FFF- In Which the Author....Oh, Dear God.

Today was the singular most hilarious day of my entire professional life, perhaps my life in entirety. And I have had some pretty hilarious days. I can only pray that my retelling is half as funny as the actual events that I am about to describe.

I'm writing this from a lovely hotel in Stuttgart, Germany after a day on set with a truly fantastic crew. I've worked for this client* before, but never anyone on this particular team. I was actually really nervous about this shoot because the last time I modelled for this company they were unhappy with my work**.  Obviously it couldn't have been too dire since they hired me again but I made sure to be on my very best behavior*** today.

I groomed, plucked, buffed, exfoliated and arrived to set early. The makeup artist did a beautiful job on my face and hair, and then we headed off to location. We drove up a dizzying hill (San Francisco has nothing on Stuttgart) and arrived at a mansion that was straight out of Architecture Digest. That's a real magazine, right?

It was a beautiful place to have a photo shoot. There was expensive looking art on the walls, a fountain in the entryway, and floor-to-ceiling windows displaying one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen.

Now, one of the things that can be a drag about photo shoots is the waiting around. The lights have to be set up, wardrobe needs to get ready, and then makeup and/or hair usually needs retouching. But, given the setting, I really didn't mind. And as the makeup artist did his thing, I was feeling pretty good about myself and the day so far. The crew had been impressed with my professionalism, the makeup looked gorgeous and the hairstylist really loved my hair. "Yes," he said, appraising his work, "this is really working. Now go get dressed and we'll start shooting."

As I headed downstairs to wardrobe I gave myself a little pat on the back and had a sip of my energy drink to ward off jetlag. Then I confidently rounded the corner and fell into the fucking fountain.

Why don't you just read that again? Go ahead. I'll wait. No. Don't even bother. I'll give it to you again.

I FELL IN THE FUCKING FOUNTAIN.

And it is worth noting that this was no normal fountain. This was a waist deep, rocky, indoor, Zen pond. That I fell inside of.

It is also worth noting that this was no normal fall. This was stepping where you assume there's ground and diving headfirst into deep and cold water with enough product in your hair to start a Fran Drescher level ecosystem and hours worth of makeup on your face. Not to mention your clothes and only coat. 

So what is a half drowned and completely mortified model to do?
A) Apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness.
B) Laugh with the stylist until you're both clutching the clothing rack and threatening to ihre hosen pinkeln.
C) Dissolve into giggles when the hairstylist not only forgives you but also joins you at the clothing rack and refers to you as Ariel for the rest of the day.

So. That happened. And if you'll excuse me, I'm off to soak my cold and exhausted body in a tub and order room service so as to avoid any public fountains. 

*Client=clothing company that hires the team. Team= model, photographer, photographer's assistant, photo editor, MUA, stylist, etc.
**actually, they were unhappy with my hair. It's still a little weird to me that my hair is so tied up in my work. I mean, other people get terrible haircuts and, you know, wear hats. They don't have to worry about being fired.
***and to have the best hair possible....

Update: Nuremburg

It is ze awesome, and it's been a great, easy shoot. Here are some pics of Nuremburg, taken early, early in the morning on my run.

Opernhaus

And here are some of the outfits I wore. One of the best things about modelling is that you get to play pretend, even if it's only for a little while and you're the only one that knows who you're pretending to be. For example:

First I was Funeral Dollie

 

 

 

 

For all your childhood grieving needs

Then I was Borscht Belderson, a Catskills comedian.

I told the photographer to, "get me a Scotch and a cigarette...STAT, you son of a bitch." He was confused, but liked it.

 Then I was that frumpy woman in the office that gets crazy and wears inappropriately low-cut dresses to the holiday party. I call her Pam.  She was my favorite.

Get Pam a chardonnay!

Or hepatitis!

 Then I was Bianca Jagger. And I didn't even have to get a contact high from making out with Mick Jagger.

















Then Pam went to a wedding.

Pam is going to get buckwild tonight, yall.

 And then... I was Beyonce.

I swear to the sweet, squalling baby Jesus if someone even hints that I am not the spit fucking image of Beyonce Knowles I will lose it.

