Jezebel
You know how every time you get too comfortable with yourself, secure with your identity and your shortcomings, strengths flaws etc. etc., you'll suddenly out of nowhere for whatever reason find yourself plopped into a strange unfamiliar new context that challenges all you thought and believed and assumed was true? Well in modeling that place is called Paris. After a lifetime of holding as a self-evident truth that she was thin, our anonymous model Tatiana journeyed to Paris and learned that the opposite was, in fact, the case. How Tatiana learned to adjust to the harsh reality of her fat, in a very special Modelslips, after the jump.
Today's Modelslips is entirely spurred by one commenter's question. See how questions are important? E-mail yours to: Tatiana.Anymodel@gmail.com
From Dosido:
You seem to be extremely well-adjusted and body-positive. Has working as a model ever caused you to doubt yourself to the point that you've considered engaging (or have engaged) in the sort of self-destructive behaviors that so many models fall victim to? Things like smoking to kill appetite, drugs (same reasons, I suppose), or anorexia/bulimia?
—-—
Other commentators as of late have pointed to a time in recent memory when, they say, a US size 6-8 woman was standard on the runway; other writers have said that there was a time when models took up space. I don't remember this time. Models have always seemed to me universally skinny, small-breasted and towering, with their big eyes, sharp cheekbones, and protruding hipbones.
As an adolescent, I had no trouble recognizing my body type in theirs. My measurements were 32-24-34 — perfect for scaring my doctor, sending my BMI farther into the chart's nether regions with every inch I grew, and, at least theoretically, the kind of editorial and runway work that requires one to fit into the one-off, uniformly sized sample clothes designers make for their collections' first outings. I had years of periods that came as if I were on Seasonale (I wasn't) and the friend who was my secret crush probably never realized how badly he hurt my feelings when he gave me the nickname that would stick to me through high school — Death. I ate whatever I wanted in whatever quantities I wanted, and didn't even play an all-year sport. For a time, I happened to be as thin as is currently considered ideal in one Western industry.
Until, one day, sometime in college, I wasn't.
When a New York agency expressed interest in representing me, on the proviso that I trim my 26-inch waist and 37-inch hips to some more reasonable approximation of a waif, I went home by way of the library and checked out the first diet book I'd ever looked at. Three months of eating probably not enough and doing lots of yoga and weight training (which didn't help me lose weight, except insofar as muscle gain speeds metabolism, but which did give me quick results that kept me from dropping the whole exercise regime in frustration) earned me a 23-inch waist and 35-inch hips. The same agency expressed reservations about my hip measurement, but I went to fashion week and made decent bookings anyway. This was enough to merit my going on to Paris.
At the other end of a transatlantic flight, I was dropped off at an office to sign a contract in a language I don't read. Then I was introduced to a man who grabbed me by my hips and made loud exclamations in a language I don't speak. Two of the bookers giggled from across the room.
"Your 'eeps, Tatiana," he sneered, exhaling cigarette smoke. "Zey are not ze 'eeps of uh mo-duhl."
He then banned me from show castings. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.
I went to the apartment where I was to stay, I lugged my suitcase up six flights of stairs when it wouldn't fit in the tiny elevator, and I crawled under the covers of my living room cot and cried.
The next morning, when, jetlagged, I awoke at 5 a.m., I started looking up calorie counts for the foods I most often consume. I trawled the web for low-calorie, low-fat, high-fiber, high-protein, generally nutritious food. I found diets that should have horrified me alluring. I wondered whether I should consume 1400 calories a day or if I could knock it down to 1200 without provoking ketosis. Not going to castings meant I had a lot of free time, and no chance of getting any work meant I had the excuse of poverty to explain the paucity of my diet.
