Could somebody please call my mother and tell her what a bad job she did of raising me? Also, if anybody knows who the governing body of all internet modelling related websites could they please inform the webmasters that I am a dangerously misguided idiot and should be treated like a small child with a gun? I would do it myself but you see, I've decided that as I have absolutely no value as a human being or as a model it would be worthless me ever speaking again. Hold on, let me remove my tongue from my cheek for a moment. I thought I'd come and add to the blog tonight as it seems my head is starting to hurt from having been banging it against a brick wall all day. Sure the wall is metaphorical but the result is the same. Thankfully I'm so dense that any damage to my brain is purely superficial and shouldn't leave any lasting effect. I do hope that one day I can come on here and make a post that doesn't leave me wondering when it was that I became such a mardy old woman, but unfortunately people keep forcing my hand by being generally rude, idiotic and stubborn. Today I have been shocked, disappointed, awed, revolted and horrified by the levels of stupidity and arrogance shown by some people in this industry, that's right folks it's been a veritable cavalcade of emotions. First there was the photographer who thought it was acceptable to ask models to open their legs, insert bits of plastic into places only a doctor, a lover or a paying customer in some cases should see and do it for free because let's face it, if you don't ask you don't get. Then there was the 'photographer' who tells models he is a photographer without actually sending them any proof. Of any sort. At all. Next up is the model (and I use the term loosely) who wanted a professional photographer with magazine standard pictures to pay HER to come and shoot with him despite her having no experience, a lackluster portfolio and no apparent understanding of the distance from Scotland to London (although she did have some lovely self shot camera phone pictures). Lastly is the photographer who hates models so much that he feels the need to follow them around and question their every comment, because as we all know, models are a lesser sort of person then the average man.
Now, I am going to go back to hitting my head against a brick wall, I will hope in vain that as I am a slow, illiterate imbecile that nobody will ever read this post or make sense of it - and if they do they can do what I do. I blame the parents.....or God.....or Obi Wan Kenobi.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Dance, Monkey, Dance
Once again it seems I am neglecting my blog writing duties. Once again life has prevented me from regailing you all with tales of delight and surprise. That being said, I did spend a proportionate amount of my weekend this week trying to disentangle playdoh from my hair. Of course, work has been the usual array of the weird, the wonderful and the severely demented.
I shall start today with the message I recieved recently via Myspace (yes I know, Myspace, Facebook et al are the tools of satan) from an 'amateur' photographer enquiring about booking me for a shoot. When asked if this 'amateur' photographer could provide references, background history and sample pictures (of anything, even his dog would have done provided the dog was happy to pose to a minimum level of US magazine TFCD....actually no, let's not go there) he was, shockingly unable to provide anything aside from his word that he would 'show me some pictures he had done' when I went to meet him. This naturally made me feel immediately at ease, especially what with him having no details at all on his own myspace profile. I immediately sent him a message back saying that as he had offered to pay me to take my clothes off I would be delighted to meet with him, despite his lack of desire to actually prove his identity. I would also be happy to come to his house, in fact if we could meet down a dark alleyway or in the middle of a dense forest that would be far more ideal. I also made sure to let him know I wouldn't be telling anyone where I was going or take my phone with me.
I am of course, lying. Being sarcastic. Telling untruths. What truly terrifies me are the number of girls who would have gotten as far down his first message as ' I will pay you.....' and immediately messaged him back to book themselves on the first rung of the ladder to success. Or on a first class ticket to a ditch in the back of an abandoned farm. Of course, there is the possibility that the photographer was entirely genuine. But I'll never know. He could have been sitting there, camera poised and portfolio ready for display. Or he could have been Fred West's wet dream. There are so many people who believe that this is a dangerous industry to be in, but the truth is it's only dangerous if you're stupid. If you're so ridiculously dumb you can't see the danger in believing that faceless lines of text are in fact who they say they are, get out of the industry. Start running now.
