Almost 5'4"
Confessions of an unconventional modelIsobella Jade is no ordinary model – she is far too short for a start. At ‘almost five foot four’ in heels she found herself shunned by the major agencies and forced to take any job that came her way just to make ends meet.From nude photoshoots for leering amateur photographers to ‘arty’ crotch shots; from sex toy ads to lingerie shows. This is a tale from the sleazier side of modelling in the heart of New York City.But is also the story of one woman’s determination to break out into the big time. Isobella becomes an awesome self-publicist, turning up for every photocall, banging on every door, emailing her pictures to every tenuous lead. She won’t take no for an answer.And gradually it pays off. She starts to get more respectable work. Her face (and arms, hands and feet) start to appear in commercials, on magazine covers, in pop videos. She gets bit parts on Sex & The City, CSI and Life on Mars. She becomes a beauty correspondent and is given her own internet radio show.Isobella Jade will never be a supermodel but she has forged out a successful career for herself and has collected some remarkable stories along the way.Isobella wrote the book while still a penniless jobbing model. She couldn't afford a computer or internet connection (she didn't even have a permanent place to live) so would visit the Apple Store in New York every day, log on to one of their computers, and write her story.Almost 5'4" is an inspirational tale for women of all ages, shapes and sizes. It shows that you can battle against the odds to achieve your dreams and how a bit of hustling and a 'fuck you' attitude can work wonders.
Читать Almost 5'4" онлайн беплатно
Almost 5′ 4″
Isobella Jade
To my mother, and to anyone chasing a dream
Table of Contents
March 2006, Harlem, New York City
My clothes smelled awful. I hadn’t done any laundry for about six weeks. Actually, more like six months. I sat on my suitcase, using all my weight to shut it, nearly breaking the zipper in the process.
My life was inside that bag.
I had no idea where I would be sleeping later. I had a photo shoot in a few hours and if the photographer turned out to be cool he might let me stay at his place. Failing that I could call a friend and sleep on their floor.
Here I was leaving yet another apartment. I thought back over all the places I had lived in during the few short years since leaving home. Astoria, Brooklyn Heights, the college dorms on 88th and Riverside, Syracuse, those seven months in Miami. And now I was leaving Harlem behind as well.
I had precisely $23 in my pocket.
I checked my suitcase zipper one more time to make sure it was secure. It was. Something had to be.
If you took the contents of that case – three pairs of shoes, my notorious red dress, a few pairs of jeans, some scrappy tops, my journal and the many scraps of paper with names and dates scribbled on them – you pretty much had Isobella Jade.
Not forgetting the most important item of all: my modeling portfolio.
Now that I had finished packing I realized the smell hadn’t gone away. I sniffed at myself and it wasn’t pleasant. I had been wearing the same underwear for three days. I felt gross and disgusting, but there was no time for laundry and I really couldn’t afford the $4.50 anyway.
As I sat there I wondered why I was doing all this. Why I was flitting from place to place with barely enough money to eat. Did I really want to be a model this much? Was it really worth all the doubt, the rejection, the poverty, the sacrifice, the broken relationships?
Hell yeah.
Modeling was my dream and nothing was going to stop me. I would do anything to get what I wanted. I would endure all the hardships my chosen profession could throw at me.
I would even lie to my own mother.
I was en route to the subway with my case dragging behind me when I felt the vibration of my cell phone in my coat pocket, but I ignored it. It was on vibrate for a reason; I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
It kept vibrating.
Annoyed, I looked at the digital display. Shit. It was the worst person to call at that moment. Her voice would kill me.
‘Hello, Mom…can you hear me?’
Boxes of fruit, ketchups, and empanadas lined the street, ready to be shelved at the storefronts I passed. I had to zigzag through the commotion.
‘Mom, are you there?’ I had my mother and an uncertain future in my hands, an awkward mix.
‘Yes, I’m here, Heather, how are you?’ I hated it when she said my real name, especially at this moment.
‘I’m good. I’m going to SoHo, Mom.’ She had only been to New York City once before; I don’t think she actually knew where SoHo was.
‘Oh, that sounds like fun, what else are you doing today?’ Oh great, she sounded talkative.
Answering her with the truth would be like pulling my own teeth; I hated talking to her about modeling, about myself, about my living situation. She had given me the money to get the apartment that I had just walked out on. Telling her that I’d wasted her $1500 would not go over well. Telling her the truth would ruin my day, let alone hers. It would ruin this moment.
‘I’m going to do some laundry.’ Lie. ‘And mail out some more comp cards.’ Another lie; I had no stamps. ‘It’s a nice day in the city. I might go to the…Mom, I gotta go. I’m about to get on the train!’ I lied again. The train was three blocks away.
‘I wanted to see if you were alive. It has been a couple of weeks and you haven’t called.’
She was right. I had avoided calling her for fear that she would ask about my life and I’d be forced to lie, just like I was doing now.
‘Sorry, gotta go!’
Speaking with my Mom reminded me of home. It would be so easy to walk back into the security of my old life. I felt vulnerable hearing her voice. If anything was going to make me give up it was this. I needed to be strong. I had to push away the guilt and stay focused. I consoled myself with the thought that it was often at these lowest moments that a new modeling job would appear.
