From bizarrely dressed bloggers to Botoxed editors, there’s no place for people-watching quite like the entrance to a fashion show. But the models who walk in the shows are usually pretty anonymous: they slink from one job to the next with their backpacks on, unnoticed.
At last month’s menswear shows, something changed. Outside Versace in Milan, 50 girls in denim cut-offs lined the narrow streets. At Bottega Veneta, a cluster of teens stood by the entrance, craning their necks. At Etro, the excitement peaked as more than 200 teenagers colonised the road, brandishing iPhones and shouting: “Lucky!”
The object of the girls’ affection is Lucky Blue Smith, a 6ft 3in American with blond Mr Whippy hair and unreal, swimming pool blue eyes. On Instagram (@luckybsmith) he comes across as the fantasy boyfriend, clowning with friends, cuddling puppies, peering sleepy-eyed from crisp white bed sheets. At 17, Smith has 1.2 million followers, which doesn’t put him in the same league as social media giants like Kim Kardashian (37.6m followers) or Justin Bieber (31.6m) – but still, it’s a coup for an emerging male model. (The world’s highest-earning male models, Sean O’Pry and David Gandy, have 389,000 and 358,000 Instagram followers respectively.)
It helps that Smith is happy to spend hours with his self-styled Lucky Charms, signing autographs and giving them hugs. Often, the fans get together on Twitter to work out where he will be. Nina, 16, has tracked him down to the Balmain show in Paris. “I like him because he is beautiful,” she explains. “He’s always on Instagram, so he connects with his fans. I prefer models to pop stars. I don’t really like the music.” Gabrielle Benhemon, 14, has met Smith before and shares her trophy: a smiling selfie he took with her iPhone. Later, on the phone from Los Angeles, his American agent Mimi Yapor explains the strategy: “He’s doing things the old-school way, like Elvis Presley. He wants to be a lot more accessible than the typical Hollywood star. His fans have given him this success, so he is kind of giving back.”
Often, Smith invites his fans to meet him, posting a time and address on Instagram; it is at these meet-ups that teenage roadblocks can be guaranteed. He says he started doing this out of curiosity; now he treats it more strategically. “You can’t do it all the time,” he says. “You don’t want to be too accessible or too far away – you want it to be just right.” It’s also best to announce the meet-ups the night before, he explains, because: “They have to work it out with their mums, because half of them don’t drive.”
One recent meet-up in Paris saw 300 fans descend on a busy corner near the Eiffel Tower, while Smith and his sister Daisy Clementine – a calm, smiley 19-year-old, also in possession of the family cheekbones and eyebrows – stood on a ledge, gazing down at a sea of waving hands and selfie sticks. There was jostling at the front, and those at the back were perilously close to the fast-moving traffic. “Everyone stop pushing,” Smith said, his voice remaining cool even though the top of his T-shirt had been ripped. On his fans’ Twitter feeds that night one camp berated another (the camp they call the “groupies”) for their hysterical behaviour. Right now, for the most part, Smith is able to engage with fans without security, but Alexis Borges – director of his agency Next Models LA – says these meet-ups have been mushrooming and may soon need to be held in a “more controlled” environment.
Away from the crowds, in his representatives’ light-filled offices in Paris’s 8th arrondissement, Lucky Blue is a friendly, fidgety teen. He waves his gangly arms around as he talks, runs his hands through his hair, and tugs at his T-shirt until its neckline goes baggy. His voice is gravelly, with a touch of Valley Girl inflection – part Jack Nicholson, part Kim Kardashian.
It turns out Lucky is not the only member of the family with star quality: his siblings are also quirkily named models and musicians. As well as Daisy – who chaperones him today – their sisters Pyper America, 18, and Starlie Cheyenne, 21, are all signed to Next Models, and play in an “old-school surf” band called The Atomics. Lucky is the drummer; their father, Dallon Smith, taught them to play.
It was Borges, of Next Models, who discovered them, meeting Daisy first when she was on a scouting trip to Salt Lake City, near the family’s home town of Spanish Fork, Utah (the Smiths are Mormons). Daisy was 12; her little brother Lucky was 10, and even then Borges saw his potential: “He reminded me of a baby Brad Pitt,” he says. Daisy was formally signed at 14, followed by the rest of the family. “We don’t typically represent kids,” says Mimi Yapor, “but you know a star when you see one.”
