WHAT DOES it take to be a working model in Los Angeles?There are currently hundreds of girls living in LA believing the false hopes and empty promises of the modeling industry. About four years ago, I too fell into the trap of believing I could become the next ‘supermodel.’ But it only took a taste of mega-dysfunctional hypnosis that eventually led to a rude awakening.
One day while shopping at a local mall, a man came up to me and asked if I had ever considered a career in modeling. “Not really” I said as my cheeks turned red. “Here’s my card, give me a call so we can talk about your future.”
I was a junior in high school, and a varsity swimmer and basketball player, but a model? I bought into the lure of superstardoom and quit sports because I was told they make me “bulk up” and learned how to starve in the name of potential. At my first “test shoot” in New York, a photographer laid on the floor aiming the camera upwards, a trick used to make my body appear longer and leaner as he told me to “look sexy” and “seduce the camera.”
A few months later I am a “new face” with two modeling agencies in Los Angeles. Going to castings was miserable; I would drive for hours in traffic just to wait several more hours before being called into the room. There seems to be this myth about LA that models are these glamorous prototypes for beauty and fashion which every woman should aspire to become. However, in reality the working models I waited with at casting calls were a far cry from what anyone should aspire to look like; cheek bones protruding from their face, eyes sunk so deeply into their skull it’s impossible to tell their color, knees are the widest part of their legs, and their concave stomachs make you hungry at the sight.
When it was my turn to meet the client, they would take my comp card instead of asking my name; then holding a camera, ask me to face forward, click, turn to the side, click, turn to the other side, click, then they would take my measurements and ask me to leave. Two minutes was all it took for them to determine my fate and the fate of every girl who walked in that room.
As a working model, I was always imperfect to the modeling industry. “Just another five pounds” they would say, but when five pounds were shed, “just five more” was all I would hear. After four months of wasting my first year of college trying to become a professional hanger, I finally broke through the shiny plastic cover of that dark, cruel world of self-hatred and mutilation—I quit, escaped, ran away and only look back in sympathy for those hundreds of girls still blinded by the stars in their eyes.
-- Lauren McHale
(photo credit: Seth Sebal)