A Day in the Life

Of This Kid

This is what I look like right now.

So, this post is mostly for someone who I know reads the blog to find out more about a model's life. Hi, Kate. This is for you*. Since I'm currently in Nuremburg for a shoot, I thought it might be a good time to give a detailed look at a day in the life of a model. Even though it still feels weird to call myself a model after however many years.

It's a little bit like being prepared for a sacrifice or burial. I mean, you arrive, you have your face washed and painted and then someone dresses you and leads you to your final destination (ie the set). Today was a pretty short day: call time was 6:40am, hair, makeup and wardrobe take about an hour and a half, and then we did about 2-3 looks per hour until lunchtime. That's pretty typical for a catalog shoot. Editorial stuff (ie magazine spreads) and beauty work (ie jewellry or cosmetic ads) take much longer.

Then, after lunch, we banged out 5 looks in less than two hours, which is really fast. That meant I had time to come home and Skype in for one of my classes, and now I'm going to get delivery and go to bed. Preeeettty glamorous.


Modelling

Pros: people bringing you coffee, telling you how pretty you are, free travel and free food. Also getting to say boobies in a professional context (ie, "I need some padding. Can someone hand me some boobies?").

Cons: early call times, waiting up to 6 months to get paid, having to shave, pluck, dye, exfoliate etc. regularly, and people pointing out your flaws in a professional context (ie, "Sarah, can you angle your legs to disguise your saddlebags?). Also, unique to this trip was 6 hrs, 45 minutes and 29 seconds on a plane with a broken seat that wouldn't recline. I never knew that 3 degree difference in seat angles mattered so much.

To be honest, I'd put up with a lot worse for a lot less. I'm lucky as balls** and there isn't another day job I'd choose in the world. Except maybe internationally renowned cake taster.

*Actually, Kate has a boyfriend that would say that we don't do anything creative that we don't want to, so this is really for me. And that makes sense, since modelling is important to me that I would want to...ach, you know what? This isn't for YOU, Ken, so get out of my head. 
**Are balls lucky? I feel like they must be. Not sure why, since they're kind of gross but it just seems like they should be lucky.

Things Modern Cinema Has Taught Me About High School

High school never ends, does it? I was at a casting the other day with a bunch of Ford models, and at first I felt like the geek who is suddenly invited to sit at the cool table* at lunch.

These were girls I've seen on the pages of magazines and that my agents had shown me and said, "look more like her if you can." And now I was at a casting with them. We were up for the same job. As in, there are people in the world who would put me in the same group as them. If that sounds like false modesty, it isn't. I think I'm pretty awesome. I just never really thought of myself as that particular brand of awesome.

No, that's not intimidating.

I sat myself down and said hi, and joined the waiting room banter but after a few minutes I realized that no one was listening to a word I was saying. I tried to join in but they just pretended I wasn't there. Suddenly I felt more like the theatre geek with braces who stumbled onto the cool table by accident.

I had a flashback to junior year when 2 girls in my class wore the same shirt and all the other girls said, "oh my god, I have that shirt" and I was the only lame weirdo who didn't shop at Abercrombie and Fitch or where the fuck ever.

As I left,  I realized how bizarre and stupid it was that I let that get to me. I mean, for Christ's sake, here I was: a model at a high profile casting with a bunch of famously stunning women and I felt like... a loser? All because some bored girls didn't pay attention to me? What the hell did I care if Lula** the Swiss plus supermodel liked me? If they didn't need to talk to me, why did I need to talk to them?


So maybe high school does end after all.  When we decide that we no longer care about the cool kids, they're not cool kids, they're just people. Maybe even people that inspire you to better yourself. I may still be a theatre geek with braces on the inside but I'm also a model on the outside and maybe even sometimes a good model and maybe even once in a while a grownup.




* Not that I know much about that since my high school had neither a cafeteria nor a cool table, but modern cinema has taught me that "the cool table" is a much hyped phenomenon in normal high schools with more than 100 students.
**Not a real name.


P.S. Is it just me or does Rachel McAdams look way too old to be a high school student? How was I so fooled when that movie came out?