Walking with the Muses

by Pat Cleveland

  Jimmy’s friend Steven Meisel was a total original, with long straight black hair down to his waist. A girl named Donna Jordan, whose signature was bright red lipstick, had a gang of creative-looking friends who congregated at her lunch table in the cafeteria. Then there was a guy named Val, who wore hats indoors and was already socializing with fashion illustrators and underground artists.

  One Saturday night Jimmy and I decided to go dancing at a club called Salvation on Sheridan Square in Greenwich Village. When we got inside, we spotted Donna and Val, sitting with an older guy who had a mustache. Val came over and told Jimmy and me that the guy was a well-known illustrator, and we should come to his studio sometime. Then I saw Donna dancing with a girl who had very dark hair and very white skin, and a man with a pasty-looking complexion and floppy platinum hair. Val said he was a famous artist who also made movies. Val wandered back to his group, and Jimmy and I tried to blend in. We danced a bit and left early because Jimmy had to get the train back to Queens, where he lived. I kept thinking, Wow, look at the world Donna’s in. She’s such a sophisticate. I had no idea who her companions were or the “famous artist” I was nearly introduced to.

  The following weekend I went back to the Cheetah, by now the biggest disco in the city, attracting some two thousand people a night. I was wearing a cocoa-colored jersey jumpsuit with cutouts on the side, near my waist. Mom, who’d finished it the night before, said it made me look like a deer, and I played up the doe-eyed Bambi effect by wearing it with three pairs of fake eyelashes.

  Line dancing was over; now everyone was doing the jerk. I was jerking away when this tiny fireball of a guy dressed in a suit and tie jumped right in front of me and started making moves like I’d never seen before. Here was a guy who could dance! He was so entertaining and energetic, talking to me while simultaneously looking around to see who was who, and cracking jokes. He introduced himself as Bobby Seligman and told me he was a producer (of what, he didn’t say). He asked me if I wanted to go with him to another, better club. My radar told me that he was okay even though I knew he was older than I was (I pegged him for twenty-two or twenty-three but later found out he was thirty), so we caught a cab and sped across town to Sutton Place, where the townhouses cost a fortune.

  Our destination was Le Club at 416 East Fifty-Fifth, but there was no name on the awning, just a number. In fact, the only sign that the address was special was the line of limousines, Rolls-Royces, and Jaguars out front. Bobby said, “They’d better not see us getting out of a cab—they’ll think we’re broke.” So we got out down the block and walked to the entrance, a polished wooden door with a tiny square peephole at eye level. Bobby knocked and the little square opened. A voice said, “Password,” and Bobby said, “Cha-ka-boom.” The door swung open . . . and so did a new chapter in my life.

  The first thing I noticed was how elegantly the men were dressed and how elaborately styled the women’s hairdos were. Lush floral arrangements dominated the central area of the cozy, dimly lit space, and the strains of Astrud Gilberto singing Burt Bacharach’s “The Look of Love” filled the perfumed air. This was clearly a place of abundance, glamour, and power. And here, amid it all, was little old me. Me!

  Bobby and I sat down at one of the round tables by the small wooden dance floor. He ordered me a mimosa, which he explained was fresh-squeezed orange juice and champagne (the drinking age in New York was eighteen at the time, and I was almost seventeen, but no one asked), and then a filet mignon served by a waiter in white gloves. What a leap in a single night: from Kool-Aid and Velveeta (my usual dinner at home) to mimosas and filet mignon.

  I was pretty free to come and go as I pleased, because my mother trusted me. Besides, she had her hands full trying to handle Sonny’s moods and the demands of her job at Bellevue Hospital. She’d also taught me well. Unlike Little Red Riding Hood in the bedtime stories she’d read to me, I was aware of the wolves; I’d already met a few and knew what to watch out for.

