Stop it! Gabrielle commanded her thoughts as she fiercely wiped away her tears. She didn’t have time to dwell on yesterday’s mistakes. Right now she needed to concentrate on rectifying today’s. Miguel Reid must be persuaded to give her another chance. There had to be something she could do, and Gabrielle was determined to do it.
13
October 27, 1994
“Your nose is wide, and your cheeks are too full,” Miguel noted as he gently turned Gabrielle’s face from side to side. “And your chin—your chin is weak.”
Gabrielle sat stiffly in her chair, crushed by the weight of his words. She felt embarrassed and confused by Miguel’s disparaging evaluation of her facial features. All her life people had praised her lovely face. Now, when it really mattered, the man who cradled her future in his hands found it flawed. Gabrielle bit her lower lip and frowned with despair, certain that Miguel was reevaluating her future as a model.
“Baby, why the frown?” Mig asked with obvious concern.
“My face—you said it’s not—”
“Perfect? Is that the word you’re searching for? Perfection is a manmade concept, Gabrielle. Most of this business is smoke and mirrors.”
“But if my nose and my cheeks are too full—”
“Then I’ll light you from the side so your face will look thinner. Trust me, baby, I am going to take you beyond the high board,” Miguel promised, using the term that categorized the supermodels of the industry. “You’ll be in a class all by yourself.”
Mig had put aside two entire days for Gabrielle’s test shoot and had gone to great expense to hire top people to work with him. This was highly unusual for a photographer of his stature, particularly when it was all being done for a virtual unknown. Miguel’s intention was not only to produce a variety of shots of Gabrielle but to teach her the rudiments of the profession before sending her out into the fierce world of modeling. He knew that this was just the beginning. Gabrielle’s lessons would be ongoing—a progressive transformation from raw talent to polished skillfulness. Miguel also knew that he was in the process of creating a legend.
He’d known it from the first time he set eyes on her. He could tell by the lyrical movement of Gabrielle’s body as she roamed the art gallery the night of the Montell Spirits party. He was impressed with her ability to transform that hideous dress into an awe-inspiring work, leaving every woman in her wake wondering where to buy one. If she could do that with a polyester nightmare, what could she do for the designs of Ungaro, John Galliano, or Calvin Klein? And that face, despite its imperfections, was exquisite. Gabrielle was the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Miguel shuddered to think how close he’d come to writing her off. If it wasn’t for Gabrielle’s frantic call, explaining the mixup with his phone message, she’d be history in his eyes. This young woman was certainly persuasive, because after she’d stood him up, Mig had dismissed Gabrielle Donovan as an unfortunate waste of talent.
It had taken another two months before he could clear his jammed schedule to accommodate her again, but now the test of that potential was at hand. Today would be the first trial of the qualities that separated the supermodels from the mere mannequins—patience, reliability, and perseverance. She definitely had the necessary “magic,” but only time would tell if Gabrielle had what it took to excel in this demanding and sometimes treacherous business.
The studio was buzzing with activity. Alf, Miguel’s photo assistant, was standing high on a ladder holding a light meter against the seamless white backdrop. While he worked to make sure the illumination was soft and flattering, Pam, the prop stylist, was busy polishing the vintage white Corvette sitting in Miguel’s massive studio.
Tucked away in the dressing room, Gabrielle did not recognize the woman in the mirror staring back at her. Miguel’s crew had changed Gabrielle into a young Ann-Margret. Jenny, a magician with makeup, skillfully pruned Gabrielle’s thick eyebrows into a dramatic arch and with the magic of her contour brush made her nose and cheeks appear more chiseled.
Zeke, the wardrobe stylist, clad Gabrielle’s body in a sleeveless butterscotch crepe de chine sheath. The rich color complemented Gabrielle’s hair, and the fit of the simple design emphasized her shapely figure. Topping off the outfit was a long chiffon scarf of the same buttery yellow. Jenny gently draped the whisper of silk over Gabrielle’s hair and, careful not to crush her Rodeo Drive bouffant, wrapped it around her neck. Dark glasses completed the ensemble.
