We are in the bedroom of an airy Victorian house in North London — all white
walls and white floorboards — which has been hired for the four-day
catalogue shoot of a prestigious high street brand. A complete stranger is
applying blusher to my daughter’s chubby cheeks. This could be Ava’s ticket
to the big league. If today goes well, who knows — next time it could be
Asda.
Then the make-up artist frowns: “Oh dear, we’ve got a bit of a spot, haven’t
we? Better put some cover-up on that.”
“Oh . . . sorry,” I mumble, as if I am directly responsible.
Downstairs, the stylist chooses a “look” for Ava — a yellow dress and sun hat
— and we are ushered into the cavernous kitchen, where 15 people are
standing around trying to look useful.
The photographer is a burly Mancunian who, I guess, is more used to snapping
babes than babies. “All right, Dad,” he says gruffly (parents at shoots are
always addressed as “Mum” or “Dad”), “bring the little princess over here.”
He lies on the floor and points to a brightly lit spot on a white backdrop.
Two women, whose role is to keep the models smiling, stand one on each side
of him. They spend the entire day playing peek-a-boo and lobbing a toy
chipmunk back and forth between them. Sometimes they use sound props, such
as a “moo” noise — anything to make the infant look up: hence that quizzical
expression worn by babies in adverts. What they are emoting is not “my, what
a comfy sleep-suit” but “what the hell is that noise?”.
Ava is naturally smiley, but today she is tired and irritable. The drive here
has taken an hour and a quarter. My calculation that she would sleep en
route has backfired. After crying for half an hour, she finally dropped off
five minutes before our arrival.
In her current state, the last thing she feels like is being stared at by a
bunch of strangers, with a flash going off in her eyes. Every time I plonk
her down on the “mark”, her face twists into a grimace and she tries to
crawl towards me. Even the lunatic antics of the chipmunk-tossing ladies
fail to distract her.
“She’s not normally like this,” I stutter — a phrase these teams probably hear
a thousand times a year.
All eyes turn to me. I am aware that it is only a matter of time before they
give up and call in one of the five babies waiting in the other room. There
is nothing else for it. I stand behind the photographer and launch into a
falsetto rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep, while making silly faces
and jumping around like a chimp. It’s pathetic. A thought occurs to me: at
this time yesterday I was at Claridge’s, interviewing Keira Knightley.
Ava stares at me for a few moments, then starts to wail softly. I want to
snatch her up and give her a reassuring cuddle . . . but all these people
expect her to perform.
Finally, the photographer loses patience. He puts down his camera, gives me a
withering look and tuts: “Come on, Dad, sort it out. We haven’t got all day.”
In the world of baby modelling, the normal rules of parenting don’t apply: you
fret not just about your child’s health, happiness and development but about
their employability.
For a few months, Ava had a brief but illustrious career in front of the
camera. During that time — until her retirement at the age of 11 months —
she graced the catalogues of several well-known brands.
In fact, as we sink deeper into recession, modelling agencies are reporting a
signficant rise in the number of inquiries from parents of tinies.
Scallywags, one of the biggest child modelling agencies in the London area,
has gone from receiving 200 new applications a week last year to 500 this
year. “That may well be because parents are looking to find some extra
income,” says booker Sam How. “Before, money wasn’t the main motivation — it
was more about the kids enjoying it and it helping with confidence-building.
The impression we get now is that people are looking to get cash in the
bank.”
Parents’ cashflow worries can also affect flexibility. “You have to be
available at the drop of a hat,” says How, “but London parents are turning
down jobs outside the capital because they can’t afford to pay travel costs,
then claim the money back after the job has been completed.”
We hadn’t planned to get her into modelling but, from the moment she could
smile, Ava was a shameless exhibitionist. When she was a few months old I
started writing a parenting column for a supermarket magazine and she posed
so happily for the accompanying pictures that the photographer suggested
that we sign her up with an agency. At first I was reluctant — but if we
could earn her a bit of money for the future, what harm could it do? And if
she didn’t like it, we would stop.
We had heard horror stories of agencies asking for large sums to register your
baby, or insisting that you pay for professional photos. But with our agency
it was simply a case of e-mailing them a couple of snaps, then waiting for
them to call with the time and address of castings.
The first thing to stress about baby modelling is that it is 10 per cent about
looks, 90 per cent about temperament. Before you consider approaching an
agency, ask yourself this: is your baby a natural show-off? Does he or she
spend most of the day smiling and laughing for no apparent reason? Because
if he or she doesn’t sit still and chuckle adorably on cue, there won’t be
much work forthcoming.