  I began to lead two distinct lives with two distinct sets of friends—my school friends like Jimmy and my out-of-school friends like Bobby. During the week I’d sketch and pose (my teachers liked to use me as a model because they said I had the “perfect fashion body”); on weekends, I’d hang out with Bobby, who was really my best friend now, despite our age difference. He and I had a blast together. He introduced me to high society—the wealthy, famous people of every nationality who flew first-class all over the world in new Boeing airplanes just to attend a party. Bobby’s friends included Oleg Cassini—a Russian-born fashion designer who was celebrated for creating the “Jackie look” when Jacqueline Kennedy was first lady—and his brother Igor (whom everybody called “Ghighi”). Both brothers, Bobby told me, were on the board of Le Club and were instrumental in deciding who got in. Ted Kennedy was a regular, and even the Supremes came on certain nights. There were politicians and celebrities, and everyone always wore fabulous clothes. We all mixed and danced together. Bobby would ask me to get the dancing started, so after dinner (and boy, did I grow fond of those mimosas and filets mignons), I’d step onto the dance floor and begin dancing alone. After a few minutes Bobby would join me, and then everybody else. Bobby was an even better dancer than I was and taught me a lot of cool moves. Together, we perfected a kind of routine.

  Once everybody was up and dancing, Bobby and I would escape upstairs to the VIP rooms, with their plush wine-colored velvet sofas, where we’d join Ann Turkel, a mind-bogglingly gorgeous model who appeared in almost every issue of Vogue, and the actor Richard Harris, who had just played Lancelot in the movie version of Camelot and whose song “MacArthur Park” was climbing the pop-music charts. I adored his sexy Irish brogue. Then we’d eat caviar, and they’d all drink champagne. I stuck mostly to tonic water or ginger ale, not because I was underage but because I preferred those beverages. From up there, Bobby and I would choose the music for the club. Having an in-house disc jockey was a brand-new trend, especially for a posh place like this.

  Bobby would pick pieces that I would sing along to into the microphone—Burt Bacharach, Sergio Mendez, the Beatles. I’d cover them all. Bobby was determined to turn me into a vocalist, and I was happy to go along. My voice wasn’t strong and soaring; it was tiny and more of a whisper. Evidently, it sounded sexy, and that suited the times.

  Occasionally, Bobby and I would go to the Copacabana to play cards and backgammon with Omar Sharif (who was just as handsome as he was when, at fifteen, I’d swooned over him in Doctor Zhivago). Omar was a world-class bridge player, and when he played with Yul Brynner, I’d hold my tongue because they needed to concentrate. Both of them were charming and surrounded by beautiful women in caftans and eye-popping jewels. Sometimes they’d flirt with me and play at trying to seduce me. But it was just for fun. We all knew I was too young for them.

  chapter 15

  LIFE IN THE FAST LANE

  Me, wearing my first Courrèges outfit, with Bobby Seligman, my jet set mentor, 1967.

  When I’d first returned from the Fashion Fair tour, I had signed with the American Girls Agency, which represented only black models. The agency had kept me pretty busy. The German magazine Stern had published a four-page article proclaiming that “Negro models are conquering the fashion world” (Neger Mannequins erobern die Modewelt); it featured me in a two-page spread dancing at Arthur, the hot nightclub run by Richard Burton’s ex-wife and her new husband. There were also local jobs like the New York car show, where I earned the astonishing fee of twenty-five dollars a day to dance around new cars as if I were in love with them. Bobby, who was now my unofficial manager, thought I should be represented by a top agency, and one day he surprised me by getting an appointment for me at Ford Modeling Agency—a huge step up from American Girls.

  I was petrified as I walked into Ford’s glass-paneled entryway in my new white Courrèges go-go boots and beige minidress. This was the big league: Top models like Maud Adams, Ann Turkel, Ali MacGraw, and Suzy Parker had all walked through this very door
. It’s now or never, I told myself, pressing the buzzer. The door clicked and I pushed it open.

  “May I help you?” asked a young woman walking past me. She said it as if I had wandered into the wrong building. Before I could reply, she said, “Wait one moment, please.”

  I didn’t dare move, so I stood just where she left me, by the door, until she returned several minutes later. She asked my name, whether I was sure I had the right address, and who had sent me. When I told her I had an appointment and was working with Bobby Seligman and Oleg Cassini, she escorted me through a narrow hallway to a room in the back of the building. There were tables covered with schedules, and everyone was so busy that no one even looked up. I soon realized it was the booking room.

