w
hen I started modeling I
didn’t read magazines, I
didn’t know what the latest fashions were, and I didn’t know who the greatest
photographers were.
I knew I wanted to travel and meet different people and see different places. I
read books filled with magic where some
unlikely hero had a power they were unaware of, and ended up saving the world. I
something, to sell something, to pitch a
dream. I was dark-skinned, gap-toothed,
thick-lipped and quirky. I was rocking an
Afro in high fashion. My dad said I looked
like a bag lady. I was as unlikely a model
as I was a hero, but there I was doing it.
I faced many challenges - agents that
wouldn’t acknowledge my existence, agencies that ripped me off, friends that were
really enemies, enemies that were really
evil, boyfriends who were opportunists, op-
“I became a living, breathing, emotive
canvas. My face, my eyes, my smile,
and the angles of my body, even my
vibe was all a part of my art.”
DEL
Aisha James
GAZELLE STL.COM
was hoping that deep down I was a hero in
life, an artist at life, even though it seemed
unlikely.
One day, I saw a commercial for a
model search in my area and I knew I had
to go. My father drove me to the event,
telling me it was a financial rip off. I arrived at the room packed with hopefuls.
The female representative lined us up, and
I qualified for the regional finals in Orlando, Florida. She talked about persistence. If we didn’t get an agent the first
time, keep coming back; keep trying.
There was a $200 application fee. I had
just barely turned seventeen. I survived on
an allowance that put gas in my car and got
me to school and back, with little room for
extras. I was resigned to the abrupt end to
what was more a wonder than a dream.
“I wonder if maybe I could...I wonder if
there is a little magic in this world for me...I
wonder what this feeling means to go...”
I told the rep I didn’t have the fee. She
took my application, scribbled her initials,
and said she had waived my fee. I was
amazed, and the thing in my chest that
said “go” was joined by something other
than wonder. I recognize it now as “hope.”
I lived in Miami, but Orlando was a
four-hour drive. I had no one to take me,
so I took myself. In a sea of children with
their parents, I found my own way. I
walked across the stage with my number.
There were agents who showed interest,
then discovered I was only five-foot, six
inches (I’ve grown since then). But one
agent said he had something I would be
perfect for. He took a few Polaroids. This
was Saturday.
Wednesday, he wanted more photos. By
the next Saturday, I was in Los Angeles
shooting a feature story for Marie Claire
with Dewey Knicks.
I became a living, breathing, emotive
canvas. My face, my eyes, my smile, and
the angles of my body, even my vibe was
all a part of my art. I collaborated with
some of the most talented artists to say
portunists that were just straight-up con
men.
I learned beauty is subjective. Everyone
has an opinion, and opinions are subject
to change according to childhood, culture,
and life experience. I thought to myself,
“Why should their opinion about my
beauty matter more than mine? It
shouldn’t.”
I believe that every woman should walk
into the room feeling like she’s the most
bea