That long flight back to New York gave me ample time to prepare for my confrontation with those responsible for my nightmare from hell. I took a taxi home from the airport and borrowed money from my doorman to pay for it. I barely slept that night because I was so angry.
I strode into the Ford Modeling Agency bright and early the next morning, ready to give the great Eileen Ford every part of a good tongue lashing. When I arrived, I could see her sitting inside her huge office already doing business, and I made a beeline that way. She wasn’t surprised to see me at all and just sat there as I recounted the horrors I experienced at her hands. Who did she think she was, leaving me stranded alone in Italy? After I finished telling my story, she said, “That will teach you to not spend all your money when you go out of town, won’t it?”
And with that, Ms. Eileen Ford picked up the phone and signaled to me that our conversation was over. This was the real world of big business and modeling. There would be no apologies or hugs to make it all better. Clearly I either had to put on my big-girl panties or pack my bags and go back home. Either way, Eileen wasn’t concerned because she was Eileen Ford, and nothing I said or did that day was going to change that fact.
Still stunned, I walked out to see Ann, who was in the office, attempting to give my trophy to my booking agent. I walked right up to her and said, “What the hell happened to you?”
“Oh, did you just get back?” Ann said, with a fake laugh. “I got back two days ago. I just told those men on the ferry that I was getting on and they weren’t going to put me off.”
I can’t even remember the rest of what she said. It was all a lie, so I just stood there and pretended to be listening. After she finished saying whatever she said, I simply walked away without so much as a good-bye. It was clear Ann wasn’t going to own up to her part in my nightmare. At least Eileen was up front with her lack of remorse. Ann and I were never very friendly again after the incident. I’ve given a lot of thought to the real reason Eileen left me on that island that day, and the only one I can think of was to teach me a lesson. She wasn’t happy that I’d won even second place in the contest or with the fact that I’d received as much attention as I did. She left us that day out of pure spite and nothing more.
In 2012, I shared my Italian story during Eileen’s ninetieth birthday celebration. The room was filled with her family, friends, and beauty-industry people from around the world. The story was a real hit with everyone in the room except Eileen and her family, who did not seem amused. In hindsight, I’m not sure that was the most appropriate place or time to tell that story. My intent had been to be funny and reflective, not cruel or mean-spirited, but I didn’t fully realize the hurtful impact it would have on her or her family that night. As for me, that one incident changed me and opened my eyes to all that was to follow in my modeling career, both good and bad. I was never blindsided in my career the same way again.
CHAPTER 7
Naomi
The first time I ever saw the face of Naomi Sims was on a flight from Buffalo to New York City. Naomi graced the cover of Life magazine in 1969, and I can still remember sitting on the plane and just staring at her image, captivated by every feature of Naomi’s perfectly chiseled, mahogany-hued face. Never in my life had I seen such striking bone structure or a beauty so real and raw. From that very moment Naomi’s influence on me was so profound that I began to wear my hair pulled back in a bun just as she wore hers on that Life cover.
Once I began to model, Naomi was one of those names I heard mentioned with equal parts awe and reverence by those in the industry—and for very good reason. Once she emerged on the fashion scene, she shattered long-standing racial barriers with just one flick of her stiletto heels.
I never thought in a million years that Naomi would take me under her wing when I started modeling, but she did. Shortly after we first met, Naomi invited me to an impromptu soiree at her home. That was Naomi Sims at her very core: warm and wonderful from the start. Just like my dear friend Halston, Ms. Naomi loved throwing talk-of-the-town, glamorous dinner parties whenever the spirit hit her. And, boy, did I love attending them. She and her husband lived in one of the most lavish and chic apartments on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She never failed to show kindness toward me at every turn, and as a result I mistakenly used her loving and friendly nature as the measuring stick for others in the business. It would turn out to be a big mistake.
That first night, though, inside her exquisitely decorated home, Naomi led me by the hand and personally introduced me to every guest in attendance. Now, that’s what I call class. This was around 1973, and my career was really taking off. Naomi was still Queen of the Runway, but I was closing in rapidly as the new It Girl of magazine layouts. We were in different worlds, really, with, as I’ve said, print modeling considered a step above runway. Still, I often wondered how Naomi really felt about me during that period, though I didn’t dare ask.
I’d already had my share of run-ins with a few other models of color and didn’t want a repeat performance. There were other brown models who were none too pleased with my success and found their own ways of letting me know about it. Pat Cleveland, the life of Halston’s parties, had no problem letting me know how unhappy she was with my newfound fame in print. Pat had no intention of sharing the runway mantle with me. A mixture of black, Cherokee, and Irish, the five-foot-ten native New Yorker perfected the art of walking the runway with a dance-like prance. Pat never crossed over to print magazines, something I’m sure she desperately wanted and resented me for doing. She acted as a muse for the likes of Halston, Stephen Burrows, and Yves Saint Laurent, and I was utterly fascinated by how she did whatever it was she did. However, we never shared a particularly warm relationship until well after we both retired from the modeling world. Pat never reached out to me in the way Naomi did, and I always worried that her ultimate goal was to undermine me somehow.
I had plenty of good reasons to feel that way about Pat. I remember a runway show where we were set to pass each other on the catwalk. It had been synchronized to a tee and Pat was set to go out first. I can still see her in that long chiffon dress with the billowy sleeves (Pat was always about the drama). It was decided she would walk down the catwalk with her arms outstretched. On her return up the walk, Pat was supposed to lower her arms so I could pass. Well, Ms. Pat had other ideas in mind that day. As I stood at the head of the stage before walking out, I could see her coming toward me with her arms still outstretched defiantly on either side, and all I could think was, This bitch ain’t gonna let me pass!
