by Jill Dodd
On location shoots in California we change clothes in public—on the beach under a towel or in cars. At fashion shows, male and female models, makeup artists, stylists, and designers all work backstage while I stand in my tiny, nude thong, no bra, because you can’t distract from the clothes with undergarments poking about. Nudity becomes no big deal at work, which is a very different situation from my crazy mixed-up feelings about sex. Anyway, we’re just all there to do our jobs.
I’m led to a large circular arrangement of shoes on the floor. I tiptoe on the pristine white studio paper, careful not to leave a footprint, and get into position with my head in the center of the shoes on the floor, as directed.
The French stylist has wild red hair, thick black eyeliner, and red lips. She wears Levi’s 501s and a pink sweatshirt belted tight at her waist. She crawls on her hands and knees, arranging shoes around my head like peacock plumes. The concrete floor under the paper feels like a block of ice against my entire backside. The photographer’s assistant holds the light meter over my face with a pop. He reports the numbers to the photographer, who hangs over me on a ladder, shooting test Polaroids.
Once he’s happy, he switches to his 35mm camera and starts clicking away. “Bien, bon travail. Regardez-moi.” The lights pop loudly each time, setting off the flash.
I ignore the cold floor and my head surrounded by shoes. I pretend that I’m looking at my best friend or someone I love as I stare directly into the glass camera lens. Since the camera picks up all my emotions, I focus hard on peaceful thoughts. Whenever I smile, the photographer keeps yelling, “Ferme ta bouche!” (Close your mouth!) It took me a while to learn that in Paris I wasn’t supposed to smile for the camera like they wanted me to in Hollywood.
No one teaches you how to be a model. I had to figure it out myself. Every shoot is an opportunity to learn the lighting and angles that complement or sabotage my face, my body, and the clothes I’m trying to sell. Every job has a new set of personalities, tools, and challenges to learn from.
Every model has their go-to pose and facial expression. Just like Ben Stiller with his “Blue Steel” look in Zoolander, we all have an angle we know works every time. We learn how to position our face on the exact right plane opposite the camera lens. It makes each feature of our face look exactly how we want it to. You want bigger lips? Push them toward the camera. Slimmer hips? Twist them sideways. Twisting your body around the right way makes all the difference and is definitely a required skill!
My next job is for a laundry detergent, where I am dressed up in a sweet, pink button-front blouse to look like a French housewife. I snub my nose at the pile of dirty laundry in one shot, and joyfully hold their product in the next. Product photographers are easy to work with because they are more focused on their perfect lighting than on my flaws.
Next, I shoot nursing bras, holding a cute baby. I’m a little young to be a nursing mother, but as long as they pay me, I don’t care. Of course, none of these jobs will be going into my book. They wouldn’t impress New York fashion editors or photographers in the least.
I am finally sent to Dior for a runway show go-see. The neighborhood is so clean compared to mine, which bustled with working-class people, immigrants, and tourists. Chic apartments line both sides of Avenue Montaigne. Older people wearing expensive-looking clothes dine at bistros with polished brass railings. These restaurants are on a whole different level than the ones I’ve been going to.
A uniformed guard opens the door at 30 Avenue Montaigne, where an older woman in a white lab coat escorts me through the boutique and up a curved white marble staircase into the atelier.
I had never seen an actual Christian Dior piece in person, only in magazines. There are so many beautiful things I would have loved to touch and to try on, but wouldn’t have dared ask. Regardless, couture is for wealthy, older ladies, not struggling models. The walls of the design room are covered in fashion illustrations signed by Marc Bohan, Dior’s designer. I know his name from years of studying Vogue.
Four other models show up and all of us are unusually quiet. Dior felt serious, like church.
The stylists flip through our books, whisper to one another in French, and then hand us dresses to put on. As we come out of the changing rooms, they gesture for us to walk across the room for them, which is when I panic because I don’t know the European runway walk. I walked so many shows in Los Angeles, but this is Paris Haute Couture—a totally different caliber of show and style.
