NINETTE, 22, BONDI

Few photos excite me. Even the LA motel work of Helmut Newton, universally adored, I find criticism with, from the imperfect rise of the mons to the asymmetrical curve of the back. This photo by Mitchell Tomlinson, entitled Naked Smoking Armenian, I cannot fault. Her name is Ninette and she is the possession of Mitch, of lifewithoutandy.com fame, a father figure at 29 or nearly a decade older. They met at a party. Mitch stuck his finger up at her, stole her Brixton hat, and three days later “his bags were in my bedroom and we were inseparable,” says Ninette. But it is a relationship built on the bamboo foundation of passion. “It’s a bit rough at the moment,” she says. “It’s all come crashing down. We fight about the dumbest things, like, say, the shade of green of a rubbish bin. He’ll say it’s Forest Green, I’ll say it’s Sea Green and we’ll fight about it.” This photo was a result of their fire. “I was stressed out and I ran outside naked for a calming cigarette. Y’know Mitch, he always has a camera, he followed me and took this shot.” Ninette lights up. It’s a cigarette she has rolled with her own delicate Eastern European hands. “Normally I smoke Stuyvesants, but these look ghetto,” she says. Ninette is a university drop-out of Armenian parentage who is able to speak and write in that ancient language. Ninette was into a double degree based around the voodoo science of economics, but split to explore the greater world. To find ground with the common man, she took work at a clothing store in the Central Business District. A truth she soon realised was how poorly shop assistants are treated. “There are some evil bitches out there,” she says. “Sometimes, when a customer doesn’t say hello I’ll keep asking, ‘Hey! How are you?’ Once, I did it four times and the customer turned around and said, ‘You don’t really care how I feel, do you?’” I ask her, cause she smart, what the gravest threat to world peace is. She answers with humour and irony: “Wayne Swan. Did you see the budget?” Ninette launches into a scathing monologue about the danger of public debt, the futility of throwing money at the lower rungs of society and the double-edged sword of easily-available credit. I ask: are your fabulous tits real? She says: “They certainly are my real boozies.” “They are really something,” I say, whistling. She says: “I hope little Mitchy appreciates them.” — Derek Rielly