"MODEL BEHAVIOR"
The coffee pot dripped out the last bits of Viennese Cinnamon. I grabbed my 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron souvenir mug (motto: if it twitches, blast it), and filled it. Sinking back into my recliner, I opened a recent issue of Rolling Stone and began flipping through "all the news that fits"
I was mesmerized by the slick adverts for products like cologne, perfume, and, of course, clothing (none of which the models seems to be wearing). I couldn’t keep my eyes of the ennui-laden Gen-Xers featured on the glossy pages (It’s the Truth: you can tell the Articles from the Ads by the glossiness factor of the page). I states wondering about the state of the (important profession) of modeling.
It used to be that appearing happy and fresh were prime requisites for modeling jobs in trendy magazines. "Com on, Kipper, smile just a little more", I can hear the camera man saying (remember, this was back in the days before women were allowed to do anything other than cook, clean, procreate, and, of course, model). "Okay, twirl a bit and grab the edges of the skirt; now, do that "look the other way" thing". The photo shoots (Advertising Professional talk; don’t try this at home) were charged with spirit.
My good friend Olivia (with the French last name that I just can’t remember) let me sit in on one of her sessions. Olivia is a high-fashion photo-journalist (a picture is worth a thousand words, after all; this explains why photographers are more well-paid than journalists, despite their inferior talents) in New York, one of the world’s fashion Meccas (along with Paris and Milan; my only question is "which way do they face when they pray?").
As I was entering the studio, I found myself face-to-face with a group of disaffected youths. "These must be the models", I thought. Just in case, I made sure my wallet was safe. They casually regarded me (if sneering casual) and returned to looking hip.
Olivia told me they were shooting a vodka ad. When I asked if a teen-aged boy was appropriate for pitching booze, she stared at me in horror. "That’s not a boy! That’s Angelique, one of the hottest models to come along in at least a week!" I made a mental note to apologize for her unintentional rhyme. "Look at her! She has it all! She should be doing Vogue covers!"
"She should be playing Little League" was all I could think.
Before I realized what was happening, the session started. "Where’s the vodka?" I asked of no one in particular. The models rolled their eyes, but Olivia (being the friend she is explained. "When promoting a products, it’s not necessary to show it; you just show how beautiful people can be, and the product promotes itself".
"But these kids aren’t old enough to drink vodka" I countered.
"That’s not the point!" she cried. I was beginning to hear the exasperation in her voice. We can’t justify the amount of money these talented people are paid and then louse up the picture with the product! I was ready to hear a diatribe about a vodka bottle’s oppressive phallic image, but fortunately, European women aren’t yet as aware of their oppression as their American counterparts. She continued what was threatening to become a pained artistic soliloquy. "Beauty is its own reward. Everything else pales next to it."
I have to admit losing Olivia somewhere between "loving the camera" and "intense androgynous sexuality". The models obviously lost her as well. They began milling about the studio looking extremely bored—which is exactly how they showed up in the magazine.