The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  Since I’m a permanent fixture at Paris Planning, the agents seem totally comfortable conducting their crazy deals right in front of me. They offer me a job to shoot swimwear in the Caribbean or Africa, and I think, Hell yes, until they tell me that I’m expected to have sex with the photographer. When I refuse, they pick up the phone and offer the job to another model. This happens so many times, and it kills me to pass up beautiful location shoots. I know the pictures will be amazing and the location will feel like a holiday, and I want to go so bad! I wish I could bring myself to do it. But I can’t. I don’t know how I got this moral code. I don’t even understand my moral code. I think it’s not about selling out. I want to achieve my successes honestly, without using my body for sexual manipulation. I want to feel like I deserve what I accomplish. Not like I cheated my way in.

  As the months roll by, when new girls come to town, I don’t warn them anymore about the agency’s tricks and traps. I now look at it as part of the game. I figure each girl deserves to make her own choices, and it’s none of my business what they decide to do. I’ve changed, become colder about the business, and somewhat detached. I don’t trust anyone at the agency anymore. Now I’m a pro at using the agency for what they’re good at and ignoring the bullshit. Although Gerald continues to give me the cold shoulder, I manage to work solid all through May, June, and July. Even though I only take home a fraction of the money I make, my bank account is growing and I continue to spend carefully and save.

  I’m collecting new magazine tear sheets every week from Cosmo, 20ans, plus many more. And I finally have two full pages in Vogue Paris. My face is plastered on bus stops and Metro tunnels. My portfolio is full of great test photographers’ work, and I did it all without sleeping with photographers. It just took a hell of a lot longer.

  There are always a select few girls who don’t have to deal with these games. They fit into the top one percent of models and are treated totally different from the rest of us. They are lucky girls who have won the genetic jackpot and have the perfect combination of attributes that are “hot” right now. (What is hot changes constantly.) Things they usually have in common are: long hair, straight white teeth, big eyes, small noses, lips that are full on top and bottom, faces with baby fat, thin hips, perfect skin, and tall, lanky bodies.

  They also seem to be less dysfunctional than some of the other girls. They reek of confidence and look like they don’t give a shit about modeling. It seems to make the client feel lucky to be using them. They’re the agency’s “stars.” Gerald books them instantly for Vogue and Elle editorial. They work with the best hair and makeup artists, stylists, and photographers. They get all the cosmetics and designer campaigns and earn the most money. They are never sent to parties or asked to sleep with photographers. I’m obviously not a part of this group.

  Me, a lovely man, and his camel in Tunisia, 1980

  THE CAMEL

  June 1980, Tunisia

  Paris is having a false spring, which is basically no spring. There definitely hasn’t been any sign of summer this year. Being from California, it’s hard not to let the darkness affect me. But when it really starts pulling me down, I seem to land a shoot in the sun.

  On June fifteenth, I board a flight from Paris in freezing, dark drizzle. As the plane ascends through thick clouds, the cabin instantly fills with light. The sunny baby blue sky has been above me the whole time, blinded by heavy gray clouds. Light, warmth, and joy radiate into me.

  Tunisia, North Africa, is across the Mediterranean from Sicily, Italy. I have never seen a landscape like it—all white sand and turquoise waters. (Back home the sand is brown and the water green.) The buildings are bright white plaster domes and arches. I jump on a rickety bus at the airport with standing room only. We all grab a rope loop overhead and hang on.

  Friendly, dark-skinned locals are crammed in tight. Old men smoke non-filters through missing teeth. They’re gorgeous to me. A cloud of black smoke engulfs the bus as the driver steps on the gas. Every time we hit a pothole on the sandy road, all of us catapult into the air. With each pothole, we laugh harder. The scene outside the glassless windows is so beautiful I can’t believe it’s real: Women wrapped in brightly colored fabrics carry baskets of fruit on their heads and walk along with their children. I love this place already.

  I meet Sylvie, the owner of Rasurel Swimwear, in the lobby of the Djerba Menzel hotel. She tells me to go lie by the pool to get some color. I have never sunbathed topless, but as I look around, no one is staring at my boobs. It’s nice not fussing around with a bikini top and tan lines.

