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As a change from pictures in the mind, here are a few for the eye to tide you through until I update the gallery.
Party with Models
I wear my sunglasses at night
Me, Alessandro's friends, sister, and Alessandro in Bologna last w.e.
Me and my good friend Haran who was in town with his friend Paul for two hours this morning.
Last Monday I awoke to the smell of burning. Excusing the smell as one of my roommates' cigarettes, I returned to my slumber. Again I awoke, but this time I was sure the smoke was not generated by any kind of cigarette - tobacco or otherwise. My instincts drew me out of bed lest we all burn to death or suffocate in our sleep.
The smell was stronger in the kitchen and though no visible conflagration threatened to destroy the apartment, there was no difficulty locating the oven as the source.
The dial on maximum, the cremation of some poor carbon-based entity was taking place. Rather than open the oven and fill the room with smoke in a vain attempt to rescue this dish, I left it so the smoke could subside. Apparently my roommates arriving home at 6 in the morning after a night's partying, had seasoned a salmon, placed it in the oven, turned the temperature all the way up, and promptly gone to sleep.
The black mess remained in the oven for a week until the landlord cleaned it up.
Before continuing, let us rewind to the moment I stepped into the kitchen. The first thing I noticed was not, in fact, the smoking oven.
Apparently Pietro had made good on his promise to fumigate the kitchen, for what I saw, scattered across the kitchen floor, were precisely six black cockroaches, belly-up and writhing. Black articulated little legs, twitching and struggling ineffectually against invisible neuro-toxins.
Two more had escaped the kitchen. One had made it to the hallway before succumbing to the poison, and the other, as far as the bathroom.
I suppose the heat had flushed them out. Who knows how many more remain decaying in the dark recesses between our appliances.
That day, "I would like to find a new apartment." I told my agency.
Partly as an experiment, and partly through indignation, I left the cockroaches in place, stepping carefully to avoid them when making use of the room. The numerous cockroaches would be a clear indication to my roommates that our lifestyle was beyond squalor; that it was time to reform. Perhaps Pietro would stop by and reach a similar conclusion.
Nothing.
It was as though the roaches were not there. It was as though it was simply common to live and eat with a carpet of dead insects. They kicked them, stepped on them and entirely ignored them. They even brought girls to the apartment with the dead squashed creatures still scattered across the floor.
Eventually I swept up the dead cockroaches.
As I had said to my agency, "I would like to find a new apartment." The next day I was put in touch with another of the models who showed me the place he was staying. He actually was sent to viale Umbria 64 upon his original arrival in Milan. Impressed that I had lasted almost a whole month in the apartment, he was able to bare only one night before escaping to a hotel.
To my surprise, when I arrived at the new apartment, I found my friend Vasco there. I also knew his roommate Noah, and the prospect of moving into a really nice place with my friends obviously lifted my spirits.
Another model from my agency in Calgary had just moved to Milan on the weekend and it looked like there was space at his nearby apartment too.
Already with two options, the guy showing me the apartment put me in touch with another girl who potentially had a room for rent. So I phoned her.
After investigating this third option myself, it was this third option I chose. The apartment is near a school in a residential area, surrounded by green space. The owner would be away in Paris until the end of June, so I would have the whole place to myself. Peace, cleanliness, and privacy. The antipode of my Brazilian slum. At the same price.
Already with my outlook changed to positive, I went to the infamous "kissing" casting. I was also scheduled for another casting that evening.
When I arrived at Studio Lipari for the second casting where this time, the same as last time, and the same as every other time, a million models are waiting to be told "thank-you".
At the end of the queue for studio 2 was a girl I knew. Not well enough to greet her by name, for in our single previous encounter, I never asked. But well enough to start chatting.
In our single previous encounter, she was leaving Studio Lipari as I was arriving. She had asked me for directions on how to get to the station by bus and I willingly obliged.
This time, the long queue gave us plenty of time to converse.
Leaving the casting together, we discovered (with no contrivance on my part) that we were going in the same direction. She had one final casting at seven PM to which I agreed to accompany her. Being seven already, there was no reasonable chance of making it on time. By half past, she was ready to concede temporal defeat and skip it. I convinced her she had nothing to lose by trying. The casting we just finished ran late and there was a good chance that other models would also be late.
We arrived at the hotel where the casting was held and found the casting taking place in the lobby. It was a mixed casting! I was expecting only girls, but the handful of remaining models were mostly guys. All had books from (the agency) Why Not.
