by Reggie Yates
But who was responsible for these young visions of beauty being unleashed onto the world on their own? My questions were to the point and Anna looked me right in the eye, answering with a smile and confidence the entire time. Anna explained that looking after the girls was a team effort between their company Noah Models and the agencies they’d work with.
With so many people involved, who was being paid and how much would be left for the model doing the heavy lifting? What I’d totally overlooked was the amount laid out by the agency. Anna explained that for every girl they’d send halfway around the world, they’d cover her flights, accommodation and allowances. This money would be later recouped as an advance on earnings. Should the model not make that money back, she wouldn’t owe the agency, but they would know she couldn’t deliver the return on investment rendering her chances as a model over and done.
The minute I’d met Tigran, I knew I’d have to ask about money, but choosing my moment would be the hardest part. Softening my voice, knowing how sensitive the question could be, I went for it. According to Anna, excluding super-models like Kate Moss and Claudia Schiffer, normal working models could earn up to $20,000 a month. That was a lot of money for any working adult, let alone a teenage girl. But that being said, should her expenses outweigh that lump sum earned, none of that 20,000 would end up in her account.
Ten hours into the train journey and I braved the loo. Surprisingly, the toilet actually wasn’t too bad; it was the walk through standard class that was a culture shock. Either side of the aisle was what could only be described as bunk beds on crack. Rather than the expected bed above a bed, each side saw people sleeping in what could only be described as racks.
Four, maybe five bunks from floor to ceiling held coughing, farting and sweaty bodies. I fell about the place trying to get through the carriage on my way back to my section. Naked feet hung from every other bunk and I couldn’t get out of the cheese festival quickly enough.
Waking up in the capital of Siberia, I felt as far away from the fashion and glamour of Paris as humanly possible, but glamour was exactly what was on the lips of everyone I was about to meet. Fashion had found a home here in the shape of what seemed to be an endless stream of beauty. With twenty-four model agencies and schools in Novosibirsk alone, this small city had a modelling industry, and business was good.
I met Olga, director of the Kids Modelling School, Global Russian Models. Resisting the temptation to suggest a snappier company name, I wandered in to see exactly what it was they did and what kind of girl was being taught.
The agency wasn’t short of hopefuls as the posing class I walked in on had girls of all ages, the youngest being four. These girls were being taught how to walk, pose, apply make-up and diet. The endless corridors had unmarked doors all with people flying in and out, hinting at just how busy the place was. Me being the nosy clown I try my very best to be, I found what looked like their on-site studio and wandered in on a portfolio shoot for a six-year-old.
Just a generation ago this would never have happened. In Soviet times, there was no modelling industry as attitudes then saw it as anything but a respectable profession. With mindsets shifting dramatically, the shoot I was now at the back of (watching with the young model’s parents) couldn’t have exemplified that change better.
The girl’s father said he used to see models as ‘women of easy virtue’ until his wife brought him along to see what the school and industry was all about. Wanting her young daughter to have a shot, the mother had sold it to her husband as a healthy physical challenge – all about stretches and choreography classes. This sounded quite wide of the mark to me, but I was keeping schtum. The heavily made-up mum went on to explain that the stigma came from Soviet propaganda comparing it to prostitution, and that attitudes have undergone a total reversal in the minds of the majority.
Sofia and her mother were next in the studio and I watched quietly as the twelve-year-old demonstrated that she knew exactly how to work the camera. Her mother was beautiful and a former model herself. Seemingly disillusioned by the industry – contradicting Anna’s strong beliefs – Sofia’s mum didn’t enjoy her time as a model. Unable to achieve anything like the earnings I’d been told were common, she didn’t want her daughter to be in the business and struggle. But clearly buckling to the desires of her own child, the young mum was giving her kid what she so badly wanted. The young performer had asked for a birthday gift of a red Ferrari at seven and today was telling me she wanted a jeep covered in crystals. This child clearly had a very different attitude to modelling and the world of fashion when compared with her mother. For Sofia, a fashion model personified glamour, had a real career and lots of money.
It was fascinating to see the bright eye of an excited child talking about the fashion industry when only one generation ago, the country was Communist and a life in the world of camp clothes, pomp and excess was impossible.
They want to be someone in life, unlike their mothers
Joining us half a day after the train rolled into town, Tigran met me in a Novosibirsk café. We were in his world, which bore a stark difference to the homes of the young models I’d got to know. The café was a modern feat of architecture standing out among the surrounding dowdy Soviet buildings. It was shiny and screamed new money as young, trendy and wealthy types sipped expensive coffee.
Pulling no punches explaining the Communist way, Tigran opened up about what he felt he was saving these young women from. The Communist system essentially planned a life for its citizens. Money was small but guaranteed. Life was stable but boring. Sounding confident in the attitude of his models, Tigran asserted, ‘Younger girls, they don’t want that.’ Things had changed especially when it came to the aims of young women. He continued, ‘They want to be someone in life, unlike their mothers.’
Was he right? Had there been such a shift in just the one generation? Anya and her mother were worlds apart in their ambition, but was that individual grit and determination, or simply the generational gap showing itself in the outlook of two women from different times?
