People imagine a model's calendar as fashion weeks and studio days. Mine is closer to a farmer's almanac.
June opens with lavender. There is roughly a two-week window when the fields are at full colour, and every natural-light brand in Europe wants their campaign shot inside it. You learn quickly that lavender rows are full of bees who consider you the intruder - the trick is to move slowly and stop flinching on camera. By the third summer, the bees and I had an understanding.
September is harvest and knitwear. The light goes amber, the air gets that cold-morning edge, and suddenly every brief says "golden", "cosy", and "apples, if possible". I've been photographed holding more apples than I could ever eat. My record is a crate of fifty-two, carried up a hill, for a shot that was ultimately taken with three of them.
January is the hardest and my favourite. Snow shoots sound romantic until you're holding a summer-weight dress pose at minus eight while the photographer swaps frozen batteries. The secret is heat packs in your boots, a coat between every frame, and a crew that works fast because they've rehearsed while you warmed up. The images, though - nothing else looks like snow light. It comes from everywhere at once, like standing inside a softbox.
Then April, and blossom, and the year starts over. Four seasons, four kinds of light, one lesson repeated: nature sets the schedule, and the work is better for it.