So what exactly is a modeling photoshoot like, you ask? Your girl Riri’s here to tell you. For privacy reasons, I won’t divulge the company name, but I will say that you’ve probably seen the store before – there’s one at the mall in Long Beach as well as back home in NorCal – and it’s more or less interchangeable with Forever 21. So the demographic is definitely younger, which made me nervous, coupled with the fact that the flyer I received clearly stated sizes 0-2 (“Am I still a size 2?” I wondered. I thought back to the night before, when I almost threw up after eating an entire box of Birthday Cake Oreos, half a jar of Skippy peanut butter, and an inhumane number of dill pickles. “Probably not.”)
But because my parents instilled a disproportionate amount of self-confidence in me during childhood (don’t worry, they deeply regret it now), I assumed the photographers would overlook my food baby once I dazzled them with my sparkling sense of humor and irresistible charm. Because, you know, a modeling career rides a ton on those sorts of factors.
The Day of the Shoot
It was a Thursday. When Jules wandered downstairs, she found me in the kitchen eating a rather balanced breakfast of Nutella straight from the jar*.
Jules: “I see the pressure of modeling is really getting to you.”
Me: “What? They don’t actually expect me to…” I struggled to say the word, “… diet, do they?”
Jules confessed that was a strong possibility – or, at the very least, it was preferable not to consume 500+ calories while still in your pajamas (or in my case, a tasteful llama-print nightgown). The more you know, right?
*Nutella, if you’re reading this, I’m more than happy to be your new sponsor. Think about it.
A few hours later, I arrived at the destination of the shoot in a pocket of LA where clusters of fashion warehouses were located. The cliché rang completely true: you had these sheds that were shabby and rusted on the outside, only to step into an über modern lobby – all black (and white) everything. This time the girls were much closer to me in age, yet remained as stick-thin/probably wouldn’t survive next winter as my competitors from the modeling agency.
One model stuck out, though. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew her from somewhere. High school? College? Lesbian porn? It was hard to say.
When I returned home to Casa de Ratchet later that day, I consulted Jules and described the encounter as best I could: “She looked like she would be on The Bachelor, probably make it through the first few rounds, then get booted after lighting someone’s couch on fire. Picture the body of Michael Cera* and the face of Emma Roberts, only vaguely Asian.” She knew who I was talking about right away. Jules dug up the old Instagram of this random from our high school and it was right on the money: only this was her pre-nose job, pre-boob job, and pre-… probably something off-the-books involving cheekbones.
*You can’t tell me that his physique doesn’t scream “high fashion.”
Yeah, homegirl wasn’t playin’. She was going full-Heidi Montag with her very own ‘face upgrade’ game. Kids these days, right?
During the shoot itself, she never actually acknowledged me (which was obviously a huge loss for her; I’m super fun). To be fair, I doubt we had ever even interacted in high school – and perhaps she wasn’t accustomed to still seeing people with their original faces. I have to give the girl credit, though. While we were waiting, she was standoffish and clearly ‘not there to make friends’ – such as when the models attempted to line up, and she immediately complained that we were standing out of order, a true domestic crisis.
But despite the fact that she had evidently been absent for that kindergarten lesson on “playing nice,” when we later met the photographer, Silicone Susie over here instantly turned on and morphed into a booty-short-wearing Shirley Temple.
“Oh my god, it is so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so many great things. How has your day been so far?!” Her voice dripped with such sugary-sweet deceit I could only be impressed. She clearly knew how to play the game.
But let’s backtrack a little. There ended up being a good 30 models auditioning, although the vast majority were about as talkative as Lanny from Lizzie McGuire*, choosing not to even make eye contact with one another. Everyone looked pee-their-pants nervous. Because I have a personal rule about never taking any situation the least bit seriously, I turned to the girls who most seemed to need a Xanax prescription and loudly declared, “So, how fast are they going to reject me for not having a portfolio?”
*Any self-respecting 90s kid should get this reference.
“Are the pictures you have not professional?” one of them asked, glancing at my sorry excuse for a folder.
“If my best friend taking pictures of me running around Long Beach Boulevard counts as professional, then yes. Otherwise, no.”
My comment instantly loosened up a few of the models, who probably felt a wave of relief knowing that, no matter what happened, at least they weren’t the clueless noob without a portfolio. The girls asked how I had the walnuts to strut up to a casting call without the one thing asked of me (except somewhat more politely), so I launched into the entire gripping tale of my misadventures and how they led me to this point. Fortunately enough, a few were also models from my same agency, so they explained how it’s pretty typical to have photoshoot events thrown at you and be forced to figure it out.
In fact, that was one of my main takeaways from our little group discussion: modeling and self-sufficiency go hand-in-hand. Sure, goddesses like Adriana Lima may be gift-wrapped their own personal trainer and nutritionist and all of these tools to slay the competition, but for us lowly Forever 21-esque toadies, we’re our own representation. Your agent will present you with opportunities, but the rest – staying fit, constructing a portfolio, achieving a thigh gap, learning how to pose, and essentially, figuring out how exactly to be a model – is on you.
It’s not like I expected a “Welcome, Arianna!” gift basket comprised of coke and weight loss pills and perhaps a Maltese puppy or two, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised by the total lack of hand-holding even for brand new models. Didn’t they realize I had no idea what I was doing? This must be how Ben Carson feels during the GOP debates, I thought to myself solemnly.
Anyway, it was interesting to be present for this Socratic Seminar: Model Edition. Some could barely form sentences. Some were pursuing modeling full-time. Most had accepted that wasn’t a realistic game plan and were juggling some sort of side job. One had even been discovered as a backup dancer for the Pussycat Dolls, which inspired me to pretend I was recruited during my days as a xylophonist for Duran Duran.
I was also warned that this was a career of rejection; most days were spent bouncing from casting call to casting call only to never hear a single word about how fierce you are back. The general consensus seemed to be that I got exceptionally lucky being offered a contract on my first try, but sometimes that’s how it goes, where you just so happen to have “the look” they’re searching for at that exact moment – mine obviously being ‘Bambi meets Mediterranean Crack Whore.’ I’ve also been told I look like the Sunmaid raisin lady.
It was clear that modeling, as a whole, had a lot to do with luck. Also, nepotism. (See Gigi Hadid, Kendall Jenner, Cara Delevingne, Hailey Baldwin… basically anyone who has an unnecessary amount of followers on Instagram.)
So, on that insightful note, stay tuned for my next entry on the emotional rollercoaster that was my first – and last – fashion photoshoot… because all great sagas come in threes.
The Art of Being Basic 