Some photographers find novel ways round the sitting-still problem. I know one
who worked on a well-known television ad that depicted 100 babies, all
rooted to the spot. How did the director achieve this marvel? Simple: by
gluing the seat of each baby’s nappy to the studio floor while their mothers
were detained in another room.
It is all taken very seriously. Some of the teams clearly think that they are
working for French Vogue. Once I asked an art director if she wanted
me to brush Ava’s hair. She replied: “No, she’s modelling nightwear. We want
her to have a relaxed, tousled look.”
Yet, as absurd as it sometimes is, modelling can be a great way to earn your
child a few quid before they are old enough even to realise that they are
working. On Ava’s first shoot we met a family who had travelled from
Birmingham on an early train. The fact that “mum” had brought two relatives
along proved one thing: they were not doing it for the money. Once you had
factored in three adult train fares, they were making a loss.
Which brings us to the thorny question of motivation. Why did we decide to put
Ava forward for modelling? Well, primarily for driving lessons,
mind-broadening foreign travel or some other worthy future expenditure. But
now, looking back, I have to admit that the other major reason was vanity.
Yes, we wanted to show off our gorgeous baby (and, it follows, our
exceptional genes). Of course, everyone considers their new baby gorgeous.
But when John Lewis is paying for them to be photographed, it is proof
that they are.
Most of the shoots that we attended took place in chilly studios around
London. On arrival, you sign a form and are given a set of clothes to put on
your baby. Then you go to the waiting area. You will inevitably have to wait
for an hour, making awkward chit-chat with four or five mums, each of whom
has her eye on one particularly cute outfit.
At every shoot there is one adorable party dress/bonnet combo that every
parent wants his or her child to wear. In the catwalk world, this translates
to modelling the bridal gown and being chosen to give flowers to the
designer.
We were warned about pushy parents but generally the waiting areas are
friendly enough. Organic rice cakes are handed round, previous jobs
discussed and no one would dream of depriving you of an emergency nappy. But
there is an undercurrent of competitiveness, a cool appraisal of other
people’s offspring, a wave of schadenfreude when another baby has a meltdown
and can’t do the shot.
Even the most easygoing tot can have an off day, which is why there is always
a back-up baby. If yours fails to gurgle and grin, he or she will be
replaced. If this happens two or three times, your agency will probably get
to hear about it and that will be the end of junior’s modelling career.
Initially it was my partner who took Ava to castings and shoots but, when she
returned to work, it fell to me. I wasn’t the only father but men were a
rarity because, unlike me — a home-working freelance — most dads had proper
jobs. Each time I took my place on the studio sofa, I could sense the mums
sizing me up. Unemployed? Mousewife? Or maybe he took the day off work
because he’s that desperate to see the fruit of his loins in
the Littlewoods catalogue.
What’s more, I’m sure some of our friends thought that what we were doing was
morally questionable. One jokingly accused us of “exploiting your child for
profit”.
I don’t feel that we have anything to be ashamed of. We had no intention of
spending any of Ava’s earnings (if you do, by the way, you have to pay tax
on it). The money will sit in her account until she is old enough to put it
to good use. The only personal profit we realised was bragging rights.
There is no question that, in the long term, it cannot be beneficial for your
child to be pitted against others on the basis of looks. I attended one
shoot involving child models, at which a pair of heavily made-up
five-year-olds were sitting in a waiting room discussing work: “Did you go
for the Tesco job?” “Uh-huh. I got a recall but Jemima got it in the end.”
“Oh yes, Jemima’s got a very strong look.”
In the end, though, we decided to call it a day because Ava no longer seemed
to be enjoying it. As she got older and needed less sleep, driving to a
30-second casting (name and agency, Polaroid, goodbye), then getting back
into the car for the journey home became torture.
Ava probably has £1,500 in the bank from about 40 hours’ toil. I’m sure the
money will come in handy one day — and we will have some cute pictures with
which to embarrass her when she brings her first boyfriend home. We don’t
regret doing it but, as with most things in life, the key is knowing when to
stop.
First steps
1. Choose a reputable agency (albamodels.info lists top ones). Ask big
brands (eg, Mothercare) which agencies they use.
2. Don’t answer small ads in newspapers calling for baby models. These
are usually a scam.
3. No reputable agency should ask you for money upfront, though bigger
ones may charge a fee of about £150-£250 if your child is selected to appear
in their model book.
4. Most London agencies will take on babies only within the M25, as
jobs come up at short notice.
5. Fees are usually about £50 an hour, with the agency taking 25 per
cent. For a big TV ad the fee can be £4,000, but even top baby models are
unlikely to earn more than £2,000 a year.
6. Some agencies ask you to attend an interview. They are auditioning
you as much as your baby.