Lucky Blue’s first proper photo shoot was at the age of 12, photographed by designer Hedi Slimane for Japanese Arena Hommes; at 13 the entire family did a Gap campaign; at 14 he was playing the drums in front of the Hollywood sign in a campaign for Levi’s. A couple of years ago, Smith’s agency suggested he “edged up” his look by dyeing his dark blond hair platinum; they were right, and his career gathered momentum. In the past year, he has walked for brands from Moschino to Fendi, featured in advertisements for Calvin Klein and was recently revealed as the male face of Tom Ford. Smith has appeared onnumerous covers, too, of L’Officiel Hommes Italia and on Harper’s Bazaar China – where he is particularly popular, in part because his agency has developed his presence on social media platforms such as Weibo and WeChat. This does not make him the male Kate Moss – he has yet to score a major campaign with a storied house such as Gucci, Valentino or Prada – but it’s not a bad start.
As well as modelling and the band, Smith has ambitions to act. Borges tells me he hasn’t worked with a “triple threat” of this potential in decades. Nor, in a 27-year career, has he signed an entire family; he compares the Smiths “to the Osmonds or the Jacksons”.
For the moment, though, the spotlight shines brightest on Lucky, especially as far as fans are concerned. He says he enjoys the meet-ups – “they just want a photo and a hug” – though in January, “one girl got a little experimental. She lifted up my hoodie, stuck her hand down… I pulled it out, and asked what she was doing, but she just laughed.” In China, he says: “They really wanna touch you. They are aggressive – in a good way.”
Though Lucky is a special case, being what the industry would call a “slashie” (model-slash-actor-slash-musician), he is also representative of a sea change in the modelling profession. A few short years ago, only the names of the most successful models were known outside the industry. Now, even mid-ranking models’ careers may suffer if they don’t cultivate a decent profile online, with casting agents as likely to ask for a model’s Instagram numbers as their height.
“Some agencies have started special divisions for models who have a lot of social media followers,” says Joseph Thornton-Allan, model booker at Premier Model Management in London. “It adds a whole new aspect to what models can do for a brand. They might get paid to post something, or a certain amount of posts might be part of the agreement for a shoot.”
“Instagram is a massive commodity to a model now,” says Richard Storer, managing director of Eleventen Communications, a PR agency for brands, models and celebrities. “It’s often handled with a separate contract to modelling work, and the value of that contract is based on your numbers.” A big-name model or celebrity could easily get paid between £3,000 and £15,000 for just one post about a brand, he says. “It’s an entirely new revenue stream.”
It’s little wonder that models are not above calculating behaviour to get their numbers up. “I think some of the models do play along with [teenage girls online] and write comments back,” says Thornton-Allan. Smith has noticed yet more crafty tricks: “I know when [other models] are just talking to me to try to get a following,” he says. “They’re like, ‘Let’s take a picture!’ or ‘Oh Lucky, let’s hang out!’ And I can tell right away when they’re trying to use me.” (Surely, the politics of Instagram will offer excellent fodder for the new film Zoolander 2.)
Modelling remains one of the few industries where women are routinely paid more than men. In 2013, the world’s highest-earning model was Gisele Bündchen, who made $42m; the top 10 highest-earning male models made $8m put together. Female models have been harnessing the power of social media for longer: Chanel couture shows are now populated by Instagram stars such as Kendall Jenner (30.1m followers) and Cara Delevingne (14.5m followers). Making money through Instagram is also easier for female models than for men. “I know female models whose postings about high-street brands cause sales to spike – and you can measure that – because the girls who follow them are the same people buying the clothes,” says Storer.
The benefits of male models’ postings are a little more vague – brand awareness, a certain boost in cool factor, perhaps – but if that designer also sells products for women that teens can afford, like perfume, it’s an association that can be very lucrative.
In the past year, male models have been striving to catch up with the women. Some have launched their careers on Instagram: Matthew Noszka, a muscly 22-year-old with 256,000 followers and a dimple in his chin, was working for his father’s construction company one summer when an agent happened upon his profile and signed him up. In Paris, Lucky Blue’s fans tell me they also follow Francisco Lachowski (excellent hair; posts lots of pictures of his adorable two-year-old son; 737,000 followers) and Marc Schulze (a 21-year-old Berliner who looks a little like Freddie Mercury and has a bijou but dedicated following of 19,600). Edward Wilding, Manchester’s answer to Clark Kent, keeps 94,000 followers hanging on his every topless shot and picture of his dinner. “People become obsessed not with the fashion but with the lifestyle,” explains Thornton-Allan.
Rather than one or two models becoming the sole focus of millions upon millions of girls worldwide, in the manner of One Direction, hundreds of models are being discovered by fans online. In other words, says Storer: “People are making it their business to be accessible all the time on social media and are becoming legends in their own lunch hour. You might have 3,000 followers on your YouTube channel, but for those people you are a rock star.”