I exercised on the hard tile floor of the kitchen. With four room-mates filling the living room as well as the ostensible bedroom, it was the only room in the tiny apartment where there was any privacy. It did occur to me, as I did my daily 20 minutes of yoga, my daily two sets each of 20 sit-ups, my lunges with 20 pound weights, my squats, bicep curls, and tricep extensions, that trying to get my measurements within the parameters that were so comfortable when I was 14, was slightly sick. What kind of industry would demand an adult woman forever maintain the dimensions of girlhood? I often thought about this as I counted my push-ups.
I keep a document I created during this period on my desktop. It's titled "1 cup of oatmeal with brown sugar.doc" — my preferred breakfast, even though it is one that doesn't exist in France, was the first food item I thought to analyze — and it contains about 12 pages, single-spaced, of recipes, calorie counts, diet tips ("Drinking COLD water burns extra cals bc your body must use energy to bring the water up to body temp") and other esoterica of a not-quite-right mind. I lasted about two weeks in this phase — long enough to knock a half-inch off my hips and quell the objections of the smoker and get grudgingly sent to a few castings — and I never had body dysmorphia or any of the other diagnostic criteria of a true eating disorder. But I keep 1 cup of oatmeal with brown sugar.doc on my desktop to remind me how easy it is in this industry to slip into disordered eating. You have so little else to do besides watch your weight, and so many opportunities for self-denial.
That was over a year ago, and I mostly remember it as my little Paris freak-out; my reaction to a new and strange and isolating industry and one mean man. I eat more or less what I want now, and I've found that my bookings have grown as a function of my book, and bear little relationship to my measurements, whether actual or those stated on my cards. But there is a tiny way in which I feel the subjective experience of modeling dovetails with the subjective experience of an eating disorder sufferer — at least one area of theoretical accord that underlies the two.
The experience of being a model is largely one of reducing the body to symbol. When you see a model, you don't think "woman": you think "body" and its component parts. "Lips" are here symbolic of "Yves Saint Laurent perfume." "Face" means "David Yurman jewelry." "Legs" on this page represent "Dolce and Gabbana ready-to-wear."
A version of this happens live. Walking the runway is an experience like being in a diving bell: you can see the world around you, but your usual connection with it has been artificially suppressed. You must stare straight ahead, part your lips slightly, and not make eye contact. You have to look through the people who are staring at you and barking commands at you from the photographers' pit. You have to occasionally scan where those people might plausibly be, but never see them. You are, needless to say, mute, but also physically unresponsive to your surroundings. And you expect no response from them.
In 1993, during a Vivienne Westwood show in Paris, Naomi Campbell fell on the runway. The only impressive thing about this, or any other runway fall I'm aware of (save one: Karen Elson's tumble at Zac Posen this February), is that nobody — neither the other models nor the front-row audience members who sit within inches of them — ever goes to help the stricken model, even when they have tumbled from 8" platform shoes such as those Campbell was wearing, shoes that can break, and have broken, the wearer's ankles. Because a fall is not supposed to happen, the production can never acknowledge a fall when one occurs.
Reducing the body to symbol is of course what the anorexic or the bulimia sufferer does. (Or the serious athlete, for that matter.) We remake our bodies as monuments: to hungers overcome, to perceived strengths, to a gendered, formal ideal we've sized up or down to. Bodies no longer communicate want or need: we subject them to our desires, and take pleasure in their submission.
I certainly enjoyed every inch I ever lost.
I also very much enjoy walking on the runway.
But there is one way in which this industry has taught me to take less of an obsessive interest in how I measure up, appearance-wise. The feedback you receive as a model is breathtaking in its contradictions, vehemence, and beside-the-point meanderings. My shoulders, too broad for one client, will be criticized for their narrowness by another. I have been told I have too many freckles, and also too few. I've been too pale, too tan, too old, too young, too brown, too red, too blonde. I'm too tall or too short. My feet are too big or not big enough. At first, this was unsettling, and kind of withering, but it soon became white noise — when a casting agent shares advice with me ("Tie your hair back for castings!" "Walk more smoothly!" "Work out so you have some arm muscle!") I thank him or her politely and do precisely nothing — because I know the next will want to see unfettered hair, a cocky swagger of a walk, and arms that aren't as "bulky" with muscle as mine. It all cancels out, and I'm left with the conclusion that the client will cast whomever they will cast and they'll know it as soon as the right model walks in the door and nothing in my power will change that. The best I can do is show up.
