk ten minutes in any direction and the silhouettes shift, fabrics change, and the unspoken rules of dress rewrite themselves. In this city, fashion doesn’t just reflect identity, it reflects place. Melbourne isn’t one cohesive style capital, it’s a patchwork of micro worlds, each suburb dressing to its own rhythm, shaped by architecture, culture, wealth, and the quiet expectations of the people who move through it.
Nowhere is this contrast sharper than in the city itself, where one street can feel like a different country from the next. On Collins Street, style is curated and deliberate. Luxury storefronts and heritage arcades frame a uniform of tailored blazers, polished shoes, and designer handbags. It’s a street where clothing signals status before individuality, where dressing well is less about self expression and more about alignment with a long standing image of prestige. Just a short walk away, La Trobe Street tells a different story. Here, practicality overtakes polish. Students move quickly between lectures in hoodies and worn denim, while visible economic hardship shapes a more functional, necessity driven approach to clothing. The contrast isn’t subtle, it’s jarring. Two streets, side by side, yet worlds apart in what style means and what it’s for. Moving into Carlton, the contrasts become even more layered and complex. On Lygon Street, fashion becomes a collision of cultures and intentions. Italian heritage lingers in crisp collared shirts and structured denim worn by older men who gather outside cafés, their clothing less about choice and more about habit, routine stitched into fabric. Around them, younger crowds blur categories, trend conscious outfits suited for dining and nightlife mix with the relaxed uniform of university students, sweatpants, hoodies, and the quiet prioritisation of comfort. Then there are those who resist both. Drifting in from neighbouring suburbs, a more alternative, free form style appears, looser silhouettes, layered textures, and a disregard for conventional polish. It’s expressive, almost defiant, sitting in tension with both the refined and the restrained. Just streets away, Rathdowne Street softens everything. The energy drops. Here, style becomes understated, almost uniform in its simplicity, navy denim, white cotton shirts, neutral tones filling café seats along the footpath. It’s not about standing out, it’s about belonging. The aesthetic mirrors the lifestyle, young families, slow mornings, and an appreciation for quiet consistency. If Carlton is a spectrum, then South Yarra and Fitzroy sit at opposite ends of it. South Yarra is controlled. From Domain Road to Toorak Road, style leans into restraint, minimalist, tailored, and carefully considered. There’s an unspoken dress code here, particularly among older, wealthier residents, old money aesthetics dominate, with clean lines, neutral palettes, and an emphasis on timelessness over trend. Even among the younger crowd, variation is limited. Activewear doubles as daily uniform, paired with high end leisure pieces or simple denim and crisp shirts. It’s not that individuality doesn’t exist, it’s that it’s expressed within boundaries. In South Yarra, style is less about standing out and more about seamlessly fitting into the environment. Fitzroy, on the other hand, resists that idea entirely. Here, clothing feels personal in a way that borders on political. Style isn’t curated for approval, it’s assembled for self. Vintage layers, bold textures, unconventional pairings, nothing feels accidental, yet nothing feels constrained. There’s a looseness, a kind of intentional nonchalance, where expression outweighs expectation. Importantly, Fitzroy isn’t uniform in its rebellion. Pockets of the suburb echo the polished minimalism of places like South Yarra. But the difference lies in intent. Where South Yarra’s style often aligns with its surroundings, Fitzroy’s, even when visually similar, feels detached from them. It’s worn for comfort, for identity, for the wearer alone. What makes these differences so distinct isn’t just taste, it’s context. The textures of a suburb matter. Graffiti covered walls, heritage facades, glass high rises, tree lined streets, they all shape how people dress within them. Clean, polished environments tend to produce equally refined styles. More chaotic, artistic surroundings invite experimentation. Culture plays its part too. Carlton’s Italian influence, Fitzroy’s creative undercurrent, South Yarra’s legacy of wealth, each leaves a visible imprint on what people wear and why they wear it. And then there’s economics. Access to fashion, attitudes toward consumption, and even the purpose of clothing shift depending on socioeconomic realities. For some, style is a statement. For others, it’s simply function. Melbourne’s fashion identity isn’t singular, it’s fragmented, layered, and constantly shifting. Each suburb operates like its own ecosystem, with its own rules, its own influences, and its own quiet expectations. To move through the city is to move through these worlds, to watch as style adapts, resists, conforms, and redefines itself every few streets. In Melbourne, you don’t just dress for the day. You dress for the suburb you’re in.
