It's a humid Wednesday in Center City.
Strangelove's is full of people seeking a happy hour out of the summer weather. I'm deep in a glass of Prosecco, laughing at a joke I can't hear over all the chatter. I'm killing this whole "socializing after work" thing. I'm not sweating as much as I usually do, which means this mixer must be going well. Then an older, drunker woman I vaguely know asks me the question. The question.
"I saw your Instagram. You're a beautiful girl. But are you a real model?"
Real Model.
Real. Model.
Real...Model.
It rattles around in my brain as I clutch my glass. I feel a facial twitch coming. I smile. I try to find a clever quip, some witty line that will defuse this situation. But I feel like my face is sliding down my chin.
Am I having a stroke? Am I getting a rash? Is this all from a question?
She watches me short circuit, her over-lined lips curling into a sneer. She's enjoying this.
She knows I don't know the answer.
So I think it's about time I begin to draft an answer. Not only for other people, but also for myself. I need to have a good think on this one.
It used to be a "real model" was a girl with an agent. She's tall. She's thin. Metropolitan. She struts from building to building with her little black book and her long tanned legs. Her closet is only tank tops, skinny jeans and massive sunglasses. She's the most enviable clothing hanger.
Those were the girls I grew up watching on America's Next Top Model. Way back in the yonder year of 2008, ANTM was what we had instead of Instagram. It was a different time. Everyone wore massive belts and black nails. Layering polo shirts were considered avant-garde. Drag Race hall of famer Raja, was but a simple makeup artist. Tyra Banks smized season after season, gleefully chewing the scenery. For an overweight girl from central Pennsylvania, this was my gateway to the world of high fashion. But it was also a gateway to some serious body issues. But watching this guilty pleasure classic was only the beginning.
I got my first social media in the ninth grade. Facebook was still the cool new thing. My first profile picture ever was a close-up selfie with my retainer still in. Classy. Elegant. Very on brand for me. I was attending an international school at the time. Being exposed to different beauty standards was very educational, but a new level of pressure. I was already struggling with myself. To go from a small, rural town to a global institution threw me over the edge. I used to scroll through people's feeds until the school shut off the internet at midnight. All the South Korean students had perfect skin. The Indian students had perfect hair. The swim team all had strong, defined bodies. The girls in the dormitory across campus all shared clothes, so they always looked cute. I became obsessed. I stayed obsessed all through high school. I developed a well groomed eating disorder. I remained glued to the screen, afraid to talk to anyone from those beautiful images. They were right next to me in real life. They were in class, in the dinning hall, and next to me on the stage for school plays. But I didn't reach out from my keyboard. I desperately wanted to. But what if nobody reached back? What if I got close, and someone realized I didn't belong with them in those photos? What if I didn't match? What if I got cropped out?
So I didn't even try.
I was too afraid.
I watched from the back.
It colored my high school experience with a deep melancholy.
College would be better, I thought. There would be no weird kids at an art college when we were all the weird kids.
The emotional roller-coaster of my college years needs it's own post.
I don't have enough time or booze to dive into it right now.
But a defining moment came sophomore year. I was introduced to Instagram. It was the winter of 2014. The app wasn't quite the behemoth that it would become. It was a haven for art kids who loved harsh filters. Morose, graphic design girls posed with dead roses. Jazz majors were blowing bong hits into the Philadelphia sky. Good poetry sat alongside bad poetry. Someone was always in profile looking out a window, usually with a cigarette.
I was transfixed.
This.
This would be my app. Here I would release my poetic soul with selfies.
It became a tool to convince others that I was ok. I was the furthest thing from ok. I'd post how I was out on the town with friends when I was really in a smelly apartment getting stoned out of my mind. I was living a healthy lifestyle, taking pictures at the gym when I was barely eating anything at all. I was so blessed to have wonderful supportive friends, who would hop in an Uber without me after the flash went off. I was super confident, posting photo after photo begging for a hit of dopamine. I was backstage in a show I was proud to perform in, but after the curtain, I'd go home to cry. Most of my posts were fueled by cheap, coping booze, not the fruity, bubbly treats that I'm partial to today. I was wearing a Commedia mask of social media. On-screen I was the life of the party. In real life, I could barely get dressed to go the party.
I still managed to develop my modeling skills. I honed my craft. I studied my angles.
I did a lot of work with people in my college photography department. It was a great place to start. A lot of them were copying other artists, trying to find their own style. I also started to find my own, just in time to study over in England. Going abroad for senior year meant I had to learn to do a lot of my own photography. I had to relearn a lot of things. I relearned how to go out, how to drink, eat, take compliments and affection from others. London not only offered me incredible nightlife, it offered me a movement. The British Body Positive Movement was unleashing a new crop of influencers. I still remember seeing Iskra Lawrence give an interview for the first time. Behind her came a line of people capturing their bodies and posting them, unretouched, unedited.
It was real people
Real bodies.
Real models.
After I graduated from college, I started a new Instagram. I needed a reboot. I wanted more polish, a little more sophistication. Less drinking photos and more well-rested photos. I also wanted to see if I could do what so many other models had done for me. I wanted to showcase the power little, fluffy me could have in front of a camera.
I sought out photographers in my area, whose style spoke to me. At first, it was frightening. I was meeting new people in strange places. I had to negotiate my limits, my rates. I was in charge of my own look. I began to bring my own clothes to shoots. I'm forever reminded of that America's Next Top Model episode, where beautiful Toccara Jones wept over having to stay graceful when the stylists had nothing to dress her in. I never leave the house without at least one duffle bag of options. Now it's become something I'm best known for. I've gone to sets where I've been specifically booked, not only for my body but for the way I dress it. One day it's a SavageXFenty set with smokey eyes. The next day it's a bubbly bridesmaid in a pastel gown. I'm high fashion. I'm a siren. I'm the hottest girl working at Whole Foods. I'm your worst nightmare, your biggest fantasy. I'm always something different. I've usually glued my eye shut accidentally before I achieve the final look. But we get there in the end.
So I suppose the answer is yes.
Yes, I am a real model.
I really go to shoots. I really get paid (not a whole lot yet), and I really book jobs.
I really do get to work with all these talented people.
I really do this all on my own.
I'd REALLY like an agent. But not having one yet doesn't make what I do less real. I really get women messaging me, the way I messaged people who inspired me.
Real women.
Real women with real lives, real struggles, real strength, real dreams.
To me, they make what I do as real as possible.
