Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

  “Are you still there? Colin?” Apple breaks the quiet. I took an extra long pause to let her know I wasn’t pleased that she would even consider me for some terrible mall shoot involving Styrofoam animal heads. I do commercial work, but I am not a commercial model.

  “And what’s the three o’clock?” I say.

  “That’s an ad campaign for a mall in the New Territories. The budget is quite high but not as high as the—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?”

  “Of course,” I say. Apple thanks me and hangs up.

  The model/agency relationship is built on reciprocity. I have taken, and now should give something back. I gave Apple my time at this final casting without asking the specifics of the job. This is how a professional model deals with an agency. I realize my agency may feel I’m being high maintenance, because unlike the majority of models—amateurs who break even or lose money, subsequently quitting after one year—I know how to negotiate. My agency knows I can’t be taken advantage of. This may not earn me their adoration but has to earn me their respect.

  When I get to my reciprocity casting, I immediately conclude reciprocity sucks.

  “You can do this?” The photographer’s assistant says, pointing at a picture of what has to be a professional dancer doing the splits in mid-air. A giant grin is stretched across the dancer’s face, like nothing would excite him more than to tear his scrotal sac. This photo makes me acutely aware of the throbbing ache in my own groin.

  “I can’t do that,” I say, and glance off set at the couch covered in models. They’re waiting, and watching me. Each one wears the same shit eating grin, anticipating that I’ll have to perform some act of foolishness for the casting. Models are short sighted. Soon they’ll be up here killing a little piece of their own dignity while a new batch of models stifles laughter. They shouldn’t be so smug.

  “Okay, not exactly this. Just jump as high as you can and make lots of big bendy movements,” the assistant says. My black Top Shop skinny jeans are pulled neatly over my Vivienne Westwood brown leather boots. I‘m not really dressed for calisthenics, but he doesn’t care.

  I glance at the photographer, tapping his chin while he studies my portfolio, a simple black leather-bound book with the word Elite imprinted across the front. Elite Model Management was the agency I broke in with but continuing to use their book says nothing about loyalty. The book is cool, and Elite is a fashion icon. Without even opening it, this portfolio says volumes about me. Volumes that this assistant doesn’t give a shit about. “On three, give me a jump.” The assistant says, readying the camera.

  “One…two…three!”

  I give a little jump straight up and land hard on my unforgiving Vivienne Westwood’s. These boots may look a little like combat boots, but they aren’t actually made for anything resembling combat, and a jump over two-inches in the air is fucking World War 3 as far as I’m concerned.

  “Jump higher. Kick your heels up. That will make it look like you’re higher in the air,” the assistant advises. “Oh, and throw your hands up. Like it’s a celebration.”

  A celebration of idiocy. I hate this kind of casting.

  “Where was this shot?” The photographer holds up my portfolio, turned to a black-and-white Burberry campaign where I’m dressed in a double-breasted trench coat that probably costs more than the entire budget of the shitty job I’m casting for right now.

  “Hamburg,” I say, as I jump, throw my hands in the air, and kick my heels back so hard they pound my own ass. The flash goes off, recording this momentous occasion for eternity.

  “Better,” the assistant says. But when he walks over to me, I know I’m not looking quite as moronic as he would like. He holds out the photo of the groin-tearing dancer and points at the huge grin. “Like this. More this feeling.”

  “A feeling of obliviously happy compliance?” I say, glaring at the idiotically large grin on the dancer’s face. No one leaps in the air, spreads his legs at a 90-degree angle, and is this fucking delighted about it. The assistant shakes his head and smiles at my comment not understanding or caring what I’ve said.

  “No. More happy feeling. Same jump but feel happier.” He does his own mini jump clearing a whopping three millimetres, smiles, and says, “See. It’s a happy jump.”

  Fucking moron.

  “Where’s this Men’s Health cover from?” The photographer holds my open portfolio up.

  “That one’s from Greece,” I say, as I leap and hammer my ass with my heels again, but this time I do it happily, even though when I hit the ground it feels like I’ve shortened my spine by a fraction of an inch. “I’ve got two more Men’s Health covers, one from Cape Town and another from Singapore later in my book.”