It's a strangely liberating conclusion to have drawn from fashion.
Comments
This was a very interesting read. Especially in light of the fact that I broke out the scale and measuring tape the other night while, admittedly, a little tipsy. My boyfriend caught me consulting old diaries containing daily measurements and my only reaction was "my thigh measurement is 19 inches, look, that's less than when I was 20."
Needless to say, he's very eager for me to find a therapist.
I can't imagine working in an industry such as yours.
Tatiana for President. Okay, VP to Obama. Seriously.
This sounds like some actually good advice. Someone like you should be an ANTM guest, rather than the latest insane photographer or demanding fashion designer.
It's good to be reminded that fashion and beauty are industries, and as such, do not give a fuck about my feelings, or yours. They're out to make a dollar, and they'll use our body issues against us to make that dollar. Hell, they'll INCREASE our body issues to make another dollar.
How great would it be if all women said, "we're wearing Dickies and white t-shirts, and not spending a penny, until you all quit fucking with us."
"Strangely liberated" is probably the best and only mindset one should be blessed to have while working in that industry.
Wow, is that frightening.
That last paragraph is something I really had to learn as an actress too. It's crazy how many people are out there who want to give you advice (and want you to pay outrageous sums of money for it too) and every one of them says a different thing.
It's not quite white noise to me yet, because I haven't met with as much success in my field as Tatiana has to have confidence in my own methods.
I love this feature.
I always wish I were a willowy model. Instead I'm an oaken writer. Tatiana, you are blessed with both a brain and a body. Lucky you.
@Archetype: I've never even thought about measuring my thigh. I'm supposed to measure my head for my graduation cap, and I keep putting it off because I think it's just wrong that I know I'll measure my waste and hips at the same time just to know.
i'm scared.
@Lymed: Hah, I remember having to measure my head for the cap. I kept thinking I was doing it wrong, then I realized I have a really small head. Sigh.
@Lymed: @Archetype: I stay away from measurements if at all possible. I have thighs like tree trunks, and I'm generally okay with that (tree trunk thighs + short legs = pants shopping nightmare), but I think if I were to actually measure them I would cry. Because the results would likely be in the realm of a model's waist measurement.
@unpopular: I'm a huge fan of your "Dickies and white T-shirts" plan.
@AuroraVox: meant to say that I'm okay with my thighs DESPITE resulting shopping nightmares. gah.
It is very weird, to look back at a time when one was so focused as to be like another person. Earlier last year I somehow went through three months having a hand-sized microwave container of broccoli for lunch, every day. It made me inestimably grouchy.
The best I can do is show up. That is a very good approach. However, I do believe it is particularly esteem-crushing in the world of fashion.
I want to thank Tatiana, but I feel conflicted about everything she writes versus what she embodies.
"Self-examination... I do not think it means... what you think it means."
Tatiana, you may have answered this before and I missed it, but what's your plan for work after modeling?
Also -- when do people generally become considered "too old" to model?
In my industry (definitely not modeling) women are ideally 25-35. Any younger than that (me), people ask if we're the intern, and any older than that (as is the case with a friend/coworker), people ask if we're sure we're still in touch with what's next in our industry.
"Because a fall is not supposed to happen, the production can never acknowledge a fall when one occurs."
That's really creepy when you think about it. What if a model really does break her ankle? Or seriously hurts herself? Be perfect or die.
@LittleNemo: I have some problems with this.
@AuroraVox: Same here as far as the tree trunk thighs. Everything else on me is tiny(er)...oh wells. We don't overanalyze men's bodies like this, so I'm not going to do so to mine.
@AuroraVox: I once read an article in Allure where a thin-all-her-life woman said to her friend "Your thighs touch? Each other?" If my friend said that to me, in addition to being naturally slim, she would also suddenly become unnaturally headless.
