To Tie Dye For

Poppy H stands beside a rough-hewn wooden beam in a warm, honey-lit interior, wrapped head to ankle in a psychedelic marble-swirl bodysuit that pulses with cobalt blue, burnt orange, and crimson. The fabric moulds to her voluptuous frame like body paint, the strappy cut-out neckline dipping low enough to frame the ornamental tattoo inked across her upper chest. Her platinum blonde bob is tousled and textured, her ice-blue eyes are level and unblinking, and her lips carry the quiet authority of a woman who chose the loudest outfit in the room because she knew she could carry it. To Tie Dye For is a title with a wink, but there is nothing ironic about the way Poppy wears it.

The swirling fabric peels down from her shoulders in one slow, deliberate motion, bunching at her waist as Poppy reveals the chest piece that sits between her breasts and the milky expanse of skin beneath her collarbones. She holds the gathered bodysuit low on her hips, the kaleidoscope colours now crumpled and forgotten, her bare torso and that fearless blue stare doing all the talking. The final close-up strips the set down to its essentials: Poppy from the shoulders up, blonde curls catching the golden light, ink peeking above the frame line, every detail of her face sharp enough to cut glass. It is a portrait that belongs on a gallery wall, and the bodysuit that got her there belongs in a museum of its own.