When Gabrielle walked into the studio, there was an audible sigh. Even Miguel, who had seen, photographed, and made love to an international bevy of gorgeous women, was left breathless by the potential of this raw beauty.
“Baby, you look magnificent,” Miguel told her.
“I feel like a female impersonator,” Gabrielle joked.
The photographer laughed. “Seeing you in that dress, even RuPaul would be jealous.” Not wanting to undercut her confidence, he did not reveal his reasoning for the Ann-Margret look-alike approach. For this first set of pictures Miguel had provided Gabrielle with a defined look that could be enthusiastically imitated. By removing the necessity of being herself, Miguel was relieving much of the pressure on the young model. Later, when Gabrielle was more comfortable in front of the camera, he would begin to tap her individual personality.
“Ready to roll?”
“Ready,” she answered, eager to begin living her dream.
“Then let’s go,” Mig said, taking her hand and leading her to the white sports car. The top and windows were down, waiting for the addition of Gabrielle to grace the leather seats. He opened the driver’s-side door and helped the young model behind the steering wheel.
“You must sit tall and straight,” he told her, pressing his hand to the small of her back. “Good. Now, tilt your head slightly to the left. Chin up. You must keep your chin up so the light can hit your face. Fantastic. We’ll start here,” he proclaimed as he stepped back behind his camera and took a look through the viewfinder.
Gabrielle sat in the car processing all of Mig’s instructions. Already her back was beginning to ache, and one of the straight pins used to mold the dress perfectly to her body was making its presence known.
Mig stopped after snapping about forty frames. Gabrielle was stiff and shy, but he was not discouraged. She had what it took, he was sure of it. He just had to find the way to draw it out and then teach her to perfect it.
Music is what this shoot needs, Mig decided. Something to make her feel loose and easy. He had the perfect tune.
“I want you to relax and just groove with the music,” he said as he popped in a Prince CD and selected the track “U Got the Look.” “Listen to what the man is telling you. You’ve got the look, he wants it, and you know it.” Soon the hot and funky sounds of Prince and Sheena Easton were blasting out over speakers mounted high on the studio walls.
The change was immediate. Gabrielle let the music transport her to another place. She was no longer in Miguel’s Union Square studio. She imagined herself out in Los Angeles, cruising Sunset Strip and enjoying the sunlight and attention she and her car were attracting. It was no longer the hot studio lights, but the warm California sun kissing her face. She thought about all the Ann-Margret movies she’d seen with her mother. The woman had a coy, sex-kitten quality about her that was lusty yet wholesome. She tried to project this coquettishness through her facial expressions and body language. It appeared to be working, because Miguel was snapping himself into a frenzy.
“Yes, yes. Fabulous. Go, baby,” he called out to her as he moved around the floor capturing her image from different angles. As her confidence grew, so did Mig’s enthusiasm. Gabrielle had a natural vibration. Her poses were playful and innocent, while at the same time alluring and suggestive. There was a spark in her eyes—a light that challenged, drew you in, and held you captive. This girl was going to be big—very big.
By the following afternoon Gabrielle was feeling much surer of herself. She also felt more confi
dent in Miguel’s desire and ability to make her look and feel good. Over the last day and a half Miguel had begun to manipulate the young model’s image bit by bit. Under his tutelage Gabrielle was learning many critical lessons that would serve her well in the future. Miguel taught her to keep her mouth slightly opened when she was photographed; that way her teeth showed attractively, her cheekbones appeared more prominent, and her chin line more angled. In between shots she would practice thrusting both hips forward, shooting one hip out to the side, and balancing her legs, one behind the other. Gabrielle found this position to be quite uncomfortable, but the stance gave her a shapely curve and minimized her already small waist even more.
The greatest trick to master was to do all of these things and manage to look naturally serene. This was a lesson Gabrielle found easier in theory than in practice, but she was learning quickly. It didn’t matter if her back ached, her feet hurt, or her eyes burned from the ever-present wind machine. As Miguel constantly stressed, the camera must never pick up any discomfort or pain.