4 SEASONS in
FROM PASHION: PREPARE FOR ANY AND EVERY FORECAST!
Every Melburnian will tell you we get four seasons in one day. Cute saying, but let’s be honest, that’s giving the weather far too much credit. It doesn’t take 24 hours for the weather to change its mind, it’ll do it between grabbing your coffee and catching the next tram. You’ll leave the house in sunshine wearing your favourite suede shoes,only to be dodging puddles ten minutes later while everyone pretends they definitely saw the rain coming. By lunchtime it’s somehow 24 degrees, hailing in Fitzroy, and freezing by the time you’re crossing Princes Bridge. The only real dress code in Melbourne? Bring a jacket, sunglasses, an umbrella, and a little bit of optimism. So, if the weather app promises sunshine, take it as a suggestion… not a guarantee.
ITS ALWAYS THE SMALLEST THINGS.
It doesn’t start with the outfit. It starts with the question. “Where are your sunglasses from?” Not about the jacket you spent an hour choosing. Not about the shoes. Not even the bag. Just the sunglasses. The one thing you threw on without overthinking. And suddenly, that’s the thing. The detail that gets remembered.
same rules. Clothes tend to negotiate with the environment. They adapt. They soften. They try to fit the room. Accessories don’t always do that. They sit slightly outside of it. More personal. Less filtered. They don’t ask for permission. A belt no one is meant to see becomes visible for half a second. That’s enough. Someone notices. A comment is made. A conversation starts. It’s never about how obvious it is. It’s about timing.
Most people don’t dress to stand out. They dress to land somewhere in the middle. Put together, but not trying too hard. Considered, but not obvious. There’s a comfort in that space, in knowing you won’t be the most noticeable Jewellery works differently again. person in the room. Especially the pieces that weren’t bought last week. But then something small disrupts it. A necklace that belonged to someone else first. Earrings that A charm hanging off the side of a bag. Slightly out of place. carry a history you don’t explain unless someone asks. They sit Slightly unnecessary. Completely intentional. It moves when you against outfits that might be new, trend-driven, temporary, and walk, catches someone’s eye, and before you realise it, it’s the shift the whole feeling of it. reason someone speaks to you. They slow it down. Not the outfit. In a space filled with fast fashion, where everything feels reThe detail. placeable, those pieces don’t. They stay. That’s the thing about accessories. And that’s what people respond to. They don’t Not perfection. follow the Not coordination. Recognition. Something that feels like it belongs to a person, not just an outfit.
Because the difference between fitting in and standing out is rarely dramatic. It doesn’t come from changing everything. It comes from one thing that doesn’t quite follow the rest. One choice that feels slightly more you than anything else you’re wearing. Accessories don’t complete an outfit. They personalise it. They take something that works and make it memorable. Turn a passing glance into a second look. Turn a second look into a compliment. Turn a compliment into a moment you carry with you long after you’ve left the room. It’s never the whole outfit. It’s always the smallest thing.
NEVER FORGET TO ADD A LITTLE YOU TO IT!
THE SHOE THEORY.