  “Nice.” The photographer nods and flips to the back of my portfolio to pull a composite card—a card with an all-star team of shots from my portfolio on it—from the sleeve. “You’ve got a strong, versatile book. Lots of good fashion, lots of nice commercial.”

  This makes me grin. Models carry their portfolios the way a mother carries her newborn. A model’s book tells the story of their career—where they’ve been, who they’ve shot with, who their clients are—in a series of 12x9 shots from test shoots, tear sheets, and ad campaigns. This photographer appreciates my story.

  “Thanks,” I say, then leap in the air clenching my teeth in a forced smile.

  It’s taken me years to build my book to this level. Clients won’t book you for anything that gives you decent tear sheets unless you’ve already got good tear sheets in your book. It’s the fashion model catch-22. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am now, which is, apparently, kicking my own ass in front of an audience.

  I have to go back to Milano. I have to go somewhere that respects the craft of modelling; somewhere that appreciates the dedication and the work I’ve put in.

  “That’s better,” The assistant says. “Keep this feeling and give me some variations.”

  Fuck. I jump lifting my legs on either side and putting my arms straight down so I look like some sort of man frog. I jump and freeze my legs and arms in a mid-air running position. I jump and kick my limbs straight out looking like a Frisbee-tossed starfish. I do every painful variation with a giant smile on my face, and every time I leap into the air, and the flash bulbs go off, it carves a little slice out of my soul.

  I jump until I can’t think of anything else to do with my limbs, and sweat has started to drip off my face onto my white round-collar Paul Smith polo. All the models are giggling except for one guy who looks like his Bran Flakes just kicked in. Obviously, he’s next. He’s the only one who’s realized my shame will soon be every one of theirs.

  I don’t feel sorry for any of them.

  CHAPTER 4

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  Just booked Vogue for the third time in my career. #NoBigDeal #But It Is

  35 people like this.

  MODELLING IS LIKE having a perpetual lottery ticket, the chances are slim but at anytime you could win big. This casting is a prime example.

  Maxwell Chen is an international photographer from Shanghai, who has shot celebrities for Rolling Stone and GQ, as well as fashion campaigns for Sisley, Tom Ford and G Star. He even directed the critically acclaimed art-house film Surrendering Serpents, which was as beautifully shot as it was unintelligible—making people assume something more profound was happening even if neither they nor the filmmakers knew what the fuck it was.

  Cinematic work aside, Maxwell is a powerhouse in fashion photography. To be shot by him is to be anointed a top model. Now his lanky frame, clad in a grey V-neck, is sitting in front of me, perusing my portfolio.

  “That’s an editorial for German FHM,” I say, like it’s no big deal, when he pauses on a shot of me in a suit in an alley in Munich.

  Maxwell runs his hand through his combed back jet-black hair, a few strands falling over his wire thin, gold-rimmed glasses, his facial hair wispy, forming a meagre mustache that h
e probably thinks looks cool but just looks creepy. He grins, like I’ve stated the obvious, his mustache stretching across his upper lip, and says, “I know, dude.”

  Then his assistant—a gaunt guy with a patchy beard and a weathered look like he knows where the really good homeless shelters are—says something in Mandarin. Maxwell smirks. I don’t have to speak the language to know this casting isn’t going well.

  I’m about to mention how much I enjoyed Surrendering Serpents, even though there were no actual serpents in the movie, when Maxwell stretches his arms over his head and turns to stare at a brick wall. The vagrant turns his attention to his phone and nudges my portfolio toward me.

  I’ve become invisible. After a moment of waiting like a moron, I retrieve my book and creep away. I was wrong, modelling isn’t like the lottery. Because when you don’t win the lottery, it doesn’t fucking humiliate you.

  Making it worse is that this is yet another casting taking place in front of a queue of models leaning against the wall. They’ve watched every second of my self-worth-wrecking casting even though muted Fashion TV is on a big flat-screen hanging on the opposite wall. Instead of staring at me, you should’ve been trying to learn something, ass hats.