“Your outfit for the next photo is in your dressing room, lovey,” Zeke informed Gabrielle as she sat having her hair styled. It was pulled high on her head into a ponytail, and Jenny was busy applying a thick coat of cobalt-blue gel before pinning it into half a dozen sausage curls. The blue gel stood out dramatically against her honey-bronze-colored hair and complemented her eyes. Next Jenny applied Gabrielle’s makeup, making her face stark and pale, a burnished orange lipstick providing its only color.
“Thanks, Zeke,” Gabrielle answered, curious to see what setting Miguel had chosen for this next set of photographs. Gabrielle noticed that the photographer was getting progressively more daring with each setup.
Gabrielle walked into the dressing area to find a wispy white dress hanging on the wardrobe rack. Wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy black panties, she slid into the body-hugging slip dress and pulled the thin spaghetti straps over her shoulders.
“He’s ready for you,” Zeke announced.
Gabrielle followed Zeke into the studio and was surprised by the sparseness of the set. There were no props visible, only a seamless white background. Once again, Alf was checking out the lighting, while Mig was preoccupied with a slide projector that was apparently jammed. After several attempts he was able to dislodge the culprit slide, and a rainbow of color splashed against the stark whiteness, spilling a collection of words diagonally across the screen.
The blood in Gabrielle’s head began pounding against her temples. She could only hope that Miguel was not going to ask her to read them. She could see that they were the same words written over and over again, but the question remained: What did they say? Calm down, her inner voice cautioned her. This is a still-photography shoot. Why would you need to read anything?
“ ‘The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams,’ ” Miguel recited. “It’s a quotation by Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“I like it.”
“I consider them words to live by. Come, let me explain how this shot will work,” he said, taking her hand and leading her onto the set. He positioned Gabrielle in the center of the backdrop, where the words melted onto her body. Miguel had conceived the idea for the photograph shortly after meeting Gabrielle. His intent was to use Gabrielle as a human movie screen by projecting the words right onto her torso.
“I’d like you to stand here, very still, with your hands by your side. Great. Beautiful. You are so gorgeous,” he praised her as he snapped away with his Polaroid. After shooting an entire box of film, he put down his camera and studied the pictures. Frustration replaced his earlier excitement. Something wasn’t working. Aesthetically speaking, Miguel could tell he was headed in the right direction. The composition was interesting, but not exciting. He wanted more drama, more flair. “It’s the dress,” he muttered under his breath.
Gabrielle relaxed and waited. She was growing accustomed to her clothes constantly being refitted, readjusted, and realigned.
After several minutes of studying the Polaroids, Miguel knew what had to be done to achieve his goal. He was sure that if he changed the lighting and projected the slide onto her naked torso, he’d get the artistic punch he was after. But would Gabrielle do it? Miguel debated over asking her to pose topless for the shot. After all, this was only her second day in front of a camera, and she was obviously a young and naïve girl. But he was a breakthrough photographer, and this was a breakthrough concept. If Gabrielle wanted to be a breakthrough model, she was going to have to lose her inhibitions. That was the bottom line.
Quietly, in as matter-of-fact a tone he could muster, Mig called Zeke into the room and requested the wardrobe change.
Gabrielle’s face said it all as she overheard Miguel’s request. Her eyes opened wide, while a thousand thoughts played pinball in her head. Nudity was never mentioned when they went over the different shots. Why was he springing this on her so suddenly? Was Stephanie’s prediction coming true? Was Miguel really some kind of flimflam artist? Would this photo come back to haunt her?
Instinctively Gabrielle clutched the dress tighter around her breasts. “I—I can’t,” she stammered.
“Gabrielle,” Miguel said sternly. “You are a model. I’m a photographer. And this is not some nudie-magazine photo session. Now, please, go with Zeke and let him adjust your wardrobe.” Seeing her obvious fear and discomfort, he added gently, “It will be okay. I promise.”
