Is Terry Richardson HIPster, ARTist or SEXual predator?

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A seventeen year old model has just left school. She thinks she knows herself and is ready for the fashion world. She stood up for herself in school, so hey what can happen to her thats so different, so bad, that she cant handle…

A man like Terry Richardson can happen to her.

A huge name in fashion, the photographer who can make or break her career.


She has waited months to see a big name photographer like him. Her agent tells her he asked for her specially, so she should be flattered. maybe she’ll even make it into Terry’s Diary, his blog of places, models and superstars…

Her room mates tell her that he has a bad reputation as a bit of a perv, and to be cautious.

Yeah, yeah, she thinks, I can take care of myself, they’re just jealous.

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She goes on this go-see/casting and maybe Terry takes a few casting shots, or maybe just his assistant sees her. Maybe he ignores her, doesn’t takes any pix, or maybe he needs his fix and maybe things happen that leave her wondering or maybe she ends up doing things that she’ll really regret, something that may even traumatize her.

This happens in the world of modeling. Its been happening forever. There are men who take advantage of their position and manipulate the girls who come and see them for a casting, into a sex act. Modeling is not prostitution nor is it porn. So those people who react like “what do they expect, isn’t that the business they are in?” are dead wrong. Yes, sexual manipulation happens everywhere, but when you go on an interview for an accounting position its not that simple to get talked out of your clothes.

Bank Manager: “I really need to see your nipples for this job…”

She: “Go fuck yourself, I’ll report you, you pervy asshole.”

Photographer casting for underwear shoot: “I really need to see your nipples for this job…”

She: “I understand…” and lifts her shirt.

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When I was modeling  male predators happened to me over and over again. As if they only saw me as a body. I never had a father, nor an older brother, so the way I felt about men was  pretty much formed after I left home and through my early experiences as a model. By the time I was in my mid-twenties I reacted to most men the way a dog that has been beaten reacts to a raised hand. My subliminal message to men was: back-the-fuck-off.

As a result I didn’t meet my husband till I was 33.

BTW, these are not regrets, they are just facts.

Stupid Model in Paris is the narrative I created around these experiences. How 17-year old Bee reacts to unexpected sexual situations. She finds out that her sexual liberation has nothing to do with being sexually manipulated. One is a choice, the other a predicament that feels like shit.

Here is one chapter that narrates just how casually the sexual manipulation can happen…

Stupid Model illustrations_0014 Chapter 8 

The following morning Odile announced that she got me a go-see with Jean Loup Sieff, one of the photographers on Janice’s To Do list. This guy was famous, even bigger than the ELLE photographers, like he shot for Vogue, Bazaar, and did huge designer ad campaigns. As soon as Odile gave me the details I ran back upstairs to change into something sexier. I ended up wearing a vintage red and white organza shirt that I tied above my belly button, with a long white skirt that I’d made myself. It had four slits that showed my legs, like almost all the way up, when I walked. I was gonna be so hassled by men in the street, but I’d tolerate it just to impress Jean Loup Sieff.

His studio wasn’t far and as I rang the studio bell I wondered if I’d arrived too early, but the door clicked open, in that anonymous way all Paris’ front doors do, and I walked up to the fourth floor only to find the studio door shut. I knocked and waited. I wondered. What was with these guys? I looked for another bell but there wasn’t one. So I just I stood there, la-la-di-da-da, waiting aimlessly. Then I noticed a camera mounted in a dark corner of the ceiling. It seemed to point at me so I waved. This was the magic password and the door buzzed open almost instantly. Had he watched me as I stood there waiting like an idiot? I entered a dark open space where enormous atelier skylights had been taped up with black paper. The sound of a voice drifted from one corner of the loft so I made my way towards what seemed to be a trace of light. A man, probably Jean, was talking on the phone and again I didn’t know what to do.

Alo?” he called out, ”qui est la?”

Hello, its me,” I called back. “Bee, I have a go-see with Jean.”

“Sit down,” he said from his office, “voila on my sofa. I arrive soon.”

The door to his room was ajar and some sunlight escaped onto the sofa. Sitting down I realized that, although I couldn’t see him, he could probably see me really well. Was he another creep who liked to spy on girls? Or was this some kind of test of how I could amuse him? I wondered what Janice would do. Like would she pose for him, right there on his sofa and sit back and cross and uncross her legs suggestively? Teasing and performing for him would turn her on. I just sat and did nothing. I realized I was about as interesting as a corpse and, frustrated with myself, I got up and walked back into the studio. Despite the darkness, I noticed three giant photos of women hover over me. I recognized them all, Catherine Deneuve, Jane Fonda and a topless Charlotte Rampling. As I studied her plate-sized nipples, muffled footsteps announced that Jean was behind me and as I turned to greet him a bright flash went off, blinding me completely.

