Bugs in Biarritz

In 2004 I was still based in London when I booked a four day modeling job in fabulous Biarritz. Before you imagine me frolicking on the white sands of Southwestern France in nothing but a string bikini I should inform you it was for a knitting catalogue. It was a stunning location filled with beautiful people but for the majority of the time I was sporting a range of heavy floral cardigans with matching crocheted pedal pushers.

I was reminded of this highly eventful trip because the other day on set I swallowed a fly, mid-shot, and it immediately took me back to Biarritz, to a moment in a forest where another creepy crawly decided he wanted to photobomb my picture.

I am not a fan of spiders, or snakes for that matter, I’m fine with butterflies, moths, ladybugs, even daddy longlegs but pretty much everything else creeps me out. I grew up in the UK where no insect can harm you. Nothing can bite you or sting you that is poisonous, and the closest I’ve come to an injury from being out in the wild is when I knelt on a hedgehog. Yes by mistake. When I travel abroad and suddenly all the bugs mutate in size and develop weapons, it tends to freak me out more.

Now France isn’t know for it’s extremely dangerous wildlife, but we were staying on a secluded farm and it was overrun with spiders. Really, really, big ones, obviously larger from all the wine and cheese. I was dealing with my arachnophobia in what I thought was a discreet and polite manner but the crew had picked up on it, possibly it was the hyperventilating. I knew they had because at every opportunity they would point at me and say, “You’ve got a bug on you,” and laugh as I jerked about frantically trying to shake off an imaginary foe. Even the chef, who only spoke French, managed to prank me much to everyone’s delight.

This went on for two days before we drove over to a nearby forest to shoot a story for the catalogue. Each day we shot a new story and this one had a more ethereal concept, hence the woods. I modeled a range of brown knits as a male model mooched around in the background looking mysterious. The morning went well and in the afternoon we moved on to individual shots. The photographer asked if I was happy to walk with him and his assistant a bit further into the forest for the next round and although I was nervous about heading off the cleared paths I agreed as I could see the light was beautiful. We stepped into the undergrowth and he had me lean up against a tree.

I could see red ants on a branch nearby and some suspicious looking beetles out of the corner of my eye but I decided to stop being paranoid and start concentrating on my job. I began to pose, to lose myself in the moment, I hung from branches, brushed my hands through the leaves tentatively, laughed at nothing and skipped in time with the click of the camera. It was all going great until the photographer’s assistant pointed at my leg and began to say something.

I stopped him. I knew where this was going. I was not going to fall for it again. Yes, I could feel something lightly brushing my bare leg but I knew it was just long grass or a low hanging leaf, I was not going to look like an idiot again, especially on camera. I carried on posing but the photographer had stopped shooting. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t capturing my hand gently caressing the side of my face. I felt something touch my leg again. I was forced to look down. For what felt like an eternity I just stared, wide eyed, brain not processing what I was seeing, then I started to shake my leg in a wild frenzy.

The fluorescent green, giant stick insect was refusing to let go. It was the size of my calf and no matter how much I jigged or flapped or screamed it would not come off. Eventually I used the oversized sleeve of my cardi to swot it off before breaking out in uncontrollable shivers as if my entire body was crawling with bugs. I looked up to see the photographer’s assistant bent over with laughter and the photographer happily snapping away.

“We tried to tell you.”

I held up both middle fingers.

Models ‘n’ Mutts

On Saturday I volunteered with an organisation I’ve been wanting to work with for a while, Models n Mutts. Myself and six other models took pictures with the dogs at one of our local animal shelters. Professional images of the pups, shot in positive and realistic settings, increase their chances of getting noticed online and hopefully adopted into a forever home.

I was nervous beforehand. I have rescued a number of animals over the years and knew how hard it would be to witness firsthand just how many need saving, especially at a high kill shelter where you know the dog you’re falling in love with could be put down any day. It was going to be emotional, there was no escaping that, but I decided it’s more important to do something to help rather than shy away and ignore the problem altogether.

On the day we took it in turns to shoot with as many dogs as possible concentrating on those who were most in need. The dogs who had been at the shelter for a long time, who were older or disabled, or that had other issues that made them less likely to be adopted. We also made a point of shooting with a lot of the pitbulls as there truly are so many in Los Angeles who desperately need help.

