Pushing open the door to the Bizzykidz Child Talent and Model Agency, I get hit, not by the smell of baby sick but by a tsunami of Flower Bomb by Viktor and Rolf. In other words, I smell Debi Clark before I see her.
The engine at the heart of tonight’s Tiny Tots Talent Agency on Channel 4, Clark is as perfectly groomed as the tubs of plastic lavender on the tables around her. Sitting at her desk by the domed space that doubles as both the reception and the photography studio, Clark answers phone calls with the flick of a long, pink, plastic nail, barely breaking breath. I feel like I’m watching a humming bird, if humming birds wore pastel lipstick and leopard print cardigans.
“My daughter Sadie was a baby model,” says Clark, pointing at the heavily-pregnant woman with perfect eyebrows behind the reception desk. “I was a single parent, on benefits. We did a job in July and when I called the agent in December explaining that we hadn’t been paid, and I could do with the money for Christmas, she shut me down, saying I’d just have to wait. It made me want to set up my own agency – I knew I could do better.” Clark had previously worked as an air stewardess, in a hat factory, on a market stall, and she’d driven around the country selling encyclopedias at army bases. “I had £200 to my name,” she says. “So I went to a friend who was a photographer, got this book together then flirted and begged the men at the printing shop to photocopy it.”
Back in 1996, she sent the catalogue to every casting agency she could find – unaware that unsolicited books were not the norm and that she was breaking one of the unwritten rules of child modelling. And yet, it worked. “I was in my car when the phone rang. I pulled over, and this snotty woman told me she wanted two of the boys from my book for a job.” The job turned out to be for the Munch Bunch yoghurt boy – and so Clark’s career as a talent agent began.
Speaking to her, two things become quickly apparent. First, this is a woman who understands children. Not in the soapy way many adults think they “get” children. But as a business woman, adept at spotting the tiny nuances – the difference between a six-year-old and a five-year-old girl, how to make an 11-year-old boy laugh and a baby clap, how to navigate adolescent awkwardness and encourage someone to get a more commercial “look”. I watch her explain to a girl called Teyha – whose face is on the company homepage and printed on every Bizzykidz mug around the room – that growing out her fringe will make her more attractive to clients “going for that straight-haired, wispy, Kate Moss look”. I’m amazed at the easy way she talks to girls about their image – not twisted up in the political complexity of feminism and fame, as I am when talking to my little sisters.
The second is Clark’s belief that anything can be turned into a business. “I honestly don’t know why people don’t have jobs,” she tells me. When she sold makeup at Luton airport she would go out, as soon as a flight delay was announced, and start hawking lipsticks to every bored, waiting passenger she could find. She is good with people. She can spot opportunity. She’s ahead of the game; BizzyKidz had a website back when most agencies were still dealing in faxes. “My nickname’s ‘Sorted’,” she says, her smile revealing a perfect white picket fence of teeth. “Any problem? It’s Sorted. I just get it done.” With 1,300 children on her books, it’s hard to argue with her.
Teyha’s mum, Mel, has travelled from North Essex to Clark’s studio to get her update photos done – an annual necessity when your face and body are changing at the speed of a bullet train. The photographer asks if there are any outfits Teyha would like to try. “A hot dog costume?” suggests Teyha, half-nervous, half-knowing. The room erupts in laughter. “You want to be a hot cookie, not a hot dog!” says Clark, rushing to answer yet another phone. Does Teyha have to worry about things like diet, I wonder? Exercise? Keeping picture perfect? “Oh no, none of that,” replies Mel, leaning back on the black leather sofa. “If she wants it, she does it. If she doesn’t, then she doesn’t.” Mel is admirably far from my (albeit cliche) impression of a pushy, fame-hungry model mum. Teyha, she says, sees modelling as a means to an end – she wants to be an actor; to explore characters, get into films, try on different personalities as well as different clothes.
Another mum, waiting for her baby’s closeup, tells me she’s making the most of maternity leave to build up her daughter’s portfolio. The child in her arms turns to me, her eyebrows arched in almost-mock concern, before squealing with laughter and slapping her chubby hands together. She loves it, her mum tells me, pulling up a pair of white frilly socks to meet those near-edible knees. Who am I to argue?
Walking out of the studio, I think about BizzyKidz – about the whole notion of child talent. Is it strange to show children that they can make money from their looks before they’ve even had a chance to make money from how they think? Is it a parent’s duty to help their child achieve their ambition, or to protect them from public scrutiny? Watching the show, it’s clear that for many young people modelling, acting, posing and uploading your face to the internet is as everyday as homework and playground races. But are we right to push children into the shop window of commercial contracts, to turn under the hot glare of directors, talent scouts and managers in the hope of slicing out some fillet of brilliance for public consumption? Perhaps. If it makes them happy. If it does no harm.
I look up, and realise I’m walking past a takeaway called Kebabies. I start to laugh. I suppose we’re all selling something.
The Tiny Tots Talent Agency starts tonight on Channel 4 at 8pm.
