I was trying to deduce if anyone else had higher than a 10th grade education when my name was called. You go into these sort of things assuming you have no expectations – until you enter the studio, and realize that these expectations exist and they’re 100% accurate. I saw racks upon racks of glitzy wardrobes. A massive white backdrop ringed by lights and cameras. A single photographer: Asian, shoulder-length hair, and effortlessly chic in his distressed jeans and tight v-neck. There was also a herd of 20-somethings with clipboards glued to their noses, frantically scribbling notes. They were undoubtedly interns and chic in a trying-really-hard way.
“Welcome, darling, welcome!” the photographer magnanimously waved me over.
“Hi, I’m Arianna!” I took a deep breath. “So, here’s the thing: if we’re going to be technical about it, I don’t exactly have, um, what you would call a composite card or portfolio or anything-”
At this point, I was trying to explain in the most succinct and least pathetic way possible this was a test shoot for me, but no one seemed the slightest bit interested. They gave me the same look my roommates did whenever I mentioned Urban Outfitters’ multiple ethics violations.
“That’s fine, fine. Don’t even worry, sweetheart. Just try on the clothes in the dressing room and let’s have some fun, alright?”
It was overwhelmingly clear that, while they wanted the models to feel comfortable, they didn’t actually give a shit who anyone was. I stepped into the ‘dressing room,’ a curtained off area where I found the designated shirt and shorts combo hanging inside. The black t-shirt was microscopic and obviously intended for an American Girl doll rather than actual human.
However, by what I’m assuming was the grace of God, the shirt’s material was cotton so it stretched enough to fit over me. But then. Then, I scooped up the jean shorts – the itty bitty, ripped, size small Daisy Dukes – and could only stare. The company’s core consumers were girls ages 11-16 so a size small was obviously reserved for the pre-puberty crowd. Not a 22-year-old who most definitely inherited her caboose from the Greek side of the gene pool. I was screwed.
Why oh why did I eat an entire jar of Nutella this morning? Couldn’t I have just eaten, like… half the jar?
Every standard curse word (and a few more obscure ones) escaped my lips as I attempted to jam my entire body mass into what I can only describe as a denim death-trap. With one hand, I held down my butt in hopes of flattening it (ultimately ineffective when you have a booty that just won’t quit), and with the other, yanked up the shorts/torture device. The elastic band left giant crimson splotches across my skin as if to say, “Surprise! All of your circulation has been cut off!”
I still had to button the godforsaken thing. Sucking my stomach in so far I could feel my intestines, I reluctantly tugged the zipper up. To my surprise, it didn’t burst at the seams, and I silently thanked whichever 10-year-old Indonesian child stitched it for his impeccable craftsmanship.
Now, I’ve never been critical of my own body; I have overly loving parents and a childhood as an oblivious tomboy to thank for that. But still, nearly hyper-extending my back to squeeeeeze into those hip chokers didn’t exactly make me feel #blessed. Is this what models have to deal with on the reg? I wondered. Or, at least, the 2% who actually have junk in the trunk?
Either way, I did it. They were on. Now all I had to do was make sure my badonkadonk didn’t revolt against me and bust through the jean straitjacket and I was golden. Just to be safe, I said a quick prayer to God and Beyoncé (not necessarily in that order) and limped out from behind the curtain, similar to how I imagine a sumo wrestler would if one of his legs were considerably shorter than the other.
So, everyone has the same impression of how a photoshoot goes: the photographer flashes his camera at lightning speed and the model switches from pose to pose in rapid secession. I had mentally prepared myself for the same thing – but let me tell you, thinking it and doing it are two very different animals.
The ever-trendy photographer rattled out the drill: I do 3 poses waist up and then he’ll snap 3 more full-body shots… and I’m 100% sure this all happened before I even had the chance to blink. A millisecond after I struck my first pose I was blinded by this ungodly flash, and then I heard him call out something like “Next!”, so I hurriedly switched to another angle – or at least attempted to, because the flash went off again, and he was already on the final pose.
This process repeated itself until I had finished all 6 poses and was left there standing bewildered, as well as slightly suffocated. I opened my mouth to say something – probably along the lines of “The fuck was that?” – but the photographer was already waving me out and professing my shots were a work of beauty. I’ve never been camera shy – or shy in any sense of the word, really – but I couldn’t help but have the sneaking suspicion that perhaps this ad wouldn’t be regarded as the Calvin Klein to my Kate Moss.
In the end, the company picked their Chosen One for the clothing campaign and it wasn’t moi. Which I ultimately saw as a plus because it meant I could continue eating Nutella for breakfast and ordering my Chipotle burritos with both sour cream and cheese. My agent (yeah, I’m judging myself for typing that, too) contacted me throughout the week about other photoshoot opportunities and photographers who could help me establish a professional portfolio, which was tempting, but decidedly not for me.
In all actuality, there was no way it could have panned out in the long run, since my full-time job was gearing up in a few weeks and the majority of shoots fall on weekday mornings. And with how time-consuming even casting calls turned out to be, it’s no wonder so many of the girls turn to waitressing part-time or dancing for the Pussycat Dolls.
Still, it was a good experience, because now I can describe myself as a “former model” and that’s all that really matters. I learned that, say what you want about modeling, it’s still a job. I was smitten with the idea of haughtily posing on the cover of Vogue with the caption “Baddest Bitch In All The Land” scrawled underneath… but not with the hard work that gets you there, like an ultra-strict diet and the tendency to, you know, actually pay attention to your looks. I fell victim to the rose-colored glasses many of us see the modeling world through. Sure, everyone understands that models must be hott with two t’s, but we don’t always grasp the reality of having your life literally revolve around your own appearance. If I were to model, each and every day my thoughts would be consumed with: “Do I look good enough? Am I skinny enough?” Personally, I maxed out after a few hours of that.
So, in conclusion, my future Wikipedia page isn’t going to feature an extensive modeling article. There will be no photos of me ordering an extra large pineapple-and-pepperoni (best possible combo, if you’re wondering) pizza backstage at New York Fashion Week while Chanel Iman and Karlie Kloss glower on. I’ve come to terms with this truth. Now is the time to focus on my real strengths, like flawlessly rapping all the verses in “No Diggity” and sneaking alcohol into music festivals, and commence my journey in becoming the next Tina Fey. I’m ready, world.
The Art of Being Basic 