Photo Shoot Disasters- Viagra Edition

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

‘Du Casting Au Shooting’

Some great news to start the week off with a bang. My book, ‘Shooting Models‘ has been translated into French! The new edition, now titled ‘Du Casting Au Shooting,’ arrived on my doorstep fresh from the publishers and although I am slightly worried about how some of my colloquialisms and dodgy jokes will come across, it is a great feeling to know my words are traveling across the channel. I do wonder who’s job it was to sit and rewrite it all.

It’s interesting to compare the two copies, they have changed the cover images and a few design details but the majority of the content seems to have remained the same. I just wish I could speak French fluently so I could check it out further. Here’s hoping I’ll book a job in Paris in the next few weeks and be able to see it on the shelves in person. My fingers are well and truly crossed.

Below are some example pages from the shiny new edition. I hope it helps a few more aspiring photographers launch their career in fashion photography and increase their knowledge of working with models in general.

Bon jour et bonne chance! x

“Keep Covering Your Face Dammit!”

As a model turning up to an editorial shoot it’s not often that you know exactly what’s in store for you that day. You may have an idea of the theme or some of the styling but usually you are given an address and a call time and expected to show up ready for anything. One thing you can normally rely on though is that your face will be in shot.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being on set, I love meeting new people and being surrounded by gorgeous models -especially when they are naked- but once you’ve been told that you’re booked for an incredible magazine shoot you’re really hoping to get your mug in the pictures. It’s also not a situation when you can suck it up and repeat quietly under your breath, “Just think about the money, concentrate on the money,” because you’re not getting paid. On this particular shoot I was stood with my hand completely covering my face knowing full well my portfolio would not be gaining new tear sheets any time soon.

The shoot had started out well. The photographer was great, the catering was good, and I had been dressed head to foot in a shiny, metallic outfit that made me feel like an alien queen from the future. My arms, legs, and half my face had been sprayed with silver spray paint, I had long pink extensions in my hair, the make up was incredible and I was flanked by four beautiful strangers who had been made to disrobe in a cold studio. Everything was awesome, this was going to look incredible.

We took some shots, I felt otherworldly and regal with my stunning, naked minions by my side. I was throwing some serious blue steel when up piped the art director, “Um, let’s just see what it would look like if you put your hand in front of your face Franki.”

“Um, what? like covering my whole face”

“Yes”

“Oh”

I raised my hand, the camera clicked, there was a brief moment while the shot was looked at. I was willing it to look bad, to make no sense, for him to say, ‘No, actually that was a terrible idea, carry on as you were,’ but instead he cried out, “Perfect! it’s perfect, keep your hand exactly where it is.”

The thoughts running through my head as we kept shooting were not exactly cute. I kept slipping my hand further down gradually, just beneath my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but he did, every single time. “Keep that hand up,” “Move your hand up a little, I can see you,” “Keep covering your face Dammit.”

Every time he said something I would respond silently inside my head, ‘I’m so glad I got up at 5am for this,’ ‘I bet the make up artist is fuming right now,’ ‘I sat for three hours while my face was sprayed silver, three hours Dammit.’ I know, I know, I sound like the kind of arsey model I despise but come on! That could have been the art director himself wearing a wig.

The other models knew I was pissed off, they kept throwing me supportive glances but they were concentrating on hiding all the right bits and making the other bits look as good as possible. When we had finished I thanked everyone profusely -I’m English, I can’t help being polite in practically every situation- said my goodbyes and secretly hoped they would print one of the first ten frames where you could see my face. As you can see, they chose not to.

All in all I can’t complain, it’s part of the job and I love my job even after twelve years. One other photo was used of me in the story, unfortunately still not usable in my book, but like I said I enjoy being on set in general and I can’t deny the shot itself looks good. It’s interesting, visually quite amazing, I just would have preferred it if I was recognizable or it was paying my electricity bill. At least I got fed and I got hugged by some really hot people in their birthday suits, that’s more than most can say for a Tuesday.

