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FUN A DAY 2019 #8: Shoshanna

She was in the (carefully cultivated) practice of responding to men’s condescension with, “Well, I’m very smart, especially for a model.” She’d been retired for a bit, having decided to get out of th more...

She was in the (carefully cultivated) practice of responding to men’s condescension with, “Well, I’m very smart, especially for a model.” She’d been retired for a bit, having decided to get out of the business as quickly as possible when she was still a teenager, after that first shoot where seemingly all of the girls felt the same discomfort with the photographer, a weird energy vibrating between all of them that none of them could voice in that moment as they posed next to each other. She still looked like a model though, still carried herself like one, and she figured so long as that was true, she could still get away with this. She sort of still was a model, if you counted her part time IG modeling. She could never decide if IG modeling fully counted to her, it certainly lacked the prestige factor of even catalogue modeling, and was worlds away from the fashion modeling she’d done in New York City after college, but it all sort of felt the same in terms of how much work it was, and how easy it apparently looked to everyone else.
She didn’t resent it the way she’d resented having to be photographed almost constantly by male photographers. She’d started modeling at a young age, but she’d never really enjoyed it, and certainly hadn’t thought it glamorous. At her first shoot, she stared down the camera, long jet black hair in her face, black eyes glaring daggers at the lens. It was decided that she had ‘an incredible presence’ for someone so young, and it led to her getting booked regularly, especially when she was older. It was easy, or for her anyway, to defiantly glower at the camera, back hunched and gangly body contorted at odd, broken-looking angles, because her disdain for the photographer and his camera never went away. Being her own photographer and stylist, and publishing her photos and videos herself, was a welcome change.
Now, she grinned and winked and made kissy faces at her camera, and she spoke to the lens and the girl she imagined on the other side like she was a friend, or how she thought she’d like to talk to a friend, if she ever made any. She’d always been too afraid to approach any friendly-seeming girl who might catch her attention, and even more afraid to claim any girl who was brave and kind enough to approach her, scared of asking for too much, or anything at all. She’d spent her free time when she was younger either daydreaming in her room, listening to music and staring at her posters and trying to figure out the guitar and the keyboard her parents had gifted her, or visiting and helping at the deli her grandparents owned and ran.
She’d spent most of her time outside of school working though, doing as many shoots as possible, making contacts, and building her book. When she’d decided to get out of modeling as quickly as possible, she’d also decided to make a ridiculous amount of money, as in retirement money, the kind of earnings that could be invested and turned into her own wealth, so that she would never have to smile (or glare, or whatever…) for a man ever again in her life. After an unexpected (well, not entirely unexpected) traumatic incident, a lawsuit, and hefty settlement, she’d gotten her wish. And then she’d moved to a smaller nearby city, the city that every interesting young musician and gay girl she knew seemed to be moving to, and purchased a small house.
Financially secure, she now did as she pleased. She woke up late in the morning, ate, exercised, carefully treated and styled her hair and moisturized her skin, put in a minimum four hours daily of work on creating content for her social media platforms. And then, she spent the rest of her day trying to figure out what, exactly, she wanted to do with the rest of her time. She’d slowly gotten involved with a local diy venue, where she regularly did unglamorous jobs like working the door, post-show clean up, and moving gear, and she’d volunteered at the local girls’ rock camp. She still felt strange and shy, too anxious to really befriend anyone she met who seemed like she might be worth it. She’d always felt too weird to be a model, too gay, too goth, too vaguely ethnic, too Jewish, and now she found that she felt too ‘pretty’ to be punk. She was old enough to know that this was a feeling, an insecurity, a thing that could be overcome or pushed through, but she couldn’t seem to shake it. She couldn’t picture herself in a band, a liked or even tolerated part of the scene who made real contributions to the community, no matter how hard she tried or how badly she wanted to, and she still hadn’t figured out how to fix this.
IMAGE SOURCE: the YT thumbnail from the trailer for Persepolis. ...less

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7 tracks
  • 25min
  • 8
  • 10 months ago