  The young woman told me to sit and wait, so I did. And waited. And waited some more. An hour passed, and no one had uttered so much as a syllable to me. Finally, I spoke up. “Excuse me? Is anyone going to look at my book?”

  One female booker glanced over at me and said she didn’t know I was waiting to be seen. Hmmm. What did she think I was there for? Was I a parrot that had just flown in and perched itself on a chair? Actually, no, because then they probably would have noticed me.

  She gave me the once-over and said briskly, “You must be for the other department.” She went back to making phone calls.

  Just then a fellow from another room called me in. He was friendly, leafed through my rather meager book of photos, and told me that they were experimenting with “a new department of girls” that I might be good for.

  And with this lukewarm declaration of interest, I was signed with the biggest modeling agency in the business.

  Before I even had a chance to test out my new agency, Bobby had a new adventure in store. It began with my meeting my first professional choreographer (unless you count Katherine Dunham, and I don’t, because I was only five years old): the great JoJo Smith. One Saturday night in June, just before my seventeenth birthday, Bobby insisted I go to a dance studio with him. When we got there, Bobby introduced me to JoJo. “You see this girl here?” he said to her. “She is going to blow your mind. She is funky” (that being the cool word of the day). “I tell you, she’s funkier than you, she’s even funkier than me!” Bobby ended this little sales pitch with his trademark thousand-watt smile.

  JoJo smiled back and said, “Okay, let’s see what she can do.” With that, Bobby started snapping his fingers, the way he did when we were dancing, keeping the beat. The music came on and I launched into my routine, giving it all I had. Bobby started dancing with me.

  The music stopped and Bobby said to JoJo, “How d’ya like that? She’s better than all your other dancers put together, and she’s younger, too!” Then Bobby snapped his fingers, took me by the hand, and we left the studio. “This is called ‘the art of the exit,’ ” he told me as we hurried down the stairs.

  I didn’t realize it, but that was my audition for a part in a television movie that Bobby was producing in Mexico called The Beautiful People. The next night I was at JoJo’s studio rehearsing with Tamara Dobson, the super-tall star of Cleopatra Jones, and Marisa Berenson, a delicate beauty who was likewise super-tall. We were the dancing models whom Bobby wanted for his movie. There in the studio with JoJo, I picked up some terrific new moves with dances like the boogaloo and the funky jerk. Cha-ka cha-ka boom! To me, everything sounded and felt just like that magical, door-opening password.

  Bobby’s plan was to take all of us models to Acapulco during Christmas vacation to make the film. In the end, Tamara and Marisa didn’t come, because they were busy doing other movies, but other models joined the cast, including Agneta Frieberg, who would be my roommate in Acapulco. She and I and the cameramen working for Metha Productions (Bobby’s film company) arrived together two days after Christmas 1967. I’d just gotten my first passport—Mom had to sign for it, since I was only seventeen—and it was a thrill to get it stamped at customs.

  After being picked up at the airport, we made our way down a hill toward the Bay of Acapulco. Laid out before us was paradise. The tropical scent—sea air mixed with the smells of beautiful pink and salmon flowers—made me almost faint, and the glowing sun over the bay bathed everything in a golden light. It was the perfect setting for an international jet set with the Midas touch. I felt like Columbus discovering the New World.

  Before long, we were driving up to the rocky residential area of Acapulco and a private bungalow retreat called the Villa Vera. There were few high-rises in Acapulco at the time—just the sea, the white bungalows with their terra-cotta roofs, and one three-story hotel. Most of the VIPs who considered Acapulco their playground stayed in private homes or in the bungalow village. When we arrived at the Villa, society reporters from El Heraldo de México, Mexico City’s major newspaper, were already there, sniffing around for the who’s who of Italy, France, England, and America who might be spending the holidays there.

