Sometimes an artist's room directly captured how their mind worked, what circled their head all the time. Ryan's studio had not one but two drafting boards, side by side, organized by deadlines and potential success and by season - he tended to start work substantially early on, both for good measure and simply because work had become more 'life' for him. He had two monitors, one usually full of references or suggestions from partners or commissions, the other full of graphics and computer-generated versions of his hand-drawn pieces (and, of course, in the background, the boring part of his job remained open in spare windows: e-mails between peers, portfolios he still had to sort through). Flashdrives littered his desk, with tiny little labels for the season and year. His file organizer - because some people in his field still didn't succumb to technology - had actually become so tightly compiled that it often became difficult to pull out what he needed, or the alphabet became disorganized, somehow. It was all a mess, but it made complete sense, completely reflective of his mentality.
He was a fashion designer, and surprisingly, it was mostly a desk job. When he wasn't drafting patterns or making mood boards for a new line or a new season, he was responding to e-mails, bouncing ideas off of his partners, submitting files for review, interrogating clients so that he actually came up with the right product with no need for revision. He'd been doing it for a fairly monotonous six years, ever since he finished his BFA in Fashion Design, and had moved on a steady path from intern, to consultant, to commercial designer, to high fashion. It was a rough industry, and he worked in one of the fastest growing influencer in it: streetwear. That seemed counterproductive, given his personality was the exact opposite of 'street,' but he'd lasted six years. Most designers fall out after two seasons. Ryan attributed his success to luck - being lucky enough to have so much creative income. He could draw it from anywhere; music, traditional art, nature, people. Anything. He may not be a huge, world-renowned name, but he'd seen his high concept work developed into some shit they sell in department stores for eleven bucks, so. That was pretty successful, in fashion, getting copied.
He'd worked for two labels. First one went under, because competition was heavy, second he left to become self-employed, and now he had more partners than he could list off by memory, clientele, employees, returning models and new ones every season. Again, not a household name, but up-and-coming. And he wasn't running out of ideas quite yet. He'd admit, though, that creating art for money had changed his personal relation to his own art, even art in general. He'd become more critical, could relate anything back to a 'source' when it wasn't as original as possible. The mindset helped, but he was becoming cynical, less open-minded and more suspicious of plagiarism or people who didn't care and went into fashion for the glamour of it all or because they'd had an Instagram account for thirty seconds. Both were very common scenarios.
Anyway. He'd just gotten home from a round of tradeshows and already, it was fashion week. This was a rough time, because if he didn't find his vision exactly or even mis-picked it, then there was no going back: he'd just have to incorporate it all and hope for the best on the days-of. He rarely had a problem with his own work, because he always gave himself enough time, first overworking then submitting it to others with fresh eyes and giving pause and reviewing for himself and... it was a process. Models, however, were difficult. Some of them applied every season, personally sending his employees portfolios that were sorted through, references checked, and passed up to Ryan himself. Others could be found through agencies, online sites, even social media (mostly because he was, again, not an incredibly high bar, and he didn't turn his nose up at amateurs).
The problem was, thirty percent of them came to 'audition,' per se, and couldn't express the vision he'd shown all of his applying models on a moodboard, even if they looked the part on the surface. Even more couldn't walk for a runway, although that wasn't an immediate throwaway because he did have magazine and photography clientele anyway. Or, when he scheduled personal interviews following casting to get to know his people better, he ended up not being comfortable with them. Sometimes Ryan's choices were too obscure for the rough industry he'd chosen. It was even rougher for models, who needed to be a specific size, look a certain way, identify within certain subsets of race, features, perfection, but when Ryan went against any of that during casting, he was made out to be controversial, somehow, or was regarded as a less serious designer. And, really, he didn't give a single shit about it. He casted whoever he wanted to and let his runway look as wild as humanly possible, if that's what the vision of the season called for.
Summer was coming up. At its absolute most general, Ryan's concept was simply 'gold,' and he'd left room for improvements in the case that inspiration somehow hit him before the season arrived - usually, it did, though in small amounts. He was in a showroom by a busy intersection in New York, half-listening to his assistant rattle off summaries of portfolios, half-listening to the sound of cars outside, taxis honking, people hailing. Models in all black or muted colors were filing in, all utterly pretty, and he'd probably be nervous around this amount of otherworldly attractive people if he hadn't done it a million times already. They started while people were still arriving, alphabetical, and thank God this wasn't a runway casting, because the awkward as hell 'walk test' part was his least favorite part of auditions - but he did have to explain, over and over again, what the vision was, do color tests, learn a little bit of their personality without taking too much time, for the sake of everyone there. He could always expand later.
He was early on in the alphabet, and already he was sure the first day of casting might not be a very successful one - a couple, maybe, were promising, but. Ryan held out hope. After a long, lanky dude who'd definitely not passed for the summer season rolled out of the showroom, Ryan looked back down at the portfolio passed in front of him, opening the file and scanning it with an already bored gaze. His cheek was in his palm, elbow on the table, and when he opened a file marked 'BLAKE, BRENDON,' he shifted his fingers to cover his mouth slightly, interest piqued. Maybe the guy's portfolio was playing tricks, a good camera, or something, but seriously. This was ridiculous. And Ryan saw a lot of pretty faces. He disregarded the basic information in his folder for the time being, looking up as his assistant called out his name: "Brendon Blake," and moved his hand to cradle his jaw more than his cheek, looking less bored. Ryan pointedly ignored the fact that he did look exactly like he did in photos, probably better, to remain unbiased, and cleared his throat quietly. "Hi, Brendon," he said, voice softer, and folded his arms over one another on the table. "Is this your first casting, or do you have experience?" Of course, Ryan's usual array of questions was generally sitting right in front of him, answered, but he learned a little about the model from asking aloud.