@JessicaLovejoy: Boosh and/or Kakow!: ha, definitely! and I have reasonable proof that men think that the idea of "women's thighs touching each other" is damn sexy. so there.
@JessicaLovejoy: Boosh and/or Kakow!: LOL! I just had a drunken conversation with my friend where I was talking about my boobies creeping to my armpits and she didn't get it. At all. She finally said, "Wait, your tits like move when you lie down? That's weird." Ugh, stab stab.
@JessicaLovejoy: Boosh and/or Kakow!: Oh my, that's a horrible thing to say.
Honestly, the biggest impact on my body image has been those around me. My boss going on and on about how much weight he's lost, coworkers telling me to enjoy my body "while I still have it," my mother asking me if I've lost weight/how much I weigh, etc.
I've found that the more weight I lose, the more obsessed I become. I think this is true for many women.
So, working in an industry where your body is your product and constantly discussed as if an intangible object...let's just say I can understand how so many girls would have problems.
@AuroraVox: also, this post reminds me of the episode of ANTM where Marc Bouwer tells Cassie that at 35 inches, her hips are too wide. which is exactly the right thing to say to a (supposedly-recovering) bulimic.
Losing half an inch off her hips satisfied him? Can't think. No words. Need cookie.
And perspective.
@Archetype: I have diaries like that... my numbers all get bigger...
I will have to read this every day to remind myself of what it means to be ME.
I am not too much of anything - I am not less either.
I am only now accepting the fact that this body is the one I get.
You have no idea how incredibly important you are, Tatiana.
@AuroraVox: I remember that. It's one of the few seasons I watched. That girl was so sad.
@AuroraVox: I remember that scene vividly. Except he wanted no more than 35 inches in the hips and hers were 39. That guy is definition Douche. I bet he treats his 35 inch girls like crap too.
@Archetype: FYI, I don't mean sad as in pathetic. Just hard to watch, because she was so.....sullen.
This was a really great read Tatiana. It's can't think of a single other creative industry that has the ability to be as personally damaging as being a model. As a fashion designer, graphic designer, architect, writer, artist, etc., etc., etc., it's so easy to grow attached to what you create and express and be genuinely hurt by any negative reactions (which is why freshman year constructive criticism is the wooorst). But I can only imagine what it's like when your body is your mode of expression...
It's taken me over a year as a professional to distance myself from my designs. It's not that I don't care anymore, but it's just not as embedded in my existence anymore. I like it MUCH better this way. So kudos to you for being so tough as a model. You're clearly experienced and intelligent enough to handle it, and damn it, what an awesome job.
You are honestly the best writer on Jezebel. By a longshot. Model on the side and write your memoirs, seriously.
@Archetype: sullen, lost, and overly obsessed with the purity of her low-carb brownies (gag).
"The best I can do is show up." I think that's true of any profession. You talk too much, you don't speak up enough, you've had too many positions, you've been in one place too long, you have too much experience (read: too expensive), you aren't experienced enough. Of course, I doubt I was rejected at first glance because my German girl lips aren't plump enough.
And so you don't think I'm a random nutjob--I write and edit for a living.
"What kind of industry would demand an adult woman forever maintain the dimensions of girlhood?"
So so so well put! I've been there/done that with the ED/DE thing and I'm doing okay now, but just about freaked out last week when I was cleaning out my closets and found my zeros from high school and/or more recent ED months and got pissed at myself for not being able to fit into them anymore. And then I had to remind myself that I haven't been 14 for 10 years. And that 14 year olds are just that... FOURTEEN. And I don't want to be 14 again thank you very much. Anyway... thank you for that sentence. It will be my new mantra.
