And It All Falls Around My Tush

           When I walked for the Ladies of Mercedes, I don't believe my walk was that bad. It tends to be on the minimalist side, and maybe the way I hold myself makes it slightly gawky, mainly because I was given the most instruction by the great Giambattista Valli, who prefers a very unobtrusive walk so as not to distract from his clothes. I got the right things down, at the end I put my weight on my right side, then shifted to the left, which made it easy for me to turn. I didn't trip. When they asked me to change something about my walk, I did.

            Kara walked for them and then the Head of the Mercedes Ladies took out a long, yellow tape measurer, which looped in her hands like a lasso.

            I actually didn't feel apprehensive. I felt great. And this part of a runway casting is the one thing you can't do much about now that you've gotten to where you are. What is is what is.

           She lassoed my waist expertly and they all deemed it chiquita, tiny.

           She looped it around the widest part of my hips. Then she paused, adjusted the tape and tried again. She gave me a nonplussed look that suggested all was not right here.

           'Put your legs together,' one of the ladies said.

           I did so, my shoes rubbing squeakily.

          They tried again. After this turn the Head looked at me and shook her cabesa. One of the Ladies said in English, 'I just don't see it. Turn around.'

           I did.

           Behind me, I heard a collective (and resonant) 'ahhHHhhh' of a group of women who finally understood the punch line to a joke.

           The same lady said in English, 'oh. Now I see it.'

I turned around to catch them all nodding at eachother in grave agreement. Then they began to speak in rapid-fire Spanish. The Head Merced shot out various names and the rest of the group shook their heads sorrowfully at each title. Eventually I realized that she was going through designers that had spaces in shows and the rest of the women were expressing their doubt that I could walk in them. Something had gone horribly wrong.

           Kara was measured too, and though they chatted with her like old friends and patted her sweetly, when the tape encircled her waist, the same thing happened. Here they were flabbergasted. In the end they wished us a quick goodnight (which is never a positive sign) and receded back into the back rooms of their beautifully shadowed, enshrouded spartan apartment, like three Fates after sniping the life chords of our Mercedes careers.

         We stood to go. I turned to Kara and voiced the suspicion that was on my mind.

          'It was my tush, wasn't it?'

          'Huh?'

          'Oh. It was my butt, wasn't it?'

          'Uh huh. Mine too.' She looked absolutely broken.
          If one of us had gotten the job right then, our taxi ride home would have been exceedingly awkward. As it were, we were able to commiserate and became friendly.

I began to feel horrible for Kara. She had come to Mexico City after being assured she would walk in almost all the shows. Now, she said, she'd be ridiculously lucky to land one. She knew the Head of Mercedes personally, and there had been a lot of expectation.

         The taxi driver starts laughing and for a second we think he is laughing at us and out large caboose conundrums. But he is pointing at two women walking down the street.

          'Prostitutes!' He says, cackling.

          We both snort at him. It dawns on me that he was trying to lighten the mood by distracting us with sights from the town, because seconds later he says, 'Restaurante: es good!' And then: 'muy traffico, todos muy traffico!' He succeeded in distracting us, for moments at least, dispute his non-sequitur stratagem.

          It took me about a night to get over the ordeal. You get to a certain point where you realize that modeling is all, all about subjectivity and clashing opinions on what defines "beauty". At first it kills; when someone thinks you are sub par: not beautiful enough for them or their cause. But you get about four fails to every success and eventually you gain a tougher skin. What modeling has given me is a sort of skewed sense of self. I know I am fine, for me, for my standards. I have a pillar inside me, the string that pulls me up straight, attached to the stars. It would take a whole lot for my sense of self to be cut or dismantled.

          At the same time, it is incredibly difficult to not feel that personal devastation when someone says, candidly, business-like, that you are not up to scruff. People tend to say their thoughts with such assertion: you have to in this business; the fashion industry is so subjective with so many counter opinions you must make your own ideas count.

         This makes sense, but as a result, to be a model you need to have a good amount of self confidence, while, at the same time, be able to have a realistic vision of yourself. It is ridiculously tricky for girls to keep this up, so you find many models from both categories. Some can not find a fault in themselves, and some can only see the faults. The former attitude is a difficult one to work with professionally, while the latter is horrifically unhealthy and a danger to your mental and physical health. In this business, however, I would deign to say that being overly confident is a lot more beneficial to a girl, especially because self confidence has a way of rubbing off on people. In the business of life however, I guess it depends!                       

                Wonderfully enough, I have had the great fortune to work with many, many women who have a beautiful outlook on their life and their jobs.

                On a side note, I met the Kara at a casting later on and she was very excited to say she had made a couple of Mercedes shows because they had especially wanted her for them. Maybe I never had a chance, but it was a bit of a slight slug to the stomach again. But in the long run of things I was very happy for her. Coming in especially for Mercedes, (brought by the Ladies themselves) and not doing one show, would be crushing.

                I guess I kind of went off on a tangent but, needless to say, I've recovered from my Mercedes embarrassment. It's difficult to think that you might be a couple centimeters too big for something when you know that you are healthy by your own, and most of the industry's standards, but runway is a different beast.

               

               Who knows? Someday my backside will become an asset.

               Did you get that?