New Agency, New Adventures, New Photos!

I signed with my new modeling agency, Nemesis, in Manchester just before Christmas. I visited a few agencies but chose them not only because I immediately felt like a member of the family but because they are smaller and therefore more focused on you as an individual. It can be very easy to sign with a larger agency with masses of models on the boards and fail to grow the necessary personal relationships. Too many bookers spoil the broth, or something like that. At this stage in my career and in a smaller city I want a model booker who will understand my level of experience and work with me towards a productive and lucrative future, whilst having a chat over a lovely cup of tea. I found this at Nemesis.

I was shocked when I got a phone call two days later about a small part on Emmerdale. I wasn’t expecting work that quickly. They wanted to know if I was available the next day and though I thought it likely to be an exciting option that wouldn’t book, within the hour I was confirmed. I was even more excited to discover a number of esteemed photographers were keen to work with me. There were only three days left before the Christmas holidays and for one of those I was moving into my new house, but I just managed to sneak in my first shoot of this new adventure before everyone wrapped themselves in tinsel and drowned in brandy butter.

It’s been a long time since I have commuted by train. When I was first scouted I lived in a remote village and it would take three grueling hours of walking, bus rides and train journeys before I even reached Marylebone tube station. Thankfully I did my research before we moved back and now live in a picturesque little town which is only 25 minutes from the centre of Manchester, door to studio. I would be shooting with Mark Ivkovic of Bang photography who very rarely tests and he had already sent over beautiful mood boards (I love a photographer with vision who actually knows what they want- it’s rarer than you would imagine) and great advice for arrival at the studio, “The entrance is around the back (which looks like a dodgy back alley (because it is a dodgy back alley))”

I met with Mark in said dodgy alley and once inside the studio was introduced to Helen Masters, a truly masterful make up artist and lovely human being. After six years in the states I have to say it was wonderful to work with people who speak with British accents again. No offence to my American teams, many of whom I love very dearly, but I am a stereotypically sarcastic Brit who tries, often too hard, to be witty. I failed to realise on multiple occasions that the models and photographers I was working with were just smiling and nodding as I babbled on using slang they have never heard before. Fellow Brits might not find me funny but at least they know what I’m banging on about. We shot three looks that morning, working from natural make up and gradually adding to the eyes and lips, and I styled the shots myself. It’s taken me a few years to understand what will look good on camera but I feel like I’m getting the gist of it. It didn’t help that 95% of my wardrobe is in storage in LA but we made it work, I had even borrowed clothes from my mum which we used for the first look.

What I loved about this shoot aside from feeling the inspiration flowing from all angles was that Mark used an entire range of cameras, including film! For each look he shot me on at least four, swapping lenses and even whipping out a polaroid camera. It’s been a while since I’ve worked with film and it’s only after modeling for it again that I realised how much I’ve missed it. On a couple of the cameras Mark used the focus is very hit and miss so you often have no idea what the outcome will be. This is exciting to me when with digital photography it’s already right there for you to see and spend valuable shooting time debating over. Mark even refrained from bringing his laptop so we hadn’t seen any of the images by the end of the day. Viewing the final results would be just like Christmas, which was handy as they were developed at Christmas.

You never can tell how a shoot is going to turn out. Sometimes you envisage a fantastic day’s shooting because all the right elements are there, but then something just doesn’t click (if you’ll excuse the pun). A model’s movements feel clumsy, the styling isn’t working, the lighting is off, all kinds of things can lead to a stifling shoot environment. Then at other times, often when you have no idea what to expect, everything turns out magical and there is a connection between photographer and model that simply works. At one point I was moving between shots and Mark commented that it was like I was reading his mind. That is what I aim for on every shoot but it doesn’t always pan out that way. These kinds of shoots are rare and I always feel proud when I can tell I am inspiring someone who has worked in the industry for years and is very well respected just by being myself. It’s all a matter of allowing one another the space to perform and experiment in a positive and fun setting. It helped that Mark indulged me and let me listen to System of a Down for a lot of the day.

