“You need to be active on social media. So the audience (and clients) can get a glimpse on how you’re life actually is”. Hmm, I don’t agree, but I let the agent continue.
She gives me a tour around the office. We pass by a room that flashes, a model in underwear standing in the corner, and on the other side; the in-house photographer. She asks if I want something to drink. I do.
The walls are painted with huge magazine covers of their represented models in their agency. Some of their best models they claim. Magazines listing from vogue, to I.D, to Dazed and so on.
The office is sterile. White walls, white ceilings, White papers, white mac’s, white tables. White white white. Wouldn’t surprise me if they told me white lies too.
Seems right, cause they’re telling me that they see something in me. What? Blood? no. Something beautiful, something they would like to represent.
I’m feeling flattered, and I kinda like that she’s giving me compliments. She’s pretty too, so that helps. I wonder what would happen if you would have a relationship with your agent? Would you get kicked out, or just get shitlouds of work? Whatever. I’m zoning out of reality, and I haven’t really focused on what she’s been saying to me the last couple of minutes. I snap back to real life.
“your look would do huge, and if you sign with us, we can guarantee you a bright future”
God damn. That’s a lot to digest. How could she predict the future? What if I suddenly became a nerve wrack hooked on cheap drugs and even cheaper women? Or if my house just burned down suddenly? Or if I would get stabbed in a dark corner in New York City?
Maybe I’m overreacting. Cause they seem nice, and they got a office cat that’s pretty cute, and I’ll probably get some free shit now and then. That’s not bad. I like cats, and free shit.
I write my name on the wrong paper.
“No, not there, that’s a magazine”
Shit. I write my name on the bottom corner of the contract.
“We’re happy you chose us, enjoy your stay”
I’m getting drunk tonight.