Agency Elite Stars were in town and the international scouts were too. I met Irina, a former model who’d been on the cover of several high fashion magazines and fronted campaigns for some of the biggest French fashion houses. She’d seen success and was now guiding the next wave of wannabees.
Running a class, the impossibly high-cheekboned Irina walked through poses encouraging a new move on cue shouting, ‘Three, two, one, fashion.’ It was brilliant. I was a little disappointed there wasn’t an awful house track playing and she was being totally serious, because I was seconds away from camping it up and doing my impression of RuPaul’s voice.
Her neck was impossibly long and swan-like, while her posture showed years of being fully aware of how she stood. Irina believed a good model was a good businesswoman. She maintained, ‘You can have a beautiful face and a great body, but if you have nothing in your head, forget it.’
It’s always awkward going to talent searches of any kind, as I dread the moment where you see the kids full of hope perform, and you know that a disproportionate number of students won’t make it, compared to the few who have ‘it’ – whatever that is – and shine undeniably.
To my novice eyes, it was obvious who stood out based on height and bone structure alone. Both factors I assumed were essential for success in the industry, but the girls could naturally change neither. This spoke to the fact that Elite agency had 5,000 girls on their books but had only seventy working in the international industry.
One of the girls in Irina’s class was Vika. She was polite and giggly. Her focus made her seem a lot older but the minute she started talking, the sweet kid who just wanted to be liked showed up. Vika invited me to her family home, which was a one-bedroom flat where she slept in the living room. It was a case of different day, same sugar-based dilemma as, just like Anya’s mother, Vika’s mum put on a huge spread of tea and cake. We spoke over the crazy selection of sweet things but this
time I managed to remain focused. I’d grown a little. Be proud of me.
Vika was determined and wanted her career in fashion to happen but almost right away – ‘You’ll hear about me, I will be famous.’ I loved her ambition, but quietly felt that her chances weren’t great due to things beyond her control. She was sixteen and, granted, she still had time to grow but she just didn’t look tall or thin enough for the scout’s ideals. I’d stood with them, listened to their debates and didn’t see myself as an expert by any means, but had learnt enough about what they saw as a definite no that I could now see some of those red flags in Vika.
The kid was obsessed with her weight and knew her measurements as she was constantly checking herself. Deciding that a 3cm loss from her waist would help her chances, Vika’s diet consisted of buckwheat, green tea and water.
A staple of Soviet cuisine, I tried a bowl of buckwheat and it was tasteless. It smelt like a hot bowl of my least favourite cereal Weetabix. Say what you want, it might be good for you, but it never had any sugar on it, fruit in the packet, or toys in the box, so how could five-year-old me ever be a fan of Weetabix? Exactly. Rant over.
Eaten without any seasoning or sauce, Vika described the warm buckwheat as tasty, while I could only describe it as a bowl of edible depression.
Maybe I was born for this
On the twenty-second floor of a shopping mall, I found myself in another casting. This was make or break for so many young hopefuls, including Vika. By this point, I thought I might have been more comfortable in a room full of girls in their underwear but I was noticeably awkward again.
I couldn’t get over how young they were. Nothing was untoward about the environment or questions and photos being taken, but my big brother reflex was on ten and my paranoia about where some of these girls might end up was all I could think about. During my time with Tigran in the swish coffee spot, he quietly touched on the horror stories of girls ending up in the sex trade or becoming escorts. He described the girls choosing to have ‘older boyfriends’ as young models struggling to find work, settling for careers as escorts.
It was a passing comment he didn’t dwell on but it stayed with me. With all of his scouted girls working abroad and alone, how many would fall through the net? This no longer was about paranoia; there were very real dangers even if Tigran was confident his girls wouldn’t fall prey to such situations.
With all of my worries shared quietly with the camera, I was the only person not excited. I was stood in a room full of hope, which threw an undeniable energy into the air. Going through so many casting calls myself, also as a kid, I knew only some of the people in the room would taste the career they were all dreaming of.
Lionel was a new face and instantly stood out. The French casting agent was looking for models for the top French fashion houses. Givenchy, Saint Laurent and Dior were just some of the fashion houses girls chosen by him could go on to work with. He was the gateway to walking at Paris fashion week and for a young girl from a small Siberian village, this was a huge opportunity.
While the younger faces and smaller frames were a high priority for the scouts from the Asian market, Lionel’s criteria to walk in shows in New York, London and Paris included a minimum height of 177cm (about 5ft 7in). Apollinariya was one of the girls in Irina’s posing class who’d stood out as having all of the natural attributes of a high fashion model.
She was on Lionel’s radar and he had lots of questions about the young model straight away. News to me was that she’d already been to the Philippines to work and had a portfolio that was both vast and professional. In the last year, the fifteen-year-old had built a body of work that put her head and shoulders above most of the other girls in the room. Looking like a different person in every shot, her portfolio was exactly as Anna described. She was capable of being transformed into any age or style.