Before you hear her speak, before you notice the outfit, you notice the shoes. They are the final decision. The detail that can quietly pull everything together or completely undo it. You can wear something simple, something safe, something expected, and still say everything you need to say just by what’s on your feet. Because sometimes, shoes are the loudest thing a girl owns. Not everyone feels comfortable expressing themselves through clothing. For some, fashion feels too visible, too exposed to judgement. So they keep it controlled. Neutral tones, clean silhouettes, nothing that draws too much attention. But then you look down. And there it is. A flash of something more. A hint of identity that didn’t make it into the rest of the outfit. A colour, a shape, a choice that feels just slightly out of place, but entirely intentional. Shoes become the space where personality lives quietly. They say what the rest of the outfit holds back. In environments where expression is limited, this matters even more. Workplaces come with rules. Dress codes that are rarely questioned, often inherited, and historically shaped without women in mind. The expectation is polish, restraint, professionalism. The outfit becomes something to fit into, not something to speak through. And that’s where shoes shift from accessory to statement. A sharp heel under a muted outfit does more than complete the look. It disrupts it. Not loudly, not enough to be called out, but enough to be felt. A pointed toe where everything else is soft. A bold colour where everything else isneutral. A choice that doesn’t quite follow the script. It’s not rebellion in the obvious sense. It is quieter than that. But it is intentional. Because identity doesn’t disappear in structured spaces. It adapts. It finds smaller ways to exist. And sometimes, it settles in the one place that still feels entirely yours. At your feet. But behind that statement, there is something else. Something less visible, but just as real. The feeling. The slow pressure that builds by midday. The ache that settles into the arch of your foot, the tightening across your toes, the subtle shift in the way you stand. It is not dramatic, not enough to stop you, but constant enough to notice. And still, you keep going. There is a kind of strength in that. Not because pain should define beauty, but because choosing to endure it, on your own terms, becomes something else entirely. It becomes control. It becomes presence. It becomes a quiet refusal to shrink, even when something is asking you to. There’s a feeling of reward, in choosing to be you, even if not loudly vocalised but worn down south. But strength isn’t just in pushing through. It’s in the choice. Because at the end of the day, the same girl who walked through offices, streets, and expectations in those heels steps through her front door, pauses, and takes them off. The release is immediate. The pressure disappears. And in its place, something softer. Ugg boots. Worn, familiar, unapologetically comfortable. No performance. No expectation. No audience. Just her. That moment matters just as much as the one before it. Because the statement was never just about the shoes. It was about the ability to choose them. To wear the heels. To feel powerful in them. To push through when you decide it’s worth it. And then to take them off without guilt, without explanation, without needing to prove anything to anyone. Shoes can make or break an outfit. But more than that, they reveal something deeper. Not just how you want to be seen. But how you choose to exist
LIFES SHORT BUY THE SHOES.
INDIVIDUALITY NOT INCLUDED THE UNIFORM CONTRADICTION: the centre of attention. cause it represents their school, their uniform risks being lost. But tradition Can everyone dress the same while still community and the memories they are has never meant remaining unchanged. be encouraged to be themselves? creating. The frustration often comes Every generation inherits it, shapes it Fashion has always been one of the from feeling there is little room to em- and carries it forward. most immediate ways we communicate brace that pride while still expressing “Be yourself.” It’s a phrase echoed identity. Before we speak, what we wear the individuality schools encourage in throughout schools, encouraging stu- and the details we choose begin telling Some mornings, the tightest part of the every other aspect of student life. When dents to embrace their individuality, our story. More often than not, identity uniform isn’t the collar itself. It’s everythe conversation shifts from wearing celebrate their differences and grow is expressed through subtle gestures thing that gets tucked in with it. the uniform well to policing every minor into confident young adults. Yet every rather than bold statements; a necklace detail, the uniform can begin to feel like morning, those same students button passed down through generations, a faPerhaps the conversation isn’t about something to comply with rather than the same shirt, knot the same tie and vourite watch, a neatly rolled sleeve or choosing between tradition and individsomething to wear with pride. straighten the same blazer before walk- a pair of understated earrings. These uality at all. Instead, it is about recoging through the school gates. details don’t replace the uniform; they nising that one doesn’t have to come at personalise it. Schools have every reason to preserve the expense of the other. A uniform can their traditions. Uniforms create a sense Uniforms have long been associatcontinue to represent equality while still of professionalism, equality and belonged with equality, professionalism and Ironically, most students aren’t rejectallowing students to express the small ing that extends far beyond appearschool pride. They remove visible socio- ing the uniform itself. Many details that make them who they are. ance. Without clear economic differences, create a shared wear it with genuAfter all, there is a difference between expectations, sense of belonging and connect gen- ine pride beindividuality and distraction, just as the purerations of students through tradition. there is a difference between pride and pose The embroidered crest, stitched proudly conformity. The challenge lies in finding of the onto every blazer, carries decades of where that balance belongs. history and represents the values of an Beyond the classrooms, assessentire community. In many ways, the ments and assemblies, school is uniform is far more than clothing; it