The photographer set his camera down. He looked at the woman with glasses. The woman nodded once.
The photographer stopped shooting. He lowered the camera and looked at the woman with glasses.
“You’re the last one. Follow me.”
Three weeks ago, she’d been Renee from Boise, stacking shelves at a craft store. Now she was Renee Rose, a name she’d chosen in the fluorescent-lit bathroom of a shared Echo Park apartment. She’d submitted the polaroids—the ones her roommate Leo took with his vintage camera—on a whim. The casting call read: Seeking raw, undiscovered faces. No experience necessary. Authenticity only.
Her leg bounced. The other seven girls in the waiting room were all variations of the same beautiful statue: sharp cheekbones, pouty lips, legs for days. Renee had a small scar above her left eyebrow from a bike accident at twelve. Her nose was slightly asymmetrical. She was five-foot-seven, which they said was too short for runway, but her shoulders were broad from swimming in high school. LANewGirl.24.04.30.Renee.Rose.Modeling.Audition...
The clatter of Los Angeles was a distant hum through the reinforced glass of the Vanguard Modeling Agency. Renee Rose, known to her eighteen followers on Instagram as @LANewGirl.24.04.30, sat on a bench that had probably been sat on by someone who’d graced the cover of Vogue in 1997. The leather was cracked, but the legacy wasn’t.
“Renee,” the woman said. “Welcome to Vanguard. We start shooting your test portfolio Monday. Don’t be late.” The photographer set his camera down
The studio was a white void. Seamless paper curved up the wall and across the floor. Three people sat behind a metal table: a man in a black turtleneck who was probably the photographer, a woman with glasses who didn’t smile, and a younger guy typing on a laptop.
