At five feet ten inches tall, I have often fantasized about being a model—but it turns out it’s not a quick fix for world travel and financial profit.

Seeking an agency and free photographs for my portfolio, I bonded with people on Craigslist, frolicked around my friend’s apartment in my underwear, danced at nightclubs merely to give a Xerox of my headshot to someone who supposedly knows someone who is someone who can possibly be of assistance to me. I even stood in line with 3,000 other girls for the open call of America’s Next Top Model.

There has been a lack of interest in “my look”: a French agent said to me, “Your nose is too short to be a model in Paris…try South Africa or Singapore.” There have been demands that I lose at least half an inch from my hips: an American agent said to me, “I don’t think you’re fat, I just think you have wide hips.” Amidst my wandering from agency to agency, I came across a delightfully esoteric art bookstore at 33 Bond Street, Dashwood Books, and I finally re-connected with my intellect.

I discovered some beautiful photographs in Playboy: Helmut Newton that remind me of my senior essay research on the ’60s and ’70s high society photographer, Slim Aarons. The pictures also connect to my recent obsession with the reality television show, The Girls Next Door, a chronicle of the daily lives of Hugh Hefner’s three ultra-endearing girlfriends. Maybe next I should audition to be one of them.

Tweet This Post