cosmetic campaigns, but she’d never quite fit the title of “super”.
With the exception of Carmen, and perhaps Lauren Hutton, who both continued to do the occasional photo shoot several decades after they began in the business, a model’s career was spectacularly brief. The transformation from fresh-faced fourteen year old to jaded twenty-five year old was as cradle to the grave to most in the industry. Makedde had seen countless girls come and go. In their fleeting time, some sacrificed more than others, and some achieved more than others, but for most the trip was ephemeral, and the fickle industry moved on. The trick was to take the money and run, but it was a strategy few young models understood.
Makedde reached up and tore another face from the wall.
When fifteen-year-old Catherine reached five-foot-nine, she had wanted to give international modelling a try. Mak had mixed feelings about her friend’s aspirations. It would forever be a misunderstood lifestyle, reinforced by movies like Prêt à Porter and Unzipped , which portrayed the industry about as realistically as Pretty Woman portrayed prostitution. The international fashion scene couldbe harsh and confusing to a teenager, and the combination of a mismanaged career and a misguided soul could be disastrous. Everyone knew a horror story—sixteen year olds gliding down the catwalk zoned out on heroin; cigarette and coffee dieting anorexics; bulimics; chronic diet pill—laxative pill—diuretic pill—upper—downer— everything pill poppers. The casting couch. It could become a deadly obstacle course for unchaperoned kids with poor self images or little self control.
On the flip side, many models enjoyed great experiences—travel, culture, new sights, new languages, new people, and occasionally, lots and lots of money.
Knowing all that, what do you do when someone you know wants to give it a shot?
In Makedde’s case you help in every way you can, and try to guide them away from the pitfalls. With a six-year gap in age and experience, she showed Catherine the ropes, leading her through the bizarre maze of international modelling. She bailed Cat out of trouble on several occasions, but it seemed she wasn’t there for her when it really mattered.
One day too late .
She crunched the magazine photos tightly in her hand, shoved them into a large garbage bag and walked over to the neat stack of Catherine’s clothes.The Unwins, Cat’s foster parents, had made it clear that they had no use for the clothes. The police had no use for them either. Mak would take them to a women’s charity and ship the remainder of the belongings back to Canada.
She had never met Catherine’s birth parents, and was thankful they never lived to see their only child cut up like that, cold and lifeless on a morgue tray. With her eyes closed, Makedde placed the stack of garments into a fresh garbage bag. She didn’t want to see any familiar clothes. One glimpse of a moss green jumper had brought memories flooding back of Catherine smiling and laughing in Munich, treating herself to a shopping spree for landing her first big hair commercial.
With the clothes ready in bags for charity, she turned her attention to the ornate, antique jewellery box that sat beside the mirror. Catherine’s cherished jewellery box. It was made of wood, intricately carved and embellished with swirling designs and bright, luminous semi-precious stones. It was a sentimental reminder of Catherine’s true mother, one of the few tangible things which had remained of her. It was small, and Catherine had travelled with it wherever she went. Alison Gerber had given it to her daughter only months before she and Catherine’s father drove over the Malahat to visit a friend. The Malahat cuts for miles through the mountains of Vancouver Island in asteep and winding highway. Sometime during the night, as they made their way home, their car hit black ice and slid off the road, rolling down the mountainside for
With the exception of Carmen, and perhaps Lauren Hutton, who both continued to do the occasional photo shoot several decades after they began in the business, a model’s career was spectacularly brief. The transformation from fresh-faced fourteen year old to jaded twenty-five year old was as cradle to the grave to most in the industry. Makedde had seen countless girls come and go. In their fleeting time, some sacrificed more than others, and some achieved more than others, but for most the trip was ephemeral, and the fickle industry moved on. The trick was to take the money and run, but it was a strategy few young models understood.
Makedde reached up and tore another face from the wall.
When fifteen-year-old Catherine reached five-foot-nine, she had wanted to give international modelling a try. Mak had mixed feelings about her friend’s aspirations. It would forever be a misunderstood lifestyle, reinforced by movies like Prêt à Porter and Unzipped , which portrayed the industry about as realistically as Pretty Woman portrayed prostitution. The international fashion scene couldbe harsh and confusing to a teenager, and the combination of a mismanaged career and a misguided soul could be disastrous. Everyone knew a horror story—sixteen year olds gliding down the catwalk zoned out on heroin; cigarette and coffee dieting anorexics; bulimics; chronic diet pill—laxative pill—diuretic pill—upper—downer— everything pill poppers. The casting couch. It could become a deadly obstacle course for unchaperoned kids with poor self images or little self control.
On the flip side, many models enjoyed great experiences—travel, culture, new sights, new languages, new people, and occasionally, lots and lots of money.
Knowing all that, what do you do when someone you know wants to give it a shot?
In Makedde’s case you help in every way you can, and try to guide them away from the pitfalls. With a six-year gap in age and experience, she showed Catherine the ropes, leading her through the bizarre maze of international modelling. She bailed Cat out of trouble on several occasions, but it seemed she wasn’t there for her when it really mattered.
One day too late .
She crunched the magazine photos tightly in her hand, shoved them into a large garbage bag and walked over to the neat stack of Catherine’s clothes.The Unwins, Cat’s foster parents, had made it clear that they had no use for the clothes. The police had no use for them either. Mak would take them to a women’s charity and ship the remainder of the belongings back to Canada.
She had never met Catherine’s birth parents, and was thankful they never lived to see their only child cut up like that, cold and lifeless on a morgue tray. With her eyes closed, Makedde placed the stack of garments into a fresh garbage bag. She didn’t want to see any familiar clothes. One glimpse of a moss green jumper had brought memories flooding back of Catherine smiling and laughing in Munich, treating herself to a shopping spree for landing her first big hair commercial.
With the clothes ready in bags for charity, she turned her attention to the ornate, antique jewellery box that sat beside the mirror. Catherine’s cherished jewellery box. It was made of wood, intricately carved and embellished with swirling designs and bright, luminous semi-precious stones. It was a sentimental reminder of Catherine’s true mother, one of the few tangible things which had remained of her. It was small, and Catherine had travelled with it wherever she went. Alison Gerber had given it to her daughter only months before she and Catherine’s father drove over the Malahat to visit a friend. The Malahat cuts for miles through the mountains of Vancouver Island in asteep and winding highway. Sometime during the night, as they made their way home, their car hit black ice and slid off the road, rolling down the mountainside for
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