MY FACE- A VISUAL SUBSTITUTE FOR LAXATIVE?!.

Can I let you in on a little secret?

In my bedroom, under one of those old 3-CD tray, tape deck and radio combo players lay a pile of magazines which I’ve bought or acquired or stolen over the years. Somewhere inside each one, my mug graces a glossy, hallowed page or two.

In fact, that’s not all! I wake up nearly every morning to two life sized boards of my own form. These were used as store display pieces when I was featured in a Topman Campaign a few years back.

Now please, please, please do not compare me Narcissus and I promise you, I’m certainly not bragging. Me telling you all of this sordidness does have some sort of quirky and offshoot point eventually, so please read on… 

My friend who worked at Topshop at the time saved these cut outs from a number of possibly tragic fates. Either being sent to an industrial skip, or to be used as a dart-board for an ever growing group of ex-girlfriends. 20 points for the head or 50 for the groin area when I last checked. So I had to save them.

It’s a bit off the topic but you may find yourself now curiously asking 

“How did you end up being able to transport two large boards of your pouting and preening self back home with you?

The answer? With extreme difficulty. Unfortunately, I had to schlep them all the way back on a rush hour London Underground train.

Now some of you out there might think I would have enjoyed the attention that all this would bring during that forty minute ride home, that I would enjoy strangers eyes darting from 1-D me to 3-D me. Usually yeah, alright, I’ll be honest that would have given me a bit of a thrill but I can tell you that day I really didn’t enjoy the experience. Honest. 

Towards the end of my journey, an unbroken record of “please don’t bump into anyone I know, please don’t bump into anyone I know” was circulating in my head. I was trying to turn the boards around so the blank backs would face outwards when I heard

“Jono, is that, is that you mate?” followed by a bellowing of laughter from a distant friend. “You’ve picked up quite an ego since becoming a model haven’t ya? like that Greek bloke that loved his own reflection what’s he called? uh huh huh huh huh”.

Honestly though, this feeble shrine to my alleged ego at one point did actually have a real purpose.

I needed the pictures for my model book, until I was informed that the model agencies actually do this for you (apparently, that’s why we pay them) and the big boards were a present for my mum, but they didn’t go with the living room carpet and ended up in my room.

So, I thought to myself, I’ve started this collection now, so I’ll finish it. Who knows, maybe one day when my grandchildren come round to visit- albeit probably through the medium of a hologram - I can show them the yellowed ancient pages of a real tangible magazine (an antiquated object viewed in 2070 with as little usage as a chastity belt is for today’s generation) and point to a picture of a young, smooth butter faced, nubile man instead of the wrinkled, rusty and doddering form plonked in front of their virtual retinas. 

The magazine paper it’s printed on may tire and age with me but the actual image will always stay the same, it’s like a Basil Hallward portrait of Dorian Gray but in reverse, if we’re going to be pretentious about it.

Certain native Red Indian tribes believed that by having your picture taken, the picture will steal part of your soul. I can see where there coming from, especially after meeting some of the world’s most photographed models and would make perfect sense to why people call it the “soul less” industry.

It’s an odd little thought, but anyone can own a tangible image of you. All they need is the willingness to obtain it. People who I will never meet could own a copy of your face and do what they like with it. Scary thought.

And indeed being a model your face could pop up and can crop up anywhere.

I have a friend who told me he once had a one night stand with a random girl at university; following the girl into her dorm bedroom she lit some candles to create a hasty bit of mood lighting as he lay on her bed. He glanced up at the walls and nearly jumped off the bed as he saw my face starting back at him, flickering in the candle-light. 

He never mentioned to me if my presence on the wall helped or even enhanced his libido and performance that night or not. When recalling he story for me, he showed me a picture of her on Facebook,

“As far as I can recall I can’t remember ever meeting her…” I told him ” But I can tell she has got great taste in guys” I said it as a joke, he didn’t find it very funny, so I guess that might give me an inclination about the said nights performance.

Indeed, I too have “found myself” if that’s what we are going to call it in odd locations, at a random house party I once excused myself to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, in my direct line of sight was a cut-out of my own semblance from an old magazine editorial. I never met the occupant of the house but I did contemplate afterwards that maybe the sight of my face and form alone was found as a useful visual laxative for the said occupant. Fortunately, we will never know.

So, In conclusion, if the Red Indians are to be proved correct. Whether my image be owned for the purpose of a past love angst ridden dart board, a visual substitute for Viagra or Dulcolax, then the next time you obtain an image of me or one of my peers, please do take good care of us.