Model Facade

From the mouths of babes… Supermodel quote of the day:

“Even I don’t wake up looking like Cindy Crawford.”

— Cindy Crawford

Here’s the industry’s worst-kept secret.

We advertise weight-loss shakes we don’t drink.

Hair we “grew overnight” often arrived in a clip-in packet.

Perfectly fitting dresses are held together with an alarming number of bulldog clips.

Camera angles perform miracles. Lighting deserves its own Academy Award. Concealer could solve international conflict.

I once watched a stylist put a dress on backwards, upside down, pin half of it together, and somehow transform it into couture.

Fashion is wonderfully ridiculous.

The modelling ego can also be wonderfully fragile.

One unflattering photo.

One hold that’s a little too long.

One season where your phone stops ringing.

Confidence can disappear surprisingly quickly.

I know ego is supposed to be a dirty word—thank you, Dalai Lama, lesson noted—but sometimes it’s simply self-preservation. When your job is to be judged almost entirely on your appearance, insecurity becomes something of an occupational hazard.

Models are evaluated… constantly.

Too tall.

Too short.

Too commercial.

Too editorial.

Too curvy.

Too skinny.

Too old.

Too young.

Eventually you develop skin thick enough to survive almost anything.

Preferably without actually resembling a rhinoceros.

Like every profession, modelling develops its own peculiar superpower.

Teachers instinctively notice children.

Doctors notice symptoms.

Models notice cameras.

If a photographer appears within a two-kilometre radius, there’s an excellent chance we’ll somehow find the light and unconsciously strike a pose.

The direction we receive doesn’t always help.

“Give me approachable… but mysterious.

Girl next door… but unattainable.

Sexy… but not too sexy.

Confident… but vulnerable.

Can you look effortless?”

Of course.

Right after I solve world peace.

People often imagine modelling is full of catfights and impossible egos.

Honestly?

Most of us become experts in small talk simply because there is so much waiting.

Hours of hair.

Hours of makeup.

Hours of standing around in robes discussing everything from world politics to reality television.

You become surprisingly good at making friends.

Like anyone else, models are wonderfully contradictory.

I once accepted a Facebook friend request because someone looked vaguely like David Beckham.

Not my proudest intellectual achievement.

I can absolutely be shallow.

I can also care deeply.

Being interested in beautiful things doesn’t exclude being interested in meaningful ones.

The greatest challenge in modelling isn’t learning how to pose.

It’s learning how to separate the image from the person.

An acting teacher once told me that vulnerability is captivating.

Not because it’s physically beautiful.

Because it’s real.

I’ve never forgotten that.

When I cry, I don’t resemble Demi Moore looking heartbreakingly cinematic.

I look more like a pack of hyenas hosting a dinner party for a family of warthogs.

It’s not elegant.

It’s certainly not photogenic.

But it’s honest.

And in an industry built on illusion, honesty is perhaps the most beautiful thing of all.