I was 13. It was the mid-1980s and a tenant of my father’s, who was a make-up
artist, asked me to do some test shots with her. Through those I got my
first job – a makeover for Jackie magazine. A few shoots followed, but my
career really started some time later when I found myself in Duck Lane,
Soho, being given the once-over by Ray Petri. Ray was a starmaker – hugely
charismatic, he was the force behind the Buffalo aesthetic, a fashion
movement that was all about attitude and street smarts – it was immortalised
by Neneh Cherry in her single Buffalo Stance and established Nick Kamen, of
the Levi’s launderette ad, as the male face of the moment. I didn’t know
about any of this; I was just there for the pocket money.
Ray finished peering at me and pronounced: “I love your nose, it’s sooo
Buffalo.” The irony of this comment was that my strong, Roman nose mortified
me and I was saving up for a nose job. “Great rack,” offered Jamie Morgan,
the resident photographer. “Watch it, Jamie,” Ray said: “can’t you see she’s
a schoolgirl straight out of a convent?” And I was. From the ages of 5 to 11
I’d been a pupil at a very strict Roman Catholic convent in North London.
Among other things, we were emphatically discouraged from looking in
mirrors, and I remember standing to one side to brush my teeth in my
bathroom at home to avoid catching sight of my reflection. So it was
surprising, and extremely bemusing, when these older, intensely glamorous
people started taking such an interest in me.
Not long after this Mitzi Lorenz, another Buffalo stylist, introduced me to a
photographer called Kate Garner (whom I’d watched at home performing on Top
of the Pops in her band Haysi Fantayzee). She shot six pages of me for
Blitzmagazine. Vivienne Westwood saw the pictures and asked to meet me. Her
assistant at the time, Bella Freud, asked me over to Vivienne’s Camden
studio. Vivienne wasn’t there, but they dressed me up as a queen – in fake
ermine cape, a mini-crini and a crown – and drove me to the Albert Hall,
where Vivienne was a judge at some fashion awards. We were running late, and
the journey was chaotic: I recall feeling pretty awkward running up
Exhibition Road in an enormous pair of winged wedges, trying not to fall out
of my corset or let my crown slip on the way. The crown and I eventually
made it to the box where Vivienne was watching the show with Franco
Moschino: she was kind enough to ask if I’d model in her next show.
When I did, I was by far the shortest girl on the catwalk. I was more
embarrassed about my height than my age. I was tiny, 5ft 5in (1.65m) at a
push. The other girls tended to be of typical catwalk height, and loomed
over me like elegant giraffes.
With the support of Petri, another influential stylist called Kim Bowen and
Vivienne, I was soon getting plenty of work, including a fantastic shoot by
Albert Watson for French Vogue. Sometimes I’d get paid – cheques or a cash
bung – but quite often I wouldn’t. I have to admit that it didn’t really
matter to me at the time. After all I was being educated in a completely
different, unorthodox way by some of the most fascinating people in London;
occasionally I even persuaded my parents to let me miss school to work. I
was too much of a child to know, care or much consider the cash question –
and I don’t regret that particularly. It felt more like an adventure than a
job. None of my friends had the benefit of Vivienne’s encyclopaedic,
infectiously enthusiastic knowledge of art and literature, or got to go
dancing with Michael Clarke.
I was very young compared with the other models. I remember only two working
female models in their early teens who were my near-contemporaries: Patsy
Kensit and Naomi Campbell. I was looked after by every one I worked with and
never felt exploited, always protected. I was made to feel uncomfortable
only once that I can recall, when I turned up for a job in my school
uniform. The strutting peacock of a hairstylist looked at me disdainfully,
snorted and said: “God, a school-girl! Can’t you get a proper model?” His
assistants tittered; my cheeks burnt. Now, of course, he’s probably more
familiar with styling school-age girls. But that day he was deliberately
superior, and I was just a kid.
One of my most memorable, and terrifying, jobs was for Fashion Aid, a huge
benefit event at the Royal Albert Hall. I remember being awed by Jerry Hall:
she was utterly beautiful and so glamorous, with a cloud of blonde hair and
an amazing red and gold Anthony Price dress. I had terrible stage fright and
was so nervous that I locked myself in the loo. But eventually I got myself
together and braved the dressing room, lured out by the chance of glimpsing
David Bowie, Suggs or maybe even Bobby Ewing (Patrick Duffy) from Dallas (it
was the mid-1980s). We all had to dance down the catwalk and I felt a huge
rush of relief at the end. Afterwards I was sitting with Patsy Kensit in the
Groucho Club when some guy in his thirties sidled up and started chatting us
up. He asked us how old we were and when we told him his face fell
hilariously – he was so eager to get away from us that he practically broke
into a sprint.
