I'm Mik. Model, mother, moron. Future meta-magician. Former logic clinician.
My better half and I own Brainfood Bookstore in Longmont, Colorado. It is the only exclusively indie- and local-lit bookstore in the nation. We meet a lot of crazy folks.
Testimonial from a former roommate:
"Living with you was like living with a quiet little opinionated deer person who floated around like a ghost and said smart/nutso things and ate seaweed. "
I love Colorado. I love mountains. I love hiking. I read and write. I raise my children to the best of my ability. I have lupus and have defeated early-stage cancer twice, so I pretty much fully support the use of medical marijuana.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
I’m assuming that you’re referring to the fact that I’m not that pretty? In case you haven’t noticed, most models aren’t very pretty. In fact most are rather unusual looking— by some standards, ugly (as I’m sure you’re trying to say that I am). You don’t have to be pretty to be a model. It’s preferable if you’re not. To be pretty, you must be conventional. To be a model, you must be memorable. The two are mutually exclusive.
Granted, I’m not on runways in New York or doing shoots in Milan or attending fashion week. I’m doing small gigs in my hometown but, along with my part time job teaching at my university, they keep my bills paid and my face recognizable. Eric Fisher recognized me today, for chrissakes, and he consistently beats out beauty schools in New York and Ontario for Best Cosmetology Academy in North America.
I don’t have the time or, frankly, the talent to devote to a career as a ‘real’ supermodel, but as a mother and student, I get to do an amount and level of work that’s perfect for my lifestyle, so yes, I consider myself a successful model.
And no, I’m not that pretty. But I’m extremely confident, I’m talented, I’m experienced, I’m punctual, I’m hard-working and motivated, and I go out of my way to make contacts and get jobs. Furthermore, I’m really excellent at pretending to be gorgeous. People tell me I’m beautiful or extraordinary-looking or brilliant all the time, and the fact is (as you have probably recognized) that I’m not. Most successful models aren’t. But every successful model is excellent at pretending that they are.
Nobody wants to hire someone who’s pretty; everyone wants to hire someone who can make other people believe that they’re beautiful, even when half their head is shaved and the other half’s in dreads. That’s what makes a good model.
“I was a scapegoat. The media had to put responsibility on somebody, and I was chosen. They felt free to say that because someone was thin they were anorexic, which is ridiculous… And now I’m being blamed not only for anorexia but for lung cancer.” - Kate Moss
Okay guys. Come on.
I’m a finalist in my university bookstore’s Top Model competition. Voting is open, and you can vote as many times as you like. I got a late start (voting opened two days ago, I wasn’t notified till today) and have gone from 7% of the votes to 20% of the votes just this afternoon.
But that’s not enough to win. I need help, and I know I have some of the coolest followers around. If you go to the bookstore’s fanpage on Facebook, click ‘Polls and Quizzes’ in the sidebar, and vote for me (Kimberly).
Reblog, vote multiple times, whatever. I know you guys will pull through for me. :)
A few thoughts on my first day as a nude art model.
- I filled out a W2 form or whatever. Some kind of tax document. So I’m officially gainfully employed.
- The best part was the giant kimono I wore on breaks, and from the changing room to the studio. It was much too big and very stiff and heavy and I walked heel-toe heel-toe so that it would ruffle at the bottom, like how Japanese women do. Except that I’m not Japanese and there wasn’t an obi. Not even an obi that ties in the front. I’m not a prostitute.
- I didn’t think I would be the kind of girl to pass out during modeling. I’m not skin-and-bones. I ate a croissant and cheese before work and drank a glass of water. But after eighteen minutes of standing pose with my right knee locked, the art teacher said, “two more minutes,” and not thirty seconds later, I got really nauseous. I said I had to sit down for a moment, and then I turned around and immediately fainted onto the couch. I propped my feet up on the arm of the couch to attempt to direct blood to my brain, and tossed my head from side to side while I tried to stay conscious. Someone brought me a paper cup of water to sip. I was naked the whole time. I hope someone sketched it.
- An old man talked to me while I was on break. I was wearing the kimono so I felt like a princess. He says he is writing his autobiography. He says the first line is, “I was born much too young.”
So, officially a professional model as of this evening.
I have a job. Granted, it’s as a nude art model, not as a fashion model, but I am SO EXCITED. It’s modeling, it’s art, I’m happy.
What I love about modeling.
I’m sitting in one of those chairs that can be raised or lowered with a lever, sipping cranberry vodka and thumbing through W magazine. A girl is airbrushing my shoulders to get rid of the tan lines, and two others are working on my hair. One of the managers comes by, stares at me for a second, and then starts shouting.
“Why the fuck does this model have freckles?”
The airbrush technician apologizes profusely and switches to a different shade to work on my arms.
This is what I love. It’s not my fault I have freckles. It’s the stylist’s. Nobody blames me for anything. Nobody expects me to take care of myself. Somebody else gets yelled at when I have freckles. Somebody else gets yelled at when my hair is frizzy. Somebody else gets yelled at when I have acne. Somebody else gets yelled at, no matter what is wrong with me.
I did beauty pageants for years. What a different world. There was nobody to airbrush me; Freckles were burned off with a DIY at-home freeze-away wart remover (warning on the package: DO NOT USE FOR FRECKLES OR MOLES). My trainer berated me if I couldn’t fit in the size 1 pageant dresses (this never happened. I always fit, somehow). This never happens when you’re a model. Someone tailors the clothing, and it fits you. Nails were carefully inspected when I arrived at pageants in the morning; I could be sent home if they weren’t neatly manicured. And when you’re a model, you sit in a chair and someone works the lever up or down untul you’re the right height for them to file away hangnails and paint your tips white. And I don’t have to do a damn thing but be pretty.
I’m so tired of changing myself. It’s so lovely to give someone else the terrible, difficult job for a change.
I wish I could be a walking Marc Jacobs advertisement.
Everyday I would wear some sort of feminine secretary’s attire: A lacy pencil skirt and a blouse, either with a ruffle up the front or Monroe frills at the top or some sort of chiffon mock-turtle tying affair. I would not leave the house without thigh-high woolen stockings, ribbed with alternating knit, or seamed with a ruffle up the front. Tarten-and-leather lace-up stilletos, or clunky Victorian-style bottines. My eyes will always be smokey and I’ll wear librarian glasses when I feel like it. My hair will be in a bun or a pony tail, but it will always be messy like I’ve just gotten out of bed. I’ll wear pearls or dog tags for a necklace, and my wristwatch will be a chunky Rolex or some imitation, black rubber and silver and leather, with far more dials than necessary. Oh, and I’ll scowl at everybody. It will be awesome.
Claudia Schiffer is my favorite.
