The Face That Changed It All

by Beverly Johnson

  I had been so hopeful when I walked in, but with a swift wave of her hand she shooed me away like a bothersome fly.

  Up until that point I was fairly certain my path to modeling nirvana led directly through Eileen Ford and her agency. But Eileen’s hasty assessment of my body fat ratio suddenly put those plans on hold.

  However, my intuition had told me to make sure I didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, so I’d already been visiting other agencies in case Eileen Ford didn’t want me on her roster. For those visits, I had a set uniform I loved to wear: a long tweed coat, which all the major stores were featuring in their front showroom windows as the hot item for fall, matched with a pair of sky-high platforms that easily rivaled the pair Herman Munster wore each week on The Munsters. Why I thought I needed to wear a tweed coat in midsummer, or to put on a pair of five-inch heels to pound the concrete streets of Manhattan, is something I’ll never be able to explain. The day after I wore those shoes, I would have blisters on my feet so huge, so painful, I could barely move from my bed to the floor.

  But even though I was considering additional options in my search for an agent, Eileen Ford was still my first choice. While she had dismissed me with those two cruel words, I’d already been through enough in my life that I didn’t break down in tears or run out of the room. In retrospect, I realize I could have mentioned the photo shoots I had already done for Vogue, Glamour, and Essence to someone at the agency that day. In truth there wasn’t really time, and I had just assumed the modeling agencies would see in me the same traits the editors of those magazines had seen, whether they knew I had already modeled before or not. I was wrong.

  Had the magazine shoots I’d just completed all been flukes? Had I just been in the right place at the right time? Had Harry Belafonte been off his game that day when he gave his stamp of approval at Jax’s?

  I’m blessed that self-doubt didn’t have much time to take root in my mind.

  Just three days later, an assistant from Eileen Ford’s office called Beverly Gamble’s parents’ home, where I was staying, and asked if I could go back for a meeting with Mrs. Ford. I arrived bright and early the next morning at the Ford Agency to find the same room that had been filled with bodies and earsplitting noise now empty and absolutely still.

  Eileen Ford suddenly appeared and with a completely straight face said to me, “Beverly, you have lost weight!”

  All I could do that day was offer this fierce, powerful woman my best and brightest smile in response to the very best of her bullshit. I had been in her offices just three days before and since that time had enjoyed a few Good Humor strawberry shortcake ice cream bars. I hadn’t lost a single damn pound—in fact, I may have even gained a few. But that was my first, free-of-charge introduction to the world of smoke and mirrors.

  With that one statement, though I didn’t know it at the time, Ford was painting me a crystal-clear picture of an industry that I would find to be overflowing with a toxic mix of deceit, manipulation, abuse, and backstabbing. It’s clear now that she wanted me to appreciate up front that any success I enjoyed in the game of modeling would surely be followed by a certain level of betrayal, heartbreak, and disappointment, caused not just by enemies but also by those nearest and dearest.

  Eileen Ford had had a significant hand in crafting the success stories of an endless array of notable beauties that spanned several generations. As well as Lauren Hutton, Christie Brinkley, and Cheryl Tiegs, she’d handled Martha Stewart (Martha modeled in her early years before becoming a homemaking goddess), Candice Bergen, Jerry Hall, and Ali MacGraw. Now she was on board to do the same for me.

  In the midst of enhancing my professional portfolio courtesy of Eileen, I also enrolled in courses at a local community college. It didn’t seem that I would have the chance to return to Northeastern University anytime soon, and I still wanted a backup plan just in case. Around this time I began receiving heftier paychecks from my modeling work, thus allowing me the opportunity to give back to my parents and to save for the future. Much as it did on my father’s, financial security weighed heavily on my mind, so I put away every dollar I could. Lavish shopping sprees were not a part of my routine.