Smiling knowingly while stood shoulder to shoulder with visibly crushed competition, Apollinariya beamed confidence and displayed something I hadn’t seen in any of the other girls. I felt like I was already beginning to sound like the casting agents as I wanted to slap myself in a moment off camera with Lionel when I couldn’t help myself describe her as having ‘it’. Ugh.
I pulled Apollinariya to one side and found out in a quiet chat that she’d gained a tonne of experience in her time away. When pressed on the money earned, she smiled but wouldn’t reveal just how much she’d made. With the East conquered, she had her sights fixed firmly on the West, and Lionel looked like the man who could very easily make it happen. Describing herself as a natural-born leader who liked to stand out, Apollinariya knew she had something special. ‘Maybe I was born for this.’
It was during this chat that I noticed that stood not too far away, watching quietly, was Vika. This casting was a day filled with potential for her and a chance to snag her big break, but all eyes were on Apollinariya. Clearly nervous, her moment came in front of the scouts. One of many faces in a line-up, she held her card at her chest shooting looks from scout to scout hoping to catch some sort of signal that they might be interested in her.
In a matter of minutes her casting was over and a new line of girls were called forward. Vika didn’t receive any international interest, only advice. She was instructed to lose weight and told that her hips were a centimetre too wide, while, close to tears, the sixteen-year-old girl stood awkwardly in a white underwear set and a pair of heels she hadn’t quite learned how to walk in yet.
Suffering from back condition osteochondrosis, Vika had serious pain issues and a stay in hospital had caused her to gain weight. She claimed the heels she stood in at that moment were only making the problem worse, and it was obvious that her optimism had totally gone. I asked her to take her heels off to give her back the break it deserved, and in a moment the drop in height and posture made the glassy-eyed girl look like a kid again.
One of the 90 per cent who didn’t get picked, Vika left early as her time in the running was over.
For Anya, that same night presented a huge opportunity. She’d made it to the finals of reality TV show Siberia’s Next Top Model. Tyra, you’ve got a lot to answer for!
I was back in another shopping centre as the final episode was being filmed in front of a live audience. I’d been invited to be a judge by Tigran, who wasn’t massively clear about his involvement, or what I would have to do, but judging by the way in which everyone shook his hand, he had a lot to do with the show.
Anya was announced on stage and came strutting out to the end of the catwalk with a strong hair flick and confident smile. As one of twenty-eight finalists, she’d made it through twelve knock-out rounds already. This was a real competition but felt more like a beauty pageant than a model search. Considering the cold business-like reality of the castings, I was left wondering how much of the event was just for the TV cameras and not the industry.
Sat next to Tigran on the judging panel, I tried my best not to be distracted by the huge embroidered rose on his ice white shirt and focus on the task at hand. I was actually being given a real vote and I wanted to vote honestly. I was handed a stack of paper with photos and short biographies of all the finalists. Thankfully it was in English but I was still totally lost. I wasn’t a bloody expert. Who the hell was I to have a say on who’d actually have a career as a model?
I tried to be as objective as possible but I couldn’t help but feel biased towards Anya. I felt like I knew her and how much winning would mean. So much of the competition was about theatrics, but the international scouts were all in attendance too and their ongoing search offered a second chance to the TV show finalists who might have been overlooked at the castings. I had no choice; I selected Anya in every category. If my one vote meant anything, it might have helped her get closer to achieving what she so badly wanted.
It was finally the moment where winners were announced and, unlike the TV shows I’d seen, literal contracts for work in Europe and Asia were being handed to the lucky winners one by one. Tigran stepped up to
the stage to announce some of the bigger prizes, one of which was a contract to work in America.
Anya’s name was announced and a huge electric guitar sting kicked out of the speakers as she walked up to collect her prize. The applause was loud but furious from her mother who watched on full of tears. I found her amid the chaos backstage to discover she’d been offered work in both India and California. Anya was understandably over the moon.
What’s a parent to do in this situation? With no clue as to what awaits them, grant their child the wish to try for a better life and fantastic career while waving them off alone and on a plane to China aged fifteen? Or refuse to let them go and risk killing their dream knowing they’ll resent you for life? It’s not a decision that I envied them having to make.
Watching the film back, I couldn’t help but see so much of my own journey in that of the young girls with huge dreams at the beginning stage of their careers.
My passion for what I was doing obviously played a huge part in my drive and focus even at a young age. My desire to make it in TV wasn’t just about doing something I loved and definitely wasn’t ever about being famous. It has always been about helping my family. I came from humble beginnings, and embarked on a career where nothing is guaranteed, but I only truly understand the inevitable fears my parents had as I become more mature myself.
It might not happen for Anya or Vika, but based on what I’d seen in Siberia I could understand why so many young girls stood in those endless queues to fight for their dreams.
CHAPTER 8
MAKINGS OF A MAN
I’ve never seen myself as particularly macho. In fact, overthinking just how manly I may or may not be has, in the past, sent me down a wormhole of incredibly harsh self-evaluation. Should I spend so much time exfoliating? Does that one time I considered eyebrow shaping make me soft? Thankfully, cutting myself some slack allowed me to realise that what it means to be a man today is dramatically different from what was once expected.