is a where we discover who we are. symbol of belonging. It is where lifelong friendships are formed, confidence grows and memories are made that reThe final button is often the hardmain long after the final bell. Years est to fasten. Not because it’s from now, few people will rememdifficult, but because it marks ber every lesson they sat through, the point where personal style but many will remember the feelgives way to uniformity. ing of walking through the school gates each morning, the tradiOne of the greatest tions they shared and the uniform strengths of a school unithat carried them through those form is its simplicity. Evmoments. Not because of its tie, ery morning, students blazer or perfectly buttoned collar, can get dressed without but because of everything experiworrying about trends, enced while wearing it. brands or outfit choices. It removes one decision The crest may be the most recogfrom an already busy mornnisable symbol of a school’s histoing and places every student ry, but history has never been writon equal footing before the first ten by embroidery alone. It has bell rings. Yet for many, that simbeen shaped by generations of plicity begins to fade when the students, each bringing their own smallest details become the focharacter, ideas and individuality to cus. An extra earring, a sentimenthe community. Perhaps the greatest tal necklace tucked beneath a shirt way to honour tradition isn’t to preor a slightly loosened tie can quickly serve it unchanged, but to allow each become a disciplinary issue. These generation to leave its own mark bechoices rarely challenge the purpose neath the same crest. of the uniform, yet they often become
MADE FOR By the time the day begins, she already looks composed. A tailored blazer holds its shape from morning to evening. Trousers fall cleanly, pressed but not rigid.The palette stays neutral, moving easily between meetings, offices, expectations. Even the shoes feel considered. Not loud, not accidental, but chosen with purpose. Everything sits exactly where it should. From the outside, it reads as control. The kind that looks expected. The kind people assume has been imposed. As if she is responding to something already defined. Pressure. Standards. An image built long before she arrived. Because the expectations placed on women in professional spaces are rarely subtle. Be organised. Be composed. Be capable, but never overwhelming. Be ambitious, but never difficult. Be successful, but make it appear effortless. And somewhere within all of that, maintain a life beyond it. Social. Balanced. Complete. The list doesn’t end. And it didn’t begin with her. For decades, women were not positioned to lead within these spaces. When they entered, it was often to support, to assist, to remain adjacent to power rather than hold it. Even as roles have shifted, the language has been slower to follow. Authority is still framed in familiar terms. Still “the man in charge.” Still a default that rarely needs explaining. So why is it not as naturally “the woman”? Even now, in environments that present as equal, the structure often tells a different story.
That history lingers in the details. Even in something as routine as getting dressed. The rules are rarely written out, but they are understood. Neutral tones. Clean silhouettes. Nothing distracting. A standard shaped long before she was considered part of it. From a distance, it can look like compliance. Like she has adapted to fit. But that interpretation is incomplete. What appears controlled can also be intentional. She wakes early, not out of obligation, but because she values the time. Her schedule is structured, not because it is required, but because she prefers to move with clarity. Even the act of getting dressed becomes a decision rather than a default. Each choice aligns with her, not t h e
expectation around her.
THIS CITY And within that structure, small shifts begin to appear. A sharper cut through the shoulder of a blazer. A silhouette that doesn’t quite follow convention. A heel that adds height, not just physically, but in presence. Details that don’t disrupt the system, but don’t fully submit to it either. It doesn’t announce itself. But it was never meant to go unseen. Because identity doesn’t disappear in structured environments. It adjusts. It settles into smaller spaces. Into decisions that still feel owned. And those decisions carry weight. In spaces that re- main, in many ways, male dominated, her presence is already significant. Not because it is unusual, but because it is sustained. She shows up. She contributes. She advances. Without reducing herself to make t h e environment more comfortable for oth-
ers. Nothing about it is performative. And that is where the resistance sits. Not in stepping away, but in remaining. In progressing. In refusing to be redirected by a system that was never de-
signed with her in mind. She understands who she is. That certainty creates stability. A confidence that doesn’t depend on validation, because it isn’t built on it. She does not wait to be told she belongs. She moves with the assumption that she already does. The idea of “having it all” is often dismissed as unrealistic. Too idealised. Too demanding. But maybe it has been misunderstood. It isn’t about achieving everything. It is about defining what matters, and committing to it fully. A career. A life beyond it. A sense of identity that isn’t limited to either. Not perfectly balanced. Not always easy. But deliberately chosen. Because the modern working woman is not simply navigating expectation. She is reshaping it. She demonstrates that ambition does not require softening. That structure can be a tool rather than a limitation. That success does not have to exist in conflict with identity, but can sit alongside it. And within even the most rigid environments, there is still room to decide. To adjust the standard. To shift its edges. To make it her own. She is not successful because she was told to be. She is successful because she chose to be. On her terms.
K C E H C G A B rate. Because a bag is never just a bag. It’s a snapshot. A fast, unfiltered insight into how someone
There’s something almost chaotic about opening a handbag. Not the perfectly staged version you’d show someone, but the real one. The one where your hand disappears into a mix of lip gloss caps, loose coins, tangled headphones, and something you swear you lost years ago. It’s messy, unpredictable, and somehow… completely accu-
moves through
their day.
