No Sale. My Flirt With Baby Modelling

I have two beautiful daughters. My youngest is just over six months old. Everyone who sees her asks if we’ve considered getting her into baby modelling. So after hearing the suggestion countless times, we decided to give it a try.

My wife and I are both creatives, as anyone who reads my rare occasional posts will know. Naturally we want our little one to be creative as well. (In my reoccurring nightmare I award her a bonus for finding me a new tax loophole).

The decision: I guess a part of us hoped that baby modelling would act as an introduction to the creative industries. In reality that makes no sense, as she’d be unlikely to remember any of it by the time she’s old enough to make any career decisions…unless of course we had her modelling for many years, which I fear would require the kind of selfish tenacity that is a little too close to pageant-parenting for me to stomach.

We also hid our now apparent selfishness behind the old chestnut of “the money going towards her future.” I think in reality we thought it could be interesting [for us] and we’d get some nice photographs of her for FREE.

So we sent an email with some pics to one of the most reputable agencies in Denmark. The very next morning (yes, those words were typed with a little smugness) they replied asking us to bring her in with a ‘selection of on-trend outfits’…okay (???).

Before I go on, let’s explore that smugness a little: what is it based on? My daughter’s beauty. How superficial is that?

In all objectivity, (as objective as a parent can be about their offspring) she’s bright and very advanced for her age. I think she’s going to do great things. But in the context of this agency’s eager response, I can only really be smug about her looks. They haven’t replied with haste because of her motor, social, speech and cognitive abilities…they just think she looks cute. And I, being a dad who hopes to bring his daughter up to value more than just looks, laps it up. Hmm.

Anyway, we arrive for our appointment at their surprisingly small but beautiful office, and something instantly feels weird.

Staff members come up to her and interact in a way that feels…well, odd. Maybe I’m looking for it, in reaction to my uneasy feeling, but they seem to be eyeing her up, much like how I imagine a car salesman examines a new saloon.

Not that it is at the fore. No, it’s tucked safely behind the usual oohs and aahs and the odd “I think she looks more like you.” But nevertheless it’s there – in their prolonged stares. They’re watching her; seeing how she behaves – taking mental notes.

One over-caffeinated woman comes over and ruffles her hair, in a manner that’s more ‘Vidal Sassoon’ than “aren’t you cute”. By now we’re already feeling weird about the whole thing. We don’t say it. The office is too small for discretion, but we can sense it on each other, the way people who’ve lived together for years can.

After some minutes, we’re introduced to the owner and told to lay out the clothing on a table – a table small enough to take only five items. My wife has chosen about 23. She precariously arranges her overlaid selections and we wait – for what we assume will be an in-house style guru. I imagine him tutting, while pulling out knitwear from behind squinted eyes and jazz hands, as a pubescent intern mops sweat from his glistening brow.

In fact, the owner simply returns, chooses a top and bottoms and hands them over, asking us to dress her. We do and wait.

Some more minutes later, we’re invited into a broom cupboard of a room. Without warning another chirpy young employee pulls out a brush and proceeds to apply blusher to my presently five and a half month old daughter. “Are you having a laugh?” I ask. In times of anger, my mind’s voice clicks into either business English, cockney or Jamaican Patois. Today is cockney.

I say mind’s voice because I actually say nothing. We sit there and let this woman put adult makeup on our daughter. I assume it’s adult, as I don’t think Max Factor has a line for the under 1s yet…

“Time waits for no one. But you can press pause on your baby’s youthful appearance with…”

I digress. Looking back, I can only put our silence down to shock and sheer disbelief. It’s over before we have a chance to snap out of it. Perhaps our faces object on our mind’s behalf, as she applies only two light and very timid brush strokes, before sheepishly inviting us back to the waiting area.

After some more waiting and height measuring, we’re asked into the studio (a bigger cupboard). Well my wife is asked, as only one parent can go in. I collect the surplus clothing and leave to sit in the car.

Ten or so minutes later my wife returns – daughter in hand. She looks at me and we almost simultaneously say we’re not letting our little girl do it. My wife tells me that the co-owner/photographer said they want her on their books, but warned that we needed to work on getting her to sit still and that she stares too much. (???)

So what did the experience teach me?

I think my strongest feeling was one of disgust and compromise. I felt as though I’d stuck a barcode on my daughter, given her over as a product, and in so doing, had erased some of the tacit rules of engagement that I expect of those who interact with her. I had given these complete strangers the authority to pass judgement on my daughter. Judgements and actions that wouldn’t be appropriate in any other scenario. And all in exchange for money. Put simply, I felt like I’d pimped her out.

Would I advise you to avoid it?

No. At the end of the day, I doubt that the above account is a typical experience. Perhaps they need to refer back to their manual. Perhaps we’re over sensitive. Who knows? No, I’d say try it, but be brutally honest about your reasons before going, and don’t allow those reasons to cloud your judgement when you’re there.

Returning to my reasons, I think I’d have to add that a small part of me thinks my girl is incredible, and liked the idea of other people seeing it too.

Hmm. That sound is me swallowing a very bitter pill.

