They Still Shoot Models My Age

Towards the beginning of this unfocused, voyeuristically appealing autobiography, model Moncur wonders ``Why do I crave to spread out like jelly on bread, so everyone can see everything?'' That question is never fully answered, but Moncur certainly does reveal all. Her tales of jetting from country to country lose some of their glamour when the gritty details are laid bare: the endless hours spent in uncomfortable positions, the abuse suffered from photographers (David Bailey calls all his subjects ``rat-face'') and the relationship of faux intimacy laced with jealousy that models have with each other. The anecdotes about the start of her career are the most significant, but her feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment when her father enrolled her in a department store modeling contest are recounted in the same undisciplined style as her being cancelled from an Armani show. Moncur's observations that modeling has kept her from learning practical skills and the fact that she would rather be with her young son are generally believable, but she sometimes loses credibility, as when she claims, while modeling a fur coat and sweating, that she would ``rather wash floors.'' (May)