America’s Next Top Model is not really a successful show in that its ultimate goal – to bring a girl from Nowhere, USA to superstardom in the modeling industry – has not been achieved throughout eleven cycles (ANTM lingo for “seasons”) and does not appear to be any more lucrative in the future. But what’s so enthralling about it is that the contestants, girls usually aged 18-21 and emotionally abused in some way, are dressed and made up glamorously each week and we can live vicariously through their forays into two-month glitzy crash courses on the industry.
My one brush with modeling was when I was 11 and wasting time at the Guess store – an employee asked me if I had ever modeled, I said no and posed in front of the mirror for a while when I got home, and my dreams of being [insert exotic name here] were quickly forgotten. Now I fit the height requirement but have neither fashion know-how nor aspiration.
But I found out on Thursday that there would be a casting call very close to the Xanga office on Saturday, so, of course, I had to go. If girls like this
can be considered one of the top 24 models in the country, then I can, too.
Saturday, I woke up at 7, did not eat (it’s the model way, n’est-ce pas?) and walked to the train station in my newly purchased $9 Payless heels. I quickly discovered that I do not know how to walk in heels properly.
(“A top model has to be fierce even when she’s brushing her teeth. Today’s shoot is all about dental hygiene.”)
Once I got off the train at 34th Street, I walked past Madison Square Garden and saw other girls dressed in black and wearing heels, most of whom were clutching papers with the address of the venue written in purple ink and bubbly script. “Ohmygod,” one said, “it’s there!” The others shrieked. I bought coffee as they skipped across the street.
“You going to that?” the street vendor asked, adding too much milk to my coffee.
“Yep,” I said, eyeing the line in front of me and making a what-can-you-do face.
“You’ll make it,” he said.
“I hope so.”
Although the casting call started at 10, I was at the venue by 8 and lined up around the block. Around 9:30, the line began to move and we came inside the hotel, where we sat in line and were moved to a bigger waiting room by 10.
The fifteen page application (no, really – with 72 questions ranging from your height to your ideal romantic partner) explicitly states that only girls over 5’7″ will be considered, yet at least two hundred girls who were only pushing 5’3″ showed up, much to my frustration. The girls in front of me took it upon themselves to loudly comment on others’ height if they did not appear to be of proper stature.
We waited in a large, windowless holding room from 10:15 to 2:30, filling out scout sheets and looking around at the other girls. A CW camera crew was in the room capturing tall girls strutting down the aisle of the room and a man holding a rhinestoned (no, really) microphone with a Tyra flag on it encouraged shrieks from the masses to use as b-roll footage for an upcoming talk show episode.
“You wanna be on top?” girls in the section behind me asked loudly. Those who had gotten in line before us chanted, “ear-ly-birds! ear-ly-birds!” while those who had arrived later shouted back incomprehensibly. A group of 18-year-olds to my left reenacted a famous Top Model scene where Tyra berates a contestant by screaming, “we were rooting for you! we were ALL rooting for you!” and eliminating her from the competition.
Lunchtime came and went, with the staff dutifully stapling applications with one hand and chugging sodas with the other. I watched hungry girls practically drool at the thought of fries and a Big Mac. “Can we go out and get food?” one girl asked.
“You can if you think you’ll be back in time,” the organizer retorted. “But if we call your number and you’re not there, you’re done.” The girls took off their heels and sprinted to the McDonald’s across the street.
The scout sheet we completed asked for the same information we’d written on the application plus three interesting facts about ourselves and what the craziest thing we’d ever done was. According to my application, my craziest activity was ghost riding the whip.
Caitlin, the girl next to me, was a 19-year-old pageant girl whose scout sheet “interesting facts about me!” included her traveling to Italy four years ago by herself, her ability to speak Italian and her raising $1000 for a pageant in Brooklyn. A cute blonde who was taller than I was, her attractiveness stopped when she opened her mouth, as her thick accent made her sound like a mobster rather than a model.
The CW camera crews were only in the room for about an hour, so after the promise of being on TV faded, most people opted to put on a seventeenth layer of lip gloss, sleep, text message or talk about Tyra.
Although I don’t share the same respect or awe for Ms. Banks as most of
these girls, I was relatively shocked to learn that I was almost the
only one who watched the show for the hilarity factor; most everyone
loved Tyra and admired her tenacity and knowledge. “I don’t think
Tyra’s in that last room,” Caitlin shared, “’cause all those girls
coming out aren’t blushing and I know if I saw her I’d be freaking out.”
Caitlin, the girl next to her and I played a combined I Spy and Hangman (choosing room related objects or feelings, like trashy magazines, painful shoes, missing daylight and waiting impatiently) until 2:45, when the organizer called entrants 600-700 and our section cheered loudly. We were led upstairs to a balcony overlooking the windowless holding tank.
Before our group moved on, I looked down at the rest of the girls and watched as another bunch of hopefuls took over our section, the floor still littered with McDonald’s bags and emptied lip gloss containers . . . and I realized that for every girl who thought she had a story to share with America, there were five hundred more girls waiting to take her place.
The 100 of us went into a room, standing heel to toe sideways against the wall. The casting director for Top Model sat in front of us at a folding table and told us to stand closer – “no, even closer – faster, girls” until we were adequately lined up. A JVC camcorder and a tallish guy to operate it were next to her; taped under the camera was a picture of Tyra with “Name, age, height, weight, LOOK AT THE CAMERA, NOT THE JUDGES 
” on green paper.
“Your name, age, height, weight,” Casting Director Lady said. “And fast. Practice it in your head a couple times so you can get it down to two seconds. Look into the camera and if you go off on a tangent I’m gonna cut you off. We don’t have time.”
I was in the exact middle of the room and don’t remember how long it took to get to me because my heart was in my throat. Something about the tension in the environment made it almost impossible to think rationally – maybe it was because I was four inches away from Caitlin or maybe it was because all I’d eaten that day was a granola bar. My turn.
“Natalia ____, 22, 5’9″, 135,” I said, using my fiercest look and passing the microphone to the girl next to me . . . and when it got to the end of everyone, CDL called five numbers, none of which were mine.
“Thanks, girls,” she said; “now we need you out.”
I texted the results to my dad and friends and walked into the Manhattan sunshine, where I towered over pedestrians at nearly six feet tall – and for that moment, I actually felt like a model.
I’d go back and do it again, but not in New York City; I’d rather go to
a mall casting call somewhere closer to Columbus where I wouldn’t be
around so many girls and would have a chance to say more than my name
and three numbers.
Earlier in the day, a contestant seated behind me in the holding tank explained that she had tried out for the show the year before. She explained that there would be no walking, no interviewing, no talking, either, really. “But you’re still coming back?” I asked.
“Hell yeah!” she replied. And while it was frustrating, tiring (I took a nap at 8:30 when I came home) and ultimately, unsuccessful, I can’t wait to try again, too.
edit (thanks, Quell): Caitlin didn’t make it, either – none of the girls around me did.