  The intense African sun soaks my bones, and the pool is so quiet I hear my own breath. I close my eyes and soon fall asleep. I don’t know how much time has passed, but when I sit up, blood rushes to my head with a bang. I get up slowly, walk dizzily to my room, and look in the bathroom mirror. My skin is already dark red, not Parisian pale—closer, I think, to my California color, but I’m not sure because it’s been so long since I’ve been tan.

  I get the urge to cut my hair. I can hear Willy say, “Grow your hair long—no bangs!” I ignore her and take the nail scissors from my toiletry bag. I’m taking control of my life a few hairs at a time.

  In the evening, glowing lanterns light the winding path to the restaurant. The room is draped in bright pink, turquoise, and purple silk. Sylvie, Henri, the photographer, and I sit on pillows around a low brass table. A handsome man in a turban and caftan holds a brass bowl and kettle for us to wash our hands, as we will use them, not silverware. We scoop spiced fish, vegetables, and couscous onto soft, warm pita bread. Dessert is baklava with crusty layers of honey and cinnamon. The client, Sylvie, never notices I cut my hair.

  By the end of dinner, I’m not feeling so good. I don’t tell them I’m nauseous and about to faint. I try to act normal. On the way to my room, dizziness and nausea take over. My head throbs, then my skin ignites. I strip my clothes off and look in the mirror. I’ve never been this color before. I hurry to collapse on the bed before I faint. I try not to move while my body flashes from shivering to sizzling and burning. The sheets are thorns, my head spins, and I worry about the shoot tomorrow. I listen to Arabic radio all night long.

  Waking up disoriented is normal—those first few moments when I scan the room for clues that hint at which country I’m in. Today though, my burning skin tells me I’m in Tunisia. I tiptoe to the bathroom to look at the damage and, thankfully, it doesn’t look as bad as it feels. I throw on a loose T-shirt, but no underwear because panty creases are not allowed in swim shots, to meet Sylvie and Henri for breakfast.

  A sandy trail leads to a deserted beach, where transparent turquoise waves pound the pale sand. I change under a towel held together by Sylvie’s fingertips. These suits were obviously fitted on French girls, with their tiny hips, unlike me with the curves. They hurt as I pull them over my hips.

  I love working with these clients. They’re calm and respectful—no drama. After shooting all morning, I’m stunned when a man walks up the beach with his camel. I had never seen anything this exotic. He lets me pet the camel, and when I look into the old man’s eyes, he feels utterly familiar to me. Have you ever met someone randomly and, when your eyes meet, the entire space around you becomes totally focused on the connection between the two of you? Like you already know them somehow? Well, that happens with the man with the camel.

  We go sightseeing in Tunis, shopping in souks and eating couscous and fish outdoors in the square. Tunis is a beautiful and friendly city and I love being here. I forget about the daily grind of go-sees and pretend for a few days that I have a normal working life. Surrounded by nature and respect, I grow more peaceful each day.

  Ten days in Tunisia rejuvenates my spirit, and when I return to Paris I land the cover of Olympe, the French version of American Self.

  Chasing the photographer Georges Vidon’s car through the French countryside

  CALIFORNIA SUCKS

  August 1980

  The only connecti
on I have to my old life in California are rare phone calls and the letters I receive. I check my mailbox in the agency hoping for a letter.

  A card from Mom brings me up to speed on her Yorkies, while Dad writes about the fire station and the vintage car he’s working on. My friend Penny and I write back and forth every few weeks. She tells me about college and her boyfriend, and I vent to her about modeling. In her latest letter, she asks me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding in November. My old boyfriend Jack’s letters are full of pleas to come home, saying he wants to marry me. He even draws wedding rings in the margins. I left him at the gate at LAX, hoping for a big distance that would end our sick relationship. But he still isn’t buying the fact that we’re broken up.

  Alleen writes, saying she is skipping her annual design trip to Paris and could I do the research for her? Of course I can. I shop all the swimwear lines in the city and carefully choose suits with ideas that will translate successfully into the US market. I try them all on, pin them, and attach notes on how to alter them.