In London we may on occasion have had to give some sleazy guy the
brush-off, but abroad the atmosphere could be more threatening. Milan in
particular was a notoriously dodgy locale for any female model, let alone an
“underage” one. I recall one show during Milan Fashion Week when all the way
down the catwalk we were subjected to heckling and wolf whistles. Backstage
you had to be on high alert – men were always trying to sneak in, in the
hope of catching the models undressed. These guys were spotted quickly and
sent packing by the dressers (or the models: Yasmin Le Bon was especially
brilliant at telling slimeballs to f**k off) but it was quite a sexually
intimidating environment. I was always careful to stay close to whichever
stylist I was working with, so I was never in a situation where I was
physically threatened, or felt scared.
I never discussed this side of things with my parents. My father, who was
never particularly keen on my modelling, would have put the kibosh on me
doing it immediately. Mum and I used to enjoy yakking about the glamour and
the gossip. We were obsessed with George Michael at the time and when I was
asked by a stylist to go to Ibiza to be an extra in the Wham! Club Tropicana
video we were thrilled. Blissfully unaware of George’s sexuality, I was
convinced that this was my chance to make him fall for me. Hah! I was so
intimidated by all the super-tanned, mega-glamorous, gorgeous extras at the
hotel’s poolside that I felt like a bottle of patchouli oil from Camden Lock
in a room full of Chanel No 5. I really felt my age. I spent the entire
shoot skulking about in the background, willing myself invisible. And George
didn’t look at me once.
I left school after my O levels and continued to model, but after a couple of
years I became increasingly anxious that I’d let my education come second.
So I decided to retire – at the ripe old age of 19 – and go back to my
studies. I probably missed out a bit financially, but completing my studies
was far more valuable to me. I knuckled down, got my A levels, ended up with
an MA and a fellowship at the Courtauld Institute of Art, and started
working in publishing. It was almost a decade after I first stopped
modelling that it all started for me again. I met Jose Fonseca, at that time
the head of Models 1 agency, at a party at the Serpentine Gallery: she asked
me if I’d ever considered modelling. No, I replied, adding that anyway, I
was too old and too short. But she was insistent. She gave me her card and
said: “If you don’t come and see me, I will hunt you down until I find you.
But you might have to lie about your age.”
When I first started modelling I felt, in my heart of hearts, a little too
young. Now I was a little too old. Second time around I did quite well, and
worked with Models 1 and Ford, New York. At first I felt a little foolish
pretending to be younger than I was. But it seemed to be an industry
requirement and I went along with it. The money was great, but the industry
had changed a lot; I’d been a rarity as a 15-year-old, now it felt as if
most of the girls were kids. Youth – or in my case the semblance of youth –
was an imperative. The standard of care for the younger girls was absolutely
exemplary, but I began feeling increasingly awkward. If I did a group shot
with a bunch of girls who were all teenagers I felt a bit of a prat: I got
increasingly irritated with the double standards, and was bored of keeping
up the pretence.
One day I went to a casting and recognised the make-up artist: she’d been two
years below me at school. “I know your secret,” she said with a smirk, as if
she could hold me to ransom. It was pathetic. The real shameful secret
wasn’t that I was a thirty-something, but that the industry was so uptight
about the idea.
Despite the money and the chance of working with some great clients and
brilliant photographers, I began to feel restricted. One day my agent got a
call from an international make-up brand that was looking to cast someone
for a new campaign. “We want someone who looks like Zoë Manzi, but who isn’t
Zoë Manzi,” said the rep. At that point even my fictional age made me a bit
too long in the tooth – it was time to retire again.
Are the new industry guidelines a good thing? From the perspective of this
former underage jobbing model, yes. Despite my positive experiences, I think
16 is quite young enough to make a catwalk debut – after all, if you can
model at 14, you can model at 16; physically, nothing is irrevocably lost in
those intervening two years. This weekend Naomi Campbell said that it was
“unfair not to let healthy girls under 16 have the same chance” to work that
she had. Her comments refer specifically to the weight of the models
concerned and she noted that these girls were skinnier by nature because of
their age, not necessarily because of an eating disorder. It’s because they
are not fully developed she says. Well, exactly. For me this is at the heart
of the matter. The health issue is an extremely significant one and must be
addressed.
However, the age issue must also be dealt with. Models under the age of 16,
and certainly at 13, are still children, working in an adult world. I worry
for those young girls required to project images of sexually mature,
confident women when they may not even have started their periods and may
never even been so much as kissed. Of course, some girls won’t be affected
by this while others will. For some it’s great fun, a rollercoaster ride
filled with excitement, attention and fantastic perks. For others it’s an
experience filled with anxiety, rejection, extremely competitive peers, and
a poor relationship with their body image which can have severe, long-term
consequences.
Reading yesterday about Maddison Gabriel, the Australian schoolgirl who was
made the face of a Gold Coast fashion show at the age of 12, just clarifies
my mind. Call me a hypocrite, but if I ever have a daughter who’s approached
about modelling, I’ll insist that she waits until she’s 16.
