Chapter One (part two) - A Day In The LIfe of a Third Trimester
The rhubarb & custard theme rings out from my mobile phone (pregnancy brings out the child in you). The words ‘private number’ appear on my phone screen. This normally indicates a work call.Since Christmas I have lost interest in anything work related. I represent advertising photographers: A thankless profession.
I had been negotiating a big-money commission with a well-known advertising agency, for one of my photographers. The brief was to photograph a ‘barman’ (model) in a traditional Irish pub, looking natural......,but not ugly. Middle-aged and grey.....,but pleasant looking. Not staged, but staged.
Three weeks on and we were no closer to sealing the deal. The brief kept changing, the timing kept changing and the location was still “under review”. I was beginning to wonder if there was any job at all or if I had been caught up in an exercise in negotiating tactics, for the art buying department. A bit like having a fire drill before the real event.
“Hellooo ” sings out the voice at the other end of the phone. “It’s Belinda!” (stacatto).
“Oh, Belinda!” I retort, equally sing-songy.
This is a trick, and the expected routine for a conversation between agent and art buyer. It translates into: “isn’t life wonderful, and, aren’t we just so content with our fabulous lives, it is just a marvelous experience to be having these discussions. Lucky us.”
“Now, about this job, Darling”.
I silently wait to hear about the next tweak in an already chameleon-like brief.
“The client is considering a black man as the barman..., but they are concerned about the social implications in an Irish bar. You know.” I didn’t.
“So...ooo, I was wondering (Pause) Could we do another casting sweetheart? just so we cover-off every eventuality, and that way we are prepared for when they finally give go-ahead” (the carrot)
I felt her self-satisfied smile beaming at the other end of the phone; along with the implication that she had bestowed upon me a great gift and thus awaited my thanks. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by ‘social implication’ and was pretty sure she didn’t either, but I had learnt by now not to question, just agree. Likelihood was that the Client would opt for the original idea proposed three months ago anyway.
“Yes, of course I can”, I chirp back, whilst mentally totting up the expense in time and effort to do yet another model search with still no funds coming our way from the very rich global company on the other end of the phone. “It will have to be an online casting though to keep down costs,” I say pointedly - yet maintaining the mock matron tone because it’s all “so much fun”.
Online casting meaning: fishing around the internet for amatuer models desperate for their piece of fame. Scooping their image into a group email and then sending it off to the client. This is the cheaper option, as opposed to ‘physical casting’ = hiring a room for £100, calling lots of models and/or their agents, and coordinating them to arrive at the room on a specified day, at a given time. Then, the photographer - camera in hand - takes a bland picture of them which will then be scanned, scooped together with all the other wannabes and sent off via email for the client to pontificate over and choose someone from the original selection, three months earlier.
As I scribble down her order she digest my point and says, “Oh, ermm, oh I’m sure that will be fine for now. If need be we can have a physical casting later”.
“Ok” I agree, grinning between smling teeth, “Give me a couple of hours and I will get some images over to you”.
“greatthankyoubye” she hangs up.
Bollox, that puts pay to the little nap I had planned. I’m absolutely knackered carrying round this ball of iron in my stomach and now I have two hours ahead of me trawling the web, phoning up housewives, call-centre staff, outofworkactors, and possibly their agents – if I’m lucky.
posted by Rebecca Valentine at 8:34 pm
0 comments