Every day you get a list of casting appointments. Some are given with a single time, and others are given with a beginning and end between which you are supposed to arrive at your discretion. Often models from the same agency have the same castings, but will occasionally differ for callbacks or special requests. The schedules for models from different agencies can coincide or can be completely different. Models sometimes go to other models' castings.
I was considering attending this casting, but the absence of male models outside of Why Not would make me painfully conspicuous as a charlatan. I was also late.
As I waited for my friend, a couple of American girls arrived from the last casting. When they asked if I was next I explained that I was still deciding whether or not to try for it. With true American brazen, they talked me into crashing the casting.
The panel of fashion looking people must have known I was not supposed to be there, but they did not look surprised or question me on it. The casting went smoothly and, as I got up to leave, one of them stopped me to make sure I had left a composite. I had, but it is still a much more positive sign than the situation where you have to remind them to take one.
The next day when I stopped by the agency to pick up new comp cards, an exciting, unexpected message awaited me. I got a job!
As I punched the air in elation, Frederica tried to tame my enthusiasm with the addition that it was only a small job, but to no avail. It was my first job and no matter what the size, it was to me the most important job in the world.
I picked up the printout from the printer with the job details. Out of all the details, one was most striking: the location. It was the hotel where, the night before, I had crashed the casting!
Though the rest of the details were somewhat a mystery to me at the time; the magazine being unknown to me and with the single ominous instruction "da solo", come alone, I have since done the job. It was for an eight page editorial in the Dutch women's fashion magazine Avantgarde. The photographer, Allard Honigh, and the rest of the team were fun to work with and the clothing fabulous (if occasionally tight in the pants).
You will, perhaps, not have the opportunity of seeing this magazine on the stands of your native country (lest that country be The Netherlands), so I will post the pictures here when available.
Thanks, everyone, for the wonderful support when things were down. The luck you have been wishing me is working and things are now decidedly better.
The transit system here uses validated tickets. It is a cross between honour system and pay-for-entry. On the buses you are supposed to hold a valid ticket which you validate upon entrance at one of the on-board machines. The driver will not check you before you board. In fact, there are three sets of doors on the buses that all open at every stop.
On the subway, you need to validate your ticket to get through the turnstile or show your pass to the station attendant. The turnstiles, however, could care less whether you have validated your ticket for the first time or the seventh, and the attendant is often, contrary to the nomenclature, not in attendance.
Many of (perhaps all?) the models here regularly cheat the system. Besides perhaps the girls, few of which I have met, everyone I know sneaks in one way or another. I, however, diligently (unnecessarily?) purchase a weekly pass every Monday.
Today, being a Monday, I was due for a new pass. I realized this as I was waiting for the bus. I had never been on the bus without a valid pass. Considering I had never been checked either, I hopped on with the plan of purchasing a new pass after finishing my first casting of the day.
After finding my seat, I overheard the driver in discussion and looked up. To my horror, a uniformed transit official was aboard the vehicle and demanding "biglietti" from passengers!
He walked first down the opposite side of the bus asking people, it seemed, at random. I pretended to ignore him. He turned to face me and posed the dreaded question. Buying time, I looked confused and said "sorry?" He repeated himself and after feigning comprehension, I began fishing in my pockets for my expired pass whose location I knew precisely.
He continued his witch-hunt down the bus. Perhaps I had escaped!Judging from the heated arguments, the other passengers had predicaments of their own.
I retrieved the pass and held it in my hand resting on my lap. I was rehearsing my explanation as the officer continued his debate with the person behind me. Then I saw an opportunity! We were approaching the next stop.
Realizing I would look guilty to jump out of my seat and perch beside the door, I readied myself while seated, without drawing attention. My heart and mind racing, the bus continued. I saw the gray plastic outline and orange LED readout of the stop just across the street.
Any second now, I would simply get up, step off the bus, and walk away.
Then the light turned red. We were stranded. There was my exit, just across the intersection. My luck had just run out.
The official concluded his debate, walked forward, and turned to face me. I braced myself as I turned over my pass.
"Grazie" he said, and returned it.
I smiled and nodded. Either it was OK that I was using a pass that expired today, or he was just too busy with his job to notice! Either way, I breathed a sigh of relief and continued to my casting - for deodorant nevertheless.
The location was the same as one I had been to a few weeks ago. The waiting room, similar to that of a small train station, had wooden bench seats - the kind divided into individual seats with armrests. I signed up on the list and sat down to the hour long wait. A room full of beautiful people. Me, every now and then expecting the casting director to stop, point at me, and say "too young!" on one of her many trips between outside, the offices, and the studio.
Eventually she sent out a bunch of guys from the studio and read four names of the list, including mine. The four of us, two guys and two girls, all followed her into the studio.