There are of course, those who are genuine, but take the piss. Like for example, the photographer who approached me recently regarding a shoot. A total amateur, with pictures of a somewhat questionable standard. Aforementioned photographer mentioned being hard up for cash and asked if I would consider a part pay/part TFCD arrangement. Out of the goodness of my heart (I do have one, even if it is made of ice) I did offer to reduce my rates only to find in his confirmation email that he had added an hour of free work to my already reduced rates, meaning I would in reality, be working for an amateur, for pictures of no use, for less then minimum wage.
Guffaw.
I was glad this week to be able to work with someone who really is a true artist, appreciative of my craft as much as his own and as a result I will be working with him again. Because despite those that tarnish the reputation of the many genuine photographers that there are. Of course in some cases their jokes and their ability leave somewhat to be desired, but I'm not perfect myself. The truth is, in the majority of cases, their intention and their motives are genuine.
Well I'm off to try and make something constructive of my week. In the words of my good friend Gary G Sanderson, who remains to this day a faceless line of text, Dance, Monkey, Dance.
I shall start today with the message I recieved recently via Myspace (yes I know, Myspace, Facebook et al are the tools of satan) from an 'amateur' photographer enquiring about booking me for a shoot. When asked if this 'amateur' photographer could provide references, background history and sample pictures (of anything, even his dog would have done provided the dog was happy to pose to a minimum level of US magazine TFCD....actually no, let's not go there) he was, shockingly unable to provide anything aside from his word that he would 'show me some pictures he had done' when I went to meet him. This naturally made me feel immediately at ease, especially what with him having no details at all on his own myspace profile. I immediately sent him a message back saying that as he had offered to pay me to take my clothes off I would be delighted to meet with him, despite his lack of desire to actually prove his identity. I would also be happy to come to his house, in fact if we could meet down a dark alleyway or in the middle of a dense forest that would be far more ideal. I also made sure to let him know I wouldn't be telling anyone where I was going or take my phone with me.
I am of course, lying. Being sarcastic. Telling untruths. What truly terrifies me are the number of girls who would have gotten as far down his first message as ' I will pay you.....' and immediately messaged him back to book themselves on the first rung of the ladder to success. Or on a first class ticket to a ditch in the back of an abandoned farm. Of course, there is the possibility that the photographer was entirely genuine. But I'll never know. He could have been sitting there, camera poised and portfolio ready for display. Or he could have been Fred West's wet dream. There are so many people who believe that this is a dangerous industry to be in, but the truth is it's only dangerous if you're stupid. If you're so ridiculously dumb you can't see the danger in believing that faceless lines of text are in fact who they say they are, get out of the industry. Start running now.
There are of course, those who are genuine, but take the piss. Like for example, the photographer who approached me recently regarding a shoot. A total amateur, with pictures of a somewhat questionable standard. Aforementioned photographer mentioned being hard up for cash and asked if I would consider a part pay/part TFCD arrangement. Out of the goodness of my heart (I do have one, even if it is made of ice) I did offer to reduce my rates only to find in his confirmation email that he had added an hour of free work to my already reduced rates, meaning I would in reality, be working for an amateur, for pictures of no use, for less then minimum wage.
Guffaw.
I was glad this week to be able to work with someone who really is a true artist, appreciative of my craft as much as his own and as a result I will be working with him again. Because despite those that tarnish the reputation of the many genuine photographers that there are. Of course in some cases their jokes and their ability leave somewhat to be desired, but I'm not perfect myself. The truth is, in the majority of cases, their intention and their motives are genuine.
Well I'm off to try and make something constructive of my week. In the words of my good friend Gary G Sanderson, who remains to this day a faceless line of text, Dance, Monkey, Dance.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
Stuck in a rock and a hard place....
Yes, I know it's been awhile since I updated this thing, but I haven't forgotten about it. The truth is that at the moment the whole modelling industry seems to be going down the shit pan rapidly and what with bookings, cancellations, the calendar, birthday parties, losing money, losing patience and generally being so busy that my diary is melting and my computer is screaming I have been very busy lately. The other day I did the unthinkable and actually turned my computer off for a little while. Sadly when I did get back to it I had to trawl through 146 emails mainly from people who didn't have a clue what they were talking about.
