Model Musings

off the runway, away from the cameras

[modelmusings]

I take your hand to my cheek. You close your eyes and I watch your eyelids tremble against the racing spasms of your eyeballs. With your hand still on my cheek and mine cupping it tightly, I gently press my other hand to your forearm, nudging you to kneel to my level. With your eyes still closed, I watch as your knees bend, and I smell the anxious sweat breathe away from you as you shuffle to the carpet. I pull your other hand towards my heart, sandwiching it softly between my breasts. Your eyes, still closed, shake and shift more rapidly, causing your eyelids to earthquake, sweat around your crown soon to landslide. I pull myself up from the carpet, exchanging places with you. Now my eyes are closed, my hands upon your cheek and breasted heart, sweat beginning to pool in the small of my back and in the warmth of where your hand was on my chest. We do this, saying nothing, exchanging positions—standing, sitting, cupping, closing, sweating, touching—over and over again until you lose consciousness, then I do the same.

The Row, Resort 17

[modelmusings]

In his own version of a modern Wunderkammer, artist Anton Hoogland (b.1978, Holland) showcases his ‘mannequin inaction’ series in its entirety for the first time. In order to painstakingly assemble the collection, curatorial staff worked directly with collectors of the artist to coordinate the relocation of each work from an array of private international collections. “This highly anticipated exhibition has finally been brought to life and the response has been overwhelming,” curator, Magus Jones, said, and speaking on that response, continued, “We couldn’t have anticipated the volume of support for this exhibition. Early on, we’d assumed that the works perhaps had been more obscure than the collections we normally have on display. However, the impact on our members and guests has been a resounding wave of enthusiasm—especially, and oddly enough, from school children.” Each encasement, which totals nearly one hundred, displays the unspoken spirit of a woman. Expert craftsmanship and artistry goes into the construction of each sculpture, which appears as lifelike as any person we might encounter in our everyday lives. Protected within a glass box, perhaps from the world at large, Hoogland builds a barrier between the viewer and the subject—one you long to touch. Anton Hoogland’s ‘Standing Still, Mannequin Inaction’ exhibition is now on display at the Museum of Modern Art, from Sept 1st - Dec 12, 2017. The museum would like to ask that any school children visiting the exhibit refrain from throwing No. 2 pencils directly at the works and in and around the exhibition space.

Vionnet Pre-Fall 15

[modelmusings]

My badge was freshly cast, still warm inside my bag when I showed up to the beach for my first day of work. I quickly realized that ‘special’ shouldn’t be put anywhere near my name, even if ‘detective’ came directly after it. There was nothing special about me, standing over the body of a young teen, slain, face half-submerged in the sand. The receding tide had left behind little shells around her naked body that glistened under the morning sun. Some appeared trapped in the netting of her blonde hair which tentacled away from her head towards the water. Of course something so beautiful—those golden strands—wanted to get as far away as possible from such an ugly scene. I could relate, though this was my job. I was studied in the scrutiny of detail, understood as someone who’d be capable of seeing past the crusted blood and scrapes across her pale skin, and that frightened stare. Before glazing over, I imagine her eyes appeared as deep as the ocean she now stretched still in front of.

Lemaire, Pre-Fall 15

[modelmusings]

Cocooned within her woolen overcoat, Ashlie sensed an impending transformation. She’d felt her term was coming to fruition, having done everything right inside her shell during the several days leading up to this moment. Long ago at morning’s first light, she’d sewn herself into a mesh weave, each day thereafter building upon it little by little. Her head broke through the top, followed by her hands and feet which extended outward from the bottom. She’d almost made it, unsure of how she’d look when the coat shred away from her skin. Would there be something of beauty from large outstretched wings, natured with eyes ten times the size of her own? The discomfort in her stiff stillness overwhelmed any vision for a new tomorrow. She knew that if she’d not get out while she still could than she’d likely become stuck there to wither, perhaps even implode. Wrapped tightly into the protective mass she’d constructed around herself, Ashlie pondered all the hours she’d spent inside with herself, now unable to except she’d be able to become anyone other than who that person was.

Ellery, Pre-Fall 14

[modelmusings]

Finally, you came. We’ve been waiting here for hours—watched ten other trains unload into the station before you got here. Be careful with my sister Elsa’s bag. Inside, she keeps the heads of the last Mommy and Daddy who came to pick us up. I’m kidding… kidding. We have to inject a bit of humor into this whole mess of a thing, honestly. As I’m sure you know, you guys aren’t the first, and given the degree of streets with houses we’ve called home and schools attended with their mottos engrained in our minds, you likely won’t be the last. You see—I’m Trudy by the way—we don’t exactly take to being cared for. We’re more the injured fox type, chased away by torment and taking shelter within the forest somewhere deep inside. We will remain this way even as you try and get to know us. It won’t be easy, but I promise you, you’ll try and try, always to no avail. This is who we are, and that pretty dolly and stuffed bear you’re holding won’t make us any different. Here, let me show you what I have inside of my bag: the cotton skin of a teddy and the melted corpse of Sally-Smiles-a-Lot.

