Free Life Worth Living by Lady Colin Campbell Page B

first time in my life, I was pleased that God had made me as thin as he had.
    I embarked upon my modelling career with relish. The first step was to get a book of test shots together. These were obtained by traipsing around from photographer to photographer asking them if they would like to take free photographs of you. If they agreed, and the pictures turned out well, you had more shots to add to your portfolio and so did they. Models’ portfolios had to be comprehensive, covering the range of your possibilities, for you were hired partly on the basis of how your ‘book’ showed you. If you had the versatility to go from infinitely grand to charmingly rustic, you did better than girls who could not carry off conflicting ‘looks’. The result was that most models ‘tested’, even after years in the profession.
    At first I found the whole business great fun. For someone who had not even realised that she was passably attractive until recently, it was a treat to be praised by photographers for the beauty of my nose/ eyes/ mouth/ neck/ shoulders/ hands/ legs/ forehead/ hairline/ skin/ shape of face. Zolie decided that I would be best suited for ‘head-and-shoulders’ and legs-and-hands work, as I was on the short side, being a quarter-inch under the absolute minimum of five feet seven. Soon, however, it emerged that I photographed tall because I had long limbs, a long neck and a head that was small in proportion to my body. ‘Fashion’, where the majority of the work, if not the money, lay, now beckoned as a possibility.
    Within two months, however, the gilt was off the lily. The work was one long, dreadful slog. Looking glamorous in front of the camera required you to be little more than a baggage attendant behind it. Because they had to be prepared for any eventuality, models always carried huge bags containing several pairs of shoes, changes of underwear, differently coloured tights, various outfits, wigs and hairpieces, a full range of make-up and hairspray, false nails and bottles of nail polish in all the fashionable colours. All this had to be dragged around the pavements of New York City, along with one’s ‘book’, which was a large black leather photograph album measuring about two by three feet. We all used to joke that the reason why models had such long arms and graceful carriage was not that we had good proportions, but that the book and the bag had lengthened our arms and strengthened our spines.
    Modelling could be fun when you were not called upon to twist yourself into poses that would have challenged a gymnast, or asked to hold a pose beyond endurance, both frequent occurrences. Contrary to what people may think, it did involve a certain amount of inventiveness and creativity, for you had to project moods and messages. What I found less appealing was having to go home and practise a whole range of poses and emotions in the mirror. I understood that this would help me to deliver the goods the photographer wanted quickly andeffectively, but I became self-conscious whenever I did it. Moreover, one’s judgement was liable to be influenced by mood, with the result that an angle that looked acceptable one day seemed doubtful the next. This, I discovered, was a common problem among the girls.
    Another difficulty was a genuine ambivalence about one’s own looks. Few of the models I knew, or the beautiful women I have known since, for that matter, liked their faces unconditionally. Not only did they realise that different tastes mean that no one is universally beautiful to everyone, but they were also aware of their faults. This tendency towards extreme self-criticism was compounded by the professionals one encountered on a daily basis. Some of the photographers were nothing but sadistic jerks who delighted in crushing the girls’ confidence, telling someone with a perfect nose that she should have it ‘done’, for example. Female solidarity was also often in painfully short supply, as some of the