We spent the afternoon shooting in one of the large grass areas where the dogs are exercised. It was so wonderful to see them run, play, and interact with our photographer, Christian Shenouda, and all the girls. Every time a new dog came out it was pure joy, not a single one was aggressive or seemed unhealthy or unhappy. They just wanted some love and to pose for the camera. I wish more people could see them in this light and would take the time to visit their local shelter before getting a pet.

I was not sure how effective what we were doing would be, but after seeing just a few frames on camera I could not believe the difference in the pictures of these dogs compared to their shelter photos. The pictures were almost immediately uploaded online and the older ones replaced. The professional images capture their true personalities in a loving environment rather than when the pup is scared and lonely after just arriving at the shelter. It broke my heart not being able to shoot with every dog there but I can see now how it is possible to change a dog’s life without having to adopt them yourself, and even if it’s just one, that’s something.

 

The fantastic news is that as of today, six of the dogs we shot with have already been moved out of the shelter and off the euthanasia list. I cannot tell you how good this feels! Now I’m hoping more of the pits will get help too.

If you are a photographer or a model and would like to help, please feel free to contact me or Models n Mutts. The organisation is run by Gina Hendrix and I can’t express enough my admiration for her, the other models who give up their time, our amazing photographer on the day Christian, who not only shoots but edits the images, and of course all the volunteers at the North Central LA animal shelter. I wish I had the courage to volunteer there every day.

If you are not a professional photographer but still want to help check out shelterme.com and start looking up shelters in your local area.

For more information or to adopt any of the dogs below click here.

Making An Entrance

Early in 2008 I was unsure about where I wanted to live and what I wanted to do. Modeling allows you the freedom to travel practically anywhere in the world and work straight off the bat, which is wonderful, unless you’ve just broken up from a long term relationship and you’re feeling a little bit crazy.

I had been living on the beautiful Mediterranean island of Cyprus for the previous two years and wanted to get back into modeling internationally but I wasn’t ready for the hectic pace of New York or Paris. I didn’t want to give up the sunshine and siesta lifestyle but I needed to get out and work in the “real” world again. Somewhere between throwing a dart in a map and realising it was the height of summer in the southern hemisphere I ended up on a plane to Cape Town, South Africa.

Honestly, I knew next to nothing about South Africa before I arrived. Only that Johannesburg had been the murder capital when I was little and I would cry when my Dad traveled there for business. My mum had forced a guidebook in my hand on the way to the airport but I left it in the car by mistake. I literally knew one person in Cape Town and had not contacted a single modeling agency. This ‘throwing caution to the wind’ style of traveling is not unusual for me, but I’ll admit I was a tad unorganized on this trip.

Thankfully, within two days I had an apartment, an agency, and had physically bumped into the editor of Cosmopolitan SA. I’ve found that things tend to work out when you’re on a mission.

One of my first castings in Cape Town was at 70 Loop St. A well known and popular commercial casting space. By this time in my career I was slightly more experienced with commercial castings but they still made me excruciatingly nervous. Stomach already churning when I arrived, it was a shock to see bored looking models lined up and down the stairs and out the door. Having gotten used to Cyprus and rarely having to even cast for a job I was taken aback by the sheer amount of competition. I made my way to the top of the stairs to sign in, hoping desperately to make a good impression.

It can be strange and rather overwhelming when you’re surrounded by beautiful people who have nothing better to do than look you up and down. There must have been a hundred models at this casting, all of whom seemed to be long lost friends and cooler than I could ever dream of being. Instantly I hated everything I was wearing -Why had I worn this skirt? These shoes give me cankles- I could feel eyes burning down my back as I wrote my name and as I turned round everyone shuffled in their seat to make sure I understood there was no space. Fighting schoolyard flashbacks I indecisively stumbled towards the nearest person-sized space next to a doorway.

The waiting area was a good size with a couple of sofas, ten or so chairs, and a long table of computers next to me running along the side of the room. Every seat was taken, every sofa arm, models were sprawled over every surface. I wasn’t feeling my most confident, I’d been out of the game for a while. Every movement I made felt awkward and judged by the miniature cliques all around me. I desperately wanted to brush my hair or better yet, leave, but decided to instead stand stock still and try not to breathe. After the door next to me swung open and I was chastised by a frighteningly stressed casting director for standing too close to him, the girl next to me asked if I wanted to try and sit down somewhere. She pointed at the long table, there was just enough space for both of us between a computer and a photocopier.