Miu Miu, Pre-Fall 15

[modelmusings]

Something happened today on 11th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenue where I get my hair cut. In fact, it happened to me just half an hour ago, having only just now caught my breath from running away. I was sitting in the chair and listening to Jo talk about his new motorcycle when I saw the first flash rush by the front windows. Then another steamed by, then another and another. The barbershop went dim from all the greying browns that started to blur outside. Jo, along with everyone else in the shop took notice. Bits of cut hair stopped falling to the floor. I stood from my chair and stepped to the glass, all of us did. We peered out, forming a kind of row inside the window, easily making the barbershop appear more like a clothing store. We couldn’t even count them. There were hundreds, even thousands of them just hurtling through the air and dropping their dirty debris onto the sidewalks along 11th street. I was hesitant to go outside at first, but I felt drawn to them, the flock of pigeons that formed like a storm cloud over everything. When I opened the door to step out, several of them immediately slammed against the door’s thick pane of glass, landing on the sidewalk and flailing around for several seconds with their chipped beaks and broken necks. I felt horrible, but didn’t try and help them, I couldn’t; I was taken by all the others still flying. They circled past, flew above me, maneuvered between my frozen legs. Then, doing what birds do best, they began to crap on everything. I started to run, still wearing my barber’s bib, and when I’d made it out, maybe four or five blocks away, I saw that I’d managed to escape, somehow unscathed, the pigeons having left me and my imagination alone.

Comme des Garçons Shirt, Spring 15

[modelmusings]

Isobel thought to curl her hands into fists but the rings she wore wouldn’t let her. The anger could boil over at any second, she felt. Discontentment set in that morning over coffee with her boyfriend, for the series of choices they’d made—more his than hers—mostly bad ones. It was his idea to cover the floor of their Berlin apartment in foil and to prop the glass of milk up onto the table that sat in the middle of it. He’d wanted to document what he had described as the singular most beautiful moment: milk pouring into a glass. The simple four-word explanation of this vision he’d had would also serve as the finished piece of art’s name, which he immediately began working on. Isobel helped in any way that she could, tip-toeing around in her platform heels, nudging his ideas into fruition. He’d been so focused on setting up the best angle for the camera to capture it, whether the milk should be organic or not in order to achieve more of a natural tone, how to perfectly pour it, all the details surrounding his masterpiece, so much so that’d he’d completely overlooked Isobel. It wasn’t her neediness or her desire to be as helpful as she could, but the sight of her breasts showing through the blouse she was wearing that stopped him. He thought of her, staring on and remembering the could-give-a-damn attitude she had and how confident she’d been with herself and of their relationship, and of him and his ideas. When this happened, the milk continued to pour, spilling out across the table and down onto the foil-covered floor. Isabel stepped in to try and remedy the situation only to slip and fall, her heels losing balance against the combination of slick surfaces. With milk dripping across the entirety of her backside, Isobel reflected her next move as she got back on her feet. Could she use the tarp her boyfriend had positioned there in the room—as a metaphor for something important to him that she’d forgotten—to suffocate him with, ridding herself of any further ridiculousness? No. Instead, she’d bend down and lap up a bit of the split milk and use it to cream her coffee.

Krizia, Resort 18

[modelmusings]

The voyage was long, and lunar dust was finally settling softly beneath the reaching arm of the runway when we landed. In the distance I could see hollowed filament through the cloudscape hovering above, making it hard to strengthen my sight onto anything else from my vantage point at the start of the walk. During our final descent to land, orderlies had wrapped me in traditional garb, fabric engineered for foreign trespasses such as this one—though pre-negotiated even before my birth, no fear for danger. I ascended, approaching the path’s end, smells of celestial gas fluttered past my nose and the dust had settled enough to see clearly what was coming next—my final fate. My father idled behind me as I stood there waiting. I could sense his great desire to hold my hand, to whisper some tender nothing into my ear to make me smile. The opportunity for this had passed up in the ship, when he told me that he loved me, holding up both my arms to his chest as I sat to have my shoes slid on. It wasn’t enough, it never it. I heard the sound of my mother’s cry from our hut back on Forstin 3, and there it was, my General Likeness (the formal term for it) approaching. I’d imagined it so many different ways up until now, perhaps as someone or something more recognizable, characteristics to bring ease and calm to my unsettled insides. But no, my mechanism (plainly described by us hut folk) was shaped like a rod, slick and shiny with blinking lights scattered up and down across its surface. There was no way to shake its hand, to be lent a smile from it in assurance that it’d been the one. Instead, I stood blankly across from it for a moment, waiting for it to be over, its scanning of a bright beam of light over every inch of my skin. I think that what happened next was something like an evaporation, the best I can describe. As a child I’d heard stories from elders, but when it finally happens, all memory of the way it felt is removed and you are no longer a physical being after.