@AuroraVox: I feel strangely lucky that I have no clue what measurements really mean... mostly because I can't figure out where in hell the tape measure is supposed to go, and depending on where I put it it can vary quite a bit. The waist size I seem to come up with varies much more often than my pant size, which in itself seems to have nothing to do with the waist size I measure! Which is not to say that I still haven't had many hours/months/years of anguish over going up a pant size (or wondering if I haven't just because of vanity sizing). But damn.... if I were Tatiana I'd be like "Smoking rude man, slide the tape measure up/down... there, smaller, see? Now shut the fuck up."
@AuroraVox: I, too, have thick thighs and short legs, and it does indeed makes pants-shopping awful and almost futile. Though I did recently find the Levi's 553 jeans which work very well! They're mid-rise, dark-wash, slight boot-cut (so while not being "trouser jeans" which I think look icky, they're also not so tight as to make our hips look like some fun-house mirror reflection) and the "short" size is actually short! I'm 5'1" and with shoes on the length is great.
I really like this post, Tatiana - it's nice to see that you were pretty quickly able to see through the BS and seem to be very perceptive about the industry.
@JessicaLovejoy: Boosh and/or Kakow!: when I see women whose thighs don't touch, I wonder if their vaginas get cold. is it drafty up in there? do their pants last longer because they don't have the chub-rub wearing them out? what happens in the event of the apocalypse and these poor women have no body fat to help them live longer? like several of you I suffer from tree-trunk-thigh-itis. and I definitely have a short inseam, but like I told my skinny friend (who currently lives in LA), I'm just storing my food for later use. I'm like a camel, but my humps are my hips, and the extra storage is in the adjacent thighs. in the event of armageddon, my ass can be used as a flotation device.
"It all cancels out, and I'm left with the conclusion that the client will cast whomever they will cast and they'll know it as soon as the right model walks in the door and nothing in my power will change that. The best I can do is show up."
This is applicable to so much more than modeling, and I can't help but think that the world would be a better place if everyone could internalize that. Thank you.
(It took me forever to learn it when I auditioned for roles, but I'm finally getting there. This helped. So, again, thanks.)
@andromache:
Bahahhaha! That was the best comment ever. I call my ass a flotation device too!
@unpopular: after spending a weekend in nothing but wifebeaters (ugh, i hate that name) and snowpants... i'm a convert. no wonder so many folk give a rat's ass about appearance out here- that gear is ADDICTIVE (seriously- i went out and bought 3 pairs of sweatpants today).
@andromache: i have long legs (35 inch inseam, natch). It's so freakin' hard to find pants that fit, that when you do it's like you can hear angels singing from the heavens above. the grass is always, ALWAYS greener.
@JessicaLovejoy: Boosh and/or Kakow!: Oh my god, I remember that article. It's been kicking around in the back of my head for years. I think about it every once in a while, when I'm being mean to myself.
Just this weekend, a friend said that she had once been told that your legs should form three triangles when standing- one between the thighs above the knees, one at the top of the calves, and another at the ankles. I stood up to figure out if my legs looked the way they "should" look before remembering that it was total bullshit. I'm kind of embarrassed it took me a minute to realize that there is no should. Work in progress.
really though, i sometimes think The Man gets us all obsessed about ourselves so we pay less attention to the IMPORTANT stuff - don't give in! who cares what your thighs look like if you're saving the world? TAKE UP SPACE
very nicely written. i know that not all models are stupid, but a good majority (like the rest of the population) are, and it is refreshing to read something that is so well-written and insightful from the mind of a model. and good for you for being able to keep things in perspective. i did some modeling about ten-ish years ago, and it was an awful experience all around. i was scouted by an agent, did test shots, and was promptly told to lose at least 15 pounds to reduce my (humungous!) 36" hips. most of the other girls i worked with were mean (and stupid to boot), and i constantly felt fat and ugly. at 16 i couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that i didn't have the right 'look', and i took it really personally.
AHHHHH!!!! So where's this Doc? I need it. I am obsessed with being thin and model hot. So I would REALLY love to have that diet plan, is there any way to get it?
P.S. I'm a guy and I'm not gay and I have a fiance. But I live to be thin.