Ask what the “essentials” are, and the answers fall apart instantly. There is no universal list. There never has been. What one girl considers non negotiable, another forgets entirely. Essentials aren’t defined by objects, they’re defined by lives. There is the type A girl. She knows
everything in her bag without checking. Her pen is always there. Her charger is wrapped neatly. Her notebook sits flat, untouched by chaos. Nothing rattles, nothing is out of place. Her bag doesn’t
just hold things, it works. It mirrors a life that is structured, intentional, and always one step ahead. And then there is the type B girl. She reaches in, pauses, and suddenly pulls out something completely unexpected. “Oh my god, I thought I lost this three years ago.” Her bag is less of a system and more of a time capsule. Objects come and go, pile up, disappear, then reappear at the exact moment they’re no lon-
: K
the essentials ONLY!
ger needed. It shouldn’t work, but somehow, it does. Somewhere between these two is everyone else.
from night to day, holding the pieces that help her reset. The running late girl carries ev-
And then there’s the uni girl. Her bag is heavy, practical, and slightly overwhelming. Laptop, chargers, headphones, notebook, pencil case, all packed into one oversized tote or backpack. It’s less about style and more about survival, her entire day carried on her shoulder. Somewhere at the bottom, there’s always a lip gloss rolling around. Every bag is different. Different priorities, different routines, different versions of life. But at the same time, they’re weirdly identical. Because no matter who you are, there are always overlaps. A phone. Headphones. A pen that may or may not work. Gum. Mascara, just in case. Maybe a stain stick, buried somewhere for emergencies that rarely happen but always feel possible.
The working girl carries preparedness. A pen, a notebook, something to write things down before they disappear. Her bag is about being ready, for meetings, for ideas, for the moment something important happens and she needs to catch it before it’s gone. The party girl carries survival. Gum is essential. Mascara is non negotiable, ready for the next morning when last night hasn’t quite faded. Her bag moves with her, shifting
erything except what she actually needs. “I forgot my charger” becomes part of her personality. Her bag is full, but never quite complete. It’s not carelessness, it’s speed. She is always moving, always catching up, her bag just along for the ride. The brunch date girl carries intention. Lip gloss placed carefully next to a sleek wallet, everything chosen, nothing excessive. Her bag reflects a version of herself that feels effortless, even when it’s anything but.
It’s in these small, repeated details that everything connects. A bag is not just about what you carry, it’s about what you expect. What you prepare for. What you think you might need, even if you never use it. A neatly packed bag suggests control. An overflowing one suggests a life that doesn’t slow down long enough to be organised. Neither is better. Both are honest. Because in the end, a handbag isn’t just an accessory. It’s a life, zipped up and carried with you everywhere you go.
ZOOM
ZOOM
MIN’
20 SHOTS ON A NO SECO There is a particular kind of silence that exists just before a photograph is taken on film. It is not the silence of absence, but of anticipation, a held breath, a quiet agreement that this moment matters enough to be preserved without certainty. You don’t know how it will turn out. You don’t know if the light will fall the way you imagined, if the subject will blur, if the frame will even make sense later. And yet, you press the shutter anyway. That act alone feels like belief. Film photography has always been less about control and more about surrender. In a world that increasingly demands precision, optimisation, and immediacy, film resists. It slows us down. It asks us to wait. It asks us to feel before we see. The grain that settles into each image is not imperfection, but memory made visible, textured, uneven, and deeply human. Looking back at film photographs feels like looking through a daydream: soft edges, warm tones, and moments that seem to exist slightly outside of time. It is nostalgia, not just for what was captured, but for the way we once experienced the world. Slower, quieter, perhaps even kinder. There is something quietly radical about choosing film in an era obsessed with digital perfection. It is a refusal to constantly edit, delete, and curate ourselves into something palatable. Film does not offer infinite retries; it demands
intention. In that way, it mirrors a simpler past, or at least our collective imagination of one. A time before every moment was documented, before every experience was filtered through the expectation of being seen. Using vintage film becomes a way of reliving that imagined simplicity, even as we stand firmly within a far more complex present. Because the present is complex. Overstimulated.