Lucky Blue has the fanbase, but he’s not yet living the millionaire lifestyle. His agency won’t tell me what he’s earning, but while he may have earned £80,000 or more for a recent Philipp Plein campaign, a lot of models take home just £400 per catwalk show.
He still shares a bedroom with his sisters and brother. The Smiths left their high school in Utah to be home-schooled two years ago, and now live in a two-bedroom apartment in Hollywood. Four teenagers in one bedroom sounds like a recipe for hormone-fuelled disaster, but Daisy assures me it’s not that bad, explaining, “We all have our nook.” They didn’t really fit in back in Spanish Fork anyway, she adds; neighbours nicknamed them “the Cullins” after the mysterious vampire family in the Twilight books.
Those distinctive looks work for Lucky Blue in front of the camera. His go-to pose is the James Dean/Brad Pitt head tilt: chin down, he glances upwards and narrows his eyes soulfully. He can do arch and cheeky, too: lips parted, one eyebrow raised, just like Linda Evangelista on the August 1991 cover of British Vogue.
But music remains his passion. Asked what he enjoys about modelling, he sounds like a Miss World contestant (“meeting new people, travelling the world”) but fizzes with excitement when talking about his bigger goals – “Playing sell-out shows and starring in movies. I want the main thing to be music and then, ‘Oh yeah, he’s in a Calvin Klein campaign.’ Like Justin Bieber.” Getting his fans to buy the band’s music will be one way Smith could monetise his popularity (although that would not be his choice of word). “I want to show my fans my music career and for them to [still] be fans of me when they’re mums,” he says. Meanwhile, there will be a range of Lucky Blue-branded hoodies and T-shirts.
Inevitably, the Smiths are in talks to do a TV series. But if the family is starting to sound like Utah’s answer to the Kardashians, Lucky Blue is at pains to point out that the show will not be “another crap reality drama that is pointless” but an inspiring “docu-show about the making of the music”. Nor, he says, is their mother a Kris Jenner-style “momager”: “She hates that word and I don’t like it, either. She’s just my mum. If my parents were making me do this, I would rebel and not do it.”
He gets this nonconformist streak from his parents. He describes his father as an “entrepreneur” and a “big personality. He doesn’t like working a J.O.B. – I’ll quote him on that, and that’s like me. I will never work in a cubicle.” His parents tell me they are “somewhat strict, but not in the typical ways. We are a lot more strict with how you treat someone, and if you are a good person, than with missing a curfew or a homework assignment. We are risk-takers and will always default to creativity.” The family’s unusual names came about partly because their last name was Smith, they say. “How could we not? We did have to meet each of our kiddos before we could name them. They had to fit and feel right.”
I am desperate to know how the family’s Mormon faith ties in with the showbusiness lifestyle. Does Lucky drink alcohol or caffeine, or smoke, all of which is prohibited? But I am told the subject of religion is off-limits. The family take a wholesome attitude to life, is as much as his mother Sheridan will tell me, over email. “We definitely have concerns [about the perils of fame] but we have confidence and faith in our children. There have been countless discussions about how it is OK to be in the world, but you don’t have to be of the world.” Adds Borges: “He’s an honest kid. He’s squeaky clean, he doesn’t go to clubs. It’s all about work for him at the moment.”
The sort of scenes Smith has inspired at the last two rounds of menswear shows could soon become standard during fashion weeks – much to the chagrin of the long-term buyers and editors who roll their eyes at such fuss. Girls have started turning up on the off-chance that something might happen. Outside the Armani show in Milan I meet a wide-eyed girl who says: “I follow models [on Instagram] but I don’t know who is in this show. I hope Leonardo DiCaprio might be here, since he is friends with Armani.” (He isn’t here).
Meanwhile, others only have eyes for Lucky. Like Justine, 18, and Miriam, 16, who I find sitting cross-legged in the doorway of his agency in Paris. They first spotted him a year ago on a Twitter feed featuring pictures of “cute boys” and are now truly hooked. “He’s so nice and down to earth. He’s like a brother,” says Justine. The previous day, she says, she spent an hour with him and Daisy, “just hanging out, like friends. That’s why I love him.” Attainability is important, she points out: “There are too many people following One Direction.”
When Lucky and Daisy emerge from the office, the fans greet him like an old pal. He is late for an appointment but hugs them, takes selfies, and apologises sweetly for the fact that he can’t stay as long as he would like. How much longer will he be able to hang out with his fans in the street like this, before security becomes a concern or, God forbid, Smith loses his patience? If the fans are worried their Lucky days are numbered, they don’t show it – they’re just enjoying this moment. Even in the very 21st-century world of the Instagram star, it seems, there is nothing so powerful as the real thing.