Call My Agent
Mailbox Full
At Vogue Japan both of my editors had agents. I learned the most from consulting jobs. How to handle major and minor clients. The ones that expected excellence and paid accordingly. As well as those with champagne dreams on beer budgets. At times, even on editorials I worked directly with talent agents. The the master coordinators you could rely on when there was a problem. Perhaps most importantly, the one’s that handled the money, so you wouldn’t have to.
In Milano I dealt most with ATOMO, Management Artists Organisation’s (MAO) sister agency. It was about relationships; stoping by for coffee, catch ups, and when you spoke about money, you felt valued, an essential half of a loyal partnership. After all, your earnings were theirs too. The occasions I’d coordinate with the New York office were never without disappointment. Collecting petty cash was a teeth pulling workout. The head agent was never there, and for the first couple of years, had a different assistant each trip. It was so bizarrely paradoxical from what I’d experienced in Milan. Often times my editor would say it’s because we were the little guys, that they prioritised the bigger money making artists. It seemed so much more ruthless and intimidating on the other side of the ocean.
Moving to New York I was empty of expectation. Living anywhere is usually much different than visiting. Getting my own agent was the dream. Something that only came with hard work and talent. I spent four years building my own portfolio, most of that work photographed by Michael Flores. He became my creative little big brother. We spent days and nights putting mood boards together, collaborating with international editions of Hearst, Condé, and the indie magazines we admired. Those years with him were extraordinary. We were free, there was still some freedom then. It would be over another year and a half before my agent inquiries would come to fruition. It’s ironic how even faster fashion would become, yet those working within the industry would spend their careers exercising patience. Out of nowhere in an instant Michael would leave me, shattered and alone inside the fashion closet full of vipers. I’d not wanted to admit how much I’d depended on him creatively. Everything during that time felt surreal, even more so when shortly after his adieu, I received word an agent was interested in signing me.
My first agent meeting was with a new to New York French agency. Karen had been my cheerleader and was convinced Karine would see what she saw. Karine was blunt, made it clear she didn’t believe I’d the ability to grow into her taste level. A crushing, raw, and honest opinion from another woman was humbling. I never heard back from Karen after that. Still in shock from my best friends suicide, I said yes to every meeting no matter how unappealing. I needed to keep moving. Sofia and Deana, at a boutique agency, signed me a week after. Both were enthusiastic about my potential. At the time, they provided the support I needed. I’d been striped of my confidence when Michael left. Hesitantly fearful at making decisions and overwhelmed with guilt in expressing any discontent. I could only exude humility, for who was I, now, without him. As the industry teaches you quickly, its never just your agent that finds you work — it’s about you, and your personal relationships.
Not quite a year passed when I left that agency via email. I was shooting a Harper’s Bazaar cover story with nine models over the coarse of two weeks. Deana called with a small editorial at a local newspaper offering an interns budget and I’d have to pay my way — taxi, train and ferry — to Cape Cod. The shoot days were in between Bazaar, but on the same day as a meeting with a potential e-commerce client. Somehow assuming I’d exert myself to the Cape for basically free, they canceled the meeting before asking me. Back then e-comm was the golden ticket. Once you got in, they’d book you consistently. It was a meeting I’d been trying to confirm for months. Four weeks later my Harper’s story broke the internet.The photographer called letting me know his agency received a promotional email from mine with our covers. Promoting hair and makeup artists, none of which had worked on the job, instead of promoting me as their stylist. I again, said nothing — had these women betrayed me, was I being dramatic for thinking so, there had to be more to the story — and made for a quick exit.
Swayed to a new commercial agency with the promise of making a lot of money quickly, Teddie was a smooth talker and convinced me that signing with him was going to be different. When the first job came around, it was indeed a big one. A small niche luxury magazine based in Long Island. I’d get to pull all of those chic semi-granny brands adoro. We’d be flying private to West Palm Beach — Teddie had actually kept his word. My rate was average considering, but the trip made up for it. I’d spoken to the editor in chief and disclosed which brands I’d be pulling. Explaining big houses she previously mentioned; Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent, Balenciaga and Balmain, weren’t lending to her magazine. Fully transparent I reminded her none of said brands were advertisers. Even as close as some of my relationships are, they don’t produce the amount of samples to magazine’s that exist. I shared my confidence in how expectation exceeding results would be regardless.
Two days before leaving, the EIC phones asking if I’d confirmed Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent, Donna Karen (the label had closed the previous year), Balenciaga and Balmain as per her email. Livid I’d not even sent requests to those brands, I explained consideration for my prs’ inboxes came first. I wasn’t going to request something I knew wouldn’t be available for this shoot. She hung up in a huff. Teddie rang immediately. The magazine had also hired him for production. He was getting 50.000,00$ in profits while I’d receive 1.500,00. He insisted I send emails to her desired brands as she was considering firing me. I calmly agreed but reassured what was pulled was exquisite and requesting was pointless. Of course nothing came through with the exception of Hermes; my Parisian pr did me a glorious favour. As Teddie pulls up in his SUV, my doorman loads the duffles in the trunk. I hoist myself into the front seat, he looks at me, teary-eyed, and says — Oh no, actually K.C. the editor doesn’t want you on set. She went to Barney’s and shopped the designer’s she wanted. I got out of the SUV and opened the trunk. He pleaded I’d let him take my pull as he needed to impress her. Threatening if he lost the client, I’d be responsible. I blame the shock because I somehow agreed to let him take my duffles full of Carolina Herrera, Oscar de la Renta, Giorgio Armani, Ralph Lauren, Helmut Lang, Loewe, Margiela, Brock, Christian Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik and so much more on a job with a woman who’d spat in another woman’s face, my face, for some seemingly absurd ego trip. I stood speechless in my doorway watching him wave as he headed to the airport with all of my hard work.
Two days later, he returned my edit and informed that she was also refusing to pay me. He passive aggressively reprimanded my failure on the job and expressed grave disappointment. The story pdf was sent when the summer issue debuted a few weeks later. My accessories were shot on the cover and multiple looks throughout. It was all I needed to file a lawsuit for payment, I told him. It wasn’t about the money, it was the principle. Teddie then threatened to sue me for almost costing him 50.000,00$. I politely said I’d be in touch and ended the call. When I told him I’d be leaving the agency, he insisted I owed him another month at least. Weak to defend myself, I agreed but would go on working with my clients independently. I wasn’t under contract, he had absolutely no right over me or my work. I was just too exhausted to fight.
I know a handful of incredible agents. Perhaps other artists could share contrastingly great experiences with the same people. It’s important to note the moral of the story isn’t personally about my agents or the vicious behaviour of that female editor, who shortly after closed her magazine. Rather it leaves me inquiring how we exemplify integrity within an industry that greatly influences our cultures. I reckon I just don’t have the stomach to be so individualistic.