  If the work Eileen got me and night school weren’t enough for me to deal with, I also decided to walk down the aisle with Billy Potter. We were basically inseparable by this time. His parents were thrilled that we were tying the knot, and so were mine. Our wedding was a simple ceremony during the summer of 1972, in a traditional church back in Buffalo. We had our reception on the top floor of the Skateland roller skating rink immediately following the ceremony. Skateland was a rather charming establishment in the early 1970s. The top floor had a large reception hall with beautifully polished wooden floors, and there was lots of room for guests—it was the perfect setting for a wedding reception.

  Every woman’s wedding day should be filled with love and laughter, but for me, the most lingering memory of my first wedding is the feeling of dread that came over me while sitting next to my husband at the head table. I leaned over and said, “Let’s dance.” Since I’d met Billy, I’d always envisioned the two of us waltzing across some beautifully polished hardwood floors to the sounds of Duke Ellington and John Coltrane’s classic “In a Sentimental Mood.” Listening to Ellington repetitively ping the keys of the piano on the most popular version of that jazz masterpiece always took me to a very happy place. But my wish wouldn’t come true that night. Billy turned to me with a semi-disgusted look and said, “I’m not going out there to dance.” With that, he turned his back to me. No further conversation was to be had.

  No new bride should have to face the harsh reality that her marriage is pretty much over while she’s still entertaining guests at her wedding reception. But that’s what happened to me.

  This was supposed to be the most important dance of our new life together, and he wouldn’t budge from his seat. All the red flags about Billy were now waving, clear for me to see. How could we ever survive as husband and wife?

  I rushed into the bathroom and sobbed for a good five minutes. In the weeks that followed, I never picked up the professional wedding pictures. What bride would only pick up the eight-by-ten wedding picture of herself and leave the rest? Well, I did.

  I was saved from a great deal of marital discord by my continuous work and travel. Eileen Ford kept me working hard and often, though Billy hated every minute of it. He complained all the time about my long working hours, but never found the need to secure permanent employment for himself. He hated more than anything else my extended out-of-town trips, particularly those that took me out of the country. He would beg me not to leave every time I began to pack my bags. I would cry for hours before the cab showed up, while Billy would just stand there pleading with me to stay. Ultimately, our standoffs ended the same exact way: I would wipe away my tears, then jet off into the sunset.

  At some point, Billy and I moved out of his parents’ apartment into our own place in Brooklyn. Billy continued to halfheartedly take odd jobs here, there, and everywhere. None of them added up to much, and they paid even less. After accompanying me on one of my photo shoots, he even charmed his way into working as a photographer’s assistant. It didn’t hurt matters that Billy could supply all the party favors (i.e., weed) at the photo shoot, which made for an extremely happy time for all. I certainly enjoyed smoking weed in moderation, but I was becoming increasingly uneasy with the overlap of Billy’s illegal gigs with my professional life. Who knew how it could affect my potential business ventures in the fashion world and beyond? But I bit my tongue and continued to pretend all was well. Love can be blind, but I knew Billy was both the best thing in my life and in some ways the worst.

  To keep my spirits up and my mind focused, I met with Eileen and her team regularly to discuss my future. Eileen and I would have lunch to go over every last detail of my contracts and business deals. I loved the way her brain was wired and appreciated the time she took with me, advising me on my plans for books, movies,
and countless other ventures.

  But it would be a painful process. Eileen Ford and I would share a number of successful moments during the span of my career, but she didn’t arrive at the top of the modeling management profession during the fifties and sixties by being a demure, meek, mild little woman. She was, even by her own account, callous, abrasive, and at times, intentionally mean-spirited to those she worked with.

  Stories detailing Ford’s heart of stone run rampant in the fashion industry and for good reason. Although I had heard any number of horror stories about Eileen and her rather unpleasant behavior, I never expected to have my own nightmare tales to add to the legend. But I would.