With everyone watching we tip toed our way over trying not to stand on anyone’s fingers or small dog. I did wonder for a second why no one else was sitting there but after a few minutes of chatting I was more excited about making a friend. It was great, I was finally connecting with someone. It was at the exact moment that I had relaxed, that I finally felt happy, the table collapsed.

The girl fell on top of me, the photocopier fell on top of both of us and we all went crashing to the ground. Legs akimbo, flashing our knickers, we had to wait while four male models lifted the photocopier off us before we could be helped up. I wished that we’d gone crashing through the floor and then the next, and the next, and down to the the center of the Earth and out the other side. I was bright red and almost crying when I finally brushed myself off. When I looked up I could see everybody in the room looking at us trying not to laugh, I lie, quite a few were laughing. I probably would have too if it wasn’t happening to me. I started to panic, not only had I embarrassed myself publicly in a matter of minutes, but I’d most likely have to pay for the damage.

I’m proud to stay I stuck it out and didn’t flee amidst a flurry of fat jokes. Thankfully the computers, though overturned, were fine, and the casting people were surprisingly nice about it. Only my ego and my knees were bruised that day. I ran into a number of people in South Africa who looked at me and said, “You’re the girl that broke that table at Loop Street right? That shit was hilarious,” but fortunately still managed to make friends in Cape Town who had not seen my underwear. The girl who pointed at the table in the first place though, I never saw her again.

 

 

Commercial Catastrophe

People sometimes ask me why I’m based in Los Angeles. Not known as a fashion capital it could seem an unlikely choice for a model. There are multiple reasons, I’m married to an actor, I like sunshine, I’m of an age where galavanting across Europe clutching only my portfolio is less appealing than taking my dog for a walk and drinking wine in front of the Home Channel. But, the main reason I live in LA is because this is where they shoot commercials, and commercials are where the money is at.

Model rates can vary dramatically. There are very few, well known, fashion models that can demand big pay packages. Models don’t get paid to shoot editorials. They don’t get paid to test. They also get paid very little for runway shows and pay out money to travel and transport themselves to castings. As a model you give up a lot of time in return for photographs that will hopefully one day book you a highly paid advertising job that will either change your career or your bank account. However, with commercial work, especially TV ads in places like the US and the UK where there are strict residuals systems in place, you can earn big bucks for very little work. A few hours on set can result in thousands and thousands of dollars as you receive a cheque every time the commercial airs. This helps if you actually want to be able to afford nice things like rent and noodles, and to call your parents to say “I love you,” without following it up with, “can I borrow a hundred quid.”

When I first started out I had no idea about commercial castings or residuals, I had very little idea about earning money, the world outside of school grounds, and the modeling industry in general. On a remarkably sunny day in London sometime in 2003 I had commuted in to what I thought was a “normal” casting for Haagen Dazs ice cream. It would turn out to be my first ever commercial casting but at the time I was more concerned with how far away the address was from a tube station. I didn’t have a smart phone, I had an outdated A-Z and a scrap of paper with the building’s phone number on it which would be far too embarrassing to ring.

I tottered for literally miles in stilettos, confused, but determined to look like I knew where I was going to deter murderers and thieves. Blisters swelled, burst, then bled. Not expecting such warm weather in England I had far too many layers on and I could feel the sweat patches spreading under my arms. What I thought would take ten minutes tops, took over half an hour, and I’m not even exaggerating for dramatic effect when I tell you a bird pooped on my shoulder. Thankfully I noticed it before I arrived because two passersby kindly commented on how lucky I was.

When I finally entered the casting room, struggling to breathe but sans crap, I was faced with an enormous camera. This wasn’t normal. No one introduced themselves or wanted to see my book. I froze. This was like a camera they used in the movies, to make movies. I was going to have to act? this was mind numbingly terrifying. I have no idea why, lack of experience mostly, but a lot of models freeze when they’re told to ignore the camera and keep moving rather than pose for shots. It almost feels unnatural to be natural.

A voice shouted from behind the camera, “Name?”
“Francesca Amelia” (Premier wanted me to sound ‘more exotic’ so I went by my first and second name for nearly two years)
“Ready to slate?”
“Pardon me? slate? what like roofing?”
“No, like introducing yourself on camera”
“Oh, right, sorry, ok… Hi I’m Francesa”
“Profile”
“Profile?” I fail at suppressing a panicked look, “Like a profile about me?”
“No, turn to the side to show me your profile.”
“Sorry,” I turned to the left, “Sorry,” I turned to the right.
The guy stops recording and points at a nearby table, “Pick up a spoon.”
I picked up a spoon.
“Come back here, hold it in front of your face, then slowly start to lick it.”
“Sounds a bit dodgy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Right, ok. I’m licking the spoon.”
“Stop!” for the first time the guy pokes his head round and looks me dead in the eyes, “I’m not sure what you’re doing, but just imagine there’s chocolate ice cream on it.”
“Ok, sorry.”