Image courtesy of

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Why Copywriting Is Like a Mattress

Had these lines swirling around my head for months. Finally found time to put them down.

Share if you like it.

Image courtesy of my wife, aka ClaudiaJR Photography.


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A Beard Isn’t Just For Christmas?

Proof that my beard predates this hipster fad.

Musings of a Serial Procrastinator

So our big day is fast approaching. Within a matter of weeks I will be a happily married man. As you can probably imagine, every last detail is covered; Outfits bought, flowers chosen, first dance song selected. There is however one last detail that is troubling me…facial hair! To shave or not shave?

I’ve been sporting my jaw hair for about 6 months now, and am currently standing at a crossroads. You see there are times in every man’s life when you have to make decisions –decisions that define your manhood. One of those is the ‘do I keep my beard?’ decision. Think about it, we all know which way Sean Connery, Isaac Hayes, Abraham Lincoln and the short fat guy from ‘The Hangover’ went. And in so doing their beards have become their ‘thing.’ I mean can you imagine the KFC Colonel without his white cartoon goatee? No, me…

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Why Barbie’s Nothing Like a Golliwog

Sadomasicism isn’t really my thing. My love boat doesn’t float better on a mixed tide of pleasure and pain. That said, I’ve recently found myself doing some social media S&M; or to put it another way, reading the comments under race-related Facebook posts. Ever tried? It’s curious how ignorant, vile and downright racist people can be from behind an amiable profile image.

Recently Huffington Post UK posted a series of images, curated to produce a reaction – and a reaction they got. Some intern had been told to search the internet for politically incorrect Halloween costumes, a few of which they posted every day in the run up to the holiday. One of these costumes was a golliwog.

I clicked on the picture’s comments button expecting to read mass-objection. Instead I found myself wondering whether I’d gone back thirty years. There were a few exceptions, but the strongest reoccurring theme could be paraphrased:

“Why is this offensive? It’s a doll of a black person. If I saw a Barbie costume I wouldn’t be offended. [black] People need to get a sense of humour.”

I thought about posting a knee-jerk reaction on the trail, but then, remembering I have a blog, decided to write a post instead. So it is to these ‘special’ people that I address this post:

By your apparent inability to understand my negativity towards the costume and doll, I’m guessing you probably don’t do too well on hypothetical instance and empathy. So to make this easier for you, I’m going to present hypothetical imagery that involves people of your skin colour, perhaps reducing the strain on your empathy gland and hopefully allowing you a small insight into my sentiments. (No, there’s no need to google it. I made up the empathy gland thing.)

So firstly, let me make one thing clear: A golliwog is nothing like a Barbie doll. Although Barbie has picked up a few negative connotations in recent decades, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her name widely used as a racist slur. And even now, with her negative press, a proportion (albeit an ever decreasing proportion) of the world’s population still aspire to look a little like Barbie. I haven’t come across any black men who hope one day to look like a golliwog.

So with that in mind, I think instead of Barbie, a more helpful comparison would be to imagine Robert Mugabe creating a doll of a white farmer clutching a suitcase and passport. Strong, but no, this doesn’t cut it, because although we have a doll that echoes back to a time of racist discrimination, we still don’t have the discriminator’s negative, stereotype-based aesthetic. So let’s say Mugabe’s white farmer doll has the suitcase, passport and, in protest, is exposing his very small penis. Getting closer to why I hate the ‘wog’. We have the stereotypical body image, the racist discrimination, but we’re still not quite there.

You see some would say the original golliwog wasn’t designed to offend, but was merely a fictional character created for 19th century children’s literature. The same people would say it was appropriated by racists, who used its look and name as a slur against black people. So for the sake of argument, let’s say they’re right – although I’m not entirely sure it’s that simplistic.

Okay, so let’s then assume our suitcase and passport clutching doll was created to commemorate the Poms’ mass emigration to Australia in the middle of the last century. Let’s also get rid of the small penis and exchange it for a snow white skin colour and blue lips to denote the contrast between the Aussie and British climates. And let’s say that in circa 2001 one of Mugabe’s trusted PAs happens upon the doll whilst searching online for halloween costumes. And said PA then brings the doll to the attention of Mr M, who orders a ship load and gives them out to his people.

So imagining you’re a white Zimbabwean farmer and someone brings out one of these dolls in front of you or dresses up as one, would you think they’re insensitive, offensive or upsetting? To someone who easily forgets historical context and is a little two-dimensional in their thinking, it would appear to be just a doll of a very pale white skinned person clutching cases. ‘Get a sense of humour!’ they’d say.

Let’s now imagine that the lovely people in branding at the Sydney Harbour Doll Company decided to call our doll Giles. And you, the white ex-landowner, decades later were going about your business, and black people started referring to you as Giles or Gil. ‘Oi Gil!’ They’d shout as you walked across the road. Although I doubt the word ‘oi’ features heavily in Zimbabwean parlance. Would the name upset you?