  In my constant hustle for more insight into what made the Ford Agency so dominant, I would sometimes go into the offices just to hang out when I wasn’t working. I chatted up various agents about who was doing what, which models were getting booked for which jobs, and who was putting on too many pounds or doing too many drugs. The more I hung around the offices, the more I learned—what I had to do to soar and, equally important, what I needed not to do if I wanted to gain the top spot.

  On one particularly sunny morning I got more than I bargained for when I heard Eileen inside her office asking in her most frustrated voice, “Has anyone heard back from Naomi Sims?”

  At the time, Naomi Sims was the most prominent African-American model in the world. Naomi had been the first woman of color to really turn fashion industry heads, in the late sixties and early seventies. But word was spreading that the trailblazing beauty was becoming more and more undependable, showing up late or not at all for photo shoots and runway shows. This had not been typical behavior displayed by her in the early stages of or even at the height of her career. Sadly, Sims was in the midst of a real-life emotional crisis that few knew about. The full extent of her struggles, which included bipolar disorder, wouldn’t be understood until her death some thirty years later.

  The Ford Agency sponsored an annual modeling competition in Capri, Italy, that showcased beautiful women from all around the world. Naomi always competed and was one of the few black models, if not the only, featured in the event. She was also a Capri favorite, which was no surprise, given how much Italian men love women with darker skin tones. But now she was missing.

  At this point in my career, and my life for that matter, I hadn’t traveled out of the state of New York, much less the country. But if Eileen saw my brown face, maybe she would realize how easily I could sub for Naomi. It wouldn’t do for me to just go in and suggest the idea to her; that would be too forward and suggestive. Eileen needed to visualize on her own how perfect a fit I would be for the wonderful Naomi. After about fifteen minutes of ever so subtly inching closer to Eileen’s office, our eyes met, and I could see the lightbulb go off in her head.

  By that same afternoon, I was on my way to Buffalo via train in search of my birth certificate to apply for my first passport.

  My traveling companions for the weeklong trip to Italy for the competition would be Eileen, her husband Gerard, and several other models. Staff members from the Ford Agency in the States, as well as other models from Ford’s international offices, would join us as well.

  Italy, including the island of Capri, was everything I ever imagined it would be. It was charming and beautiful. I remember wishing Dada and my sisters were there with me because there was no way I could explain to them what I was seeing. Capri was full of imperial villas, medieval churches, and elegant nineteenth-century residences. I couldn’t take my eyes off the shimmering blueness of the Mediterranean Sea as we crossed over from Naples to Capri by ferry. I had never seen water that gorgeous shade of cobalt blue before.

  We were all handed money by the agency to spend for the week. I don’t recall the exact amount, but it was a pretty nice sum—enough to buy trinkets for loved ones back home. Holding on to that wad of cash wouldn’t be easy as I walked the lovely cobblestone streets of the island. Each day was a new adventure, and I welcomed it with open arms. We visited the legendary Piazzetta, a tiny square with panoramic views, delightful pavement cafés, and exclusive boutiques. I couldn’t get enough of the food of Capri. Each night everyone from the agency dined on yummy dishes with names I couldn’t pronounce like Ravioli caprese, Bucatini alla Chiummenzana, and Totani e Patate. We were having a ball and paying little attention to our dwindling funds as we partied the week away. As I expected, the locals embraced me—and my brown skin—assuring me wherever they saw me that I would surely win the competition hands down. Anytime this happened, Eileen would chime in and quickly disagree. She wanted to make sure my hopes weren’t too high. But I wouldn’t let Eileen rain on my parade no matter how much she tried.

  On the day of the event I rocked my Star Wars Princess Leia look (before there was a Star Wars or a Princess Leia) with my hair parted down the center and a braided bun on each side. I wore a one-piece black swimsuit with gold trim as opposed to the traditional two-piece swimsuits most of the other girls wore. (I’ve always been flat-chested, so two-piece bikinis didn’t do much to flatter my figure.) The city turned out in full force that night, and I can still feel how my heart pounded each time I stepped onto the stage and heard the deafening applause. Even with all that, I came in second place, and the crowd began to loudly boo as I approached the stage to accept my award, which included a one-hundred-thousand-dollar one-year work contract. For a brief moment I thought they were booing me personally, until someone explained that they were booing because I had only won second place. As she handed me the trophy, Eileen said snidely, “An American had to be among the winners somehow, I guess.” She had to get in a dig, but I didn’t care.

