Recently I have been reminiscing about modeling for photographers using film as opposed to digital cameras. A number of photographers I know have started reverting back to film, or at least shooting on both, despite the increased expense and technical difficulties. I think this is wonderful no matter how hipster some accuse them of being, however it did bring to mind a couple of tragic moments I have witnessed throughout my career when film was the only option available.
On this particular job I’m thinking of I was still commuting to London from my tiny village in Buckinghamshire. I’m talking maybe eleven years ago (eek) when the big city was both pant- wettingly exciting and intimidating simultaneously. I had been booked for a photo shoot with one of the major newspapers for their weekly glossy magazine (my granny model memory fails me as to the exact one) at the top of the tallest bank building in London at the time. I remember feeling extremely out of place entering this hive of corporate bigwigs draped in expensive suits, walking purposefully through security gates with shiny briefcases. I was wearing dirty trainers and baggy jeans still toting a Buzz Lightyear wallet in which I carried only a return train ticket and a packet of sugar with the Manchester United logo on, not a scrap of identification. Because I had failed to bring my passport and I didn’t have a driving license it took a good long while for them to let me in the building. Just long enough for a queue of important visitors to develop behind me, tutting in disapproval at my appearance and obvious disruption of their busy important lives. They had things to do, places to be, people to meet, who was this ruffian in reception causing havoc with their timetable and waving a wallet with a cartoon character on around like a maniac. Finally, after I’d shown security my model z card and they’d confirmed with both the restaurant where the shoot was setting up and my agency, I was frisked by the guard and allowed to enter, as long as I went through an Xray machine that makes LAX security look lackadaisical.
I made my way to the 42nd floor avoiding all the uneasy stares and was welcomed by the photographer and make up artist as I made my way into the restaurant location. It was excruciatingly fancy but thankfully empty except for a few bored staff members who were absent mindedly cleaning glasses, highly unimpressed by all the equipment being unpacked and furniture getting moved to fit in the lights and camera equipment. I was one of two models and the other girl was already there looking classy and gorgeous and as opposite to me as I could have imagined at the time. I bet she had no problems swanning through reception gracefully with all kinds of ID and no need for a cavity search. I bet her wallet was more Tom Ford than Toy Story. I should hasten to add she was actually a lovely human being I was just feeling incredibly self conscious and couldn’t wait to be made up and styled in a beautiful dress that would better suit my surroundings.
When I’d been through hair and make up and was finally looking the part we were escorted to the main dining room of the restaurant. That’s when I caught sight of the view. A view of London so spectacular myself and my fellow model ran to the seats nearest like uncontrollable little children, pressing our noses up against the glass and smearing lip gloss on the windows. A disgruntled waitress ran over with a cloth clearing up our mess throwing shade that could have darkened the room. It was unbelievable, it felt like you could see the entire city, ant like people swarming in droves along the streets, buildings for miles, an endless skyline, it was literally like being on top of the world. I could hear the photographer talking but I was far too busy to listen I was feeling overwhelmed with the enormity of where I was, how far I’d come from the village, and not just on the three hour commute that morning.
“So that’s the whole idea of the shoot, and the article that will accompany it.”
I caught the end of the photographer’s speech, “What was that? sorry, Pardon?”
“Viagra”
“Excuse me?”
“Viagra, it’s what the story is about, didn’t you just hear, it’s the new designer drug, all over the clubs, guys, girls, they’re all taking it. We are shooting scenes based on that.”
“Oh, right. Sounds… good.”
We spent the next few hours shooting with little blue pills. We fake laughed at the bar pretending to drink from cocktail glasses filled with them. I held one up for my instant bff to marvel at. I know I have the polaroids somewhere, one day they’ll pop up. The day was rife with dodgy puns, any time we did something great we were told to ‘Keep it up.’ It was awesome.
As can often happen in some of the best locations we didn’t shoot a single picture involving the view. We literally could have shot at any bar in town and no one could have told the difference. I’m not sure if it was an advertising deal with the restaurant but to be honest the focus was all on the viagra, we were all mere props to the pills. I enjoyed the shoot though, the other girl was a fair bit older than me and I felt incredibly sophisticated. I liked that I looked established and like a woman who was at the height of the London club scene. I knew what was hip and happening, we were trend setters in our fancy restaurant, the only thing plastic about my wallet were the credit cards inside it. I was excited to see the outcome of the pictures. At this point in my career it was still a novelty to be featured in magazines (it still is but at this point it was almost unbelievable until seen in real life) and I thought there might be an image or two worth saving, even just to show how crazy the life of a model can be.
We finished shooting later than expected, the light had dropped all of a sudden and that had meant numerous lighting changes. The staff were furious, they had to set up for the first diners and people were arriving as we hurriedly packed up and got our things together. They basically pushed us out the door. We made it down in the lift in two goes -the clothes rack poking pissed off bankers as we went- all exhausted and happy to be leaving. As we reached the reception and were saying our goodbyes I noticed that the photographer had been stopped by security. I had no idea what was going on and I was too tired to stop and wait for him, I’d done my job for the day. As I left I overheard him almost shouting at the enormous, miserable looking guard, “I can’t put it through, you don’t understand. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”
The guard obviously wanted to put all the camera bags through the Xray machine. At the time I remember thinking, “Wow, he really must not want them Xrayed, what’s he got in those bags?” naively misunderstanding that when you Xray film, it can often wipe the entire roll.
A couple of weeks later I asked my agency about the shoot and how the pictures had turned out. They informed me that the photographer had been forced to Xray the bags in case he was smuggling something out of the building then developed the film to find nothing on it. An entire day wasted. Film, equipment rental, location rental, assistant fees, model fees, all down the drain. I couldn’t believe it, I’d never heard anything like it. There was the slight hope I would be booked again to reshoot but in the end I remember picking up the magazine at my Dad’s house, spotting the story and seeing a single image of a cocktail glass overspilling with little blue pills, most likely shot on the photographer’s kitchen counter. I had been disappointed about the outcome but the photographer must have been devastated. A photographic disaster of the highest proportions. A valuable lesson learnt but if you are shooting with film I say “Keep it up, it’s hard but it’s worth it, though if it lasts more than four hours maybe consult someone.” (Apologies, that was terrible)
Anyone have any other photo shoot disasters? xx
meat puppet 