Anyway, it's early in the morning and it's a new day. I am powered by caffeine and nicotine - the two greatest and most powerful sources on earth. So strap in and prepare yourself for the inevitable rollercoaster of wrath we are about embark upon.
Ready? Ready.
The deminse of the internet modelling industry. Obviously the words 'demise' and 'of' and 'modelling industry' do not bode well for myself or my fellow models (especially those of us who do not have the requisite 32-22-32 statistics to be signed to most agencies). So who do we blame? The models? The photographers? Heat magazine? Big Brother? The truth is I blame all of them. Because right now everyman and his dog wants his five minutes in the spotlight. I bet if you did a survey of 14 year old girl's ambitions that a large perecentage of them would say model or to marry a footballer. Well let's have a reality check shall we ladies? For those of us who live in the real world this is a job, a profession and an industry not a fast ticket to Chinawhites. For every Jordan there are a thousand girls trying to make it, some working hard to earn a minimum wage and sometimes even less - doing it for the love and the passion and not the infamy. Three years now and I've yet to sup from a single glass of bubbly in Funky Buddha, I am yet to appear in my own three page article ion The Sun about how I just bought a new biro and the closest I have ever come to marrying a footballer is standing on Steven Gerrard's driveway.
The sad truth of it, that although my job is different, it is no more noticeable or newsworthy then your local postman's is. It is this delusional belief that modelling makes you better then everyone else that makes so many girls think they deserve to do it. Of all the modelling sites I work from there are an inumerate number of new models everday and a steadily declining amount of work. Models who believe that they should be paid above professionals who have worked for years, because their boyfriend told them they should be a model.
Models are turning against photographers, photographers are turning against models, professionals are turning against amateurs. Perhaps one day we could all sit around a giant virtual reality campfire, break out the guitars and teach the world to sing. But unfortunately, jaded is our view and tarnished are our ideals. For most of us, the best plan seems to be to get comfy down between this rock and hard place we've put ourselves in. Because if we tell a new model with new hope, bad attitude and a 'the world owes me this' outlook that she is kidding herself and that we would very much like her to fuck off, then we damage ourselves. We are branded as being dream crushers and bullies. Funnily enough I was bullied myself for years, maybe thats why I can take the criticism without being reduced to tantrums and throwing my toys out of my pram. We are supposed to sit back and support and welcome these fame seeking money draining wannabes into our industry and settle back while they take our jobs without any justification. They lower the bar for expectations and so more and more models are becoming lazy, inarticulate and shallow, leaving photographers to imagine all models are this way inclined and to let us suffer the fall out of their actions.
But don't worry girls, because one beautiful day there will be the realistion that we are not bullies or haters, and the photographers will realise that the reason they only book models who can't perform, who don't turn up and who drain their pockets without yielding results is because all of the real models will be sitting here, between the rock and the hard place, painting their toenails and saying we told you so.
Anyway, it's early in the morning and it's a new day. I am powered by caffeine and nicotine - the two greatest and most powerful sources on earth. So strap in and prepare yourself for the inevitable rollercoaster of wrath we are about embark upon.
Ready? Ready.
The deminse of the internet modelling industry. Obviously the words 'demise' and 'of' and 'modelling industry' do not bode well for myself or my fellow models (especially those of us who do not have the requisite 32-22-32 statistics to be signed to most agencies). So who do we blame? The models? The photographers? Heat magazine? Big Brother? The truth is I blame all of them. Because right now everyman and his dog wants his five minutes in the spotlight. I bet if you did a survey of 14 year old girl's ambitions that a large perecentage of them would say model or to marry a footballer. Well let's have a reality check shall we ladies? For those of us who live in the real world this is a job, a profession and an industry not a fast ticket to Chinawhites. For every Jordan there are a thousand girls trying to make it, some working hard to earn a minimum wage and sometimes even less - doing it for the love and the passion and not the infamy. Three years now and I've yet to sup from a single glass of bubbly in Funky Buddha, I am yet to appear in my own three page article ion The Sun about how I just bought a new biro and the closest I have ever come to marrying a footballer is standing on Steven Gerrard's driveway.
