It’s 1 am, I’m sitting on the bathtub rim, resting my chin on my knee while obsessively touching a blister the size of a golf-ball on my heel. To pop or not to pop, this is the question. I had just returned from a six-hour fitting. A magnificent wedding gown was literally tailored to fit me like a glove. I’m exalted to have been chosen to flaunt this extravagant dress for my first Paris Haute couture show. But do I really need to be wearing heels through the whole fitting process? Apparently so... “What shoe size are you?” The bourgeoisie French intern asks me. “I’m a European size 40” I responded. She returns: “OK, here’s a 38...”. Suck it up, Anmari. This is what you came here for. I keep repeating to myself.
This is why I am ten thousand miles away from my family. I’m here to play the cards that I have been dealt. Born in an offbeat town near Cape Town, I grew up walking barefoot, wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs and dodging boomslangs up in the trees. This is the last person you’d see walking Dior Couture. So what led me into the modelling industry? Genetics, initially; I may have been a dorky little weirdo as a kid, but somehow, somewhere, the universe decided that I would become half-decent looking. So, with that in my pocket and no fixed ambitions, when the opportunity to travel the world and make money was an option, I knew I’d be a fool not to seize it. The concept that someone out there is willing to pay me for my appearance is deranged, but I’ll take it. As a generally lonely and somewhat insecure individual, a sense of hope arose from this opportunity. I was completely unaware of the journey that awaited me down the line.
“There is no guidebook for navigating the complexities that this profession holds. ”
So here I am, eighteen-year-old Anmari from the West coast of South Africa, with an infected popped blister on her heel. My first ever runway. How hard can it be? You walk 100m there and back - this can't require much skill. These thoughts are running through my head as I try to calm the overarching desire to vomit all over this wedding dress and get on the next flight to Auckland. This is all a sick joke. What if they realise they booked the wrong person? What if I stumble? As I step onto the runway, a blaring light penetrates my pupils - did I die and go to heaven? Just walk. Don’t trip. With persistence on my mind, I descend the catwalk - heart still racing. My head went blank; nothing else mattered at this moment; it’s me and the runway. The feeling is indescribable.
After the show, my high was still running strong, wanting the moment to last forever. As an individual that suffers from anxiety and insecurities since childhood, modelling allowed me to mask these self-doubts. A sense of worth arises when you see yourself on the cover of a renowned magazine, opening an exclusive show, receiving attention, money, glamour, praise. The profession feeds the beast, gets the person addicted to soliciting these narcissistic highs.
Like myself, often models are incredibly insecure; It’s a strange paradox; models have looks, money, and adoration, yet why are so many deeply insecure and depressed?
Some girls enter this industry at the vulnerable age of as young as thirteen or fourteen. Many of us dropped out of school to pursue a career that isn’t always in our control. We’re exposed to a fantasy world, one of glamour, adulation, celebrities, exclusive parties and money. Lots of money. When you are a teenager, and you get booked on a 10k job, challenging to comprehend that quantity of cash; It makes little sense! The problem arises when the work slows down. When you’re not the new fluffy toy anymore… when the new wave of fresh faces flood in. Those casting directors that said you were family were lying all the way up their asses. And this is when the mental trauma takes full effect. When that world gets abruptly taken away from you -
“ when all you ever knew about the adult world gets torn apart, you get lost. You’re suddenly forced to negotiate a reality that you have never lived in.
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The insecurity we carry so heavily on our shoulders is relieved when we look at photos of ourselves in prestigious magazines, or open shows for glamourous labels. But the feeling wears off. Your sense of worth diminishes as you get replaced by younger, skinnier and edgier models. Once we fall back into the skin of our own insecurity, we are desperate to relive that high; The validation that perhaps we may be worthy. That high becomes an addiction; we crave it to keep ourselves afloat. It suppresses our overpowering anxieties and emptiness when we see ourselves on the cover of Numero magazine, thinking “if the world thinks I’m OK, then perhaps, I am.” When it’s good, it’s really fucking good. Being requested by top designers and magazines is enough to build up anyone’s self-esteem.
There I was, no degree, no particularly strong talents, a savings account that is being devoured by NY rent and a mountain of inadequacy weighing me down. The highs that were once a common occurrence fell short of supply. I required a substitute for this craving. For me, this replacement was prescription meds, cigarettes, narcotics with a side of whiskey. The subconscious aim was to suppress some deeply rooted mental trauma - the need to be desired and wanted. When the bookings slow down, it forces us to deal with issues we’ve never dealt with before. There is no one to help you guide this path. No mentor, no support. The fashion world is notoriously superficial. We are swimming through a vast ocean, sifting the real from the unreal. Trying to understand if a client actually likes me or is using me for clout, if this friend likes my personality rather than my bank account. Let’s not get started on promoters. That’s for another day.
Some girls come into the game, prepared and equipped to withstand the wrath of rejection. These are confident, often older and mentally poised individuals. The ones that can appreciate the gifts of the external world but keep them separated from their internal feelings. Many finished high-school or even college. Some have parents with fat bank accounts to cushion on if their career goes array; A safety net of security. It’s not that these individuals don’t have battles - far from it, they just have a different battle to fight. The fashion industry is a beautiful world that offers many opportunities. To be part of a creative process with a collective of talented photographers, stylists, designers, makeup artists and hairstylists is a meaningful honour. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. My biggest qualm is the mental realm of the individual model herself. Her internal battles mixed up in external stimulations. This industry does not offer support, there is no union, no training. No one can prepare you for this world, it’s a rollercoaster ride with worn-out brake pads. It will slow down, but it will never really stop. Subconsciously, you’ll always crave the high.