  I send fabric samples with treatments we don’t have the technology for in America, like iron-on rhinestones and metallic foil printing. I pack the swimsuits, magazines, sketches, and my design report all together and ship it off to Alleen in California. It’s exhilarating to have this kind of challenge and use my design skills and creativity again. I almost forgot I have them.

  August is dead in Paris because everyone goes on vacation. I impulsively decide to visit family and friends in California. I buy a plane ticket and leave without really thinking the whole thing through. I have no idea it will be the beginning of a downward spiral. Time in Paris has changed me, but I’m not aware how much until I’m back in Downey.

  Dad picks me up at the Air France terminal at LAX in his Mustang Boss 302 and opens it up on the 405 Freeway. “Whoa, Dad, it feels like we’re going a hundred and twenty!”

  “No, Jillie, we’re only going a hundred.” He laughs.

  That night, at a party at Jack’s, I learn one of my friends is sleeping with him. I shouldn’t care, but I didn’t think friends should sleep with other friends’ ex-boyfriends.

  During the week, I check in at Wilhelmina. “Jill! What are you doing here? We thought you were never coming back.”

  “I’m not back, I just came to say hi.”

  “Well, look what Paris has done to you!” Steve, my agent, says.

  After a short visit, I ask to see the agency head alone in her office. After taking a deep breath, I say, “You know what goes on in Paris, right? All the parties?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks.

  “Seriously. You don’t know? They make us go to parties, and if we don’t go, they don’t give us interviews. Oh, and they take seventy percent of our money. They say it’s for taxes, but I don’t believe it.”

  She shakes her head. “Paris Planning is the top agency in Paris. I’ve never heard of any of this.” I am clearly wasting my time and feel stupid for even bringing it up. I decide to leave and go vintage shopping on Melrose and over to Tower Records on Sunset instead.

  I feel like an outsider everywhere I go. Everyone’s lives have gone on without me. Plus, I have a bad case of jet lag and my first menstrual period in six months. I can’t sleep. My boobs, stomach, and back all ache. I stay in bed feeling shitty. Why did I come?

  I feel claustrophobic in my parents’ house. I miss the streets of Paris, the cafés, and the guy at the crepe cart across from the agency. I miss speaking in French. The French language sounds like a song, pretty and romantic, light and airy. It makes me feel sophisticated, worldly. English feels clunky now, too blunt, serious, and choppy. I don’t like it. I miss my shabby little room with the faded turquoise sheets. I miss Paris. I throw my concert T-shirts, the used men’s tuxedo shirt and bow tie I bought on Melrose, and my new red-and-black lizard cowboy boots in my suitcase and count the hours to departure.

  I get back to Paris on Friday night, with the banks closed till Monday. I have fifteen francs—fewer than four dollars—and it has to last all weekend. There’s not a crumb of food on my card table, not even peanut butter. I go to bed hungry.

  Saturday morning I buy a large packet of Knorr’s powdered soup to spread out over two days. I feel like I’m starving. My stomach churns, and when I can’t stand it anymore, I make a tiny cup of watery soup. I would never impose on Madame to ask for food.

  With my body clock messed up, I sleep all day and flop around anxiously all night. I’m shattered, confused, sad, and sleep deprived. I cry on and off but can’t figure out why. My only sanity is the music that plays through the headphones of my Walkman.

  Why did I want to go to California anyway? What a waste of energy, the strangest trip ever. I feel like I’ve been shot into space in a rocket, spun around, and thrown down in a splat onto the ground. I’m so lost. Where is home? Is Paris home? What the hell am I doing with my life?

  On Monday morning, I hit the bank and get breakfast. I have a go-see for a two-week lingerie job in Paris. My breasts are swollen from having my period in California, so all the bras and everything else fit perfectly. The following week, when it’s time to shoot, my breasts have deflated and the bras are a little loose. The client throws a huge tantrum, yelling at me in front of the entire crew. I feel like a failure. Heavy shame and humiliation envelop me because of my small breasts.

  Every time I go to change in the dressing room, I breathe fast and I fight back tears. In front of the camera, I hold my breath, trying to fill out the bras, and worry the camera will pick up on my sadness. I’m in a mental pit.