  Agneta and I were bunking at a not-so-VIP hotel down near the water; that was where we’d be filming during the day. Both new to Ford, we got along right away. Although she was twenty-two and I, as always, was the youngest person in any room, Agneta was so shy that we felt like equals. We worked for three days straight and partied every night up at the Villa with the crème de la crème of the international set—though in truth, neither of us really knew who those people were. At one of the parties, Maurice Hogenboom, a young American photographer, kept talking about the musical Hair, which had opened off-Broadway in New York and was about to have its Mexican premiere at Acapulco’s Teatro Acuario. Maurice told me I should see it. I had met some of the cast members at an earlier party at the Villa, including Jamie Mestizos, a beautiful Mexican boy with dark eyes, curly hair, and a gentle flower-child manner. I told Maurice I’d love to see it. Then I wandered off to get a drink.

  I was standing by the bar, ordering my usual ginger ale (which looked like champagne but kept me stone-cold sober while everybody else around me was borracho) when I was practically blinded by flashbulbs going off around a man walking in my direction. All I could see was his silhouette—wide shoulders, narrow hips, dressed all in black—but before I knew what was happening, one of the photographers pushed me toward that raven-haired beauty, who turned out to be no older than twenty-three. He put his arm around my waist, and the paparazzi just kept taking pictures. When they finally stopped, his arm stayed put.

  This ridiculously handsome young man and I were able to communicate thanks to his bilingual friend who translated every word. Come to find out, he was a famous Mexican matador named Antonio Lomelín; everybody called him Tono for short. Tono stayed at my side the whole night, but he had to leave early because he had a bullfight the next day. He asked if I would come and watch him. Of course I said yes.

  The next afternoon Tono sent a car to pick me up and take me to the arena. I entered the dusty tunnel leading to his dressing room, barely able to make out the bullring just beyond. The light at the end of the tunnel, I thought as a priest cut in front of me to enter Tono’s dressing room. Before I could take another step, Tono’s driver stopped me and said I couldn’t see him until the fight was over. A torero must never see a woman before he fights, because she will drain him of his strength.

  I was escorted to the VIP box in the lower bleachers, where the president of Mexico would sit whenever he came. On this day, however, I was the only person in the box. Meanwhile, as the loudspeakers blared out Tono’s name, a stadium full of his Mexican fans leaped to their feet, stamping on the wooden planks of the bleachers and roaring out his name at the top of their lungs.

  As I looked out at the huge ring, I noticed the bulls behind the gates and the flanks of other men on horseback. Then I saw Tono, all dressed up in his elaborate matador costume, looking tiny in that vast space. He was at center ring and starting to circle it. Now the crowd was deadly silent as he moved in my direction, getting closer and closer until he was standing in front of my box. He held a rose to his heart, kissed the rose, and tossed it to me.
I caught it! Then he said in a loud voice, “This bull is for you.”

  I think that was the moment when I realized what I was about to witness, what a bullfight was all about. Noooooooooo! I thought. Don’t do it. Don’t kill the bull for me. My heart was pounding and I was gripped with terror. I was afraid to watch and afraid to leave, because he’d thrown me the rose.

  The Mexican national anthem was played, another silence fell, and then he was no longer Tono but some sort of deity acting out an ancient ritual for the crowds. The furious beast behind the gate was released, and Tono, the kindhearted guy whose arm had been so sweetly wrapped around my waist the night before, proceeded to engage in what I can only call an extended act of animal cruelty. He teased the bull, and the crowd cheered, and this went back and forth like an intricate dance for what seemed like forever.

  At some point, Tono stuck a pair of banderillas into the attacking bull’s back, but heaven help me, it wasn’t over yet. He came back, flapping his cape and carrying a sword, which he plunged into the bull to finish off the majestic animal once and for all. My entire body went cold as the crowds erupted.

  I left the booth in the middle of the cheers and walked in a daze toward the tunnel and Tono’s dressing room. As I approached, I looked outside an opening in the ring and saw a tractor pulling the bull’s body, bound in chains, its flesh torn. I was shocked by its massive size. I flashed back to last night’s dinner, when we’d all eaten bulls’ balls. I had laughed about it then, but there was no laughter in me now.

  I walked out of the arena and went back to my hotel without even saying goodbye. Tono phoned that evening, but I hung up on him. I literally could not speak after seeing him slaughter an innocent animal.