The sad truth of it, that although my job is different, it is no more noticeable or newsworthy then your local postman's is. It is this delusional belief that modelling makes you better then everyone else that makes so many girls think they deserve to do it. Of all the modelling sites I work from there are an inumerate number of new models everday and a steadily declining amount of work. Models who believe that they should be paid above professionals who have worked for years, because their boyfriend told them they should be a model.
Models are turning against photographers, photographers are turning against models, professionals are turning against amateurs. Perhaps one day we could all sit around a giant virtual reality campfire, break out the guitars and teach the world to sing. But unfortunately, jaded is our view and tarnished are our ideals. For most of us, the best plan seems to be to get comfy down between this rock and hard place we've put ourselves in. Because if we tell a new model with new hope, bad attitude and a 'the world owes me this' outlook that she is kidding herself and that we would very much like her to fuck off, then we damage ourselves. We are branded as being dream crushers and bullies. Funnily enough I was bullied myself for years, maybe thats why I can take the criticism without being reduced to tantrums and throwing my toys out of my pram. We are supposed to sit back and support and welcome these fame seeking money draining wannabes into our industry and settle back while they take our jobs without any justification. They lower the bar for expectations and so more and more models are becoming lazy, inarticulate and shallow, leaving photographers to imagine all models are this way inclined and to let us suffer the fall out of their actions.
But don't worry girls, because one beautiful day there will be the realistion that we are not bullies or haters, and the photographers will realise that the reason they only book models who can't perform, who don't turn up and who drain their pockets without yielding results is because all of the real models will be sitting here, between the rock and the hard place, painting their toenails and saying we told you so.
Sunday, 2 March 2008
Victory, Success et al
The day has been, the day has gone. The day, was good. Yes, that is correct the day of the calendar shoot has been and gone and it was in all successful. Five of my initial ten models booked turned up to the shoot but they were by far and away the best models I could have hoped for. The calendar will be released in June and as soon as I can I will release more promotional details. My sincere thanks go to Wendy, Suzy, Kelly, Nerys, Simon, Colin and Mark for their dedication, their enthusiasm and their entertainment. I also thank Pete for getting me tipsy on two glasses of white wine, given they were the size of buckets, and sending me home on the right train rather then the wrong one. Other then the success of my creative directorial debut I have been basking in the delights of working from home, spending mother's day with my beautiful son (who gave me a card that said Happy Birthday Grandson on it) and watching Dancing On Ice.
Oh shit, I mean, I have mostly been going to fantastic celebrity parties, quaffing champagne and having mad drug fuelled orgies in hotel rooms with Z list celebrities.
Oh shit, I mean, I have mostly been going to fantastic celebrity parties, quaffing champagne and having mad drug fuelled orgies in hotel rooms with Z list celebrities.
Monday, 25 February 2008
Marks And Spencers make really nice sandwhiches....
It true they really do. Today has been like a spiritual journey of enlightenment (I am now a positive, vibrant person with, for the first time since I was born, no impending sense of doom, oncoming disaster etc etc) and discovery. My most exciting discovery being that of the really really very good sandwhich selection in the Marks And Spencers quickstop in Leeds train station. Anyway, far more interesting things have happened today then my purchasing of sandwhiches, mainly, the sudden and bizarre realisation that I spent a proportional amount of my day today clad in stockings, suspenders and a 20" corset straddling a large antique horse saddle, brandishing a whipping rod and smoking a large cigar (and getting paid to do so). When did my life become so very surreal? Today I have met an ex-olympic rower, an irate Virgin rail employee with an explosively short temper and a strange man selling weed for a ridiculously discounted price. The joys of train travel. I should at this point make it clear that I did politely decline the generous offer of one quid spliffs from a random chav on a train but if anyone is interested he is small dark haired fella who lives somewhere in Oxford. Strange days. The countdown to my creative directorial debut is still on and I am feeling positive in the fact that nobody has come down with malaria or forgotten who the fuck I am. It is looking quite possible that it might go really well and I am also working on a new project that I am not currently at liberty to divulge. So while you're waiting for me to divulge I suggest you go immediately to Marks and Sparks and buy yourself a sandwhich - as long as it's not the tuna. That's shit.