  Then I spot Taylor nestled next to the Brazilian girl from the other night. Taylor’s wearing a green vintage tank-top and a pair of jeans. She looks like an old American Apparel ad, except she’s clothed from the waist down. Suddenly I realize how shitty the styling is for those ads. Panties do a lot of distracting.

  “Hey,” I whisper, and Taylor nods while concentrating on a brunette standing in front of the casting table. Maxwell checks the brunette like a potential prize pig then shakes his head, and says something in Mandarin that makes his assistant grin. I’m not the only one getting cut down today, but with FTV on, it’s my chance to flex a little fashion muscle and regain some status.

  “Check this out,” I say, slotting myself into line with Taylor and focusing on FTV. A guy is cat-walking down the runway in black skinny jeans and a printed T-shirt. He wears a cocky smile as if challenging the camera. “That walk is too street for the casual lines of anything high-end like Gucci or Armani,” I say, reaffirming my belief in my fashion abilities despite whatever superstar asshole Maxwell-fucking-Chen believes. “I’m thinking ultra-hip iconoclastic jean brands like Gas or Energie.”

  “Uh… ok?” Taylor says, glancing at me as her eyes trail back to a blonde who’s now casting for Maxwell. He blurts something in Mandarin and his assistant snickers. Taylor is ignoring me, still playing hard to get as I squint in contemplation at FTV. I’m fairly certain I know the brand, and when a young redhead takes the stage, I’ve got all I need to name where this show took place.

  “Diesel. Tokyo,” I announce.

  “I’m sorry,” Taylor says. “What?”

  “I can name the brand and location of any fashion show from watching how the models walk,” I say. “This show is for Diesel in Tokyo.”

  A moment after I say this, the words at the bottom of the screen flash:

  Diesel Show F/W Tokyo.

  Taylor may not be the most fashionable model on the roster, but she must be impressed. This is like those strong man competitions. Sure, I don’t want to be some meathead who sprinkles steroids on his oatmeal, but I’m still impressed when I see one of those oafs towing a tractor-trailer with a rope clenched between his teeth.

  Instead, Taylor angles her head at the blonde girl squirming in her pencil skirt as Maxwell and his assistant are laughing and conversing full-on in Mandarin.

  “One second,” Taylor brushes past me, emerging from the line and waving her hand to get Maxwell’s attention. “Excuse me.”

  “You’ll have to wait in line,” the vagrant assistant orders, still smirking while Maxwell laughs red-faced into his palm. The blonde is looking terrified, and Taylor starts speaking but suddenly I can’t understand her.

  At first, I think my ear drums have spontaneously blown out because though Taylor’s lips are moving, I don’t recognize the sounds. Then my mouth drops.

  Taylor can fucking speak Chinese.

  As calm and practiced Mandarin flows from Taylor’s lips, Maxwell and the Vagrant look like the blood just drained out of their faces. She’s gesturing as she speaks, and if she hadn’t just interrupted a casting with one of the world’s top fashion photographers, I’d say she was giving directions. Then she finishes and turns for the exit.

  “I’m not casting for him. I don’t care who he is,” Taylor says, loud enough for the rest of the models to hear. She walks past me and the Brazilian follows. “That guy is an asshole.”

  Trailing after Taylor and the Brazilian, I look back at Maxwell who shrugs as the next girl steps in front of him, and the casting continues. The rest of the queue are looking at each other, apprehensive about putting themselves on the chopping block. But the lure of career changing photos keeps them glued in place. Models would cozy up to Hitler if it meant getting half decent tears.

  “Wait, you speak Chinese?” I say, exiting onto the street behind Taylor. My fashion psychic ability suddenly seeming as impressive as a magician pulling coins out of kids’ ears. “How?”

  “I did an exchange year at Hainan University in China,” she shrugs. “My Mandarin is rough but I speak enough to know what he was saying.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said if he was going to be rude, he should be subtler, because you never know who speaks Mandarin.”

  The Brazilian is looking at Taylor like she has singlehandedly rescued a nursery full of babies from an inferno.