I am beyond happy with the result and know that Mark and Helen are too. Even better is the magic that happens with film processing to create beautiful mistakes. Is there anything more fantastic? check out the images below and hopefully you’ll see what I mean. I couldn’t have asked for a better start to shooting again in the UK and all I can hope is that it is the first of many great modeling experiences. xx

For more from Mark and Helen find them on Instagram; @bangphoto and @helenmua1

How I Got a Book Deal

I have always known I wanted to be a writer. Of course when I was very young there were times when other professions seemed more exciting. I dabbled with becoming a witch, a pilot, and thanks to Jurassic Park for many years I pursued paleontology. But all the while I remember convincing teachers at school I would become a writer and telling everyone who would listen how grand my author name sounded, F. A. Holton, I could envisage it on the spine of a very important book. My mum owned a small second hand book shop when I was growing up and I would sit on the floor there for hours, picturing my book amongst the others on the shelves. I wasn’t sure what it would be about. I didn’t even spend that much time writing, I just knew it would happen, one day.

It wasn’t until the age of 24 when I was living in South Africa that I decided it was time to write professionally. This entailed signing up for a creative writing course and never finishing the first assignment. However, a few weeks later I managed to accidentally pitch the editor of GQ an article on female ejaculation. That is an entirely different story but it meant a month later I was officially a published writer. I was hungry for more. I sold some celebrity interviews and although I had other ideas for articles, I wasn’t sure I wanted to concentrate solely on writing for magazines. I needed to think about my book. Should I write a fantasy? what about a modern thriller? Maybe I should start off with a children’s book.

Around this time my now mother-in-law introduced me to Twitter. I wasn’t very tech savvy or enthusiastic but Twitter was just starting out and I quickly found myself appreciating the short format and quick, quirky connections. Social media as a concept was beginning to blossom and the art of blogging was coming to the forefront of the mainstream media. I was skeptical and preferred to keep my online observations short and sweet. I didn’t understand blogging, it seemed too distracting and too much like hard work when I could be focusing on writing something ‘real.’

I took my snobbish attitude towards blogs with me to Los Angeles. I had started writing a novel based on a true story about a debaucherous drinking game and was determined to finish the first three chapters so I could send it out to literary agents. One evening I was taking a break and sat down to watch telly with my husband and on came the film, ‘Julie and Julia.’ I enjoyed the movie, Stanley Tucci and Meryl Streep are delightful, and I watched agog as Amy Adams’ character wrote a blog and almost immediately got offered a book deal. I thought, hang on, I like the sound of that.

Maybe I’d been wrong about blogs. I figured I could tell some of the crazy stories from my modeling career and document my life as I started over in Los Angeles. Sooner or later someone would surely demand an autobiography. That was how it worked, right? Using a simple template I set up a blog and tickled by the pun, called it Franki Goes To Hollywood. I had written just three blog posts when I received a Tweet asking me if I would be interested in writing a book. It worked, it had totally worked! What did everyone make such a fuss about? getting a book deal was easy.

The tweet was from a man called Adam and I was even more excited to learn the publishing house he worked for, Ilex, was based in Brighton in the UK. He told me they produced books aimed at photographers and were looking for someone to pen one on interacting with models, hopefully appealing to the fashion-minded market. It was a slightly unusual project for Ilex as they focused on more technical guidebooks so Adam asked if I could send him some ideas for content. The next stage would be creating a B.L.A.D. (Book layout and design) which would showcase the ideas to buyers in the form of ten example pages and a detailed Table of Contents. For now though he wanted to gauge what I could do.

This was fantastic. I had a hundred ideas. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Once I started it was hard to stop. I wanted to prove there would be enough to say. After I sent it off Adam made it clear I would have to be able to cut down on words, there would be strict limits, I’m pretty sure he was nervous but this didn’t phase me, I actually enjoy editing to a degree. As I finished up the pages I was calling all my family telling them the glorious news and how wonderful it was that my dreams of becoming a famous author were coming true. We had finished the B.L.A.D. and it looked fantastic. Now it would be shown to prospective distribution clients. I waited for the email telling me it was sold. I waited and waited and waited.

