Almost 5'4". Isobella Jade
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Название: Almost 5'4"
Автор: Isobella Jade
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
isbn: 9780007357352
isbn:
‘Why not?’ I said, tapping my fingernails nervously on the table, anxious to get this whole parent meeting over with. I thought about the degree and smirked when I saw his mother’s look of shock, but she merely continued to chew fast. I knew she hated me and my swearing. I didn’t care. I hated her too.
With a worried tone, she said, ‘You should really think about your future.’ She had just retired from being a teacher and sounded like one. Then, after a huge gulp of milk, she added, ‘Isn’t your mom a teacher? Wouldn’t she want you to get your degree?’
Big deal! In two years I would claim a printed piece of paper. It could hardly define me. In front of the camera I was more myself, more real.
Would this weekend ever end?
To make up for lost time, after dinner I snuck on the computer and typed a few emails, then checked up on my Onemodelplace.com account. Nothing new. I hardly had any hits that day and I blamed it on Danny, and his mother’s challah bread. I felt the pressure. How could I call myself a model if I couldn’t even compete with the other wannabes who were no doubt shooting at that very second?
It never occurred to me that the girls in Seventeen and Cosmo Girl or YM magazine made more money and got more exposure, which of course led to bigger things. Or that keeping your clothes on is even sexier and pays a lot more money because of the ad campaign. I should have known this. I was an advertising major in college after all, but I didn’t put two and two together.
I began to enjoy shooting nude more and more. It wasn’t just for practice though. It was for a feeling of empowerment – sexuality and fantasy all at once. I only felt good and confident about myself when I was modeling naked.
Yet inside my life felt like a roller coaster as I went from my boyfriend’s bedroom to my college classroom to the photographer’s bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. They had me taking off my clothing, running around, dancing and playing musical chairs, sitting, standing, sticking my tongue out, lounging in chairs, curling up with a pillow on a sofa, lying on dining room tables, or in bathtubs and on balconies. Then I’d run back to class. I would sometimes do my homework on the train in between. I was stressed all the time. In the back of my mind I heard voices saying, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ And then, ‘You can do it little girl!’
All these bipolar-like emotions made me very aggressive, impatient, and anxious. My heart rate would fly as I spoke to the clerk at the lobby desk and then pushed the elevator button. Then, once I arrived at the correct floor, I wondered which way I should walk. Right? Or left? The pauses before I knocked or rang the doorbell were filled with thoughts of tiptoeing back to the elevator, out the door and back to my dorm room. I knew I wasn’t really a model because I saw magazines and billboards every day, and I wasn’t on them. I felt more like an escort, like a tease, like a present for the afternoon.
My ‘hobby,’ for want of a better word, haunted me daily so I decided to get serious and look up some modeling agencies. I found a list of agencies in NYC that accepted photos by mail. Besides the weekly stipend my mother gave me for food, which didn’t go far, I didn’t have much money, so I couldn’t get quality prints of my shots to send out. Instead, I used the printer in my dorm room. I spent a few hours adjusting the pictures in Photoshop and cropping them, then printing out a collage-like presentation of my photos. To my surprise, they looked pretty good and were sure to impress an agent or booker. Or so I thought.
I never heard back from anyone.
But I wasn’t looking to get famous or to become a supermodel; I didn’t care about those things. I was intense, fast-talking and excited to tiptoe around the apartments of anonymous photographers. It was just wonderful to feel the attention of the lens, from the photographer, and I got it so easily. I didn’t need an agency to give me what I needed.
The penthouse had to be over twenty stories high, but it was a beautiful view. I’d never seen a view like it before that day. The city was such a paradise from that angle, and I felt like a princess peering over my kingdom as the photographer snapped away. I willingly leaned forward to show some of my cleavage to him through my very low tank top.
I was trying to stay as still as possible, like a tightrope walker. If I tipped a little to the left I would be a goner.
He said, ‘You’re the only model who hasn’t been afraid of sitting on such a narrow ledge in such a short skirt. Or looking down.’ Taking it as a challenge, I decided I wanted to be the first and did just that. I felt proud that I might be remembered for this risky pose.
His apartment was big and bright, with loads of sunlight. He wasn’t talented, but with the right lighting and angle, he could get a good enough shot. He was in his thirties and had a full-time career in real estate. I wondered if he was looking for a girlfriend or a playmate because most of what he shot was sexy. Naturally, he had contacted me through Onemodelplace.com.
I immediately wanted to shoot with him. The girls shown on his mini-site were beautiful: flawless skin, no scars, perfect hair and teeth, big supple breasts. All were ahead of me in that sense.
Later, I learned that he wasn’t skilled enough to shoot me. Nor was he capable of really capturing a person’s essence. He just wanted me in a sexy garment, which was fine by me. He knew nothing about lighting. He didn’t even own any lighting equipment. And he only knew a small amount about cameras. Although he owned a digital and called himself an artist, really he just pressed a button as I ran around and twirled.
I needed practice on how to be natural, to give a real smile, and to show myself off in different ways. At these shoots I got to be an actress, to show emotion and to maybe even get one or two good shots out of the deal. I was like a porn star without the sex.
Later, I changed into a black thong and a denim zippered top. Next, I jumped and teased in a pink dress, posing with the city as my backdrop. I felt so proud, so admired at that moment. He was on the other side of the roof, pointing. Then suddenly he said something and flapped his arms around like a bird. I couldn’t hear him because the wind was whipping round my head, but I started twirling and let my dress spin in case that’s what he meant. He snapped away.
At that moment nothing mattered but the camera and me. I was no longer just a girl from upstate New York. I was the model I had always wanted to be.
He followed me around the apartment. Being nude wasn’t a striptease. It was just what I wanted to do, and the camera followed. The third time we worked together, I sat on the stained, wooden kitchen table. Although it was cold, the sunset’s golden rays were hitting my face, tinting my hair red. Sitting there nude felt right. He hadn’t pressured me to do it. I had done it before. Once I was nude it was as if my body exhaled.
This time, I went to the bathroom and greased myself up with baby oil. It chilled my stomach and glistened as I walked to the kitchen, tiptoeing and petting his cat along the way. I opened the fridge to pull out some condiments and leftovers. Then I emptied the foam icebox. I placed myself in it, sitting СКАЧАТЬ