“They let you wear that out of the store?”
“No. This one’s mine,” he said casually, as if everyone had an elf suit hanging in their closet. “Is Deb here?”
She wasn’t. Neither was Jamie. I’d been holding down the fort all morning without a word from either of them. This was not unusual. Jamie and Deb made their own schedules; their job performance based less on face-time in the office than how many pockets they could pick.
On his previous visit, Deb had pointed Little Timmy in the direction of our newest “staff photographer”, Mitchell Waring. The “staff” part meant that we gave Mitchell the use of our photo sweep for sessions, led unsuspecting models into his web, and got a fifty percent cut of the deal.
Not that Mitchell wasn’t a wonderful photographer. His book was full of beautifully shot photos---models with gorgeous hair and make-up, beautiful high-fashion clothes, and loads of style. Aspiring models were eager to shoot with the man who made everyone look so beautiful. What Deb or Jamie failed to mention was that the professional models in the book looked gorgeous before Mitchell snapped a single shot. That’s the thing about beautiful people; they have a tendency to photograph well.
Timmy’s previous photos had been done with Natasha Sims. Her work was fairly bland and corporate, but few who walked thru the portals of ABC knew the difference. She was sweet, but normally photographed food for chain restaurant menus and magazine ads. When it came to people, she lacked that photographer’s eye. Her suggested poses were either stiff and daguerreotype or just plain ridiculous. Mostly, she just let the models do whatever they wanted to do. And in her sessions with Timmy----oh, he was just full of ideas.
His portfolio-in-progress was an example of “Model Don’ts”.
Page one. His headshot. Moody, dark backlighting and then this GIANT PALE HEAD coming right at you. Like you’re being mooned by a face. A face with lip gloss. WAY too much lip gloss.
The next photo. Timmy wearing a black, skin-tight catsuit and leaning against a white wall with a blasé look on his face that was less sophisticated model and more Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.
Photo number three. Timmy in The Thinker pose. Acne not airbrushed and a look on his face that makes him look constipated and colicky. In the background, you can see the shoulder of the UPS delivery guy----but Deb convinced him that it was too good of a shot to lose.
Number four. Timmy with enough weird Goth make-up to make him look like a cross between Ziggy Stardust and a melon. For some reason, he wanted his pet hamster in the shot. Hamster droppings clearly visible.
And finally. Timmy gazing upwards as if he’s in an ad for an Italian designer. Hair slicked off his face, which makes his skinny neck look like it can barely support his Charlie Brown head. And worst of all, curled up in the fetal position wearing only a pair of Calvin Kline briefs. Hamster droppings clearly visible.
But apparently it was the half-inch trim that was costing him work.
Timmy sat quietly on the sofa, but his fidgety feet caused the bells on his pointy-toed elf shoes to jingle incessantly.
“Can I ask you a question?” Timmy leaned in with a sing-song voice.
Oh no. That’s always what the models said right before they asked, “Is this place legit?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just the temp,” the words just came out of my mouth before he’d even asked the question.
“Today’s temp is tomorrow’s agent,” Timmy said hopefully.
“No. Really. I’m not.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” he declared as he opened a small suitcase and started pulling clothes out like Gatsby throwing designer shirts around.
“Okay,” he said as he presented a see-thru mesh shirt, “’This one says ‘You can look but you cannot touch. No, no!’ And this one says, “Fly me to Milan and I’ll fly you to the moon!”
He pranced around the lobby area like a runway model on too much sugar.
“Um…” I tried to be helpful, “it’s hard to tell with the clothes still on the hangers.”
“Okay. That’s good. Good advice. I need honestly. I CRAVE honesty.”
With no one else around, I felt like it might be my one shot at helping one of these poor suckers. But I couldn’t be a Dream Killer. It just wasn’t in me.
“Timmy,” I began, “what do you want out of these new photos?”
“Well,” Timmy took the thought very seriously. “I want to get work as a print model. I know I’m not tall enough for runway. But if there’s a show where height isn’t a requirement…”
“Okay, forget about runway for a moment. Let’s talk print. I’ve seen your photos…and all this stuff. But it seems like you’re hiding behind your clothes. You’re not showing the real you.”
“I thought this was the real me,” Timmy sucked in his cheeks and posed as he held a cut-off t-shirt with the words “Too Sexy” in front of his elf suit.
“Look---the Timmy I see is not some pouty, stuck-up model. He’s sweet and kind and a little silly----but fun! You’re a funny guy!”
“Awwww…” Timmy put his hand to his chest as if he were about to cry at a wedding. “That’s so sweet of you to say!”
I was on a roll. I made someone feel good. It’d been a while since I’d done that. So I kept going.
“You’ve got…”
Well, maybe I should’ve left well enough alone. But he was waiting with baited breath, so I gave it my best shot. “You’ve got character. What you need are some simple photos that show your personality. A model is a salesperson. It could be clothes or cell phones or dog food---but what they’re looking for is a personality