Iris van Herpen, Spring 17 Couture

[modelmusings]

To keep her in character, earbuds concealed beneath the wig play classic jazz melodies. She takes the stairwell each week to hide her shame as best she can, going over the routine in her head during those final steps before entering her John’s apartment. He’s got serious Mommy issues. So far she’d adhered to the strict set of rules outlined to her the first time—too many times ago to count. Now slid into the suit, her swollen feet pressed into matching heels, and crowned with the itchy nest, she stops herself to think. Tonight was going to be especially tough. Could she pretend any longer, be that special someone her John wanted her to be? The things she’d have to do sometimes felt all too much, seemingly impossible a task for someone as inexperienced in all things motherhood. Just in case the recipe she’d be making in her John’s kitchen slipped her mind, or if she’d been unable to lesson him on the wicked ways of his father—her make-believe husband—she could always bluetooth Pam, her John’s mom, a role that she constantly reminds herself was one of a lifetime. She tapped her heels to the beat in her ear for the rest of the way up.

Antonio Marras, Pre-Fall 12

[modelmusings]

There she was, Katherine Banks, in our club dining room, obviously by invitation—nothing against the person who’d invited her. The woman was a mess, destined to never become a member, and besides, a divorcé? Really? She ate everything on her plate, had no husband out on the green to cover her non-existing shopping habit, not to mention the uncoordinated attire and Avatar eye shadow she’d actually seemed proud to be wearing. “I just don’t get it, why here, why a country club?” I’d asked her. She sat silent in her chair for a moment, raising her black-painted fingernails to her chin in spastic scratches, the balls around her wrists shaking around with each red lashing she gave herself. I couldn’t tell if she was going to cry or haul off and hit me, maybe burn the whole place down. Before she could answer my question, our husbands appeared, surrounding the table with their sweaty, grinning faces. Clearly they were buzzed, and had their sights on the ‘nineteenth hole’—as us girls like to call it. Tim groped my thigh under the table and kissed my cheek. Mark indiscreetly took hold of Jan’s left butt cheek that mashed through her seat next to mine. The men suddenly shifted their focus to Katherine, still sitting silently. If she’d been a smoker, the tablecloth would’ve been on fire by now. Jake Peterson smiled at her, and Tammy, his wife, grimaced. With all eyes on Katherine, she then stood from the table, slid back on her pearl-laced biker gloves, and then she did it, she just started taking off all her cardigans, one after the other. She got down to her bare breasts, right there in the restaurant, in front of everyone. Then, she just stopped, not going any further, cinching one of the cardigans around her waist and grabbing the others before rushing out the doors. I don’t know why she even came, why she did any of the things she did. The husbands still talk about it, at least every week, coming in from a round of golf and staring at the empty seat at our table that no other lady has yet to fill.

Chanel, SS 14

[modelmusings]

Within the crosshatching static of cold winter’s kill, I built myself a house. I built it for you and I to live peaceably inside of. Imagine a warm fire, splintering cedar walls lined with rabbit pelts to cover our feet and hands with and buck antlers for hanging our coats and the scarves you’ll knit, floors covered in rugs made from our matted hair after a lifetime spent living there. Our children’s children tug at our sagging skin, giggle at our forgetfulness, and one day we’ll leave it behind, this house we built together. I’m already imagining the next one too, our forever house, standing here, gazing into your eyes, having not yet set hoe to soil to build the first one. I’m contemplating all the ways in which I might impress you first, how I might get you to want to get to know me. Is it working so far? And the turtleneck, is it too much?

Simon Miller, FW 17

[modelmusings]

In that long, slinky dress she wore, and oh how well she wore it, the world around us stopped. To watch her, balanced atop the old kitchen stool, her sandaled foot caught in its crossbar and balancing the stance of her bending branch of an arm, it was as if she could suddenly morph into anything she wanted. I knew that I could never go with her, be taken up in the folds of fabric, become whatever it was she’d had in mind, go along with her to the place she imagined herself sitting inside of—anywhere but here, I think mostly. To say she was a like a statue would be too obvious, but she was, only more a statue not yet complete and she’d been the one carving it. And had she decided not to break away from the stone mass that’d once held us both together, then perhaps I might have a shot at knowing what she was thinking of, should my limbs still somehow be joined at the cruces of her hip by the time she’d finished chipping away at us.

