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A crowd of anxious spectators hovers in the long hallway,
waiting for the doors of the ballroom to open and the runway
show to start. No, this isn't fashion week in Milan. It's
the Barbizon School of Modeling graduation ceremony at PSU's
Smith Memorial Center. The audience isn't made up of magazine
editors or big-name talent agents but parents, grandparents
and friends of the teens, plus-size women and other model-wannabes
completing a pricey training course at Barbizon.
If the name rings a bell, it's probably because of the
chain's infamous sales slogan, often found in the back pages
of fashion magazines above a photo of a smiling, pretty
girl--"Learn to be a model...or just look like one." Judging
from the conversations I overhear between jaded parents
in the hallway, the school's sales pitch is merely an extension
of that empty promise.
One father laments wasting his hard-earned cash on the
program. He tells a disgruntled mom nearby that as soon
as his daughter gets her hands on her diploma, he's calling
his credit-card company to stop payment to the school. The
two talk bitterly about the sales pitch that convinced them
to fork over $1,495 for a few months' training (meeting
once every other week) and a "lifetime membership" that
doesn't seem likely to pay off anytime soon, if ever.
These jabs don't surprise me. Modeling schools are notorious
for preying on the dreams of young women and others who
want so badly to be the virtually impossible ideal on magazine
covers. No matter that most of them don't fit the rigid
mold of fashion model and never will; their money spends
the same. To be fair, most schools don't promise to find
modeling jobs for their graduates, but they do assert that
the training boosts students' self-confidence. Funny, I
used to be a model, and I don't recall that being constantly
compared to society's ideal of a perfect woman ever made
me feel great about myself. Graduating from college,
having my first article published, practicing yoga, yes.
But modeling? Not exactly.
The ballroom doors open and everyone settles into chairs
in front of a runway bedecked with fake palm trees and a
big stuffed lion. The voice of a cynical teenage boy dissing
Barbizon behind me fades as I reflect on my own experience
in modeling school as a teen. Yes, I too once wanted desperately
to be that girl in the magazines. I begged my parents to
pay for overpriced runway and makeup classes at a modeling
school 40 miles away. They finally gave in, knowing they
couldn't dissuade me. The school's sales pitch sealed the
deal.
Surprisingly, I did get modeling work. The agent at the
school had contacts, and I nabbed a modeling contract with
a Tokyo agency for the summer. A year later, I hooked up
with a reputable agency in Milan. In between, I earned decent
cash doing very un-Vogue-worthy catalog and runway
work. But it wasn't because the school's instructors taught
me the right way to apply blush or turn on the runway. I
just happened to fit the specifications required for the
job at the time. I saw plenty of girls who didn't fit the
specs have their dreams--however foolish they seem now--dashed
and their wallets emptied in the process. For the cost of
a few snapshots and a stamp, we could have found out from
respectable agents, not spendy schools, whether or not we
had any potential. I see lots of those same girls decked
out in animal-print outfits and clumsy high heels on this
runway, pretending to be somebody else. But behind the nervous
gaits and awkward attempts at sexy glances I see future
doctors, mothers, teachers, writers.
As I watch two modeling hopefuls leave the building with
their dad, clearly more comfortable back in their jeans
and T-shirts, I have to refrain from running up and trying
to persuade them to forget this whole stupid modeling thing,
to spend their time and energy on art classes, school plays
or sports instead. But you know how stubborn teenagers can
be.
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Willamette Week | originally
published March 15,
2000
|
