 On a freezing-cold December morning at Industria SuperStudio on the edge of Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, the two British owners of a new modeling agency—one somewhat beefy, the other tall and thin—are waiting for a casting call to begin. Marc French and Simon Rogers boast nearly half a century’s experience between them in the glossy world of fashion and advertising. And they know what they’re looking for when it comes to talent. “It’s instinct,” says Rogers, a former commercial print model himself. “It’s like picking out a suit. You know it when you see it.” A small army of publicists and bookers buzz around the bare white-walled space, and a photographer loads film, preparing to test shoot. Law & Order: SVU actor Chris Meloni arrives to scout potential performers for a forthcoming National Lampoon movie in which he is set to star.
One by one, the talent begins to walk through the door. Each model is assigned a number and waits patiently to be called in front of the camera. Among the first up is Tana Brandt, a disheveled young woman whose hair is dyed silver-gray (think Helena Bonham Carter in Fight Club) and whose skin looks as translucent as tracing paper. As the photographer starts shooting, she lifts her shirt up to reveal a shocking sight. A number of agency staffers nearly choke on their breakfast bagels: Brandt is so thin she resembles a concentration camp victim. Her gnarled ribs, looking as brittle as twigs, poke out of her chest.
“I love her,” says French, beaming. “If you were casting a smackhead, she’d be fantastic.”
Trailing on the heels of Miss Holocaust, Michael Curry steps in front of the camera. He’s shirtless, his body covered in tattoos—all over his torso, back, and neck. On his chest is a near-life-size skull, underneath which the word "ruthless" is printed in red ink. He’s wearing an entire jewelry store on his ears. Curry is quickly followed by Claudia Lo Brown, a 5'8" blonde with a long face that seems half-human, half-horse, and who, despite the winter weather, arrives wearing nothing but a bikini under her coat.
As the camera snaps and the talent file in—nearly 300 would turn up by the day’s end—Rogers and French stand in search of stars. Suddenly, a young woman appears, and their eyes light up. She has sparkling blue eyes, a megawatt smile, and a round bubbly face framed by a cascade of reddish brown curls. Dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, she stands 3'11". She carries a giant cup of Starbucks coffee that’s nearly half the size of her torso. “Hi, everybody,” she says confidently. Then she turns to the two men who own this modeling agency and introduces herself. Her name is Jordanna James, and she’s just come from Radio City Music Hall, where she is playing an elf in the Christmas Spectacular alongside the Rockettes. When she steps in front of the camera, Rogers smiles. Talent: It’s like picking out a suit. You know it when you see it.
“Some people,” he says, “jump right out at you.”
Rogers and French run an agency called Ugly NY. Crooked noses, missing teeth, and fat rolls are the company’s bread and butter. Influenced by the success of American Idol and YouTube, and the desire of the anonymous masses to have their 15 minutes of fame, companies as varied as Dove, Levi’s, and Apple are increasingly turning to “interesting faces” and regular Joes to fill their advertisements. The idea is that consumers have grown bored with the endless assembly line of prefabricated beauty that peers down at us from billboards. What passes for hot has become as homogenized as milk. What’s more, there is a demand in film, TV, and advertising for those the uncharitable would call “freaks”—little people, the morbidly obese, contortionists, prison thugs. The success of such models puts the very notion of modeling talent on trial. Is a model someone to be desired? Or is the point merely to grab attention, even transfix?
This trend isn’t particularly new. The Italian clothing company Benetton has used real people in its adverts—everyone from AIDS patients to convicted killers—since the mid-1980s. The Ugly agency began in 1969 in London when two British fashion photographers noticed a gap in the market for unusual faces. Today the London branch of Ugly represents more than 1,000
models, ranging in age from 18 to 100 years old, and in height from 4'1" to 7'6". There’s Andrulla, the female (we think) bodybuilder, and Empress Star, who defies description (see her at ugly.org). The New York office has been open since last June but has already signed scores of models, such as Manny Yarbrough, a 6'7", 600-pound sumo wrestler, and 21-year-old Nick Reddy, better known as Mini–Marilyn Manson, a 3'9" shock rocker who makes a living impersonating the real Manson onstage. And many of them are working, appearing in bit parts in movies and on TV, and in ads for companies like Levi’s, Nike, and Nokia.
Can someone be too ugly for Ugly? “Maybe if you have big warts all over your nose or something,” says Rogers. “That might be an issue.”
No way, counters French. “Even if you’re disfigured, we could still get you work on a science fiction or horror movie.”
On average an Ugly model will pull down $200 to $600 per booking; most of them need side gigs to pay the rent. “We don’t want them coming in and thinking they’re going to be the next Gisele Bündchen,” says Rogers. “We always tell them it’s a crapshoot.”
For most of the models, however, the money is secondary to the thrill of joining the one profession they never dreamed would accept them. Take Kurt Jo, a 29-year-old, 350-pound Hawaiian house-music DJ with a Mennonite beard who moved to New York to pursue his music career. One night, while traveling home from his job at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square, he found himself falling asleep on the subway when a blond-haired man with an English accent tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a business card.
“Hi. My name is Simon Rogers. I represent an agency called Ugly NY. Have you ever considered yourself a model?”
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