I glare around the room looking at all the hopefuls who are eager for my attention. As a casting agent I get to choose, based on the beauty standards of the fashion industry, who will make it to the next round.
A casting is as long or as short as it needs to be. You can see the most promising candidates a mile off. I am searching for the faces that can be easily manipulated to suit any trend and the individuals who could look either male or female. The most successful one will get picked up by every casting agent present.
The models are intimidated by me, but I don’t enjoy that. My barriers get broken down once I start to establish a relationship with the chosen model.
As I walk up and down aisles of women who stand wearing nothing but flesh-coloured underwear, I come across as more stony-faced than I am normally. I have to look tough, otherwise I feel sorry for a lot of them. It is not for me to become friends with them and give them any kind of false hope. Especially the ones who will never have what it takes to one day be on the cover of Vogue or go to Hollywood and rub shoulders with the likes of Cara Delevingne. Not everyone can be Naomi Campbell or Kate Moss.
I try not to look them in the eye, in case I catch a glimpse of despair. I don’t want them to cry from nerves. I don’t want to be the reason for their future insecurities when they don’t get shortlisted.
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