One of the girls, a pageant girl, Miss Missouri or something, confidently goes first in her pageant-style walk, which looks ridiculous in the Dior atelier. I dive right in after her, walking with even less grace than the pageant model. Then, the third girl walks forward as if she’s floating, blank-faced and elegant, proving to Miss Missouri and me how far off the mark we are. I know I blew it. I wish someone would teach me how to do the French walk. I’m so mad at myself for blowing Dior! But how could I possibly know how to do the walk without being shown? I feel trapped in a cage.
After running around for weeks, I finally land an actual cover shoot for Girls magazine. Since it is the French equivalent to Teen in America, I assume it will be high quality. I knock at the door of the studio and am welcomed inside by the photographer, but the studio isn’t much bigger than a bedroom. Dusty props and lighting equipment are strewn about carelessly and junk covers the floor. It isn’t compulsively organized like every other photographer’s studio I have been in.
No makeup room, makeup artist, or hairstylist, and no fashion stylist either. I do my own hair and makeup, and the photographer actually irons the clothes himself. My hopes for a great cover dissolve in an instant.
Every single shred of excitement and hope to make great photographic fashion art in Paris is being met with defeat. I didn’t know how different Paris would be. One thing’s for sure, I’m not the girl Paris wants.
How could I know, at such a young age, that sometimes the reasons we do things are not for the reasons we think? It never dawned on me that the reason I came to Paris could be anything different than making it as a successful model. How could I possibly imagine the unexpected results of my choices and decisions?
I had no plan to fall in love with Paris, or anybody else for that matter. I didn’t have an agenda for finding inner peace. I came here to have a career, and that means I am here for one reason only—those damn elusive pictures. I was never looking for fame. That wasn’t my goal. I wanted freedom, independence, and a feeling of accomplishment—like I had arrived at my destination, totally satisfied. I wanted a steady source of income that would give me the resources to live how I wanted, with no one telling me what to do! I figured that if I could achieve this with a job I loved, creating photographic art with the best of the best designers, photographers, makeup artists, and stylists, I’d be happy for sure!
It’s clear I need to study the market because whatever I’m doing is totally not working. I go to a newsstand and purchase every important fashion magazine and sit in a café, drinking my café au lait with two cubes of sugar, studying the editorial pages. Every single model has long straight hair, narrow hips, and bright white teeth. My hair is barely to my shoulders, and even though I’m so thin, my hipbones are wider than the girls’ in the pages. There is nothing I can do about my hipbones, but I really should have had my teeth capped like my Hollywood agent recommended. I wish my hair would hurry up and grow.
At the same time I’m feeling all this angst and frustration, I am totally unaware that I’m slowly falling in love with this city. Over time, Paris will root deep down into my soul and become part of me.
Paris café, 1980
JULIE ON THE COUCH
“You and Scarlett have been invited to a special party tonight. Wear a dress and be there at nine,” Pepper says, handing me my list of go-sees.
All day long, images run through my mind of how amazing the party will be. Just like the party pictures in the back of Vogue Paris—rock stars, artists, designers,
world-famous photographers, they’ll all be there! At least I’ve got this to distract me from the reality of trudging all over this dirty city.
That evening, Scarlett was taking way too long to get ready. It was my mom all over again—the eternal primping. “Come on, Scarlett, let’s go, we’re gonna be late. Pepper said to be there at nine.”
“I’m doing my eyes.” She’s sitting on the bed, leaning into her compact and stroking her lashes with mascara.
“Okay, now?” I pace.
“I need to finish my eye shadow, and still do my hair.”
“It doesn’t need to be perfect. Can’t we just go? You look great!” Nothing I say makes her go faster. I’ve got to wait it out. Scarlett has her own style—I guess it’s because she’s from the Pacific Northwest that she hides her beautiful body under baggy, nature-lover clothes. Plaid flannel shirts and hiking pants are the total opposite of her superfeminine face and hair. She’s definitely got the more practical shoes though. My ankle-strap black suede heels are a nightmare, and my clothes aren’t working either, by the way. All I’ve got are T-shirts, a pair of unflattering jeans, two skirts, two sweaters, and my digital Star Wars watch.
