Modelling puts you through the ringer. Sub-zero shoots balancing on log piles in Holland Park, three-hour standing presentations in front of flashing cameras, the constant monitoring of your body – being a model isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.
However, it does present one with unmissable opportunities. Said moment came for me when I was 17 years old. My agent emailed me to say I’d been selected for the agency’s spring-summer 2017 show package, meaning I could attend castings for London Fashion Week. As a young model, it was a big deal.
What followed was chaos. I was emailed at 6pm each night with my castings for the next day, which were dotted all over London from Seven Sisters to Oxford Circus. Picture spiralling queues of teenagers and early-twenty-something-year-olds armed with model cards, cigarettes and spare pairs of black skinny jeans, waiting for up to three hours to be seen, scrutinised and swiftly shown out by a casting director.
Castings varied drastically. Some were held in serenely curated townhouse rooms in Mayfair, punctuated by white lilies and dark oak furniture. Streams of six-foot tall, dark-haired girls, who looked just like me but more angular, gathered on plushly-carpeted staircases, waiting for their make or break moment in the secretive room lined by industry veterans.
Other castings were less chic. I distinctly remember walking into the ballroom of the Royal National Hotel, nestled in the heart of Bloomsbury, and seeing a sea of beautiful faces turning to stare me down as I entered the room. Models snaked up and down the space in front of multiple designers who flanked the S-shaped catwalk, as if being mechanically pumped and processed through a beautiful factory.
© ImaxtreeA friend came up to me afterwards to tell me she just heard one model shame another for eating a sandwich – “Did you see her? She ate carbs…” A cliché if ever I heard one.
I quit London Fashion Week after three days. The final straw was queuing (one must be patient to model) for a casting in East London. I looked at the model in front of me, who had flown over from Eastern Europe, and saw that every single bone in her back was visible. I called my agent and said I couldn’t do it anymore.
© ImaxtreeDeep down, I recognised that I didn’t have the ‘correct’ body type for runway – after all, this was before curve models fully entered the scene and inclusivity was still in its infancy. At 5’10 and a size 6, I still couldn’t fit the conventional mould – so I drew a line under my modelling career.
Bizarrely, I still managed to book a show despite pulling out of fashion week castings. I’d already returned home to Oxfordshire, so I hopped on a train back to London.
The show was held in the Freemason’s Hall in Holborn. Models were rushed into hair and makeup, where my eyebrows were bleach white and my hair swept up into an otherworldly pineapple bun.
© ImaxtreeWe weren’t given time to practise our walk or map the runway. A voluminous, white neoprene structure was shimmied over my bulbously-styled head, embroidered with painterly appliqués, flowing layers of colourful chiffon and tapestry-inspired embroidery.
I slipped into a pair of clog heels (impossible to walk in) and stomped down the runway, not entirely sure of what I was doing, while being yelled at by photographers telling me to walk in the centre of the art deco catwalk.
Although it wasn’t an uplifting experience, I’m glad it did it. Not only did I meet some lovely girls while waiting for hours on end to be judged solely on my looks, but the week provided me with a string of highly entertaining stories to tell. Clog heels included.
But for now, I’ll stick to sitting by the runway, rather than walking down it.