An antiquated computer looking device sat on a table next to an old camera. The room was bright with the studio lights. Facing the desk and camera was the rest of the studio, typical, with white walls joining at curved edges to create a harmonious void space.
Nervous in anticipation of being on camera, I retrieved a composite and handed it over. The lady began speaking in Italian to the first man on the list. She directed him to the floor and through some actions. Then he began a long Italian speech which I presumed, through the odd word I understood, to be a summary of his acting experience.
Even more nervous, I pondered how I would explain to her that I do not speak Italian.
The man said thank you and left and, before leaving, the lady said "you and you, together" pointing at me and one of the two remaining girls.
The girl got on stage and I tentatively followed asking "she said together right?".
The girl said "yes" and then, reading my mind, "do you speak Italian??"
Smiling, I replied "no" and both of us were relieved.
The director had us stand together on a marked spot on the floor. She had me turn my head in both directions for my profile. Then she had me show my hands for the camera. She said, "first, the interview" and asked us both our names and where we were from.
The rest of the casting was a bit of a blur, beginning with "you are boyfriend and girlfriend".
I think some of the directions were "look at the camera, now look at each other" and "bring your hand up to her face" and "whisper into her ear, and then you laugh" and "now you fall in love". But the only direction I remember with complete lucidity was the next:
"And now the kiss!".
Boy were neither of us expecting that one! Well, actually, I was sort of expecting it about half way through the casting, but certainly not while I was sitting outside in the waiting room. There are few professions in this world where you can walk into a room like its any other day and be ordered to kiss a beautiful woman. A perk like that makes up for any number of days in a cockroach infested apartment.
This endeavour, trying to become a model, has peaks and valleys. I have descended.
Thursday, I was back in the apartment ruminating self-doubt when Adriano showed up with a flat of beer. Both a model, and scientist, his experiments at the neurological institute were going well so he had come by to celebrate.
Pietro had also come by to do the rounds. I told him about the "scarafaggii" living in the apartment. He said no problem, "domani, domani" and made an action indicating fumigation. From experience, tomorrow means next week. Though I expect his actions , when he gets to them, will do more to increase the toxicity of our air, food, and cooking surfaces than it will decrease our cockroach population.
For every day I spend in Milan, I shave two off my lifespan.
My phone ceased to function earlier in the day, so I did not know if Pierre still wanted to go out tonight or if I would be finding another way to entertain myself. I borrowed Adriano's phone to send a text message.
Pietro waited for the dishwasher to finish. He treats us like animals and I think most of his tenants respond in kind. Believing us incapable of running the dishwasher ourselves, he runs it when he comes by.
I thin he is a little frustrated when he finds the counter tops clean and the dishes already loaded. He has never seen me put the dishes away, but he knows it is me. Upsetting the status quo.
He empties the dishes, probably failing to notice the separation of bowls and plates on the shelf, and stacks them randomly in the order they came out of the machine. He takes out the cutlery basket and opens the cutlery drawer. This time it is impossible to miss the presence of the organized cutlery tray, discovered in an unused drawer and retrieved from its neglect.
Pietro cannot just empty the basket upside down into the drawer as before. Still, he cannot accept this suggestion of civility. Defiantly he places the cutlery in no particular order or orientation on top of the neatly partitioned knives, spoons, and forks.
Pierre replies to Adriano's mobile phone and says he is too tired to go out tonight. I resign myself to spending the night in our kitchen-turned-bar. Cigarettes, marijuana, hot knives. All consumed second hand by me.
I mention my despair to Adriano who recounts a vivid tail. A tribulation much greater than mine as he struggled in LA. Out of money and no job, he had two options. Go back to Brazil, home, safe, or try to make it in LA. He found two part time jobs, a host at restaurant and a clerk at a fast food place. He made enough money to cover his rent and by the end of the month a client took him for a campaign.
It does not matter what the client says at the casting. Sometimes they just look at a couple photos in your book and say "thanks" and you get booked for the job. A common story among models. You just go to the castings, try to enjoy your time, and have faith and patience.
Natalia, another Brazilian, joined our party. Maiko and Caue talked in Portuguese. Adriano's story cheered me up and though I was discouraged by my success rate and accommodations, I felt how great it was to have this opportunity and meet such interesting people.
Earlier I had cooked curried cabbage and mince. Caue, hungry, contemplated getting a kebab, so I offered him some food. I put the cabbage on to heat and started cooking some rice. Impatient, Caue insisted on eating with bread instead of waiting for rice, not understanding that by now it was not easier to ignore the rice, but inconvenient and impolite. I acquiesced.