We find the address Pepper gave us, and it’s a mansion hidden behind tall gray stone walls. We buzz the intercom and a butler opens the gate, holding a platter of champagne glasses. He leads us in and takes our coats. Instantly, I could tell this was not the party I had hoped for. It is totally quiet and there are no young people from the fashion business—just old businessmen. Two of them come over and greet us in French, to which I respond, “Oh, sorry, I don’t speak French.” Then say to Scarlett, “Let’s go watch the fire,” and walk away toward the fireplace.
I stand with my back to the fire, scanning the room. I don’t get it. Clusters of businessmen stand around talking and drinking. Most are in suits, yet others are wearing Arab robes with headscarves. It looks like they’ve just finished their political negotiations or something.
I notice a young woman lying on the couch. I can tell she modeled in the past, because of her extreme beauty, but now she’s a little older and more voluptuous. She looks at us as if through a thick fog. “Hey, girls . . .”
We walk over, and Scarlett stands while I sit on the corner of the couch by her feet. “Hi, I’m Jill and this is Scarlett.”
She raises her head a little saying, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“New? You mean in Paris?” I ask. Her head dips up and down like she is going to pass out. She lies back on a black velvet pillow. “I’m Julie. I live here.”
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“Eight years.” Then, with a slurring whisper, she says, “Don’t do it. You’ll get stuck.” Scarlett and I look at each other. Julie cocks her head, rolling her eyes toward the men behind us.
She reminds me of the “lost girls” of Hollywood: the group of models I tried to avoid getting pulled into. Some of them hung out at the Playboy Mansion, testing their fate. Would they meet a wealthy actor and live happily ever after? Or were they on a fast track to a rich old man’s bed and drug addiction? Some started out as high-priced hookers who eventually wound up addicted to heroin. They’d get stuck with these men because they needed their drugs, then when they lost their fresh healthy looks, they’d be sold to other men for sex. If the routine in Paris is anything like Los Angeles, a man would use her for a while then share her with his friends. Shoot her up and fuck her. Girls were kept like house pets. I wasn’t going to let that happen to me before, and I certainly wasn’t willing to go down that road now in Paris.
“Mademoiselles, come see the football game—France is ahead!” Our host tried to distract us from Julie.
Luckily, Scarlett whispers in my ear, “Let’s get outta here.” We bluff, asking where the toilet is, and bolt for the door. We run through the garden, out the gate, and onto the street. Adrenaline runs through my body, while images of Julie and that room full of men race through my mind. We run like we’re escaping danger. I’m confused why Pepper would send us there. At best, those men may have owned big magazines, and at worst, they wanted to have sex with us.
The next morning, along with my go-see list, Pepper hands me a note with the time and address for another party. I’m not so sure I want to go. Maybe this one will be different. I never tell her what happened at the last one.
Scarlett and I are greeted at the door of another gorgeous mansion, where a handsome male model in a black leather jacket and jeans welcomes us and pours us each a glass of red wine. Now this is better, I think. Old-time French jazz and candlelight fill the huge room with vaulted ceilings. Dark wood tables and blue velvet couches are accessorized with a bohemian mash-up of textiles and pillows.
Outside, in the back courtyard, an animated game of horseshoes is in full swing, with guests laughing and taunting one another competitively. Gorgeous models mix with obvious fashion insiders. People in fashion are easy to spot by the way they dress and act. If you’re in the industry yourself, you can pick one out a block away.
A god of a man introduces himself to me, asking if I am American in his super-low voice and French accent, “Êtes-vous américain, chérie? Je suis Jean Marie.” He leans in and kisses my cheeks slowly and softly—not the usual fast kiss-kiss. I’m totally caught off guard and actually feel my vagina pulse.