I heard nothing.

For two and a half years.

“How’s the book deal coming along?”
“Oh, you know, these things take a bit of time.”
“How about your book then?”
“I’m not sure, it’s been a while since they’ve been in contact, reckon I’ll hear soon.”
“I’m so excited about your book!”
“What book? oh, yeah, thanks, me too.”

It wasn’t the best of times but after a while I forgot about it. This book was obviously not meant to be. I became intrigued by script writing and collaborated with my husband on a couple of fun projects. One morning I woke up and with bleary eyes started going through my emails. There was one from someone called Adam. Why did that seem familiar? It was a short mail, it read,

“I know it’s been a very long time, but this is the news you’ve been waiting for, we’ve sold your book.”

I didn’t know how to react. It had been a very long time and this was very big news to deal with before I’d had coffee. I was in such shock that I wandered into the kitchen and nonchalantly mentioned it as I started to unload the dishwasher. “Morning hon, do you want a brew? hungry? Oh, by the way, they sold my book.”

We went into Skype meetings almost immediately and I was told I would have three months to write the entire book. A third of the content to be completed and sent off with images at the end of each 30 day period. To me, this sounded overwhelming but I was glad I wouldn’t have the opportunity to leave everything to the last minute. Ilex had sold the book on the premise that there would be input from a photographer too, another Adam, as a co-authorship, however, I had full control over content and he dealt only with the more technical topics such as lighting techniques. I was assigned an editor, which is one of the fanciest sounding things that’s ever happened to me, and thankfully she was absolutely lovely. The most exciting news, they were going to pay me! An advance! I know this is relatively rare nowadays and I felt honoured as there is a large amount of trust involved at this point.

In hindsight I can say those three months, which rolled over into around five between drafts and design, were some of the most anti-social, stressful, alcohol induced ones I’ve lived, but they were also incredibly satisfying and life affirming in a way I have never experienced before. I might have been vegetating on my sofa in a novelty onesie scoffing Hula Hoops, yelling at my husband for more wine, but I was marking and making paper with my words, not just my looks. It was grueling at times, I wrote on planes, trains, make up tables and in Winnebagos, but it was more difficult to get a photographer to sign a release form than to fill the word limit. After working in the modeling industry for over a decade it is pure experience that wrote the book, Shooting Models, and I truly hope that both aspiring and professional photographers alike will enjoy reading it. I believe there is something to learn in there for everyone, especially with the input of many of my extremely talented friends, and I still managed to hustle in a few wacky anecdotes.

Six months or so after I sent off the final credits and crossed the final ‘t,’ I was sent a picture by Ilex of a pile of my books displayed in a bookshop in the UK. It blew my mind. A real dream come true. It was almost exactly as I’d pictured it as a child, only better. No, it wasn’t a guaranteed cult classic and my name isn’t Holton anymore, but damn it felt good. When I received my hard copy in the post it took me a week to look through it. It was achingly beautiful but I was nervous, I’d forgotten what I had written, what happened if it was awful? what if people thought the pictures look amateurish? what if I think I’m really funny but no one gets my sense of humour? That happens. When I finally plucked up the courage I was so glad. I keep sneaking peeks at the pages as if they aren’t real.

I had to visit the nearest Barnes & Noble to see a copy on the shelf. I was convinced it wouldn’t be there, as if this was all fake, but it was, and after manically waving it about like the World Cup I made sure to move it right to the front of the display. The real heart-breaker moment for me though was when my step mum sent me a photo of my Dad proudly holding up his copy in their local Waterstones. I have to admit I cried a few tears of happiness that day. This sounds cheesy but you never know how your dreams will come true, I’ve found things usually work out in the end if you just keep on believing.