“I caught you snuppin’ around,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

Excusez- moi, I’m Jean, keep the eyes closed.”

I was a dazed mess, light circles bounced inside my eyeballs, and I felt dizzy standing upright with my eyes shut. I could hear that Jean was moving around the studio, switching lights on and off and as soon as I could see again I spotted him with his back to me, loading film into a camera.

“OK if I take some pictures?” He said.

“What? Me? Like Now?”

He pointed towards a wooden table and chair that were placed in the middle of the grey backdrop paper. On the table was a glass of champagne and Jean told me to have some. That it would help me to relax. I wondered if Charlotte Rampling was naked because she’d been drinking his champagne. I sat down, took a sip and waited. He came up to me, the camera blocked his face and all I saw was his chin and long mousy hair that needed a cut. I still didn’t have a clue what he looked like. He moved closer, stalking me like a cat, his shoulders and chest so close that I could feel his body heat. I looked for him through the lens, if only I had a more complete image of his face… still, he’d been quietly spying on me for a while, in the hallway, on the sofa, in the studio, and he must’ve liked what he saw. I took another swig of the champagne before he shifted the glass away from me, out of the frame. I licked my lips. OK. I was ready. I knew what to do.

“Lovely,” he said. “Chin up … just a little.”




“Sexy, oui, comme ca.”

He breathed directions onto my face, moved a strand of hair and lifted my chin with one finger. Then he took a step back and let the hand that held the camera drop to his side. Now I saw his face (thin lips, long nose and narrow eyes) and we looked at each other, but his eyes looked beyond me, past me, through me. Maybe they saw a photo that I couldn’t imagine. He lifted the camera again. Stepped in again, his hips touching my leg as he bent down alongside me.

“Move your hair,” he said, “your neck is beautiful like a cygne… swan.”

While I pulled together my hair and knotted it into a bun, he tugged at the collar of my shirt, ran his fingers down to the first button and undid it.

“More shoulder, more neck,” he said impatiently, and I pulled my top down to reveal my shoulders.

“Take it off.”

He sounded annoyed, like he hated the shirt, hated my clothes, like he was irritated that he couldn’t see enough skin. His harsh order broke the energy between us and I mumbled that I didn’t do topless.

Ah merde,” he said with a gesture of despair. He turned away from me, walked off the set, and flung his camera onto a desk. Then he shouted, “I’m not sleazy amateur, I’m casting perfume campaign for Yves Saint Laurent … stupide petite fille.”

A stupid little girl, that’s what I was, not a cool superstar like Charlotte Rampling who clearly knew what was best for her. I was just dumb old me, who should have known better, who had been told to do anything, anything, the famous photographers asked for, if I wanted to be in ELLE, or this, a campaign for Yves Saint Laurent. I’d blown it, and Christa would hear about it, and she might finally kick me out.

“Sorry,” I called after him. “I’m sorry, I will do it.”

I fought back tears as I took off my shirt for the man who’d called me a stupid little girl. A man who’d seen dozens of naked women a million times prettier than me.

Jean walked onto the set with such showy reluctance that it occurred to me he might have staged his angry outburst just to get his way. Instantly my tears dried up. If I was a little girl then he was an asshole. I looked right at his lens. Fuck you, I thought, I hate you. So what that you can see my tits, seeing them doesn’t make them yours. I jutted out my chin, I stretched my neck, I wanted to kill him, I wanted to kill all men. He clicked frame after frame as if he were shooting at me – bang, bang – he worked around me from every angle while I glared, shot daggers back. When the twenty-four frames were up, he touched my back lightly.

“Bravo,” he said. “That was good.”

He bent over, picked my shirt up from the floor and gently draped it over my shoulders. I sat at the farm table a bit longer, trying to figure out what just happened. I was exhausted, drained from the range of emotions he’d put me through.  I got up, slowly gathered my stuff, fastened all my buttons, and tucked the shirt deep into my skirt, feeling sure that I’d shown enough skin for one day.

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Stupid Model Things I did #2 ………. Horror at Space Mountain


This time I was on a trip to Florida for a very dorky Dutch catalog of which evidence can be found here:

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Booked by my favorite Dutch photographer, Boudewijn Notenboom, who took us to DisneyWorld for a last day surprise. On the way we passed a small plane that had landed on the Florida Turnpike – an auspicious start to our day


I’d seen Bambi and Snowwhite, but I’d never heard of DisneyWorld and had no expectations of what was to come…


This was apparent in my choice of top that day – a hot new design called

 the Boob Tube

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the basic design

and on the body

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First we explored the world of Disney, where we were accosted by Mini, Goofy and Pluto and Boudewijn took polaroids, we walked the main street with endless shops that sold nothing I wanted, and visited the castle, which was merely a plastic facade. After all this disappointment Space Mountain sounded exciting and I followed the others onto the ride

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I’d never been on a rollercoaster

I didn’t even know they existed

so I had no idea what was gonna happen, as my cart climbed and climbed and climbed

and then…

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and then…

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feeling sick, dizzy and relieved it was all over

I exited the mountain

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where I was greeted by thunderous applause and laughter

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I looked down

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… lived traumatized ever after.