He’s probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in person. He’s super tall and muscular with brown hair, brown eyes, and a wicked smile. I have an unexpected rush of lust and am actually afraid of what I might do. If we wind up kissing tonight, it is definitely not going to stop there. I feel him turn that inner locked key to my sexuality, and it scares me. Sex with me is all or nothing, and I’ve only ever slept with one man, Jack. I’m terrified and excited at the same time. I’m always afraid of losing control over my body’s sexual urges and I try to keep a lid on it. All this insane conflict is a result of growing up the way I did, but I don’t know it yet. Turns out, Jean Marie is a male model and member of the French Olympic rowing team. No wonder he looks like that. We’re ushered into the dining room, diverting our lust. I take a breath in relief.
The hostess stands on top of one of the many long tables lined up in the dining hall, banging a wooden spoon on a copper frying pan, yelling, “Bienvenue! Bon appétit!” In the center of each table are huge-ass bowls of spaghetti and red sauce—simple and glamorous at once. I sit between Scarlett and an innocent-looking young French guy named Henri. We all chat clumsily through the language barrier.
After dinner, everyone mingles as the music changes from old-timey to French pop. I hear rumblings about going to a club. Scarlett joins another group while I head out with Henri. I’m pretty tipsy from the wine and smile at him and say, “I’ll only go with you if I can drive your car.”
“Oui, bien sûr!” he says enthusiastically. “Allons-y!” (“Let’s go!”)
Henri has a tiny red Renault Le Car with a manual transmission, but the gear stick isn’t on the floor—it juts out of the dashboard. I have absolutely no idea how to drive it. My instincts take over and I figure it out as I go, speeding around the roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Élysées.
“À droite! À droite!” Henri screams, pointing right, and “À gauche! À gauche!” pointing left. I make a mental note to add these to my collection of French words. I have no idea where I parked the car.
European discos are totally different from American nightclubs. Small, round cocktail tables are set low to the ground, surrounded by purple velvet poufs to sit on. Instead of rock or new wave, electronica pulses and colored lights flash onto the crowd on the dance floor. My group is VIP with their own lockers of booze behind the bar. Bottles of liquor are delivered and set up with buckets of ice and mixers. Girls are dancing with girls, and I recognize some of them from French magazines and feel pangs of jealousy. I remember one of them with her blond hair to her waist, while there I am with shoulder-length brown hair. I join in anyway, dancing for
hours, until I remember my early job call.
“Scarlett, I’m going home!” I yell, waving, trying to get her attention.
Henri jumps up. “Chérie, I will drive you!” I am so relieved that I don’t have to figure out how to get home. Ice has formed on the outside of the car window and the heater fogs the windshield but feels good on my feet. I kick off my shoes, relax, and take in the view as he drives.
Cafés look so pretty at night, their chairs stacked upside down on top of the tables. Colored lights reflect on the wet road from street signs above. I lose myself in the beauty. Henri puts his hand on the back of my neck. I think he is going to pet me, but he grabs a fistful of hair and shoves my face in his crotch. His pants are unzipped and he’s aroused. I struggle to pull away, but he shoves my face down hard on his penis all the way to my hotel.
The second he stops the car, I fly out, run to the door, and wildly press the buzzer. I can feel him coming up behind me. The night clerk opens the door, and I hurry past, yelling, “No, please don’t let him in!” Of course, he doesn’t understand. Henri chases me up the stairs, pushes his way into my room, and shoves me onto the bed. He rips my blouse open so hard and fast that buttons bounce around the room.
“No! Please no!” I yell.
He jams his hand under my skirt, pulling on my underwear, and I kick him hard in the stomach and he flies against the wall. He quickly gathers himself and leaves. I lock the door behind him and collapse on the bed. I lie struggling with the reality that I was almost raped. I turn out the light and try to calm the hell down. When I imagine in detail what could have happened, I can’t take it. I try to pry my brain off the terrifying images racing through my mind. I try desperately to detach.