The Harsh Truth I Quickly Learned After Becoming A Model
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My modeling career was underwhelming and over before it started.
I’m grateful for the collection of sexy pictures of my twenty-something-year-old self. But I’m glad I quit. It was the best decision for my career.
For starters, modeling, no matter male or female, is a mind fuck.
Months after I started, I caught Richard Brown’s attention, the agency’s former owner where I signed. We met between an appointment at the salon I frequented and shared friendly conversation about fashion and modeling. It was the first time someone in the industry believed in me (and my looks).
Weeks after meeting Richard, I received a casting call from my agency at his vintage boutique. There was someone he wanted to introduce to me.
Excited, I accepted the booking and showed up in my best. The store was a women’s vintage panacea. Something my grandmother and her mother would’ve pined over circa 1955.
He gives me the details: it’s an introduction with the owner of a popular California-based publication. If all goes well, there’s a job in it for me.
Ten minutes later, a short, handsome black man with French braids down to his ass and tied back in a bandanna, wearing jeans and a blazer, walks through the door.
Definitely from LA.
We’re cordial, making small talk before the introductions begin. Richard introduces me to Eric, the brains behind the magazine, and we talk.
He compliments my looks (at least what he can see) and talks about the campaign, which will have a Native American theme.
Within minutes, the conversation shifts from my good looks to my lack thereof. I hand Eric my portfolio, and he’s unimpressed.
“Samuel Danco shot these,” Richard tells Eric.
“Well, this is a tired Danco. I’ve seen these before,” he says, flipping through my portfolio. “You should get your money back. These look like the last guy he shot.”
Eric stops and looks at me, “Look, you’ve got a great face, my man, but I don’t know if you need to hit the weights or the cardio, but this — he points to my chest in a portfolio picture — is not what I’m looking for.”
Eric continues annihilating my portfolio and critiquing my physicality. He switches blame between Samuel and myself. Then he opens one of his magazines (which he has on hand?) and shows me pictures of the type of guy he’s looking for: more muscle, even leaner.
I can see Richard’s excitement faded into regret. He remains silent for most of the critique while I try to keep it business with Eric.
The conversation ends, and Eric says his goodbyes.
Richard tries to gauge my mental state, and I assure him I’m understanding and okay.
I walk back to the salon where Hana (my partner) is getting her hair cut by our friend Lori and tell them about the experience. They’re both shocked and surprised by my stoicism. But Hana sees through it.
Soon the facade fades, and I remember Eric’s words: they cut deep.
It was the first time I understood the truth of the modeling industry.
I lost a job because my chest wasn’t chiseled enough, nor was I lean enough (I was solid 11–12ish% body fat. I was in the 97th percentile — leaner than 97% of the US male population). But hey, I could’ve passed for a Native American!
A year went by, and I gained some muscle, got a little leaner, got a little fatter, and developed a binge-eating disorder, trying to keep up with fashion model ideals. I seldom accepted work because of my weight fluctuations, not wanting to subject myself to rejection.
Cycling in and out of self-love and self-loathing, I quit at the height of my career: a MAC makeup gig that paid $2,000 over two weekends.
My job was to stand shirtless in mini shorts in the middle of the mall for four hours, singing songs and pretending to clean laundry in front of the MAC store.
We live in a strange time where who you follow creates an echo chamber that skews reality. Suppose you follow mostly ripped and jack guys, flexing in front of Lambos on the LA streets, talking about hashtag dedication. You sink into an echo chamber of influence, believing drug-induced (but not disclosed) muscularity levels and leanness are normal and achievable — far from it.
You can say the same for women, who, by the same skewed ideals, should have a thigh-gap, yet phat ass, with a skinny waist, yet perky boobs, and the ability to arch their back so hard, Donald Duck would squeal in envy.
You don’t see the performance-enhancing drugs, the timed routine that comes with those drugs, or the harsh dieting to stay so lean.
All you see is the highlight reel, the Photoshop gains, and the “hustle,” all to exploit an unsuspecting audience to peddle products. Many influencers — especially in the fitness industry — can’t separate integrity from greed.
(I often wonder what the long-term effects of living a life of deceit and deception do to one’s psyche.)
The more years I’ve lived, the more I realize elite fitness levels are far from what they’re cracked up to be. No one cares if you have a six-pack — only you.
Yes, above-average muscle mass is a good idea — both from a health and longevity perspective. But taken to an extreme negates those benefits.
Yes, a lower body fat percentage is healthy. But the healthy range is far broader than social media would have you believe.
Here’s how the American Council On Exercise categorizes body fat.
Though they classify sub 8% and 16% body fat for men and women as athletic, most fitness professionals would agree lower than this is hard to maintain year-round and comes with many health issues when sustained long enough.
That said, 16 to 24% for women and 8 to 17% for men are healthy and fit.
Here’s a visual of this for women and men:
I’m all for taking good care of yourself.
Sometimes that can mean losing weight.
Sometimes it can mean gaining weight.
Sometimes it’s going a day without binge eating.
And sometimes it’s thinking less self-loathing thoughts.
It’s not limited to the Grecian ideal.
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