Hyper-documented. The digital camera, and more importantly, the digital world it feeds… it captures everything. It is sharp, immediate, and relentless. Digital photography is not about waiting; it is about witnessing in real time. It is the lens through which we understand an evolving world: fast-moving, interconnected, and constantly reshaping itself. Where film invites reflection, digital demands awareness. And yet, there is beauty in that urgency too. Digital photographs carry a different kind of honesty, one that is less romantic, but no less real. They show
A ROLL. OND CHANCES. us the world as it is unfolding, not as we wish to remember it. They document change, progress, tension, and possibility. In this way, digital photography becomes a quiet promise of the future. It allows us to see where we are going, even if we are unsure how we will get there. What makes photography, in any form, so powerful is its ability to hold time still. Whether captured on a strip of
multaneously navigating the immediacy of digital life. We are both archivists of memory and participants in a constantly updating present. We romanticise the past even as we document the future. Perhaps the real question is not which is better, but what each allows us to feel. Film teaches us to appreciate. Digital teaches us to observe. Film lets us dream. Digital forces us to see.
film or a memory card, a photograph allows us to return. To revisit who we were, what we felt, what the world looked like through our own eyes at a particular moment. But the way we return is shaped by the medium. Film softens the past, turning it into something almost mythical. Digital sharpens it, preserving every detail with unflinching clarity. Growing up in the space between these two worlds feels, in many ways, like a coming of age movie in itself. We inherit the nostalgia of film, the longing for something slower, more tangible… while si-
And somewhere in the intersection of the two, we find something whole. A balance between creativity and innovation, between memory and momentum. The grain of the past layered against the clarity of the future. In choosing both, we are not caught between eras, we are building a bridge between them. A way of seeing the world that honours where we have been, while remaining open to where we are going. Because in the end, every photograph, no matter how it is taken, is an act of holding on. And maybe growing up is learning that we can hold onto the softness of the past, even as we step into the sharpness of what comes next.
GROWING up
ITALIAN
There are some places My earliest memories preparation for the next fee, pastries behind glass, you remember before you of Melbourne belong meal. imported products lining are old enough to under- to Carlton, particularly Then came kindergar- the shelves and Italian stand why. Rathdowne Street, where ten, and suddenly I real- drifting across tables can For me, they were Ital- my mum had her shop. ised that not everyone ate make Melbourne feel like ian. The sound of my Next door was an Italian the way we did. somewhere else. nonna and nonno speak- bar, and before I was tall I knew pasta. I knew la- And perhaps that’s what ing around the house. The enough to see over the sagne. I knew cotoletta makes Melbourne so spesmell of something cook- counter, I would hear Ital- and just about anything cial. ing before I knew what ian drifting through the else ending in a vowel. It is a city made up of it was. I learnt Italian doorway. Someone would But what was a Shepards people who brought pieclong before I learnt that I eventually lift me up so I pie? es of somewhere else with was learning it. It wasn’t could see where the voic- At home, food was nev- them. Languages, recipes, taught in a classroom. It es were coming from. er just food. It was how traditions and memories was simply woven into ev- Afterwards, I would my family communicated. have found new homes in eryday life. sit outside on the ledge I would sit on the kitch- its streets. Growing up, Italy nev- of my mums shop front en bench while my nonFor me, Italy will always er felt particularly far with a bottle of Chinotto, na cooked, watching her be a place where a part of away. My mum made sure my feet barely touching move between the stove my soul lives. But growing of that. We travelled be- the ground. To me, that and pantry as the aromas up in Melbourne taught tween Melbourne and It- was my barstool. I would filled the room. There was me that I never had to aly so often that leaving watch people pass, lisnever really a recipe. Just choose between the two. never felt like simply go- tening to conversations a little bit of this, a little I could find Italy in a ing home. When it was and letting the afternoon bit of that, a taste and an- supermarket trolley in time to board the plane move around me. Looking other stir. Fitzroy North, in a Chiback to Melbourne, I back, I think I must have Nothing was written notto on Rathdowne would secretly hope Mum looked like a miniature down because nothing Street, in my nonna’s would get distracted by nonna, settled into my needed to be. The memo- kitchen and around the chaos of Rome and spot with nowhere to be ry was the recipe. a Melbourne dinforget we had a flight to except watching the world Maybe that’s why Ital- ner table. catch. go by. ian places around MelIn Melbourne, our famWhen Mum finished bourne have always felt ily was small. In Italy, it work, we’d go to Medilike more than suddenly felt endless. terraneo in Brunswick shops and Cousins, aunts, uncles or Piedemonte’s in Fitz- cafés to and relatives filled rooms roy North, filling the trol- me. and crowded around ta- ley with everything we The bles. Ten thousand miles needed to make a feast smell could feel like nothing at home. Pasta, bread, of when I was surrounded vegetables and ingrediby people who had always ents I knew by sight bebeen part of my life. fore I knew their English But some of Italy exist- names. Shopping wasn’t ed much closer than that. really shopping. It was cof-
Maybe home isn't always one place. Sometimes, it's something you carry with you.
LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.
As a little girl, my mum always looked so cool. The older I get, the more I understand why. For those who don’t know me, my name is Charli, and I grew up in my mums retail stores. I crawled into the boxes in the stock room because the fur jackets, some days, felt more like home than my actual house did. I had the privilege of following my mum all over the world; to viewing rooms, to clothing suppliers, to the beautiful shop that was hers. Her fashion journey is something I think about every day. I learnt how to run in heels before I could walk, and I used to stand in front of the mirror in her clothes, swallowed up in them, hoping that if I stood there long enough some part of her would rub off on me. I didn’t just want to dress like her. I wanted to feel as sure of myself as she looked. I’ve always felt a strong connection to fashion, not just the clothes, but everything underneath them. The art. The imagination and heart poured into every piece. The colours, the textures, the why behind a shape or a stitch. Growing up inside that world gave me somewhere to lose myself, a kind of creative wormhole that shaped me into the person I am today. That little girl hiding in the stockroom boxes wasn’t just playing. She was learning how to disappear into her own imagination, and honestly, I still do it… maybe just not in the boxes anymore. I’ll catch myself in a lecture or on the tram, half-listening, half somewhere else entirely, building an outfit or a colour palette in my head that doesn’t exist yet. I used to think that meant I wasn’t paying attention. Now I know it just means I never stopped being her. That’s the thing about fashion nobody tells you when you’re small: it’s never really about the clothes. It’s language. It’s how you tell the world who you are before you’ve said a single word. And my mum was the one who taught me to speak it, not by explaining it to me, but by letting me watch her create. I’d sit for hours as she pulled pieces together in ways I never would have thought to, mixing textures that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did, finding a whole new outfit in something everyone else had walked past. She never once told me there was a “right” way to put myself together. She showed me there wasn’t. That’s where my own habit of thinking sideways instead of straight ahead comes from, I learnt it standing next to her. Back then it looked like mismatched shoes and clashing colours I refused to take off. Now it looks like the way I actually work, the way I’d rather find an unexpected answer than an obvious one, in fashion and pretty much everything else. Different outfit, same little girl underneath. A couple of months ago, my mum and I were cleaning out a storeroom and came across an old black binder. I expected invoices, financial statements, the boring paperwork of running a shop for decades. Nothing could have prepared me for what was actually inside. Vogue. Elle. My mum. I genuinely couldn’t believe my eyes. I was too stunned to speak, just flipping through page after page. As a kid, you know your mum is good at what she does, but you’re blissfully unaware of the version of her that exists in the grown-up world… the one you’re only just old enough to be let into. Sitting there, lost between the pages of my mum’s own work, I felt something shift in me. Not just pride — something closer to grief, almost, for all the years I hadn’t known this about her, all the moments she must have wanted to say look what I did and didn’t. I’d always known she was talented, artistic, strong. But she’s also far too modest, and she genuinely doesn’t see how amazing she is. I sat on that storeroom floor and cried, actually cried, holding pages of my own mother like I was meeting a part of her for the first time. That’s what I’m there for now. She’s my number one cheerleader, so it’s only fair I’m hers. Being able to travel the world with my mum will always sit in the top tier of my memories. But more than any city we visited, it’s her I remember, how she’d walk into a room full of strangers and somehow always know exactly what she wanted, how she saw a finished collection in fabric that just looked like fabric to me. She never followed anyone else’s blueprint, and without ever saying it out loud, she taught me not to either. Beyond trying on sparkling heels and jackets that fell to my ankles, the ones that made me feel like the woman I wanted to grow up to be, my mum never once made that feel out of reach. She always pointed my mindset toward I can be anything I want to be (except, apparently, owning my own clothing store). Everyone says they have the best mum. Sorry, everyone, but I think I actually have the winner. So if you’re reading this, Mum, this is me finally saying it back. Every strange colour combination I’ve ever loved, every rule I’ve broken without meaning to, every time someone’s called me imaginative or told me I see things differently… that’s you. That’s always been you. Other people taught me facts. You taught me how to see. That’s the biggest thing you ever gave me, and I carry it into everything I make. I said it at the start and I’ll say it again: as a little girl, my mum always looked so cool. I spent years trying to grow into that. Turns out I already had, I was just too busy looking up at her to notice I was becoming her the whole time.