Saturday, 23 February 2008
Like buses....you wait for one.....
After spending so much time fretting that I can never seem to find enough work, this next week will see me busy busy busy and trawling around the country armed with a crossword book and a suitcase full of spandex, lycra and ankle warmers. I will be visiting Leeds, Birmingham, Manchester, London, several places nobody else has ever heard of and that don't feature on any maps and most importantly of all Brighton, hurrah, which means I get to see the man and fill my brief moments of peace with sexual frenzy and lust, which I can then relate to you in some degree here. Happily nearly all the models working with me on my upcoming project have confirmed to say they have neither broken their nails or been attacked by terrorists. Anyway, the main purpose of my entry today is to tell you how shocked and happy I am to find that people are actually reading my blog despite its lack of scandal or interesting anecdotes. So thankyou to the people who have complimented my writing style and to those of you who are continuing to read this. It really does inspire me to carry on and to find something interesting to write about, hopefully the coming weeks will supply me with some train journey related epic which I can regale you with, for as we all know the most varied and interesting people use national rail, although you can bet your ass Richard Branson doesn't.
Friday, 22 February 2008
The saga that was......
Well still nothing particularly interesting has happened to me for me to write about, but I feel duty bound to contribute something to this blog lest I forget it exists. It does seem that as soon as I started this, all the interesting things that happen to me on a regular basis have stopped happening. Nobody has provoked me into verbal warfare on any of my varied Myspace accounts, I haven't had any particularly spectacular job offers and I haven't had a tramp stroke my hair lovingly on a train for months. True story, I'll tell you about it sometime. Actually I'll tell you about it now - once I was on a train heading home from a shoot when a small bearded lady started stroking me like a cat until her carer showed up. Then allowed her to continue. No, it really isn't that exciting a story. I have to put my new found dullness down to actually being quite content with life at the moment - I'm no longer filled with the raging desire to cause drama. That being said I do get the feeling this may be the calm before the storm, the calendar shoot being only a few days away and what with going on a whirlwind tour of the UK in the run up to the event itself I am sure that fifteen seconds before my debut as creative overlord one of the girls will email me and tell me that she's been kidnapped by terrorists who have broken all her nails and now none of the girls can turn up. I'm terribly paranoid about the whole thing.
Speaking of paranoia, my like, totally crucial shoot was like, totally amazing. It was refreshing to meet somebody truly candid about this industry as opposed to the millions of wannabe footballers wives who rock up and rock out on the same wave disappointed not to have reached Jordan style fame by whinging pitifully about it. Speaking of whom (whining wannabe wags not Jordan, before the legal team pick this up) I have decided I am no longer dolling out my words of sage wisdom and experience to newbies. Because apparently all new internet models suffer from what is known as sycophantic deafness, an illness in which the sufferer only hears sentences that start and end with - you're gorgeous innit? Anyway, this week I am mostly going to be frequenting network rail transport services and playing Mah Jong, which I have just rediscovered. Please keep reading my blog if you have been doing so, I hope that next time I can make an entry detailing wild orgies and lust fuelled sex romps. But until then, try Mah Jong, it really is very good.
Speaking of paranoia, my like, totally crucial shoot was like, totally amazing. It was refreshing to meet somebody truly candid about this industry as opposed to the millions of wannabe footballers wives who rock up and rock out on the same wave disappointed not to have reached Jordan style fame by whinging pitifully about it. Speaking of whom (whining wannabe wags not Jordan, before the legal team pick this up) I have decided I am no longer dolling out my words of sage wisdom and experience to newbies. Because apparently all new internet models suffer from what is known as sycophantic deafness, an illness in which the sufferer only hears sentences that start and end with - you're gorgeous innit? Anyway, this week I am mostly going to be frequenting network rail transport services and playing Mah Jong, which I have just rediscovered. Please keep reading my blog if you have been doing so, I hope that next time I can make an entry detailing wild orgies and lust fuelled sex romps. But until then, try Mah Jong, it really is very good.
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