Hello from Paris, where agencies always take half your money and castings sometimes take all day. Here in the City of Light, men’s shows have begun, the couture shows are about to start, and prêt-a-porter is the first week in March -- shit’s getting busy. If I had it my way, I’d avoid anything show-related, but my agency has already forewarned me that I’ve some important show castings that they insist I attend. I know from experience that these will be extremely embarrassing, so I’ll be sure to keep you posted. At first I didn’t want to come back to Paris. I don’t know many people here, I am charged a heavy foreigner’s tax, and that's not to mention having to confront my crippling macaron addiction (cf. embarrassing castings). But there’s a comfort in the eternal return. It feels as though I’m visiting a part of myself that exists in Paris alone. Work is also very busy: 24 castings in 3 and a half days and a shoot for La Prairie with Satoshi Sakusa. It’s been great. Well, except for when I found out that the fashion editor of a certain magazine decided to ban me from ever working for said magazine again.

I went to a casting for this magazine as soon as I arrived. I worked with the magazine this past summer, and they had since put me on option for three different jobs, so I thought things were looking good. I was especially excited about this casting because the photographer was someone with whom I have been dying to work. He’s from my hometown, but we had never met because we were always traveling. The casting went perfectly. He and I hit it off, and he even brought up my BlackBook column, telling the casting director and myself that he really enjoyed it.

You can imagine, then, that I was quite shocked when he called my agent the next morning to say that he was very sorry, that they had wanted to book me for the job but the fashion editor refused, claiming that the last time I worked for them, I was ‘in a bad mood’ and that she didn’t want to work with me again. (Thankfully the photographer didn’t believe her, told my agent that she had a reputation for being a bitch, and said that we would work together soon).

I was extremely upset by this news. It’s one thing if a client doesn’t like my look, or even my performance -- I’ve learned to handle those criticisms with professionalism. But my personality? My work ethic? This was my first real instance of bad feedback and I couldn’t understand it. From what I remember, the shoot went well and the photos came out great. It was a 12-hour day, so it’s possible that there might have been a higher level of stress (for the team as a whole), but I am certain that there was no obvious hostility. I’m very sensitive to these things and I am sure I would realize and remember upsetting somebody. But somehow, without my even knowing it, I irked her. And now I’ll never work for them again.

I don’t know exactly what she said about me, but her vague disapproval really affected because, like all eager models, I work extremely hard to please my clients. Models don’t only perform in front of a camera – they are also expected to feign cheery, eager-to-please servitude all the time. To take all bullshit with a smile. And I do, even if I hate myself sometimes for doing it. I’m not the world’s perkiest person, but I make a huge effort to be really friendly, easy-going, and optimistic when I work, because that’s what’s considered professional. Learning that I somehow failed at that really stung.

But then I remembered what Susan Sontag said in response to the New York Times’ scathing review of her work: “I understand, of course, that if you’re out there in the world, doing things, you’re going to make enemies, and you’re going to have critics, and I can’t in principle object to that, and I just have to accept that because I know that there are other people who support my work and find it worthy."

And though my work is far less meaningful than Sontag's, her words helped ground me while I ran around to my castings, saying to myself, “Shake it off, Drori, shake it off,” and making an effort to be the nicest, happiest person I could be. At the end of that day, when my agent told me I booked La Prairie, I was so genuinely happy that I thought to myself, who cares?

And that was it. I stopped caring. In this cutthroat industry, as in any, there are bound to be several people of varying authority who will bust your balls for no reason. I knew this, but I needed to experience it in order to deal with it. So the moral of my story is this: fuck haters. They will always exist, no matter how much you try to impress them, and they like to make themselves known; but you can’t let them get to you because they’re not worth your concern. Better to care about the people who do value and appreciate your work than the ones who don’t.

Or, as my cliche-loving dad likes to say, you can’t please everybody all the time. One dissatisfied customer ain’t so bad.