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Couture
Been gone for a while, writing alot. Here's the begining of my latest piece.
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--1--
“Catherine Vogel is the new IT girl.”
“The shining star of the Jenna McClavin show was without a doubt the firey, versatile, Catherine Vogel.”
“Catherine captures the old film noir glamour of a bygone era, without losing any of the earthiness that she blazed onto the scene with earlier this year.”
-2-
They were pouring in--the good reviews, the saccharine bits of praise, the fashion editor’s predictions. Everyone seemed sure of Catherine’s future, everyone wanted a piece of her. Walking down a street in SoHo yesterday afternoon, some girl in cat eyed glasses and clunky boots had actually stopped her for an autograph, and a lock of hair. Catherine hadn’t thought she was serious until the girl took a pair of cutting shears from her big, black bag. Everyone had warned her that you could never be prepared for even the smallest amount of celebrity. Unfortunately, no one had tried to stop her from pursuing what she had thought to be her dream either.
Recently she’d begun to crack a little. She wasn’t sure if it was some organic insanity, or the anvil of pressure poised to drop just above her head. Whatever it was, it kept her up nights. Catherine had thought her agent would notice the chalky skin and the bags under eyes. Lydia had simply cooed, “Cat it’s fabulous. A little pallor, a little death under the eye’s, it’s edgy. You’ll have to clear up before the Spring campaigns of course, fresh is good for spring. “ She’d also developed a strange hobby. In a tribute to passive aggressive tendencies, Catherine cut up her pictures in Vogue and Vanity Fair, and sent each of the pieces to the photographer in the customary “Thank you for a great shoot” letters. No one had said a word to her about this.
Catherine looked at the mirror and noticed a pimple forming on her left cheek. She cringed at the thought of how long they’d take covering and pampering that little blemish, working around it like she had a tiny diamond stud in her face. She pulled her oily brown hair up into a sloppy bun and took out her contacts so that her eyes would show their natural green. She hated the feel of tiny oily strands on the nape of her neck, but the hairstylists never liked the models to wash their hair before shoots, dirty hair was easier to work with. After washing her face, she stared at her reflection for five more minutes before she noticed the ticking clock.
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