I Was a Ford Talent Scout

“You never know when or where you will find the next new model, but you can bet that someone from Ford Models will be looking.”

—Eileen Ford (founder, Ford Models)

Probably the venerable Ms. Ford never had me in mind when she said that.

It was 4 p.m. on a Friday when the office manager at my day job called me into her office for a little “talk.” I was expecting yet another complaint about my unbreakable habit of showing up for work 3-4 hours late (if at all), but instead I was presented with an offer I couldn’t refuse.

An acquaintance of hers, it seems, was in something of a bind. The Moscow-based modeling agency this acquaintance works for was under a licensing agreement with Ford Models to stage the Russian version of the legendary company’s “Supermodel of the World” talent search.

What’s Ford Models, you ask? Only the most famous agency in the business, having represented just about every famous face from way back before “supermodel” was even a household word all the way up to the present—from Lauren Hutton to Kate Moss and beyond. The winner of this Russian pageant would win a trip to Puerto Rico in November and a chance to challenge for the grand prize: a $250,000 contract with Ford Models.

The pageant was scheduled for that evening. They had a venue (one of Moscow’s top Western hotels) and 33 aspiring young models aged 14 to 21. Only one problem: as the local agency had learned that morning, the two Ford representatives (from New York and Paris, respectively) promised under the licensing agreement and highly touted in all the related promotional materials had not been allowed onto their respective flights because—get this—they had no Russian visas(!). (In the Russian modeling agency’s defense, I should note that they did warn Ford about the whole visa issue. Ford’s response: “It won’t be a problem.” Is it any wonder the young reformers managed to keep their swindle running smoothly for so long?) My assignment was simple enough: to impersonate the Ford representative from New York as a judge in the competition—exactly the sort of gig that 3+ years of eXile semi-anonymity have prepared me for.

Just under three hours later, I was backstage in the miniature conference room assigned to the jury, along the crustily aging leather-faced and/or flamingly homosexual editors of Russia’s leading fashion magazines (or rather, the Russian-language versions of the world’s leading fashion mags). Most of them obviously sensed that something was fishy and so didn’t even bother fraternizing with us Ford guys (along with me, there was also Jean-something or other, a mild-mannered almost-middle-aged Frenchman in a blue blazer “representing” Ford International in Paris), choosing instead to chat up Stas Namin. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to pretend you speak no Russian when you’re in a cramped room full of “media professionals” gabbing on about the most inane shit imaginable. Still, at least one gay youth mag editor hopefully gave me his business card. I told him I had left my cards in the hotel room. (The terse instructions given to us by my office manager’s acquaintance, our de facto handler for the evening, was to say that we were extremely tired after the flight and to direct all questions to her.)

But never mind those swine. I had a table full of free booze, two packs of Dunhill International Lights purchased especially for the occasion, and all-access backstage laminate. Trying desperately to ignore the overly made-up faces of my supposed colleagues sitting around the table, I set about trying to get blind drunk in as short a period as humanly possible on just white wine and champagne. The tiny room’s lack of ventilation made chain-smoking a unsociable choice at best, but I did it anyway. Unfortunately, just as I was getting to a state where some backstage exploration would not be out of the question, the media cattle started on their way and our handler directed us to follow. Time to move on to the auditorium. The contest was about to begin.

A 40-second walk through the crowd of bustling nouveau riche scum later, I was sitting at the assigned jury table, which interestingly enough looked just like it does on those TV pageants. It was then that I got my first look at the contestant list—33 names, ages, and sets of measurements. A daunting array of data to wade through at first glance, but reducing the field to just the 14-year-olds simplified things considerably to just six contestants. Waist and bust measurements in centimeters meaning next to nothing to me, I then focused on the height criterion. Most were in the 170-173 cm range, but only one of them was a full 175 cm tall—Darya something or other. There was my winner.

And not a moment too soon, as the lights were going down, and the MC was taking the stage. This guy was apparently famous enough not to need any introduction. Although I couldn’t quite put my tongue on his name, his face was familiar to me—sort of a more photogenically Caucasian version of Krasnoyarsk aluminum honcho Anatoly Bykov.

After a predictably long and pretentious opening monologue praising the sponsors and waxing his own ego, he introduced the jury. Here it was, the obligatory stand, smile, and wave to the crowd, my fifteen minutes of fame reduced to just under three seconds. But a very good three seconds I was: the Bykov impostor had the tact to introduce me as “Kevin McQueen, talent scout for Ford Models, New York.” That I could live with.

But enough about me. It was time for the cavalcade of underage pussy. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it was at least a little bit impressive. Even at this late date, being in what I’ve come to optimistically view as a post-sexual mindset, I was—comment ce dit—overwhelmed by the seemingly endless procession of what Vijay Maheshwari refers to as model-level babes (no scare quotes necessary, thank you very much). After a brief moment pondering the friends back home who would have enjoyed the spectacle far more than me, I set about marking arcane symbols on my score sheet, pretending to be a good upstanding judge. At the end of the first round, I was pleased to find that the hottest aspiring model of them all was the 175-cm-tall 14-year-old I had pre-selected sight unseen (coincidentally, she also hailed from the same small town in Ukraine as ex-Death Porn bassist Irina Hernon, nee Voskoboinikova). The truly hard work now accomplished, I desperately needed to take a piss.

By the time I returned from the lobby, the swimsuit portion of the competition was already halfway complete. But it hardly mattered by this point. The crowd has already settled on its favorite (the contestant most resembling Cindy Crawford), the “real” jury members theirs (the ones most resembling Christie Brinkley and—curiously—Rose McGowan). Further proof that today’s Russia is still mired in the 1980s.

By the time it was all over an hour later, the Rose McGowan lookalike (my third favorite, as it turned out) had been crowned victor, and the free booze was no more. In perhaps the greatest affront of all, it was the French Ford “representative” who got to go up on stage and present the prize (a flimsy plastic rectangle about the size of a shoebox) to the winner. Presumably because he was clean shaven, wearing a blazer, and appeared to be over the age of 30.

Apres-show, the press on hand were keen for some interviews, but our handler made damn sure we didn’t get involved in any of that action. Even the promised after party at a never-popular rave club proved to be a bust. Our handler instead invited us along with some of her aging hipster friends for a late supper at the unbearably pretentious Petrovich. I opted out of this no-win situation and instead caught up with some old friends for some savagely drunken billiards.

I had thought I was going to be the person pulling a fast one, but it turns out that the joke was on me. Compared with the last decade of Russian history, what’s an impostor jurist in a beauty contest after all?

Mark Ames is a dick.

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