Go-see

(How to slaughter a dream)



THERE I was, last Saturday, sitting as one-fourth of the deciding panel for the go-see of The First Philippine Models Weekend. A go-see—for the flair-impaired—is plain models’ audition in glitzy fashionspeak. Over 300+ model-wannabes were on a call-back and t’was me-myself-and-I’s triumvirate of a brainchild to summon the pretty young minions of fashion to gather and copulate at my Chuck’ed feet (yeah, words can be verbosely accessorized a la Galiano’s aesthetics).

It was an unabashed mix. There were the chiseled good looking ones, the rugged diamonds in the rough. There were washboard abs and lotsa boobies spilling out their tank tops and low-down scooped tees. But there were also the the plain Janes, simple schmucks and the uglies, the bunch with nothing but loads of unrealistic dream persistence.

If there’s one word to describe the elimination, it would be UNAPOLOGETIC. It was a slaughterhouse. It was so Simon Cowell back there. The panel (composed of a fashion editor, a fashion stylist, a PR practitioner and moi), was blunt, matter-of-factly and direct to the point. I saw applicants jumping out of their skins as I hand them the coveted Official Postcard that invites them to The First Philippine Models Weekend. But I was also a heart wrenching witness to wannabes with pleading eyes and “Please…” written on their lips as they were handed out the No verdict.

It broke my heart. I know how it is to dream big. To be splattered in your face with a harsh No was just a lashing, arduous experience. What sprinkled salt to my wounded heart was that it was all based on looks.

Looks. Just that and nothing more.

I get an enchilada of thoughts up my head. Is fashion really superficial? Who are we to judge who is beautiful and who is not? Who are we to be arbiters of good taste? What gave us the right to kill dreams?

It’s sad that fashion reveals its ugly fangs to me now, but the sadder part is, I am a willing victim to ram it up my throat and hark “Suck it to me, baby!”

God, I swear to my Calvins, I am so bad. Ugh.