  “He was complaining that the agencies weren’t sending him enough young girls. I guess being in your early twenties is ancient for that guy,” Taylor continues. “But I had enough when he called that last girl a cow, then he told his assistant, a blow job from a cow might be fun.”

  “Cabrone!” The Brazilian says, jutting her chin in the air. Shaking my head, I go for an Academy Award acting shocked and appalled, though I’m not. Straight guys don’t usually get into fashion photography because they have a passion for dresses, high heels, and designer purses. Sleazy male photographers are par for the course.

  I stop Taylor as she starts to leave. More important than Maxwell’s locker-room-talk-made-public, I need to know something else.

  “Hold on,” I say. “Maxwell said something when he was looking at my book. Did you hear?”

  “Yeah,” She shrugs, and waits for the Brazilian to walk further ahead. “It was only one word.”

  “But what did he say?”

  Taylor bites her lip, and then flinches when she says, “Boring.”

  At Physique Fitness & Gym in the Bank of China Tower in Admiralty, I flash my complimentary model membership card at the front desk and continue into the weights area. The morning sun shines through the wide windows, reflecting off the gym equipment. Innocuous dance music plays from unseen speakers, and despite the comforting familiarity of a gym, I can’t help feeling anxious.

  I’ve emailed my booker at Beatrice, Antoinette. I know she’ll clear up what has to be a simple misunderstanding in Milano. Getting that settled, plus shooting Vogue today will go a long way to making me feel better, but I’m still uneasy. Standing in front of the dumbbell rack, I decide this calls for extra reps.

  “Hey bru! You gonna work out or just stand there?”

  I turn and a sweat-covered Damian stands before me with a towel around his neck.

  “I didn’t know you had a membership here,” I say, as he checks out a blonde woman on the treadmill.

  “Yeah, my agency gets free memberships for its models. You too, right?” I nod.

  “I need it. Been partying too much since I got to Hong Kong. You could mix my sweat with tonic and get wrecked,” Damian grins. “I haven’t seen you since that other night with that Russian girl. You hook it up?”

  This question makes me feel more confident. I smirk and shrug.

  “Nice, bru,” He slaps my hand. Da
mian doesn’t know I ended up passed out and alone. “I spent that night with Taylor.”

  Her name rolling off Damian’s tongue makes my stomach churn.

  “You and her…” I start, but everything is suddenly overwhelming and the room seems like it’s closing in on me. My eyes are trailing to Damian’s bicep. It looks tauter and more defined than mine. Is he taller than me? I’d thought we were the same height. “You and her…”

  “Nah, bru,” Damian says. “I meant I spent all night talking to her. She’s a cool chick and super hot. Nothing happened though. End of the night and she walked. Guess she wasn’t into it.”

  Damian not sleeping with Taylor makes me feel slightly better but not enough.

  “I’m shooting for Vogue this afternoon,” I say.

  “Vogue?” Damian grins. “I’m shooting Vogue today too. We’re probably on the same shoot.”

  “I don’t think so,” I shake my head. “I’m shooting the fashion editorial.”

  “I am, too.”

  Damian at my Vogue shoot is the last thing I need.

  “I’m going out to Chai Wan. Is that where your shoot is?” Damian says with a cockeyed smirk.

  “I haven’t checked the details yet,” I lie. I’m going to fucking Chai Wan too. “There are lots of studios in Chai Wan. Even if I was shooting there, there’s no guarantee it’d be the same shoot.”

  “I guess,” Damian shrugs. “But there’s not going to be a million Vogue shoots in Chai Wan, bru.”

  I pick a couple of barbells up and position myself under the good light in front of a mirror. Damian stands there waiting for me to say something, but instead, I begin furiously curling the weights.

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you later today,” Damian says after a beat and punches my shoulder. “If not, I’ll see you soon anyway, bru.”

  As he walks toward the change room, I find myself praying to the model gods that I will not see him soon. Name-dropping Vogue was supposed to make me feel better but I’m worse off than before. I don’t want to share the shoot with anyone, especially not fucking Damian.