Chanel Iman.
She’s tall, she’s cute, she’s perky. I guess it helps that she is also a mix of a bunch of bloods. She is a monstrous 5'11" at only nineteen. I love seeing her in Victoria’s Secret advertisements. My all-time favorite model. But that isn’t really the point of this post; the real point is just models in general. When someone asks you to be their model, it’s flattering isn’t it? It makes you feel pretty, doesn’t it? It means something. If it doesn’t, it should.
As an artist and beginning photographer (actually, I probably shouldn’t even call myself that), I can speak for myself when I say I don’t just pick anybody to be my muse. I don’t just choose any random person to be my model. So what do you think it means when I ask you to be mine? All mine? I’m saying, even though I don’t go through with it, I chose you. And you are probably pretty enough to be the focus of my art. The interest of my creativity. No matter how disgusting I think you are on the inside.
So if for some reason, I hurt someone for not choosing them. I won’t lie. I won’t run away, because it’s true. You’re not my model. You didn’t make the cut. You don’t fit my image, you’re not pretty enough. You’re not good enough. And that’s the cold, hard truth. That you will never be good enough. I gave that role to someone else.
Then what happens if you’re on the other end? You get the short end of the stick. What happens if the only person you want to inspire already chose someone else? Someone you cared to put yourself out there for, fucking chose another girl. Why? Because she was prettier, she made the cut. Because she is already all theirs. That biting pain of not being chosen is just the beginning. You have to deal with the fact that when they say “all mine”, it doesn’t apply to you. And it will never apply to you. As if that wasn’t enough, whatever was left of your self-esteem gets crushed because they tell you, “you can’t be my model, I already told someone else that they were mine. I can’t say it again. I won’t repeat it.” You can’t even be second best, or third, or last.
But wait, there’s more.
They start feeling sorry for you. And out of the cheerfully, good wills of their saint-like hearts, they offer to dress you. But you know whatever pride you have left won’t allow that. Why not? Because you know that artists dress their models. They love to dress their models - that’s the whole purpose of the piece, right? That person you wanted to impress already told their girl they wanted to dress them. They were eager to dress them. Their “mine” girl. Not you.
Sorry, you are not my model.
Never you.