olive and oak

elize strydom's photo journal

Category: let’s be frank

goodbye, olive and oak

IMG_1144 (1)

Olive and Oak began three years ago and it’s time to say goodbye. I have absolutely loved this little space – I’ve felt free to share honestly and have been so, so supported as I found my way and tried new things. I have met a bunch of wonderful people and many of them have become real-life friends – such an unexpected bonus!

I’ll still be posting words and pictures in various places:

My portfolio site recently added a blog feature and I’ve already started posting there. It makes sense to have my portfolio and blog in one place, right? Right.

I also created a Tumblr account under the name Twin Rivers. I want to start collaborating on more creative projects – conceptual stuff, documentary stuff, arty stuff – with florists, writers, film makers, illustrators, thinkers. I want to push my photography forward and try working outside the box, y’know? I’d also love to work with brands that like my photos and want me to take similar photos of their watches, wet suits or washing machines. So if you have ideas or just want to meet up and brainstorm then reach on out! twinriversstudio@gmail (you know the rest)

Twin Rivers on Instagram

Small Town Girl on Instagram

Thank you for visiting Olive and Oak and commenting or ‘liking’ or sharing. I hope that you’ve seen my photos and read my words and felt something or been inspired to do something or started observing your world in a new way.

Much love,


you will take the east side and i will take the west


A month or so ago I hopped on a train and travelled south to a tiny beach town called Gerroa. To be precise, I got off the train at Gerringong and after refusing a lift from a guy driving by, walked into town, had a coffee, then headed four or so kays down the coast to Gerroa, the road and ocean on my left, rolling green hills on my right. I swatted flies and sang songs I knew all the words to. I stayed in a cabin at the caravan park and thought about what would happen if I never left. The city had been grating on me and I needed: some quiet, a horizon, birdsong. I did not need: construction noise, mobile phone reception, conversation. I wanted to devote a little time to figuring out who I am when I’m alone. I’m a different person depending on who I’m with (v. exhausting) but who am I when nobody else is around? (Still workin’ on that one.) The night I got back to Sydney I had dinner at my friend Matt’s place which is right in the middle of the city. I was reluctant to leave the silent and spacious bubble I’d been in for the previous two days but once I quit resisting, I realised that an evening of meaningful conversation and nourishing food was certainly welcome.


^^ An accidental double exposure…not sure how that happened? Still getting the hang of my Leica.  All photos developed/scanned at Richard Photo Lab.

not about love


I will write your name

on the trees, on the sand, on the snow

but this is not about us.

Walking through new streets

my mind carried home but I’m not there

and this is not about us.

Still night, warm thoughts

can’t be found

no, this is not about love.

(First two lines lifted from ‘Liberté’ by Paul Eluard then switched around.)

it is well


I have never been happier, I’m quite sure of it. Things are not perfect, no, that’s not what I mean. But I am surer of myself. Calmer and lighter. I am being presented with spontaneous opportunities to learn and understand. I am incandescent with hopes and plans. Nourished from afar. Brimming. I am pleased to be here.


only words


I am the dreamer, always the dreamer. After that evening spent taking photos on Ange’s rooftop and after my stroll home in the delicious warmth, I collapsed on my bed and gazed out the window and experienced such a lovely sense of wellbeing. A few ideas began to piece themselves together and words started to form an orderly queue in my mind. A poem was taking shape, for the first time in years. I texted Ange and Amelia: ‘How do I write a poem without sounding like a 15 year old girl?’ ‘Maybe write more how you would speak to me? I don’t know, I never mastered it’ came Ange’s reply. ‘Reading poetry can always help you figure things out. Don’t overdo adjectives, never talk about hearts or butterflies. Avoid rhyming…look for truth!’ said Amelia. I wanted to write about  something I’d observed, nothing groundbreaking, just interesting to me: Saying goodbye to someone who was about to take a trip and how strange it was to say goodbye as he was almost 12,000 kilometres away from me to begin with. When he arrived at his destination there would be almost 16,000 kilometres between us. But what’s another 4,000 kilometres? Apart is apart. Once we were in the same city and didn’t even know it, or each other. The poem is on a scrap of paper by my bed, unfinished.

on a clear night


A week ago, at the end of that really hot day, I spent a few hours taking photos of Ange and Amelia up on Ange’s rooftop in the city. I bossed them about and took snap after snap. They indulged me, like always, and dutifully obliged as I told them to “stand here/walk over there/look up/act natural/STOP!” Anyone who knows me well knows that the only time I assert myself and act with certainty is when I’m behind the camera, shooting what I want to shoot. I get in the zone, as they say, and all distractions fade away. I’m wrapped in ribbons of euphoria, a goofy grin on my face, as I make pictures that may or may not end up the way I imagined they would. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s the process that elates me. The possibilities, the potential for a ‘perfect’ capture. Instead of depleting my creativity stores, being creative seems only to replenish them.

