It Happened To Me: I Became A Model (After Just 5 Decades Trying)
My first ever modeling job is in a major magazine out on newsstands right now. Will that correct all the problems in my life that I thought it would?
By: Lorraine Duffy Merkl
At 66, I finally got to pose for a fashion shoot with a professional photographer who yelled things at me like, “Give us a twirl, love,” and, “Let’s try one with you looking over your shoulder.”
I even attempted to “smize” (smile with my eyes) as Tyra Banks used to direct the young women to do on America’s Next Top Model. (Those didn’t end up in the spread, thanks to the good judgment of the magazine’s editors.)
It was a fun 20 minutes, even though I was self-conscious for most of it. I loosened up in the last five.
The experience was also bittersweet. Although I was grateful for the opportunity, as with all the opportunities that have come to me later in life, post “Thank you,” I can never help but think, “Why didn’t I get this when I was young?” Back when I was thin, and hair was a shiny chestnut brown, and skin was dewy? When I had colleagues and frenemies I could flaunt it in front of?
I had wanted to see myself in magazines since well before I became a teenager. But that was when there was a modeling school that used to run a TV commercial and a print ad with the tagline “Be a model or just look like one”. I called, and because I was a minor, the woman from the school couldn’t close the deal - she had to speak with my mother. The poor lady had no idea she was dealing with my single mother, a first-generation American who grew up in Italian Harlem during the depression in World War II. She had the biggest, kindest heart, but yet, at the same time, was tough as nails. The modeling school rep, as well as my future as a cover girl, did not stand a chance.
My desire, though, doubled down, if only secretly. I can’t even remember why I wanted it so badly. I was too naïve to understand about money or fame or that a career like modeling, which involved a lot of traveling, could be a ticket out of the Bronx. My father left our family when I was two, so perhaps I thought having my face plastered on magazines would validate that I was worthy.
I’m an only child, so with no younger siblings to look up to me, maybe I saw modeling as a way to get that kind of admiration. There’s a good chance, though, that it just looked fun—to wear nicer clothes than I owned, and have people who knew what they were doing smooth out my naturally curly (read: frizzy) hair and do my makeup. (My initial attempts with eye shadow made me look like an Easter egg.) Then to have a professional take my picture to document it all? Who wouldn’t want that?
I then read that a lot of models got “discovered,” so I figured I’d just wait for that to happen for me. (Clearly, I had time on my hands.)
My fantasy was encouraged by people, like the female supervisor at my first job as a supermarket cashier, whose initial words to me were, “You know, if you were taller, you could be a very beautiful model.” Oh, yes, did I mention I am, and have been since puberty, 5’ 2”?
Around that time, I called Ford Models to see if they wanted to sign me. (Oh yes, I did.)