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Chloes Story      Pictures 1 /      

Chloe hits the nationals - The diary of a wannabe creative - Part 2. The thing about meeting art directors is that its so intimidating. Theres something about their thick-rimmed Prada glasses, their black polo necks and their "Im a Serious Creative" expressions that makes you want to crawl under a duvet and rock. From the moment you utter those immortal words, Um Ive got this great idea youre met with that familiar distracted expression. It makes you feel as if youre standing there in your nightie wearing pink fluffy bunny ears and asking them if they have time to come and play. Picture editors however, especially those on the supplements, are a slightly different ball game. The attitude, the expression, even the glasses are pretty similar, only they like to pretend theyre even more important, that theyre even more busy. And of course they wear the slightly bohemian editorial uniform of olive green or brown rather than black. So today I thought Id make a real effort. Today I met a picture editor to show him my portfolio. I think Id have got on better if Id just shown him my tits. I wanted to give the impression of a suave, sophisticated artist, fully in control and dressed to perfection in my newly acquired pencil skirt and arty top. Having struggled to mince to the office wearing the stupid skirt, which I discovered was far too tight to perform normal human activities, such as walking, I casually greeted the editor with Hello, Im Chloe (In a slightly sloaney voice). I wanted to flick my hair over my shoulder at the same time, but I cut it off when I was pissed about a week ago. He eyed my ridiculous skirt through his thick glasses and looked at me in the same way as I stare at cream cakes. I followed him into the office and he introduced me to his deputy editor. I strolled (minced) through the building, folio under one arm, calm, serious exterior perfectly intact. At which point, my folio clipped the side of a filing cabinet, sending me crashing into someones desk and tripping to the floor, scraping my shins on the way down. Without thinking, I let my pseudo posh accent slip and blurted out, in pure Essex, Ouch! F@CK that hurt! Oh the shame! My dignity shattered, I muttered something about it being a bad start and tried to concentrate on the editor berating my work. I dont think Ill be going there again. And Ive got to go through all this again next week. I think Ill wear jeans. And no top. Chloe HAS ARRIVED - The Diary of a Wannabe Creative (Part 1) My name is Chloe. I have the misfortune of originating from a small town in Essex. I shouldnt really name names, so lets just call it Shitford. Shitford is the kind of place that takes the words inbred and chav to whole new levels. If youre after a boyfriend with a Subaru, six toes and a crap shirt, its great, but I always had my sights set slightly higher. In fact, trying to be a photographic artist when you are the spawn of Shitford is about as easy as trying to keep your jaw still after 8 pills. One would imagine... So, I moved out to a land where the streets are paved with Gold. London! When I arrived, I soon realised that streets were in fact paved with spit. And chewing gum. I set about finding a palatial flat in which to enhance my creativity and develop myself into a fully-fledged bohemian arty-type person. My palatial flat came like a mirage from Hackney council. I eagerly awaited meeting my new cosmopolitan flat mates. I imagined other artistic people, brimming with sophisticated ideas about modern art and design, perhaps other Royal College graduates, or up-and-coming musicians. I soon discovered my new house mates consisted of: Exhibit A) A girl with dreadlocks who ate mushroom paste and smelled of patchouli oil and wee, B) A bloke who felt compelled to shut doors eight times and touched everything with a tissue and C) Another individual completely void of all social skills who had clearly never slept with a human and probably picked up road-kill for a hobby. So here I am, four years later, still following in the bright lights to become the next Richard Billingham, or Tracey Emin or something. I originally intended to use the wealth of photography knowledge Id gleaned as a student to network my way into some exciting work. What I have since discovered is that I might as well have used my degree as a firelighter for all the use it has been, especially seeing as its fucking freezing, Ive got icicles hanging from my nipples and I cant pay my gas bill this month. Still, watch this space and I may surprise everyone... Chloe's story will be an ongoing story, if you would like to be sent an email when it is updated please fill out your details below...) writtten by Catherine Cullup

Chloe hits the nationals - The diary of a wannabe creative - Part 2.