  After a marathon nine-day shoot, it’s finally over. My back is sore and stiff from holding lingerie poses. The sky is cloudy, gray, and almost dark as I walk away from the studio. I can finally let my guard down.

  Crossing a cobblestone bridge on the way to the bus stop, something hits me and I feel totally disoriented. I hear the client’s comments about my breasts repeating over and over in my mind, and I become overwhelmed with self-hatred and guilt. I flash to Dad’s porno wall, him saying, “Her tits are the perfect shape and size, Jillie.” But mine aren’t and everybody’s upset about it. Why is my breast size so fucking important? But it is. These jobs pay my rent.

  I sit in the back of the bus, hiding my tears, detached, catatonic, staring out the window all the way to Magenta. I get off and walk slowly down my street, saying hello to the prostitutes I see every single day. They always make me sad. I watch as they negotiate a price and get in a car. They’ll be back to their post, their doorway, soon enough, standing, smoking, waiting for the next job. But how is modeling any different? We rent our bodies out by the hour. I wonder what their hourly rate is compared to mine?

  I wind up the five flights of stairs, pull my clothes off, and climb in bed. I reach for the Bible my friend’s parents gave me. I never got past the genealogies so I use it as a journal, writing in the back margins. I grab a pen and write to God, who I don’t know. I write that I’ll do any kind of work. It doesn’t have to be modeling. I’ll work in a sawmill if that’s what I’m supposed to do. I don’t care. I’m tired of fighting. I need a new focus, one that’s good for me. I can’t take the fog that has come over me. I hear a voice that says, “Love the people of Paris.” I take it to heart.

  In the days after hearing that message, I try to spread a little love around as I go about town doing my business—simple things like helping older people. I try to connect with some of Paris’s elderly, more callous people. After all, they have lived through World War II, Nazi occupation, and a decade of postwar poverty. They aren’t friendly like Madame or the young waiters at my favorite café. They are cold and hardened by a difficult life.

  When I go into a nice boutique, and the elderly saleslady sneers at me, I smile warmly to her. To my absolute shock, she smiles back. I feel love flow through me. I do it on the bus, on the street, and with homeless people.

  One day on the Metro, I hear “Get off at Madeleine” from somewhere inside a
nd figure, why not? So, I get off at Madeleine, and at the bottom of the stairs is a tiny, hunchbacked old lady crouched next to a huge box, crowds of people whizzing past. No one stops to ask if she needs help. I approach and ask timidly if I can help her. She nods, still hunched over, saying, “Oui, oui, s’il vous plaît.”

  I help carry the heavy box up the stairs and set it down. I go back down to help her out of the Metro, and then take her and her box to a taxi stand and hail a cab. She is so grateful, holding on to my hands, shaking them in the street. My heart swells. This is a hell of a lot more fun than seeing myself in a magazine. And, finally, the darkness that started on my trip to California begins to lift.

  Early one morning, I go out walking. It’s still dark and the city isn’t awake. I wander all the way to the financial district, and as I come around a corner, I spy a freshly delivered, cellophane-wrapped pallet of magazines by a newsstand. I wonder if my new Olympe cover is in there. Checking to make sure no one’s looking, I rip a hole in the top and dig down into the heap. Halfway down, I find Olympe magazine with me on the cover and pull it out. It’s a good, strong cover, just what I need. This will finally open the door to better magazines.

  I stand there feeling certain that the success I’ve been chasing is actually attainable. Then, seconds later, I’m suddenly confused. I don’t know if I want it anymore. My mind races with multiple scenarios where Paris Planning and Wilhelmina are totally running my life and I have no control. I’ll be working nonstop, booked on back-to-back shoots all over the world, with no personal life at all. No time for peaceful reflection, just racing around, airport to airport.

  I don’t want to be owned by them, and I don’t want to be chained to this business. I’m not instantly fulfilled. Instead I feel hollow, like a deep, dirty pit. This feels like a whole new set of problems. I already know what modeling is, and there’s so much ugliness and lies. Do I really want to devote my life to it?