Vintage Vixen — by Mara Zampariolo

- PART 1/


Today I modeled for Baptiste Viry's SS 2010 lookbook. Baptiste is talented, French, dark and tall. And no, he's not even gay.

I've only realized this by the fifth meeting, making a huge ass of myself in front of the client (him).

He designs mens accessories for women, so he picked a boyish looking model to pose for him. He eventually realized my biceps looked trannylicious on film, so he's asked the photographer to airbrush the shit outta me.

I totally dig the result.

Baptiste's work has been featured on ELLE and other magazines, and I was lucky enough to get paid to wear his stuff while tossing half naked on the floor, as the photographer gently rubbed dust on my face.

- PART 2/


The Top Models from the Nineties are back. Claudia is back; Eva is back; Helena is back; Naomi, like herpes, just won't go away.

Back in the Nineties, I was no top model, but you know what?

I remember my tragic first steps in the modeling industry, and I might as well share these with you, if you don't mind.

I was 16 in 1996 (I'll spare you the maths: I'm 30 now), and my mother invited a friend over for dinner. A  fashion photographer, Giorgio. He was dark, tall, and not even gay. And he was the first man besides my father to tell me that I looked hot.

How could I forget?

I reached my final height at age 12 (5' 8,5" /1,75 mt.), but my feet decided to grow faster; at the time when usually girls borrow their mother's pumps and look all cute because they cannot walk in them, I could actually borrow my uncle's shoes, and go hiking.

My mother didn't wear heels anyway, but she looked amazing.

I remember the look on the face of men when she'd enter a room. An all-Italian beauty with long, black, curly hair and hazelnut eyes, whose delicate features were covered in freckles, and whose voluptuous body gave the shape of an hourglass to any potato sack she'd wear.

As for me, I'd give the shape of a potato sack to anything she'd buy me.

The worst part is, she'd purchase mini-me versions of her own wardrobe, so I got to see exactly how much worse I made anything she owned look.

I asked her one day: "Mom? Why does this skirt look all droopy on me?" She looked past her book and she just whispered softly "'Because you have no hips, sweet pie."

I tried to make my hips fuller by pulling them apart with my bare hands.

Despite doing so, the largest part of my body were still my knees.

Back then, I looked like a homeless person for as long as I can remember.

My mother would buy me clothes that were too big for me "So you get to wear them longer," and I'd wear the same pair of pants until it got so short I looked like Pinocchio.

She used to braid my hair, and it actually looked cute for an hour or so. Then my thin hair would turn into a gipsy-esque do, which would have been the perfect look for asking random people for their spare change.

If I got to sleep at my fathers', he wouldn't undo my braids, so the following day I'd just go back to school with the same hairdo. My teacher gave me a comb one day.

She probably thought my parents couldn't afford one.

Then, one day in the summer of 1996, Giorgio said that I should start modeling.

Everyone laughed their heads off.

The following day, mother took me to an agency in Milan.

At Riccardo Gay, they got me waiting amongst heavenly creatures that were talking on their cell phone—which weighted more than themselves by then—looking glamorously bored.

I tried to emulate them.

I knew for sure how to look bored—hours of Latin verbs conjugation became suddenly of some use—but I couldn't grasp the fashion in it.

Pouting while applying lipstick, while crossing and un-crossing long legs, while whining on the phone, whilewhile pointing at a picture... I've never been that multitasking, so I just sank in the sofa and tried my best to look glamorously bored until a gay, tanorexic guy came to pick me up and bring me into a dark room.

Next thing I knew, he was measuring my ass with a tailor's  tape. He told my mom that I had to lose weight on my hips and buttock, if I ever wanted to start modeling.

flipping through a gossip magazine, So it turns out my hips did grow somewhere between age 12 and 16, and  I wish I knew the darn day they hit the right size, 'cuz there must have been one, right?!

- PART 3/


To make a long story short, I lost some weight and got myself an agency in Milan. My main booker was Ricciarda, an old, skinny lady whose only gods were Skinny, Skinnier and She Should Start Smoking, She'd Lose Some Weight.

She'd only eat bread-crumbs at lunch, so the girls nick named her Roach-arda.

The other booker was Gandhi, a gay guy who'd show us videos of top models to teach us the catwalk. He'd always fast-forward on Claudia Schiffers' part, because she walked like....

- "... a drunken milkmaid at the Oktoberfest."

- "... The Mafia's given her some concrete shoes."

- "... the runway is covered in ants, and she bet with Naomi she can crush'em all."

- "... Catwalk is actually intended for cats."

My modeling career never took off for a few different reasons, and by a few different reasons I mean I invested on a degree instead of a nosejob.

Thirteen years later I am indeed a PhD, my nose grew bigger (but that doesn't cost a penny) and I keep getting modeling jobs out of nowhere!

Back in 1998 nobody saw avant-garde when looking at me, but a chick with deep inset eyes, broad shoulders and an Italian nose.

In 2010 I still have the same face, and on top of this I am kinda old BUT NOW with a half shaved skull and a pair of studded Docs I have unique features, my body is androgynous and f**ck it, let's just face it: my nose will keep growing until I pass.

Nevertheless, I am now getting paid to wear Margiela's!

I'm currently wearing their latest runway collection, which includes 100% latex blouses, floating waistline pants, wolf fur coats and other amenities, and I intend to write a post on the life of us girls at the showroom.

They have a tradition of wild casting, and by wild casting I mean picking up from the street trannies, rockstars, punks and half-eaten bags of Cheesy Poofs.

But most of us are just punks.


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 05 May 2010 at 02:34 AM

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