I walked home in a haze, relishing the warmth of the evening, lungs full of intoxicating spring scents. I noticed a girl riding her bike fast down the middle of the road. She was gazing up towards the sky, long hair flowing behind her, as if she expected the wheels to lift off the ground at any moment. It really did seem like she was flying. That goofy grin spread across my face again and I felt like I was walking on a dream. It struck me that my life is full, so full, of intelligent, bright, creative, gorgeous women. These women are my best friends and I treasure them. When I was younger I was one of those guy-friend girls. ‘I just don’t get other girls,’ I remember thinking. ‘All of the drama! All of the petty fights! No thanks, I’m not that kind of girl! Guys are just so much easier to be friends with.’ I didn’t realise it at the time, but as this article on xoJane explains, “…I can see (now) that my subconscious strategy for coping in a sexist society was to align myself with men, to avail myself of their considerable powers of protection, to get what I could from them using the only weapons readily available to me — my body, my charm, my femininity and my compliance. By gaining the approval of those in charge, I hoped to gain access to the perks and opportunities of masculinity.” I’m currently reading, no, devouring, Lena Dunham’s ‘Not That Kind of Girl‘ and feeling grateful for who she is and the difference she’s making. I was late to feminism; I still have a lot to learn.

Two days ago I joined a girl gang for a roadtrip to Canberra to attend a flower festival, Floriade. Being with these women – chatting to them in the car, strolling around the festival, taking photos, sharing, connecting – filled me. When we got back  the city was steamy. Lee, Maddy and I drove to the coast, sun setting behind us. We dipped our toes into an ocean pool then jumped into the cool darkness. As we swam through the saltwater I looked at their wet, shining faces, lit by a combination of moonlight and distant citylight, and I was happy. Our eyes adjusted and we realised we were surrounded by blue bottles. We shrieked and scurried and how none of us were stung, I’ll never know.  We giggled as we wrapped towels around our shivering bodies, amazed by our lucky escape. I aimed my phone in the direction of the sea and took a grainy photo, to remember.

I implore you to read Amelia’s latest blog post here. And if you want to get a visual sense of the things I’ve written about – the photos taken on film won’t be back for a week or so – you can check out my VSCO grid.

girl and the sea


“So I closed my eyes and the salty air filled up my head and covered my face like the gentle hands of every person in the world who was ever in love with anyone.”Nobody Is Ever Missing, Catherine Lacey

Yesterday RaRa and I spent a few glorious hours on the rocks at Gordon’s Bay chatting about all of the things, taking personality tests (turns out I’m INFP…ohhh yes, I am) and devouring The Ladies Reading Circle’s prescribed text, We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves. I opened my eyes as I swam beneath the surface and felt free, free indeed.

Today is the 29th of September and I say happy, happy birthday to a dear friend across the sea.

this is what it feels like now


Every morning I roll out of bed and pull on the same ripped jeans and a t-shirt, slip my feet into a pair of Birks, twist my hair up to a top knot. I grab the camera and a book and go. I wind my way through the quiet, leafy back streets parallel to King and am passed by cyclists, joggers and early morning commuters. They’re all being pulled towards the city, carried along by an invisible current. I’m swimming up stream. I keep an eye out for neighbourhood cats, will them to come out of their homes so I can say hello and scratch their furry chins. First stop is the little fruit and veg shop run by the two brothers. ‘Extra ginger, right?’ George makes me a juice and we trade small pieces of information. I know what time he gets up and the TV shows he watches at night. I know that he’s trying to cut back on carbs. I sip my juice and walk a few steps further down the way to my coffee place, Shenkin. ‘Morning!’ beams Joss. ‘The usual?’ Wow, that. I mean, all any of us really want in this world is to be known by our barista, right? For ages Joss called me ‘miss’ but the other day he asked me my name and told me his. This morning he’s playing Melody’s Echo Chamber and I can’t hide my delight. I drink my flat white and read my book and watch King Street chaos out the window. The ‘coffee feeling’ – wellbeing and optimism mixed with motivation and clarity – washes over me and I start scribbling notes on a page of my journal, urgently, before the revelations slip away. I make sense and I make plans. I hand over coins, put a few in the tip jar, and mouth ‘bye’ to Joss who’s now swamped with orders, caffeine addicts in suits and pencil skirts with runners staring him down. As I pass the supermarket I notice someone has spray painted ‘GROW UP!’ on the wall in big red letters. ‘Trying,’ I mumble to myself as I take a photo. The protruding roots of the giant fig tree next to the church provide the perfect place for me to perch and read a few more pages (just a few more, just a few more). I don’t know the time but I feel the responsibilities of the day drawing me home. That invisible current is picking me up, carrying me back towards the city. It’s nice, this start to the day. 


