Last night, two men tried to force my shutters. I recognized them: they are two of Rodin's Italian models. He told them to kill me. I am in his way; he wants to get rid of me.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
They had certainly exasperated them, and could not disperse them, as after every charge - and some of these drove the people right against the shutters in the shops in the Strand - they returned again.
I'm not better when I force shots. I'm going to take them as they come. They are really sagging in there, trying to take me out of the game. It's my job to find guys. I want to be aggressive and take my shots, but I can't force them.
When I got my headshots done, there was this woman screaming at me to blow my lips out. She kept saying, 'You want to be like Scarlett Johansson, don't you?' In the shot, my eyes are popping out; I look terrified. I realised I'd rather not get a job than go through pain to be something I'm not.
The 'Sports Illustrated' cover was the last thing I shot. That week, I told my agent, 'You know what, I really... I don't want to be a model anymore. I really want to do movies.' And I think he wanted to wring my neck at the moment.
I was invited to photograph Hollywood. They asked me what I would like to photograph. I said, Ugly men.
If I am shot at, I want no man to be in the way of the bullet.
I am a tender, beautiful and loving guy that happens to slap a photographer now and then because they get in my way.
The director took my face in his hands and asked me to show him my teeth, as with a horse. This happened on a Wednesday, and by the following Monday I was shooting.
Cameras aren't guns. They can't really hurt you.
I directed the men in our barque to approach near the savages, and hold their arms in readiness to do their duty in case they notice any movement of these people against us.