So that’s what I did. I imagined there was ice cream on that spoon. It felt almost too simple, but for a few seconds I was completely lost in the moment and that’s when the guy told me I was done and could leave. I’ll always be thankful for that nugget of direction even if I didn’t absorb it at the time.

About a week later I was having coffee with a friend in Covent Garden when I got a phone call from my booker saying I had to go back to the Haagen Dazs casting for a second time. They might have said “call back” but I had no idea what that was then. All I was thinking about while he spoke was how far I’d have to walk and how nice it was to sit in Costa. It might seem unbelievable but I truly didn’t realise this call meant the client actually liked my performance and I was being offered a wonderful opportunity to show off in front of a director. I was a teenager and rebellious, albeit in a polite way. I decided to simply ignore the conversation, the second casting, and the chance to make an enormous amount of cash.

I kick myself now, but I don’t believe in regrets, I might have got hit by a bus if I’d left the cafe. However, I will give it to those strangers on the day of the casting who told me that being shit on by a bird is lucky.

Behind the Scenes

This test shot by Miguel Starcevich was taken in early 2010. I’ve always liked black and white, I love the angle it’s shot from, the confusing addition of the toy trucks, the awkward position of my arms, and the fact my bum looks good. It’s dark and sexy and always received great feedback when it was included in my portfolio.

I also love, as with many photographs, that the final result reveals nothing of the reality of taking the image. At this point in time I was laid on dirty, cold, concrete, in a fire escape, in the courtyard of a residential block in Hollywood. We had no permission, no permit, families were wandering through as we shot and I would cringe every time a mum shielded her child’s eyes. I can’t tell you how unsexy I felt, arching until it hurt, elbows scraping the wall, edge of the hard step stuck in my side, arm muscles starting to shake, face paralyzed as Miguel shouts, “don’t move, this looks great!” Blinded by the sun I was straining to look up at him without squinting let alone giving off my “bedroom eyes,” was he sure this looked great? As I moved through poses I was busy assessing the various stains I was rolling around in, trying to avoid getting chewing gum in my hair, wondering again what the Tonka trucks were for, and finding the steps that smelt the least of pee. But, I’m in love with how it turned out.

As I’ve had to say many times, modeling is not as glamourous as it seems, I’m lucky to have traveled to exotic, beautiful, five star locations, but the majority of photo shoots take place in much grittier environments. My first ever job was shot in a graveyard in Stoke Newington and I stepped barefoot on a used condom, so I learned this early on. In my opinion though, there is something to be said for creating beautiful images in a raw or ugly location. It can be easy to make a girl look good on a beach in Hawaii but in an alley covered in trash it takes a little more thinking. Plus a model who’s up for anything.  This remains one of my favourite modeling shots and it was taken in one of the most uncomfortable places. It always makes me smile, and want to take a shower.

World’s best job?

At a hair show in London I once saw an intern get the job of rubbing ice on the girl’s nipples to harden them before they walked out on the runway. Not the worst job in the world, nipple rubber.

f.f.

Runway Runaway

I had moved to London from Buckinghamshire within a year of being scouted by Premier Models. I had been told early on they wouldn’t be pushing me too hard for runway because at 5’9,” I’m on the shorter side for a model. I also don’t have the naturally slim build that is often required for catwalk shows. This didn’t worry me at the time and never has. I enjoy runway shows but they generally involve a lot of waiting around for very little pay, and the fun part is over in a matter of minutes. In the States they don’t even hand out champagne to settle pre-show nerves, because if a model is the legal drinking age they should have already been put out to pasture.

Runway shows and castings also make you feel incapable of walking properly, which can bruise one’s ego. When placing a foot down in front of the other becomes intensely difficult, it’s embarrassing to admit, especially when you do it every day without resembling a drunk toddler. When agencies set up “classes” to show new girls how to walk, they always say, “Just walk like you do when you’re walking down the street.” I have no idea how I walk down the street, maybe I skip when I shop, perhaps I have a limp? I could strut my stuff like a civil servant at the Ministry of Silly Walks for all they know. But I do understand the necessity of practice. Fashion shows are high pressure events, integral to the industry, and are complicated productions that require accurate timing and choreography. Preferred runway behaviour can also vary depending on city and designer, which I promise can be more complicated than it sounds. I love the buzz and the excitement surrounding a show, but as a human being it can be rather distressing realising a large part of your job really does involve overcoming your fear of turning left.