Gabrielle followed Zeke back to the dressing room. Slowly, with great reluctance, she slipped out of the dress.
“Here,” he said, handing her a white robe to cover her near-naked body.
“Thanks,” she answered in a small voice.
“Lovey, don’t worry. Miguel is a professional. You can trust him,” the stylist said in an effort to comfort her.
“But this isn’t even a real job. These photos are just for my book. Why do I have to take my clothes off?”
“All I can tell you is that Mig is an artist. If he wants you to undress, it’s only to make the shot work, nothing more.”
“Zeke, I can’t do this.”
“Girl, you don’t know how lucky you are. Do you know how many women would kill for the opportunity to have a master photographer spend this kind of time, money, and creative energy on them?” Zeke said, losing his patience. “Don’t blow this,” he advised before turning and leaving.
Gabrielle faced her image in the mirror. “Zeke is right,” she scolded herself. “You are fortunate. And what is the big deal anyway? The big-time models pose practically naked all the time. So what’s it going to be, Gabrielle? Miguel Reid is offering you the chance to make your dreams come true. Are you going to be a wuss and blow the chance of a lifetime, or are you going to march in there and take the damn picture.”
Gabrielle decided to take a chance and trust Miguel and her instincts. But now, having made her choice, how was she going to face all those people in there?
Posing in front of a crowd was not going to be a problem. She and Mig were alone. On his orders, the room had been cleared, and only Jenny stood waiting in the wings for any necessary touch-up. The usual buzz of activity generated by Mig’s assistants had ceased, replaced by the soothing sounds of the New Age musician Kitaro. A nervous Gabrielle appreciated the effort.
“I want you to relax,” he told her. Slowly, deliberately, and with complete reverence, he untied the belt to her robe and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. Gently Mig slid the robe off her body, allowing it to drop to the floor. His action was innocent and at the same time very seductive.
Miguel was gentleman enough not to give any outward reaction to the tantalizing physical beauty he’d just unveiled. A quick intake of his breath, however, made his feelings clear. Without saying a word, he took her right arm and draped it across her breasts, resting her hand just below her left shoulder. He crossed Gabrielle’s lower torso with her left arm, placing her left hand across her right thigh. The pose effectively covered her nipples, while leav
ing exposed the fullness of her breasts.
Gabrielle, too embarrassed to move, stood motionless. Unable to look at Mig, she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her body. As he did with every setup, Miguel first shot a box of Polaroid film. Standing there with a rainbow of color and words sprayed across her body, she was an awesome sight. The woman had become, in all her splendid nakedness, a living, breathing poem. Checking over the instant pictures, the photographer felt a sexual charge surge through his body. Miguel knew that while 50 percent of his desire was due to the close proximity of this incredibly beautiful woman, the other half was due to the artistry of the shot. For Miguel, making art and making love were one and the same.
Pleased with the Polaroids, Miguel picked up his Nikon and began to shoot. The model and photographer worked in silence—Miguel concentrating on the aesthetics of the picture, Gabrielle on giving the outward appearance of being comfortable and tranquil. Six rolls and two hours later, after capturing the image from every angle imaginable and with several variations in the lighting, Miguel approached Gabrielle. She opened her eyes as he kissed her gently on the forehead.
“You are remarkable,” he whispered softly, helping her on with her robe. “And I am going to make you a star.”
14
Gabrielle stopped in front of the ABW Publishing building on Madison Avenue and quickly pulled off her gloves. Leaving the brisk February air behind her, she breezed through the revolving door, checked in at the lobby desk, and was directed to the sixteenth floor by the security guard.
The room was already crowded when Gabrielle arrived. There were at least twenty young women packed into the small waiting area outside the casting director’s door. She gave her name to the receptionist and watched as the woman located and crossed it off the list.
“Take this casting sheet, fill it out, and return it with your composite,” the receptionist requested. After four busy months as an emerging newcomer, Gabrielle knew exactly what information the form requested—name, agent, height, weight—it was the same at every go-see.
Read Between the Lies Page 10