There are two types of journalists: those who revel in being photographed, and then there’s the rest of us. These days it’s pretty much impossible to duck out of being snapped, largely because editors insist that you become part of the story. It’s all gone a bit gonzo.
I am not entirely sure what I am looking at, or maybe even for. I’m going with ‘misplaced dignity’…
There you are, up front and centre on a shoot, looking pencil thin and just as wooden. It’s painful. The more I think about it, though, this isn’t a new phenomenon. I mean, I should be used to it by now. There was a time not all that long ago when I, cough, ‘modelled’ on a semi-regular basis. And by ‘modelled’, I of course mean ‘felt mortified’.
Car magazines tend to operate on a shoestring, classic car titles especially. Scroll back about 15 years and the publication I used to work on often employed pretty ladies for cover shoots. Budgets would not, however, stretch to hiring a male model to accompany them.
That would be my job. That sounds great, but it mostly consisted of me dressing like an eejit and standing around for hours as passers-by passed comment. Or laughed. Mostly both. So feast your eyes on this pic from yesterweek… I am not entirely sure what I am looking at, or maybe even for. I’m going with ‘misplaced dignity’.