My most embarrassing runway moment was during a showroom event for Stella McCartney’s, Chloe. Fashion designers will sometimes reveal new collections at smaller shindigs with only press and important players in the industry present. At one such event in 2003 I was booked along with three other models to display the new line. The store in London was set on two levels, we changed on the lower level then ascended the stairs to the waiting crowd, walked throughout the showroom and back down the stairs. Now a staircase is never a good addition to a runway. I have actually witnessed a girl fall face first down a full set of stairs during a show and it’s not pretty. So we were all busy worrying about tripping over as we worked our way through the numerous outfit changes. This was one of my first “shows” and I was getting more and more excited every time I saw the crowd. The clothes were beautiful, I felt confident, these people were VIPs, it was amazing, I was a proper model! The fourth outfit I put on was a skirt and loose fitting, low cut top combo. I thought it looked good, but when I walked up the stairs everyone’s mouths dropped. I strutted about the room feeling fantastic, everyone’s widened eyes were on me, this was obviously the outfit equivalent of the man of the match.

It was only when I was coming down the stairs that I looked down and saw why I’d caused such a stir. My left breast was fully exposed. I’d just walked around a fancy store filled with important people with one of my boobs hanging out. The top had caught at the side and for some reason I hadn’t felt an icy chill on my bare nipple. Fuck! I went bright red and started to sweat, and I still had three outfits left. I had to walk back up there after flashing half of the fashion world. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t look anyone in the eye as I was forced to do the rounds over and over. I saw the odd face trying to give an encouraging smile but then a group of girls would burst out laughing when I passed by and I wished I could throw myself down those stairs. I have never left a show so quickly. I ninja’d it out of there with barely a thanks for having me, running to the tube station battling the flashbacks. My career was obviously over.

Though when I think back, I still managed to grab a goody bag on the way out. Even in times of crisis a girl’s got to keep her priorities in order.

Making History with Jim Beam

August, 2013, an email pops up on my phone, “Do you drink? I mean, really drink? we’d love you for the Jim Beam campaign but need to know if you can party?”

So let me get this right, you’re asking me if you can pay me money, legal tender that equates to rent, to drink whiskey and get wild? a few weeks later I was on my way to a remote house in Del Mar, California, to shoot.

It was the first time I have ever known a production company throw a full scale house party rather than set up a bunch of fake, party-like scenarios. Unlike a lot of jobs, we were encouraged to have fun from the minute we arrived. There was a live band, a bbq, campfires, endless supplies of Jim Beam, they even had goldfish racing! The photographer was the amazing Bil Zelman, who is as crazy cool as the concept. To get advertising shots in an uncontrolled environment, especially one that involves inebriated models, is seriously hard work and Bil was the master of it. In small groups he would make everyone interact, make us scream out loud, or throw potatoes at one other, forcing the energy out of us and having just as much fun along the way.

Everything about that evening was buzzing, myself and a group of ten other selected models rampaged about the grounds hunting for snipes. Then we weaved through the crowds overrunning the house to find the makeshift dance floor, all the time with Bil in tow. At one point when I was moshing with a guy in a chicken suit I stopped for a second and thought, ‘This is my job?!’ Bil made me fight the camera, shout at it and throw punches, I can remember falling tits over toes onto the floor, covered in whiskey, and laughing uncontrollably. Even though some of our actions had to be repeated -for example I had to crowd surf at least five times whilst avoiding a ceiling fan to get that money shot, it still felt real and like I was having the time of my life. I believe this really shows in the final pictures and I applaud Jim Beam and Smith X Union, the casting and production company that are geniuses when it comes to these set-ups, for the way they pulled it off (especially by ensuring that no one was drink, driving home). The images capture real emotions and real moments, something a lot of brands try extremely hard to recreate in formal, stylized settings. It’s not often a modeling shoot is as enjoyable as this one was. It took a lot of energy but you can’t beat getting paid to have fun. Even the next day, when I was on a long haul flight to London, as sick as a pike, I was smiling. Making history with such great people was a good hangover cure. That, and the beer I had at the airport.