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The Stupidest Model Things I Ever Did #1

I’d been booked for my first trip. Like ever. Shooting bikinis in the Bahamas.

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I was sixteen and  had barely done any modeling.

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It seemed I had to do something special to deserve this job. Like something really modelish. So I shaved all my body hair. It wasn’t even like I was that hairy…

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It felt really good, right after, like my skin was so smooth, so perfectly soft to the touch…

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I thought I would look perfect for swimwear.

On the plane my skin was still smooth. At first…

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But after 4 hours in the air the stylist (she sat next to me) casually brushed her hand across my arm and pulled back in shock.

“You feel like a cactus,” she said, “what did you do?”

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“I shaved.”

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“Because I thought I was supposed to.”

“Oh my God it will grow back, like thick and black,” she said. “Like a man’s beard!”

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“Oh my God,” I said, “you think so?”

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“Of course,” she said, “you’ll end up looking like a monkey…”


But I don’t think I did…


Next: The stupid thing I did when I went to Disney World for the first time….

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Everything happens in Miami. Just as I’m not looking. Like last night Justin Bieber drag raced below my bedroom window (relatively speaking on the infinite scale of the entire universe, so don’t start outing me with comments that it was several blocks south).

He was nabbed by the Miami Beach police and resisted arrest. They say. But thats what they always say. If you’re not falling into their arms yodeling that you’re sorry, they write on your arrest form that you “resisted arrest.” Hey Bieber was lucky that they didn’t tase him with their favorite gotcha toy ( used on young males of any color, tourists included).


This happened at 4.13 am (note the 13 and not 10 or 15, that’s one sober cop) and by the time America brushed its teeth and poured its milk into its cereal a mega media story had been launched.

Baby Bieber’s mugshot was on every TV channel, every tweet, FB post looking like someone had told him it was a shoot for, or better still a casting call for a cute new lesbian on Orange is the New Black. Smile! And hysterical news casters (inc. the likes of Anderson Cooper) came in their panties analyzing what could possibly have led to the downfall of the young role model to millions. Psychiatrists, lawyers, political analysts and weeping fans were interviewed and their conclusion was, with much head shaking: Bieber suffered from “Impostor Syndrome” and it was merely a cry for help! And where were the Bieber parents? Really, and how could they let this happen?


Meanwhile Bieber sat in his cell (surrounded by Miami clubbers arrested at LIV for trying to enter the VIP zone) and wondered where his friend God was. After all the credit he’d given to God for his success, tagging him in every tweet, had God really forsaken him in his hour of need? His much needed need to act his age and gender and be invisible while racing a rented Lamborghini on Miami Beach, while just a tiny teensy bit intoxicated?

God? God!

I bet God didn’t even notice. I mean as soon as God focusses his attention on Miami Beach, like sits on a cloud somewhere over South Florida, he sees nothing but yellow (or red) Lamborghinis driving @ 60mph. And when he bothers to zoom in (think Google Earth or Godle Earth),  he sees young testosterone pumped up with performance enhancers like alcohol, codeine and pot (he calls it marijuana, and planted it as an afterthought late on day six, and only for medicinal value) and too much time and money, everywhere.  Like Everywhere. Especially at 4.13 am.

So I imagine God shrugged, made a mental note to send the Devil a text later, asking him to go easy on the young Bieb, and turned his attention back to Chris Christie.


Meanwhile, we, those who live in Miami Beach, smile and shrug the shrug of knowledge. Like man eats man’s face off? Like tasing a teen artist to death for tagging graffiti? Like a celebrity arrested for acting out? Of course! What do you expect? This is Miami!

And when I drove home last night, yes along Pinetree Drive enjoying its 15 minutes of fame (paparazzi are still hanging out – you know, for when time goes backwards and they’re the first on the scene), I looked over at the trophy wife in a black SUV right next on me. As per habit we stepped on it, raced for the orange light at 41st Street, speedometers hitting the 56mph mark, and made it, perfectly timed, just through red.


What do you expect? This is Miami!

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Coming Soon

Stupid Model the book will be available on Amazon in February 2014…

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