I hope so because I think it's punny and I have to tell that joke everytime I tell that story (which is quite a lot, because by now I've had time to realize my failure is funny)

The Mercedes Benz

The Mercedes Benz Shows are what really make up Mexico's Fashion Week. Getting a lot of those shows is important, even slightly career defining...for runway at least. Mercedes is huge because its series of shows are exhibited all around the world, in the major fashion centers, like Milan and Paris and New York. As a model, you would work with designers and stylists from these industry hubs. You can establish yourself, both in Mexico and internationally. 

I came slightly later than the big casting for Mercedes, but the agency convinced the women on the Mercedes board that they should check me out anyways. It was a late casting, 7:00pm, but very nearby. When I got there, 10 minutes early, I met one of the ladies out front, who rang the doorbell to the Head of board's house.

The Head of Mercedes had a very small, exuberant dog, PhiPhi, whose tail was just a furry mound on her rump. When she wagged it, her whole bottom half shook, including her forelegs. As PhiPhi wagged her tail constantly, the result was comical: she could never really walk straight and was always in the midst of a balancing act. When someone was at the door, she never really achieved the status of “guard dog”, but nevertheless endeavored in earnest. Her bark and mien attempted ferocity, but her tail wagged all the same. In this MO, she met me at the door. There was a grille separating us, but in her excitement she attempted to squeeze through, though only her puffy face fit. While the head remained immobile, the rest of the body behind the bars was at the mercy of her tail, which was wriggling madly. When the maid opened the door, PhiPhi's head was still wedged behind the bars. For a moment she slid with the door, paws scrabbling. Then with a Yelp!, she freed herself and scooted away from the offending grille.

After that, we were the best of friends. When I sat to wait on a horsehair chair of zebra print, she proceeded to lick my feet and my hands. I'm sure, if she were taller, she would have attempted to climb into my lap and lick my face, but as it was, the little thing could barely paw my knees. Which she did, tail bouncing from side to side energetically.

The little dog put me at ease. People in charge of castings tend to be very imposing, whether it's from my preconception, or because they act purposefully aloof. I have a feeling it is a mezcla of both; (mezcla means mix, it's my word of the day!) so when I met with women in charge of the Mercedes casting, I was very nervous. They were all business of course, but when the business is the subjective, professional criticism of your body, you tend to feel apprehensive.

With PhiPhi there, it was hard not to laugh a little, and laughing in the face of your prospective physical evaluation is very comforting.

Another girl arrived: Kara, from Germany. She knew the women personally, they greeted her warmly with a Mi Amore! I found out later the Ladies called everyone that, but actually at the time the sentiment was nice.

We waited a spell. The flat was lovely, two stories; white stairs wound up above our heads and there was a glass atrium on the second floor. You could see the sky turn dusky. Even with PhiPhi, la pocquenio perra, yapping and causing a general ruckus...licking Kara's legs and pouncing at both of our knees, the anticipation got to me. The flat, with its beige and blood orange accents, its oak paneling and Japanese ascetics began to unnerve, I think both of us, with the waiting. The atrium began to have me think of an eye. I could hear the Ladies chatting about us in an undertone while I was laughing with PhiPhi and Kara. While I have a difficult time communicating in Spanish I have accumulated a decent enough vocabulary to understand what people are talking about, in general. I am pretty sure they liked my look and that they were imagining how it'd go with the different runways that create Mercedes. That made me feel relieved. But they hadn't seen my walk yet: so my relief was short-lived.

The Fountains of The Hippodromo

           A weekend at rest can transform rapidly into a weekend of homesickly melancholic self-pity for a newly-arrived solo traveler. If you do not have an intinierary to follow, you can slip ever so quickly and ever so subtly into the Doldrums. Luckily Amsterdam is a prime space to wander. Sunday morning I visited Starbucks again and took my Grande Green Tea Latte on a walk around the Hippodromo, intent on sketching at a very cosmopolitan fountain I recalled from my last visit. As anticipated, at this time in the mid-morning, the fountain was in direct sunlight. After near brushes with two dogs chasing each other through the bushes (and through the fountain) I spent sometime sketching a vividly green, ferny tree. Presently, a man deposited himself on a seat near by mine, and, with a moment of grave appraisle of the fountain before us, took off his jacket and his shoes. With some happy ceremony, as if he was the only one enjoying the fountain on this earth, the man dangled his feet in the water, dipped his shoes in the piscina, and proceeded to pour water from one loafer into the other like they were gravy boats. Then he removed his shirt and dried them out with grave attention. Once his shoes were dried to his satisfaction, he set them in the sun and waded out into the water, his pant legs rolled to his knees.
              I had a hard time deigning who this man must be. He was taking a bath in a fountain, but this didn't look like a thing he would be doing on a normal day. His clothes were decidedly expensive looking, albeit slightly dirty. Contradicting his attire: while he enjoyed the fountain, he talked to a nonexistent person, supposedly right next to him.
             All of us at the fountain were worried about where this was going: the vaguely anxious couple with the baby, that worried looking gentleman with the backpack, the skate-boarding-dog-walker. It looked like the man in the fountain had every intention of removing his pants and taking a full bodied bath. I could see everyone physically brace themselves when he put his hands to his waistline.
But he did not remove his pants. He only hiked them up higher and waded further into the fountain and closer to the spray of water at its center. Once there he lifted his arms in exhultation, letting the spray land on his shoulders.
            In the bright sunlight, the fountain sparkled with irresistable clarity and all the colors in the little cloche of restaurants surrounding it became absolutely brilliant. The shirtless man in the fountain, with his arms spread wide in simple happiness seemed like a perfect slice of life.
I left while the picture was still beautiful and no other articles of clothing were removed.