Models on the border line

There were no words of rejection I hadn’t heard by the time I left the modeling industry. I was forever “two inches too small”, or “half an inch too wide”, which is why – as a plus-sized size ten – nothing ever added up. I’ve never fully understood the logic, as – while the hanger-like proportions of runway models are consistently scrutinized for their ‘unhealthy’ body image, and the boom of the plus-size industry is fuelling constant debate on the principles of fashion – the girls with the healthiest figures are being completely ignored.

Is ‘The Perfect Ten’ still something we strive for, or must we now go either way? I for one – who eats a balanced diet and exercises regularly – think that sacrificing my health for a quick buck is probably the reason I ended up behind the lens. But the industry is awash with girls that are, right now, weighing up the options between slimming down to compete with the super-waifs, or fattening up for a cereal campaign that only casts clinically overweight girls.

It’s hardly the image of perfection we’re led to believe. Part of me even wonders if this new fuss over the plus-size market is really just an extension of the way political correctness is heading. Are designers trying to prove a point by hiring bigger girls? Is it because they strongly oppose the size-zero? Or is it because the press will be living on their doorstep for the following few weeks if they do?

It baffles me that the initiative hasn’t yet been taken to launch an agency that specifically represents the girls from the in-between. It’s all well and good wanting to appeal to the masses by showing how clothes can look across the spectrum, but wouldn’t it make sense to find a happy medium? That way at least, people can strive for a healthy weight without conforming to the extremes that we’ve grown so used to.

Lara Stone is a prime example of how successfully this can be done. When she erupted onto the scene with her unique features and hint of curvature, industry professionals were bending over backwards to be at her side. Obviously, her looks are outstanding, and it’s not often that someone with such magnetism comes along, but is that because they’re not given the chance? The industry advises that measurements of 35-25-35 are the maximum that would be considered in fashion. Therefore Gwyneth Paltrow, Paris Hilton and Angelina Jolie would all be bypassed if they were unknowns, trying to launch a modeling career.

When it’s put like that, it’s difficult to imagine how designers can expect to find their muse. Isn’t that what they strive for in their models? Clearly there are plenty of beautiful girls out there that fit the ideal size requirements, but surely there are tricks being missed. There are probably hundreds of Angelina’s or Lara’s that aren’t being given a second look right now, purely because of their waist to hip ratio. And that’s the saddest thing. Despite all the hype about casting or not casting plus-size girls, they still fit into a category that has closed itself off. I’m just looking forward to the day that it will be OK again to wear a decent size ten.

The Rabbit in the Moon

“Just there. On its side. Almost upside down.” Chris spoke with playful irritation as I stared intently into the glowing mass. I couldn’t believe how redundant my eyes had been for almost 16 years as I squinted them tighter – rotating my head in adolescent frustration.

The stale air that hung outside the Centro de Placement felt hot against my hungry, sun-kissed skin, and the more I tried to see with his eyes, the more I felt them prying deeper into me. I dared not look.

I’d never seen the moon like that before. Never really studied it like I had the faces of my closest friends; the family that were slowly building around me. Instead it had always acted as a superfluous entity – the kind of accessory that you’d only ever notice when someone pointed it out.

And that’s exactly what Chris did. He showed me beauty in the things I’d forever taken for granted – the way that fields of sunflowers rose with the sun, following its steady journey before bowing west at twilight. His manner of explaining things, with such softly spoken prose, made my hopeless heart reach out to him in a way that I never imagined it could. And it hurt. Unbearably so.

Our nightly exchanges became a welcome release from the daily despondency of the orphanage. We’d watch carers unpack shoeboxes, only to share them out amongst themselves. We’d witness fully-grown men running naked across the courtyard when sunlight glittered through the trees. We’d mother the helpless babies of Ceausescu’s aftermath, when what we really needed was mothering, ourselves.

I grew used to it after a while – the melancholy lifestyle. Or maybe it was the contradiction I was offered after dark that became so familiar. Either way, Chris became a vital distraction – providing the guilty gratification that my reticent nature could never admit to.

Some nights, the bitter taste of vodka would burn at our throats. Its simple luxury was easier to come by than clean water itself, and the effects it offered were always eagerly welcomed. It lifted our spirits, and moved our thoughts back to where they should be – quietly reminding us of the fortunate hand we’d been dealt. Other evenings we’d watch thunderstorms in the distance, willing them to move closer, to dance underneath their powerful downpour. The night I remember the most, however, was when he showed me the rabbit in the moon.

“I see it.” The shrill excitement that ran through my undernourished body filled me with the most heartfelt of triumphs. I was so intent on pleasing him. As I turned my face to meet his, the glare from the dully-lit kitchen cast shadows over his gently ageing face, highlighting the fear in his eyes as he stared back at me with such shameful admiration. His thoughts were almost visible as my fickle frigidity teased him once again.

“I was beginning to think you were blind!” He broke the silence with the same lighthearted tone that I’d grown so fond of, before reaching for his glass. I looked away to light a cigarette; its soft, heady fumes calming the butterflies as I held my breath, feeling the smoke travel through each cavity in my body, before I slowly exhaled.

When I was 15, it never struck me that I was still young enough to enjoy the pleasures of youth. I acted up in conversation, and read tabloids to keep up with current affairs – all in the effort to present myself as a lady. Not a girl. It took three weeks – probably less – for Chris to show me that age wasn’t about numbers. Our souls were brought together in the most heartbreaking of circumstances, purely because of the relationship we’d previously held.

The awkward confinement he offered as my teacher disappeared every night we spent on that ramshackle terrace. Instead, he liberated my thoughts by encouraging them to wander in their own direction; helping me gain a new appreciation for the world around me. I quietly welcomed his principles on what actually mattered – and finally realised that life was more than what scientists and historians had to say. We were there for a reason, and while we didn’t know what that reason was, I found a lot of comfort in imagining.

It’s been eight years since that summer, and I’ll often forget the wounded smiles of the children in care. I’ll often forget the mural on the staircase – the one that turned the sky into land, and the land into sea. I’ll even forget Chris. But one thing that draws me back there – sometimes when I’m least expecting it – is when the sky lights up with each full moon, and the rabbit looks down in sweet reminiscence of the furtive secrets it held that summer.