This get’s close to how I feel about that jet black, wide eyed and thick lipped doll, you feel is somehow misunderstood. My Aussie doll is fantasy. The memory of being called a wog, however is very real to very many black people. A huge swathe of the golliwog’s popularity, converges a time in British history, when it wasn’t uncommon to see landlord signs that read, ‘No Irish, no dogs, no blacks’. This was when the doll was being used to market jam and sweets – when its ugliness pervaded black and white television screens in the guise of its not so distant cousin, the Minstrels. Back then racists had already made the connection and were already spreading their insidious joke.

As a child in eighties’ London, I could still see the little black doll on jam jars in supermarkets (Not my home. My mother didn’t buy them). And wog was still one of the top racist slurs of choice. Even now in 2013, some three decades later, footballers in far flung parts of civilised Europe still hear the name spat at them from the terraces, but you can’t get why it might be offensive? Really?

Personally speaking (and that’s all I can do – is speak for me) it isn’t so much its look, after all I don’t look in the mirror and see anything remotely resembling it. It isn’t even what the doll was used to achieve. I don’t get upset by monkeys or bananas or any other imagery that was appropriated to put us down. What troubles me is what it represents – not a time of name calling, but a time when the opinion of a black person had no currency. A time when no one bothered to check how we felt. A time when a white man could ‘black-up’, paint on thick lips, sing on stage mimicking a black singer and no one batted an eyelid. It was completely acceptable. That’s why I loathe the golliwog, wog, golly or whatever else you affectionately wish to call it.

If you wrote the kind of comments that this post is a reaction to, you will have probably stopped reading ages ago, writing me off as another black guy without a sense of humour. But maybe, just maybe one of you might have kept reading and perhaps might now get it. And if you’ve read all the way to this line and still feel there’s nothing wrong with the doll or a full size halloween costume for sale in 2013 on Amazon, then there isn’t much more I can do.

Courtesy of the lovely people at Amazon.

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Does too much of the outside, kill how we see inside?

Memory is elastic. It’s been proven that our recollections aren’t finite recordings and snapshots from the past, but storylines that we edit subconsciously. With enough time, our minds can turn a negative occurrence into a not so bitter aftertaste. Our brain can even erase the whole thing entirely. Studies have shown people creating complete fabrication, in reaction to the introduction of influencers. I’m given a fake photograph showing me fishing with my father, and my brain creates its backstory.

Regardless of the decisions of our inner editor, the vast majority of us don’t even realise the tape has hit the cutting room floor. We believe. After all the ‘memory’ is our own, so why wouldn’t we?

I believe a good creative writer has to be able to connect with the reader’s inner editor. Giving them just enough information to lead them along the plot’s pathway, but also enough space to allow their imaginations to fill the gaps. Because the more creative flesh we’re allowed to apply to a story’s skeleton, the more invested we become in it. The story in fact becomes our own. And so we believe.

A friend of mine has created a Facebook page for his son, pretty much from birth. He fills it with tagged statuses, notes, pictures and videos. I think its an admirable and sweet paternal effort, but I worry about what this notion’s inevitable progression will produce.

Google Glass is already out there, albeit for now on the slightly ‘too-far’ out there periphery. The purpose for which it was created however seems to have already seeded. Its purpose? Record everything, because nothing should be missed, everything should be shared and because, well…we can. But if in half a century’s time or so it’s common and acceptable to record everything – every last moment from cradle to grave, then surely won’t we lose those gaps – those grey areas that train our creativity? Won’t our innate ability to tell stories slowly become myth?

I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve watched too much sci-fi recently. Perhaps the power of storytelling is too embedded in our psyches to ever die. As a lover of stories and a teller too, I hope so.

Read a chapter excerpt from my debut here

Google Glass. Image courtesy of wikipedia.

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Stepping Back From The Keyhole

Musings of a Serial Procrastinator

I had the weirdest experience last week on the way home from work, no not breaking down again. This was less common than running out of fuel. This is so strange I’m not entirely sure whether I should post this, in fact this is probably the only time I’m hoping I DON’T get pressed!

I was driving and thinking as I do, when I had an epiphany (or delusion, you decide.) that my body was merely a frame and that I exist within the frame and not within the world outside it. My body exists within the world outside, but I exist only within my body. And that everything I call life is merely experienced via interactions with this frame. Does that make any sense? I for maybe a part of a second kind of went inside myself and felt a surge of panic ladened claustrophobia. I was trying to…

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How Did It Come To This?!!

Musings of a Serial Procrastinator

I’m not sure how it happened. I am riddled with disgust and self-loathing. I’ve compromised my standards; the standards my parents inculcated in me, as a young black boy growing up in the ghetto that is Upper Sydenham. It hurts me to write this, but I Sean J. Rankine have become…(deep breath)

one of those guys at the gym, who make noises when pushing weights.

I hate myself! Thankfully, I haven’t yet become the guy who gets up between each set of ten, walks over to the mirror and inspects the girth of the muscle group he is working. I don’t as yet walk as though I have had melons surgically implanted within each armpit. I don’t yet conclude all exercises with loud, and slightly camp “Wooooo!”

I do, however now conclude the last few lifts of the hardest sets with a low, but still audible hiss, which sometimes…

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