From May to September I essentially live out of one weekender bag, moving between shoots along the coast - Nice to Cannes to Saint-Tropez and occasionally, when a client is feeling ambitious, a boat. After several summers of doing this badly, I have opinions about packing that my friends describe as "a lot".
The foundation is boring and non-negotiable: plain white and black basics that read as "yours" rather than "wardrobe", because you will inevitably be photographed arriving. A linen shirt that forgives being rolled up. One good pair of white sneakers for castings and one pair of sandals that have already proven they can walk cobblestones for a full day.
Then the working kit. Nude seamless underwear in duplicate, because sets lose things. A silk scarf - my mother's trick - that covers your hair and face when dresses are pulled over full makeup. A tiny sewing kit that has rescued three shoots and one wedding. Micellar water, SPF 50, and a hat with an actual brim, because the same sun that makes the Riviera photogenic will happily ruin Tuesday's beauty shoot with Monday's sunburn.
The one luxury I allow myself is a stack of blank postcards. I write one from every job - to my grandmother, to friends, sometimes to myself, honestly - and post them from whichever town the shoot ends in. My grandmother has a shoebox of five summers of them. It's the only portfolio of mine she cares about, and possibly my favourite one too.
Everything else, I've learned, the job provides. Pack light, sleep early, and trust that the clothes that matter will be waiting on the rail when you arrive.