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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Unquotable quotes: Fashion modeling with an eye on footballers – XXVII Isn’t “haute couture” like “cordon bleu cuisine”? Both equally edible? You still have to pull the shrimp scales apart to get at the meat. What do models model more than their own bodies? And are their bodies any the more worth modeling than the cuts and slashes of draperies they model? Isn’t the art of modeling the art of walking on stilts and keeping from tripping on your shreds? The mincing gait or the panther stride, the blazé look, the exposed adductor thigh muscles, the tight twitching taught tantrums, the nonchalant swagger and the prayer in the tréfonds du coeur to stay the stumble – what more can the model wish for? The model is the only member of the human species forced to walk from side to side, the art of walking by crossing one leg over the other being an optical illusion, an art footballers all dream of acquiring in order to avoid the yellow or even red card. What makes the final turn on the modeling stage a gasping breath escape – exposing the twitching cherished view from the rear – the return to oblivion? Will the fashion industry die the day models take to the Mohicun-multi-dyed cuts footballers now sport? Contrariwise would footballers take to modeling hair-cuts now in vogue on Euro pitches and turfs? Touch a model and you touch bone, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t get a well-heeled stiletto in your face; touch a footballer and he’ll crumble and tumble and go sprawling and writhing on his face until he gets a free penalty kick. Put a ball between the legs of a model and it’ll stay stuck in there all the time she goes gallavanting down the turf; put a ball at the tip of a footballer’s toes at a penalty shoot-out - and leave the goal empty - and he’ll still aim high enough to place the ball at the bawling gawking crowds behind. Where do the pick of the Tout Paris want to be seen to be thought chic/chique? Gawking up by the modeling walkplanks, of course. Where do you think opera singers go to clear their throats and yell their heads off? Yesteryears’ discarded fashions – whom do they adorn? Do kept “wives” and “darling boys” walk the streets to accompanied piped lilting music and canned stage lighting? How many the unemployed if the fashion industry just closed shop to let each and everyone design his own wear without conforming to the tastes of a dictating few – however brilliant - or to custom-imposed straight-jackets? When billionnaire “daddies” cloth their damsels and dames in haute couture, whom do they show off? There’s talk now and then, here and there – certainly from vicious sources – about fashion designers collecting and distributing models like trainers their footballers – the only difference, one imagines, is that no models are forced to warm the reserve benches with their butts. © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
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