If you are interested in buying a copy of Shooting Models, in the US you can do so here, or in the UK round about here, it is also available as an E-book, but where possible please try to support your local bookstore. x

Freaky Feet

Photo by Annie Edmonds at Sole Society Studios

I have ugly feet. I can admit it, it’s fine, I don’t like it but I’m not going to complain. I once knew a girl who lost her thumb in an accident, or she was born without a thumb, I can’t recall, but they took one of her big toes and sewed it on in it’s place. I don’t remember her name, mainly because everyone called her Toe Thumb. That’s way worse.

My feet are so bad they have become a long-standing family joke. When I was born, the first words my Granny said when she saw me were, “She’s got very big feet.” It’s not that they are abnormally large per se but my toes are abnormally long. My “big toe” is in reality my second smallest. If I could chop my three middle toes down to first toe knuckle (I have googled the surgery on more than one occasion) I would be two shoe sizes smaller. Apparently it is a sign of royalty, but I’m not buying that, no princess should have to consciously avoid over-hanging ‘toe claw’ any time she’s in open toed heels.

In Jack Black’s film, ‘Shallow Hall,’ there is a character that won’t date a beautiful girl because of their extra long second toe. I remember thinking that’s it, no husband for me and all because my toes resemble E.T’s fingers. Don’t get me wrong, I realise there are benefits to having extremely long toes. As a child I was able to wow my friends by writing with both feet at the same time -I grew up in a remote village, entertainment was scarce- and later on I learnt there are other… things you can hold with your toes. But, I have to say, I have always been extremely embarrassed of my feet. I rarely get pedicures in fear of the nail tech recoiling in horror and any time there is a manicurist on set I cannot stop apologizing for the sight of them.

This week I shot with one of my favorite clients in Los Angeles, Sole Society. I was the first model they used when the company started and I have worked with them continuously over the years as they have grown hugely successful. I love working with the people at Sole Society for many reasons but especially because even though they are primarily a footwear company, they still employ me despite my alien feet. Throughout my career I have noticed that models who are really working often have bad feet with bunions and blisters from constantly shooting in ill fitting shoes and running around in heels all day to get to castings. Thankfully the majority of shoe shots are still more fashion focused and when close ups are necessary a specialist foot model will be booked. I had a foot double on a commercial once, they told me it was a struggle to find someone so pale in California.

Working with shoes again reminded me of one of my first jobs. I was still commuting to London and I got the call on the packed train ride home. It was Christian, he was the men’s booker and had rarely spoken to me since I’d been signed. He was very excited, which made me excited. He was telling me I’d booked a job for the next day, for a fashion segment in the Daily Express and it would be great for exposure and it was going to look beautiful and they had guaranteed at least one picture of my face which was great and oh by the way it was technically a foot modeling job and the rest of the spread would be pictures of my feet.
My heart sank. “Um, my feet aren’t great.”
“What? not great, how bad could they be? your call time is 7am.” He hung up.

I didn’t sleep. My mum spent the evening calling round the family to let them know how hilarious it was that my feet were going to be in the paper. The next morning I had to take a car ride to the bus to get me to the station, then take the train to the underground and then walk to the photographer’s house. The weather was as miserable as I felt and with every step I had to force myself forward rather than running, crying for the hills. I’d thought about faking illness but I didn’t even have Christian’s phone number. I arrived at the door and knocked reluctantly, hoping no one would answer.

Of course they did. A very cheery girl with a short dark bob, who would be looking after my feet, Yay. She sat me down in this dingy kitchen and crouched on the floor in front of me next to a box of nail polishes, staring up at me expectantly.

I took a breath, “Before I take off my shoes, I just want to warn you that I booked this last night, without a casting and I did tell my booker that my feet are not particularly attractive.”
Her face fell. Cheery girl became girl pretending to be cheery.
“It’s just I had to say something because I’m worried you could have found someone with prettier feet than me and I didn’t want you to think I think my feet are pretty…” She stopped me.
“Why don’t you just let me take a look, they can’t be that bad.” I could tell she was praying they weren’t that bad.
I took off my shoes, they really were that bad.
“Sorry.”