It really is a lovely little life but not one I ever imagined. When I was a teenager I thought about what it would be like to go to uni and I thought about what it would be like to be married and I thought about what it would be like to be a mum. I didn’t think about what it would be like to be 31 and single and living in a terrace house in the city with Rachel. The options, the uncertainty, the fun, the spontaneity, the emptiness, the possibilities, the longing, this way? that way? both. You know, I think I’m in love with all of it and maybe I’d like to stay around a wee while (just a wee while, just a wee while) and get to know this place, this unfamiliar un-thought about place.

Rachel’s getting to know this place, too. She just wrote a special piece about life round here. 

i wish you

I read a Thought Catalog post (I know, I know) a while back and it talked about the way one new song can sustain you for the better part of a week. ‘I don’t need a flirty text message, a delicious meal, or an amazing night out. I’m pretty much set with my New Favorite Song.’ That has certainly been my experience over the last few days.

I’m still listening to Angus and Julia Stone’s self titled record plus Lana Del Rey’s sophomore, Ultraviolence. FKA twigs (I’m in awe…so intrigued ) joined the line up on Monday and Jason Feathers was Tuesday’s unexpected offering. Pitchfork describes De Oro as an album from a ‘mystery band’ but my pals at work tell me it’s actually Justin Vernon, his Bon Iver bandmate S. Carey and American MC Astronautalis. At first I found it quite disconcerting and abrasive but subsequent spins revealed moments of intense beauty. For example, the last three minutes of Sacred Math and all of Cyclone. Allow yourself to be drawn in. The album will be released on August 19 – my birthday. Gee thanks, Justin! 

Then there was Erlend Oye’s newie Garota which my friend Tom described as a ‘sultry trans-continental ill-fated attraction with a solid groove.’ Ha! It was a well-timed accompaniment to my moody Thursday evening. Watch/hear the bittersweet tale unfold here

And this afternoon at work I pressed play on a song Amelia recommended that I assumed would be background noise: Murmurs by Hundred Waters. Instead, everything around me fell away and fierce tears stung my eyes. I had it on repeat for hours and was only vaguely aware of anything else. Sometimes a song has the ability to take all of your conflicting emotions and half thoughts and if onlys and wishes and make perfect sense of them. Today, Murmurs was that song.

I wish you…I wish you would see what I see

Were you there? Were you there? Were you ever alive? 

I wish I would see what you see

Silly silly silly me
I used to…used to see
Now our only light
Is blowing out

Goodness, what a week. Has it taken a toll on you, too? I felt far too many feelings this week. One day it was as if I could drag a finger over my skin and physically trace the delicious bursts of dopamine coursing through my veins and the next I was drained of all motivation, inspiration and wonder. Amelia and I spoke about having the tendency to operate solely on an emotional level (Doesn’t everyone? Apparently not.) and I was reminded of this quote that Meg posted recently:

Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.’ – Rainer Maria Rilke


got it bad



This cold, windy Saturday afternoon is all about laying low and staying warm. Now I just need to be back at this cabin in Winthrop, Washington wrapped in a blanket, reading by the light of the crackling fire while the river rushes by just outside the door. 

Banoffee is on repeat right now: 

Said you wanted to grow your hair long

Then you cut the sides off

I don’t think I know you at all

When I look at you I see this

Picture of how we could be 

‘Cause I know what you got 

I got I got I got it I got it

I know you know I got it