The thing about meeting art directors is that its so intimidating. Theres something about their thick-rimmed Prada glasses, their black polo necks and their "Im a Serious Creative" expressions that makes you want to crawl under a duvet and rock. From the moment you utter those immortal words, Um Ive got this great idea youre met with that familiar distracted expression. It makes you feel as if youre standing there in your nightie wearing pink fluffy bunny ears and asking them if they have time to come and play.

Picture editors however, especially those on the supplements, are a slightly different ball game. The attitude, the expression, even the glasses are pretty similar, only they like to pretend theyre even more important, that theyre even more busy. And of course they wear the slightly bohemian editorial uniform of olive green or brown rather than black.

So today I thought Id make a real effort. Today I met a picture editor to show him my portfolio. I think Id have got on better if Id just shown him my tits. I wanted to give the impression of a suave, sophisticated artist, fully in control and dressed to perfection in my newly acquired pencil skirt and arty top.

Having struggled to mince to the office wearing the stupid skirt, which I discovered was far too tight to perform normal human activities, such as walking, I casually greeted the editor with Hello, Im Chloe (In a slightly sloaney voice). I wanted to flick my hair over my shoulder at the same time, but I cut it off when I was pissed about a week ago.

He eyed my ridiculous skirt through his thick glasses and looked at me in the same way as I stare at cream cakes. I followed him into the office and he introduced me to his deputy editor. I strolled (minced) through the building, folio under one arm, calm, serious exterior perfectly intact.

At which point, my folio clipped the side of a filing cabinet, sending me crashing into someones desk and tripping to the floor, scraping my shins on the way down. Without thinking, I let my pseudo posh accent slip and blurted out, in pure Essex, Ouch! F@CK that hurt!

Oh the shame! My dignity shattered, I muttered something about it being a bad start and tried to concentrate on the editor berating my work. I dont think Ill be going there again. And Ive got to go through all this again next week. I think Ill wear jeans. And no top.



Chloe HAS ARRIVED - The Diary of a Wannabe Creative (Part 1)

My name is Chloe. I have the misfortune of originating from a small town in Essex. I shouldnt really name names, so lets just call it Shitford. Shitford is the kind of place that takes the words inbred and chav to whole new levels. If youre after a boyfriend with a Subaru, six toes and a crap shirt, its great, but I always had my sights set slightly higher. In fact, trying to be a photographic artist when you are the spawn of Shitford is about as easy as trying to keep your jaw still after 8 pills. One would imagine...

So, I moved out to a land where the streets are paved with Gold. London!

When I arrived, I soon realised that streets were in fact paved with spit. And chewing gum. I set about finding a palatial flat in which to enhance my creativity and develop myself into a fully-fledged bohemian arty-type person. My palatial flat came like a mirage from Hackney council. I eagerly awaited meeting my new cosmopolitan flat mates. I imagined other artistic people, brimming with sophisticated ideas about modern art and design, perhaps other Royal College graduates, or up-and-coming musicians. I soon discovered my new house mates consisted of: Exhibit A) A girl with dreadlocks who ate mushroom paste and smelled of patchouli oil and wee, B) A bloke who felt compelled to shut doors eight times and touched everything with a tissue and C) Another individual completely void of all social skills who had clearly never slept with a human and probably picked up road-kill for a hobby.

So here I am, four years later, still following in the bright lights to become the next Richard Billingham, or Tracey Emin or something. I originally intended to use the wealth of photography knowledge Id gleaned as a student to network my way into some exciting work. What I have since discovered is that I might as well have used my degree as a firelighter for all the use it has been, especially seeing as its fucking freezing, Ive got icicles hanging from my nipples and I cant pay my gas bill this month. Still, watch this space and I may surprise everyone...

Chloe's story will be an ongoing story, if you would like to be sent an email when it is updated please fill out your details below...)


writtten by Catherine Cullup

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