Comment is free, facts are sacred CP Scott 1918

Opinion
Claire Ratinon
I left my job in London to grow
food. This deep connection with
nature gives my life meaning..

I lost count of the times I was told to

lose weight as a model.

In the end, I quit.

Zoë Huxford
 Opinion
T he life of a model – walking in fashion shows for
Prada and Givenchy, shooting for Vogue – can seem, from
the outside, like a dream come true.
I was scouted and signed to a modelling agency when I was
16. It was a heady experience, but still confusing – I had had
no idea that a trip to Kent’s Bluewater shopping centre could
result in a total life change. Then, the week before I was due
to enter the first year of sixth form and begin my A-levels, my
agent asked if I would model at London fashion week. They
said I’d only be out of school for a week, so of course I said
yes. That week turned into two, which spiralled into five as I
was swept off to Milan and Paris to walk in Jil Sander,
Balenciaga and Louis Vuitton.
I was extremely fortunate that my career started like this,
and I was even more fortunate that it continued. After that first
week of work, I went on to shoot magazine editorials, walk
runways and travel fairly consistently over the next four years.
For a 17-year-old, I was making decent money, too – even
after learning that when my agent said they were taking me
out to lunch, this would later be deducted from my pay. To
observers, I was some sort of star, which wasn’t a totally
unwarranted view given that publications such as Harper’s
Bazaar, bizarrely, the Sun named me a “face to watch”.
Of course, it’ll be a surprise to precisely no one that the
modelling industry is, by design, exploitative. It capitalises on
women (although this afflicts male models, too) who are often
foreign (sometimes non-English speaking) and, as I was, very
young. I was 16 when I was first told to lose weight and,
throughout the four years I was modelling.
It wasn’t just the pressure – to which I succumbed – to force
my body into becoming a weight it wasn’t designed to be that
warned me of preordained disaster. I was 17 when I was
going out to dinner with a friend, who also happened to be a
casting director – and in his late 30s. He texted saying he
needed to finish some work, and invited me to his house. I
went, made polite conversation, then he kissed me. I froze. I
had to be friendly – there’s an unfair but nevertheless direct
correlation between success and being liked – but, equally, I
had been violated (though I didn’t have the courage to use
that word at the time). I texted another model friend
immediately afterwards, to which she replied: “Dude, ur young
and hot. sucks, but was bound to happen.”
By the time I was 20, it felt like everything – my
career, social life, relationships – was imploding.
Unhappy and overweight in fashion terms, I had to
make a decision. I could do what my agent urged
and go to a weight-loss camp for models, or quit. I
chose the latter. I told my agent I intended to go to
university, but since I had to wait until September
for the academic year to start, I wanted to travel
first. My agent didn’t mind as I wasn’t making them
much money. I was, quite simply, out of fashion.
Oh spare me, you might think – yet another thin,
white, conventionally attractive, young woman
talking about the burden of being attractive. I get it,
it is galling and exasperating to be told how heavy
the cross of physical beauty is to bear. To be
clear: I’m aware of the privileges that being
attractive affords me. I’m also aware that
commodifying and profiting from my own body and
beauty via the fashion industry doesn’t absolve me
of my own complicity in allowing such an industry
to continue. But it is possible to capitalise on and
fall victim to the perils of beauty. Is there a way of
reconciling the two? Possibly. I haven’t found an
answer for it yet. If you have, send it my way.
There is strength in knowing when to quit. With
hindsight, leaving modelling was the best decision
I could have made. Last year I obtained my
master’s in English literature from University
College London and have since become a
journalist. It’s sad to see how many people try to
emulate models, so many of whom are deeply
unhappy, and it’s this cruel and unnecessary cycle
of imitation and disappointment that I hope to
break in my writing about the fashion industry.
Until then, I’m now much happier having my
piece of cake – and eating it.