She took a breath, she didn’t know how to say what she was thinking politely. I waited. She never said a word but her eyes said it all when they flashed wild panic at the photographer when he walked in five minutes later.

We managed to laugh about it, kind of, and I’m proud of our efforts that day. I am also truly thankful that the photographer, manicurist, and stylist did their best to make me feel comfortable in the situation when I knew full well they were freaking out. At one point I was sat in a tree on Clapham Common with a guy attempting to take an attractive photograph of my foot in a flip flop and I stopped and thought, whoever agreed to pay me for this is probably going to get into trouble. But, with someone on hand to tell me to “reign in that toe claw,” plus some smoke and mirrors camera trickery we were able to pull it off, just. The spread turned out cute, Christian was happy, and now when my cousins take the mickey out of my freaky feet I remind them of the time I was a professional foot model.

Behind The Scenes

Photo by Kat Borchat, Make up by Christina Guerra

I believe it is important, as a fashion model, to test throughout your career. Not just when you are starting out but whenever you have a quieter schedule, it is always good to freshen up your portfolio and network in a positive way. Personally I have never paid a photographer for a test shoot -being represented by a good agency generally means the bookers know promising, aspiring photographers who are desperate to work with agency models- I do understand though that a photographer has to pay out to set one up, be it renting equipment, or post production, simply buying lunch for five people can be costly. Therefore in my mind, the most important thing you can do as a model is show up. Of course it’s also professional to arrive sober and give 110%, but it’s easier to photograph a hungover model than no model at all. Photoshop can only help you so much.

I legitimately got sick on one of my first ever paid photo shoots and the company tried (unsuccessfully, ha!) to sue me. I learnt quickly how much it costs to produce a shoot and ever since then I have tried to turn up and finish every job, on time, whether paid or not, no matter what state I am in. This is why the day this shot was taken I got up, forced my husband to drive me for two hours to Malibu and shot six looks at the height of summer for no money whatsoever, just a few hours after leaving the ER.

I had been bitten by a spider the previous morning. Bitten more than once (bastard) on the knuckle of my left hand, which had been resting over the top side of my mattress as I slept. I was concerned but as this was the third bite I’d had in under a month I was more mentally equipped to deal with it. We’re not sure what kind of spiders bit me, they were unlikely to be from a widow or a recluse, but the doctor told me I was severely allergic to them either way. I drew a biro line on my skin around the red patch under the growing lump of bite marks so I could monitor how quickly the reaction was spreading. I took antihistamine tablets and tried not to think about it. Throughout the day my hand started to swell and the bites blistered, but the redness seemed to have stopped at my wrist, contained, just like the previous ones. I went to bed knowing I had to test the next morning and hoped after a sleep it would have settled down.

At 1am I woke up and nipped to the bathroom. I turned on the light but it took a while for my eyes to adjust. I was just about to sit down when I noticed my arm. Dark, fiery, red lines streaked along my veins from the bites at my knuckle all the way up to my shoulder. The poison was spreading quickly and aiming directly for my heart.

I was not prepared for this, but I am usually able to contain truly wild panic in a stereotypically reserved manner. Rather than screaming, crying and lashing out, I can look you square in the eye and say in a monotone, “I am freaking out right now.” Which is why I calmly tapped my sleeping husband on the shoulder and said, “I think we have a problem.”

Three hours and two drips later we left the hospital, my poor, rattled husband imploring that I cancel the test shoot I needed to be up for imminently. But no, I would not allow it, this photographer was giving up their weekend to work with me and there would be a stylist who had borrowed wardrobe and what if the make up artist lives in San Diego and were driving in super early? All those people to disappoint was too much to handle, and they would not be able to find a replacement at such late notice.
So my hubby reluctantly agreed to let me go, as long as he drove and stayed on set with me all day, (he’s definitely a keeper) in case I passed out. The girls I was working with at Matador beach were sweethearts. I did tell them I had been in the ER that morning but I think it’s difficult to know how to react to that statement. They were appreciative, but didn’t offer quite the hero’s welcome that I’d secretly hoped for to make it seem worth it.