Soon Maiko, Adriano, and Caue all but polished of the meal I thought would last me half the week. Still, it is nice to share, see the expressions of enjoyment and receive the accolades in broken English. "Very ... gourmet! Good cook. Very good roommate."
Maiko and Caue invited me along to Hollywood. I went there last week and it was terrible. Commercial music, drunk models and drugged groupies. More people in the VIP pen than commoners. At Hollywood, I could ride in free on my special status, but once inside I was still a commoner.
They go out around one or two in the morning. A lot of people consider that the time to go out in Milan, but I still think midnight to one are peak hours.
It was the same as last time. A thick film of syrup from spilled drinks glues broken glass to the soles of your shoes. All my companions are Brazilian models. Bigger, stronger, better looking and way more aggressive than me, I get little chance to interact with the few girls in the club.
Not that the girls there are of much interest anyway.
Why any of the non-models waste their time there, I do not know. Unless they have money. A couple of pretty, young girls, cling to older men with bad haircuts, t-shirts, and clumsy running shoes.
The night dragged on. At least the music was better than before. At least I could dance and be around people.
I glanced at Maiko and Caue every so often waiting for them to be ready to leave. I glanced over and did not see them. I looked around assuming they had gone for food or cigarettes. Later, I looked outside to see if they were outside waiting. Still later, I asked around the other Brazilians. Maybe they had left.
After another half hour I gave up. I left the club with one of the other Brazilians. I tried to get something useful out of him. Maybe if we were going in the same direction, we could share a cab. He was not only drunk, but going the opposite way.
We chatted with two girls through the open window of their car. One was Italian, the other from Miami. We claimed to be students. I just played along. Poorly. I smiled in amusement and the girl kept asking "It's not true is it? You're models right?" I did not even know which school we went to.
I went down to the subway and and asked the man unlocking the gates in a couple of Italian words and gestures when the trains start. Six. It was five and I was tired and frustrated.
My map was at home. Going out with my "friends", I felt I would not be needing it. I also forgot my transit pass.
I went back up to street level. My companion's tram, the first of the day, would be there at 5:30. I did not know which tram to take, but saw that his followed the circle route and would eventually get me closer to my place, or perhaps connect to a bus that would. I decided to take his tram. I continued studying the map at the stop.
Just as its straining metal wheels announced its arrival, I found a better tram, the number 30 would take me in the right direction. I ran across the street and hopped on without time to find out where to disembark.
Hazy memories and abstract sense of direction kept me on board as long as possible. I got off and kept walking in the same direction. When I finally found another map, I discovered I exited three stops prematurely.
I walked, and walked. Finally I reached the stop to which I should have let the tram take me. I did not expect to see the connecting bus, so I walked the second leg. The streets waking. A lady spoke with cats. Odd hours attract odd people.
In range of the apartment I ran. I felt like hitting something. Running was the least destructive way to release tension.
When I arrived to find my roommates at home and awake, anger and betrayal overtook fatigue and anxiety. Maiko, the ubermale, was on the floor of his room with yet another girl. I found Caue in the kitchen. Demanding to know why they left me and all he could muster was "sorry".
I set my alarm for ten. I slept until twelve. Worried my agency may be angry having been trying to reach me, I showered quickly, got dressed, and ran down the street to the nearest phone center.
The agency was angry. I apologized about my phone not working. "You don't call in at one o'clock if your phone's not working." I promised it would not happen again and explained the situation from the night before.
I had called just in time. I had a call back with Yves Saint Laurent at 2:30.
The pants were too tight.
Feeling discouraged about my whole situation, I plodded off to Vodafone to get my phone fixed. I was anxious to contact my friend to confirm the details of our trip to Venice this weekend. The silver lining to an overcast week. Speculating, perhaps wishing my phone was simply out of credit, I paid to have my account refilled.
The phone still did not work.
The store agent turned the phone off, inspected the SIM card, and turned it back on. It worked. A simple restart could have solved my problem all along.
As my phone was recalled to life, the text messages, adrift in the ether, found a home in my inbox. One was from Pierre confirming not the details, but rather the demise of my weekend plans. His friend, uncomfortable about me staying with him not having yet met me, rescinded my invitation.
Dragging feet, my empty soul wandered into the stale Milanese afternoon.
A sad day. My favourite dance club, the curiously named "Bar Isn't It" in Roppongi, Tokyo has closed its doors for good. I am happy to have had the chance to dance many a night until morning in the iconic establishment.
Isn't It, you will be missed.