  My roommate, Ann, and I decided to make the most of our last days on the island and do whatever we wanted. I bought a few gifts for family and friends, which left me completely out of cash. On the night before we were to leave, Eileen gave us the exact time and place where we were all to meet up with her the next day, since she had our tickets for the ferry and flight back to New York from Rome.

  In the morning, Ann and I packed and hurried down from our hotel to the villa where Eileen was staying with her husband. On our way, the cleaning ladies stopped us and told us in broken English that the guests were already gone. Alarmed, we ran to the pier, thinking Eileen and the crew would be waiting for us.

  There was no one there.

  The men in charge of the ferry that was idling in the bay weren’t interested in giving us a free ride, so I ran up to the ferry office to find out if Eileen had left our tickets there. No luck. None of this made sense. Where could they be, and why wouldn’t they leave our tickets if they went on without us?

  I would have more questions and an even larger surprise when I returned to the pier minutes later. Both Ann and the ferry were gone now, too. What in the hell was going on? I immediately started looking in the water and around the pier thinking that heffa Ann had better well be floating in the ocean because she had no business leaving me like that. And the heffa had my trophy with her, too! Who did she think she was? I had given her my trophy because I didn’t have enough room in my suitcase. I really didn’t know what to do next. I was in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language, and I didn’t have a dime to my name, or any way to get home. I didn’t see how it could get much worse. I had been the toast of the town a few days before, and now I was walking the streets with my luggage, hoping to find someone who spoke at least a smidge of English so I could tell them of my pitiful plight.

  Tired and hungry, I stopped by a sidewalk café and casually began chatting with a woman who spoke a bit of English. She was Angel Number 1, a wealthy woman who owned her own small plane. She was headed to Naples that day and offered me a ride. Once at the train station in Naples, I still needed to get to Rome, where the American Embassy was located. I walked up and down the platform sharing my tragic story with the workers there, but they either weren’t buying it or didn’t understand me.

  Finally, one older gentleman—Angel Numbe
r 2—motioned for me to follow him to the back of the train. There, he slid a door open and out came the overwhelming smell of manure. Inside the train car were goats and the workers entrusted with taking them from farm to farm. The man nodded for me to get in, which I reluctantly did. I really needed the ride. I smiled sweetly at the old women and men already on board and sat down on my luggage. It took a long time to get from Naples to Rome.

  A few hours into the trip, I began to smell something other than manure—the amazing aroma of spices and dough. One of the older ladies smiled and handed me a large piece of bread. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted in my life, and I ate it like I hadn’t eaten in a month. Angel Number 3 had appeared.

  Once I arrived in Rome, I headed straight to the embassy, where they rushed through the paperwork for my ticket home. Thankful for their help and too ashamed to ask for more, I didn’t have the heart to request the bus fare to the Rome airport. Dragging my luggage from the embassy to the bus stop, I finally broke down in tears; the burden of my long journey had at last taken its toll. Tears were rolling down my face as I watched person after person board the buses heading to the airport. As I stood there, I noticed a blond man staring at me. He was tall and quite good-looking, with a very cute smile. My Angel Number 4 had just arrived in the form of a German soldier. He asked me why I was crying, and I explained my situation as best I could. Amazingly, he bought me a bus ticket and we talked the entire ride. Well, I talked the entire ride and he listened; I don’t think he understood the bulk of what I was saying, but he seemed to enjoy it. We parted ways with a hug just inside the airport, and I remember thinking how funny it was that some people come into our lives for a season and then some come in for just a twenty-minute bus ride. Both can make an incredible difference in your life.