He was a fashion designer, and surprisingly, it was mostly a desk job. When he wasn't drafting patterns or making mood boards for a new line or a new season, he was responding to e-mails, bouncing ideas off of his partners, submitting files for review, interrogating clients so that he actually came up with the right product with no need for revision. He'd been doing it for a fairly monotonous six years, ever since he finished his BFA in Fashion Design, and had moved on a steady path from intern, to consultant, to commercial designer, to high fashion. It was a rough industry, and he worked in one of the fastest growing influencer in it: streetwear. That seemed counterproductive, given his personality was the exact opposite of 'street,' but he'd lasted six years. Most designers fall out after two seasons. Ryan attributed his success to luck - being lucky enough to have so much creative income. He could draw it from anywhere; music, traditional art, nature, people. Anything. He may not be a huge, world-renowned name, but he'd seen his high concept work developed into some shit they sell in department stores for eleven bucks, so. That was pretty successful, in fashion, getting copied.
He'd worked for two labels. First one went under, because competition was heavy, second he left to become self-employed, and now he had more partners than he could list off by memory, clientele, employees, returning models and new ones every season. Again, not a household name, but up-and-coming. And he wasn't running out of ideas quite yet. He'd admit, though, that creating art for money had changed his personal relation to his own art, even art in general. He'd become more critical, could relate anything back to a 'source' when it wasn't as original as possible. The mindset helped, but he was becoming cynical, less open-minded and more suspicious of plagiarism or people who didn't care and went into fashion for the glamour of it all or because they'd had an Instagram account for thirty seconds. Both were very common scenarios.
Anyway. He'd just gotten home from a round of tradeshows and already, it was fashion week. This was a rough time, because if he didn't find his vision exactly or even mis-picked it, then there was no going back: he'd just have to incorporate it all and hope for the best on the days-of. He rarely had a problem with his own work, because he always gave himself enough time, first overworking then submitting it to others with fresh eyes and giving pause and reviewing for himself and... it was a process. Models, however, were difficult. Some of them applied every season, personally sending his employees portfolios that were sorted through, references checked, and passed up to Ryan himself. Others could be found through agencies, online sites, even social media (mostly because he was, again, not an incredibly high bar, and he didn't turn his nose up at amateurs).
The problem was, thirty percent of them came to 'audition,' per se, and couldn't express the vision he'd shown all of his applying models on a moodboard, even if they looked the part on the surface. Even more couldn't walk for a runway, although that wasn't an immediate throwaway because he did have magazine and photography clientele anyway. Or, when he scheduled personal interviews following casting to get to know his people better, he ended up not being comfortable with them. Sometimes Ryan's choices were too obscure for the rough industry he'd chosen. It was even rougher for models, who needed to be a specific size, look a certain way, identify within certain subsets of race, features, perfection, but when Ryan went against any of that during casting, he was made out to be controversial, somehow, or was regarded as a less serious designer. And, really, he didn't give a single shit about it. He casted whoever he wanted to and let his runway look as wild as humanly possible, if that's what the vision of the season called for.
Summer was coming up. At its absolute most general, Ryan's concept was simply 'gold,' and he'd left room for improvements in the case that inspiration somehow hit him before the season arrived - usually, it did, though in small amounts. He was in a showroom by a busy intersection in New York, half-listening to his assistant rattle off summaries of portfolios, half-listening to the sound of cars outside, taxis honking, people hailing. Models in all black or muted colors were filing in, all utterly pretty, and he'd probably be nervous around this amount of otherworldly attractive people if he hadn't done it a million times already. They started while people were still arriving, alphabetical, and thank God this wasn't a runway casting, because the awkward as hell 'walk test' part was his least favorite part of auditions - but he did have to explain, over and over again, what the vision was, do color tests, learn a little bit of their personality without taking too much time, for the sake of everyone there. He could always expand later.
He was early on in the alphabet, and already he was sure the first day of casting might not be a very successful one - a couple, maybe, were promising, but. Ryan held out hope. After a long, lanky dude who'd definitely not passed for the summer season rolled out of the showroom, Ryan looked back down at the portfolio passed in front of him, opening the file and scanning it with an already bored gaze. His cheek was in his palm, elbow on the table, and when he opened a file marked 'BLAKE, BRENDON,' he shifted his fingers to cover his mouth slightly, interest piqued. Maybe the guy's portfolio was playing tricks, a good camera, or something, but seriously. This was ridiculous. And Ryan saw a lot of pretty faces. He disregarded the basic information in his folder for the time being, looking up as his assistant called out his name: "Brendon Blake," and moved his hand to cradle his jaw more than his cheek, looking less bored. Ryan pointedly ignored the fact that he did look exactly like he did in photos, probably better, to remain unbiased, and cleared his throat quietly. "Hi, Brendon," he said, voice softer, and folded his arms over one another on the table. "Is this your first casting, or do you have experience?" Of course, Ryan's usual array of questions was generally sitting right in front of him, answered, but he learned a little about the model from asking aloud.