The day was long, and hot, obviously, but I managed to power my way through. I find as long as I don’t stop, I can run on pure adrenaline alone in some pretty rough situations. The day went well and it felt like everyone was going to get great shots for their portfolio. It was a productive day. A day I overcame adversity to remain professional. Surely these pictures were going to score me a huge job, that was how model karma worked… right?!

I never saw the pictures.
Unfortunately it is often difficult to get photographers to send you images, many tend to book a lot of shoots at once, underestimating the amount of time it takes to produce great final results. I truly believed this photo set had never even been looked at. I emailed once or twice, but find it hard to pester people so I left it and flipped the universe the bird.

But, as fate would have it, and always seems to, that wasn’t the end of the story.
A year and a half later a friend tagged me on a random Instagram post and up popped the image above, printed in Allure Magazine. The make up artist from the day had spotted it and was posting how proud she was of us. I couldn’t believe it. I was truly shocked. I mentioned that I had never received any pictures from the shoot and within minutes she linked me to her portfolio with multiple shots from that day. An hour or so later after I had regrammed, the photographer got in touch and apologised and said they sent the images to my agency months ago. This is, I’m sure the truth as bookers who deal with tests often get promoted or move agencies and are unable to keep up communication.

Seeing that picture took my straight back to that night in the emergency room. Seeing it published in one of the top beauty magazines made it all worth it. Even if they have made a headline out of my sunburn.

From the ER…

 

To ALLURE.

Fools Get Pranked

I was trying to recall if anyone had ever played an April fool’s day joke on set over the years.
There have been various practical jokes, fake snakes in the cooler box, everyone leaving the room after the photographer has told me to shut my eyes, but none were planned to take place on the first of April.

My favourite prank happened off set, in a model apartment in Lisbon in 2005. I was living with two girls and three guys, none of whom spoke any English. It’s surprising how fast you can break a language barrier when you’re forced to, especially if you are a skilled Charades player, but I admit I spent a lot of time watching them perform a sort of dodgy Portuguese soap opera in the living room.

Over a week I worked out that two of the guys were growing increasingly annoyed with the third male model. He was messy, rude, and constantly making them late for castings they were supposed to attend together. One day he locked himself in their shared room and refused to open the door for an entire afternoon. After he caused them to miss yet another extremely important casting, I realised the two of them had started to plot their revenge.

The next day, as we were all waiting for the third model to stop hogging the shower, they took his portfolio and removed all the pictures except for the first two. I watched mesmerized as they hid the tear sheets in their room and replaced them carefully with pages and pages of gay porn.
I started to laugh, I’m not a fan of playing jokes on people as I hate it when they’re played on me, but this guy truly deserved it. The boys looked at me, smiled, and held fingers to their lips. They put the portfolio back in it’s original place and we all sat down and tried to look busy.

I was having second thoughts about letting this guy go off to a real casting with pornography in his book, but after he came out of the shower, having used all the hot water, and sucked his teeth at me, I just wished I could have seen the client’s reaction. We all held our breath as he picked up the portfolio, just as it seemed like he was going to open it, he jammed it in his bag, turned to us, stuck up his middle finger, and left.

Later I found out the client had asked the model if the pictures in the book were actually him. He had gotten offended, yelled, “Of course it is, you think I am a liar?” until they turned the pages towards him and he saw what was inside. I’m not sure what was said afterwards or when he arrived back at the apartment, thankfully I was working, but it was only a matter of days before he transferred to another model flat.

Merry April everyone,
p.s. today is always special as it’s Dave and Crowley’s birthdays, my two rescue kitties just turned 4!

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.

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.