Lanvin, Resort 14

[modelmusings]

What had started as something so innocent, as just a kind of boost to my character, my personal style—one I’d not want copied by everyone else in grade twelve (boys and girls alike)—has become so much greater now. Suzy and I were screeching hangers across the racks of this hand-me-down shop she’d been hyping all summer. There were your typical bell-bottoms, mod and moth-eaten, and the floral paisley tops from later in the decade—only at first glance though, and these were okay for Suzy, but not for me. No I wanted something, something that told more of a story. I held my nose through pee-stained trousers, shirts ringed in dried sweat, then climbed over a mound of luggage made of plastic to look like leather, after which I nearly gave up. Then, along the back wall, beneath racks of fine woolen blazers, I saw it, what had fallen from its hanger and rest in a pile on the floor: the inspiration for it all. I showed up to class the first day back from summer, sweating to the gills, feeling funny and ill-fitted. When no one had decided to copy me by winter break, I knew it’d been a winner, and someone’s dead grandfather has lived on inside of me every day since. I’ve even gone back to the same store to find this sofa to match—missing leg and all—and just last week I found this washy flower print that reminds me of my wife, Margaret, whose buried next to me in the town’s cemetery.

Stella McCartney, Pre-Fall 17

[modelmusings]

She was given a face to play with: two eyes, a nose, and a mouth; two hands too: ten fingers and ten matching fingernails. The ears were an afterthought, non-functional, just something to add realism to the face. Then, on the day she was tested, she awoke somewhere along Manhattan’s second avenue, propped up on an adult-sized pile of garbage like a discarded mannequin. The eyes were the first thing in good working order—she saw the trash, the sidewalk, the buildings all around and the people walking past them, and walking past her. None of them stopped to help or to even glance at her as they rushed by. For this she knew it was just a face like theirs affixed to her own and nothing more; she felt no shame, no aguish over awaking unnoticed and uncared for. Though, she did wonder, in that moment, seeing their lack of empathy, if maybe in fact they’d somehow been just like her. The nose kicked in, sniffing out a banana peel first, then ethnic take-out mixed with coffee grounds. She’d felt it too was in good working order, and again, no disgust, no distain for the way it’d made her feel to smell such smells. Again, seeing that no one else seemed to mind much either. She wondered. There was no thirst or hunger building in her mouth; she’d not figured a way to test the lips. She went back to her eyes, staring on as two twenty-somethings met across the street, embraced one another and kissed. When the next person passed by her—a balding attorney by the name of Rodger Greene—she used the hands to reach and embrace him closer to her polished white body (the only thing left of her own inheritance) using her lips to kiss him and her fingernails to run through what little hair remained on his head. The man stopped, his arm slowly dropping with the weight of a cellphone in his hand. He noticed her, she noticed him, and the man walked away, leaving her alone in her thoughts. Just then, she decided it best to cover herself up, finding from the trash a bit of curtain scrap to shadow her torso with and a plastic Duane Reed Pharmacy bag to cover her head.

A.F. Vandevorst, SS 18 Ready-to-Wear

[modelmusings]

From the center of the long hall, hidden from the others gathered that evening in celebration of her fifteenth birthday, Abigale found herself frozen all of a sudden, standing there listless, unable to simply finish her stride past the cradling wall of shoeboxes along her backside. Smelling their contents—even through the plastic they’d been sleeved inside of, together in sets of three—drew her defenseless against an impending disgust with herself. It wasn’t for the fact that these boxes were filled with the cash from all those Main Street banks vanquished by her parents, Abigale seeing teller’s blood spatter on Daddy’s britches and meth that Mama bought with most of what’d been stolen, but for the fact that she’d worn the wrong dress to the party. She’d had trouble accepting she’d no longer lived on the farm, having escaped to Park Avenue for a reason—to get away—and the attire of her own choosing had reminded her of how it all came to be, now sullen and sluggish amidst the presidential sweat odor.

Vika Gazinskaya, SS 18 Ready-to-Wear

[modelmusings]

If it weren’t for the black mesh slit in the mouth of the mask she hid behind, there would be no other way for her to see the world, to see the way the world saw her: the innocent face of a child, strawberry milk skin, pulsating green eyes like those of a Furby™, framed by limpid tinsels of copper for hair. She feels stunning underneath it all, peeking out from inside at the somber expressions transforming into gasps of whimsy and intrigue as she struts past. Though, in truth, she’s not some innocent child, complexion felted and free from having to lend any expression of her own. The woman within had developed adult acne from all the excess sweating and street grime collecting and trapping itself into her pours. Her lips were not fleshy mounds pouted perfectly, instead cracked and often bleeding from her afflictions, afflictions which had also revealed abnormalities within her mind—some three layers deep now. It’d been so long since she’d taken the big head away from covering up her own that memory of what it’d looked like seemed impossible to recall. The only way to know for sure—of how she looked, had it even still been in there—would be to remove the unlike-life-sized caricature, to see herself for whom she really was: just another face for onlookers to gasp at and shock over.

Viktor & Rolf, FW 17 Couture