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 I didn’t have a smart phone, I had an outdated A-Z and a scrap of paper with the building’s phone number on it which would be far too embarrassing to ring.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.
meat puppet 