SO YEAH, THATS WHAT MAKES MELBOURNE SPECIAL.
OK, I GET IT NOW.
THIS MAGAZINE COULDN’T HAVE COME TO LIFE WITHOUT THOSE WHO HELPED IT ALL COME TOGETHER!
This project would not have been possible without the incredible support, patience, and energy of the people around me. A special thank you goes to my brilliant models and on-screen talent. Thank you for bringing the styling to life, stepping in front of the lens, and perfectly executing the creative vision for these features. I also want to thank the Prep students at St Michaels Grammar Shool for contributing their beautiful, imaginative drawings, and the City of Melbourne for providing the perfect architectural backdrop for this layout. Most importantly, I want to express my deepest gratitude to my mum and my brother. As my main helpers throughout this entire journey, you both stepped up to assist with so many different aspects of the production. Whether you were helping me manage gear, setting up shots, helping with styling or offering invaluable feedback, your constant support turned this vision into a reality. Thank you all for bringing this project to life with me.
IMPRINT EDITORIAL & CREATIVE Editor-in-Chief & Creative Director .......................... Charli Bentrovato-Petrov Graphic Designer & Layout Editor ............................. Charli Bentrovato-Petrov Lead Writer & Journalist ..................................... Charli Bentrovato-Petrov Lead Photographer ............................................ Charli Bentrovato-Petrov
PHOTOGRAPHY, ART & PRODUCTION Lead Photographer & Self-Portraiture ..........................CHARLI BENTROVATO-PETROV Photography Assistant ...................ESMERALDA BENTROVATO & OSKAR BENTROVATO-PETROV Cover Model / Talent;.......................................................AS FOLLOWS . Candids and Street Photos: Oskar Bentrovato-Petrov Esmeralda Bentrovato Uniform Policy Editorial: Saraf Anjum Molly Templeton Asha Micmacher Loretta Pietrosanto Alexia Sideropolous Made for This City/$seasons,4minutes/The smallest Things/ DressCodeMelbourne3000: Charli Bentrovato-Petrov
PRODUCTION ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Visual Assets ................................................Sourced from Vogue Japan (December 2015 Issue) Editorial: Fashion Line Up Photo by Roe Ethridge Back Cover Art ..................................................Sourced from original drawings by the Prep Students of St Michaels Grammar School Typography .................................................. Primary headlines set in ‘Futura’ and ‘Impact’. Fashion editorials set in ‘Didot’. Body text, captions, and grids set in ‘Helvetica’, ‘Arial’, ‘Andale Mono’, and ‘Letter Gothic Standard’ via Adobe
VCE MEDIA SCHOOL-ASSESSED TASK This publication is created solely for educational purposes as part of the VCE Media School-Assessed Task (SAT) Units 3 & 4 at St Michaels Grammar School. All third-party copyrighted material and student artwork are acknowledged and utilized under Australian educational fair dealing statutory frameworks. © 2026 Charli Bentrovato-Petrov. All rights reserved.
UNTIL NEXT TIME. Looking back over the course of this project brings a bittersweet ending. As excited as I am to have finally completed it, and as I look forward to concluding my journey through school, it has also forced me to look back on all of the amazing memories I have made along the way. Throughout this project, I have had the opportunity to bring to life something I have been picturing for many years. Seeing an idea that once only existed in my head become something real has been incredibly rewarding, and I couldn’t be happier that this is the project I am finishing my final year of school with. As happy as I am to never have to sit another SAC again, there is also a part of me that is genuinely sad to leave. School has been such a significant part of my life, and finishing this project has made me realise just how quickly it has all gone by. As scary as it is to step into the world as an adult and leave behind everything I have known, I am also incredibly excited for what comes next. There is so much I have yet to experience, create and discover, and I can’t wait to begin the next chapter and see where this journey takes me. So, this isn’t the end. It’s just the end of the beginning.