I knew I couldn’t just freeze on the stage, but I had to do something to avoid looking foolish. Being an athlete in high school meant I was quite agile, so without skipping a beat I walked down the catwalk as confidently as I could and then quickly ducked under Pat’s outstretched arms. The audience roared with applause, probably assuming that our little dance had been part of the plan all along.
The lack of connection during our careers was sad for any number of reasons but mostly because of the very obvious one. We were among just a handful of high-profile women of color who worked with any consistency in the modeling world, so who had time for that mess? It was Pat, Naomi, and me out there doing our thing in the very white world of Madison Avenue. The kind of foolishness Pat had going on was just plain silly and childish as far as I was concerned. But that’s not to say that I didn’t understand it a little bit. From her viewpoint, I was just a browner face on the scene, prepped and primed to go, and there were only a few jobs available for people who looked like us. The industry had effectively brainwashed Pat to believe that there could be only one of us at the top of the modeling mountain at a time. Sadly, her attitude toward me wouldn’t be a unique one as I continued my journey through the world of high fashion. I would face similar situations with a number of other models of color, particularly one African beauty with a penchant for marrying iconic rock stars.
If it sounds like I’m judging Pat harshly, let me be clear th
at I would never knock anyone else’s hustle in this life. There has never been a guidebook available that taught black models how to maneuver through the very rocky terrain we all had to face. You simply had to follow your instincts, and I just couldn’t undermine another person in the business, much less someone who looked like me. No job was worth compromising my principles.
The most memorable piece of advice Naomi Sims offered me was to avoid anyone who seemed to pit us against each other. She knew the game and wanted no part of it, and she wanted me to sidestep it as well. This piece of common sense was something I shared with all the girls who came along long after Naomi Sims left the game. Naomi’s grace would cross my mind again when my moments of friction moved from Pat and on to Iman much further down the road.
Years later, I would have a heart-to-heart talk with Tyra Banks and Naomi Campbell about this topic. The two popular models began having serious issues with each other at the height of their careers. They weren’t getting along and each felt undermined by the other when it came to getting the best jobs. By chance, I had gotten them in my car at the same time when they were both babes in the game, and I told them about my problems with Pat Cleveland. I then made it clear to them that there was more than enough fame and glory to go around in the world of fashion, no matter who might have told them otherwise. I also told them about Naomi Sims, who had long retired by this time. I wanted them to know how Naomi always offered me nothing but kindness when I entered the business. My point was to show these younger models that this industry wasn’t a competition.
Life was hard enough, and women, whether in the modeling world or not, tend to be particularly hard on one another for the most trivial of reasons. I don’t know if we’re even aware most of the time that we’re attacking one another. I’m just as guilty of it as the next woman and take full responsibility for whenever I’ve been ungenerous.
Whenever I tell anyone about Naomi Sims, an image of our first meeting always comes to my mind.
We were behind the stage of my very first Halston runway show, and I was hovering in a corner, trying as best as I could to apply my makeup. Editorial and magazine shoots were very different from runway shows back then. Magazine shoots provided hair and makeup for models so that they’d look their best. Runway shows, on the other hand, gave you only the bare essentials, because runway shows were all about the designer, so models were essentially on their own.
I hadn’t done much runway modeling at this point, and no one had time to help me that day. I couldn’t much blame them, given that Naomi Sims, the undisputed star of the show, was running late as usual. On the other side of the room, I could clearly see Halston pacing the floor, chain-smoking and cursing under his breath.
Suddenly, Naomi flew in and the room fell silent. The six-foot-tall model stood statue-like in the middle of the floor with her arms outstretched while attendants rushed to undress and then re-dress her.
At some point, Naomi noticed me in the corner fumbling to add another layer of blush to my cheeks and motioned for the dressers to stop. She walked over to me—in her underwear no less—and leaned down to hug me. Then, this flawless example of a woman, who had set the standard for black beauty, and all beauty, looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m so proud of you. I see your pictures in the magazines, and all your work is so wonderful. I’m so happy for all your success! I wish you so much more. Keep up the good work!”
With that she turned to finish dressing for her moment in the Halston spotlight.
There were no elevated runways in the early seventies; models just circled the room for buyers and spectators to get a good look at the designer apparel, and whatever Ms. Naomi modeled, buyers bought and consumers wore.
Naomi was pure magic in those moments, captivating the audience with her fluid moves and limber turns. Unfortunately, she rarely had the chance to display that same magic between the pages and on the covers of high fashion publications. Though she’d graced the cover of Life magazine in 1969, major upscale fashion magazine covers were few and far between. While I would have great future success on the front of ritzy fashion magazines, Naomi was often passed by.
It broke my heart that Naomi never got the same cover opportunities I did, but I honestly think she may have just been too striking for the camera and the industry overall when she first hit the scene. Her presence was commanding, her teeth were blindingly white, and she had facial symmetry women willingly paid surgeons thousands upon thousands of dollars to replicate. Naomi was the epitome of womanhood from head to toe, and that can be one intimidating trait to have in a world where insecurities run amok and fuel a billion-dollar beauty industry. Simply put, she was a freak of nature.
But even before I’d met her, Naomi Sims had made an impression on me.
One brisk fall October day while I was still working at Jax’s, Korby had sent me to pick up lunch near West Fifty-Seventh Street. As I made my way up the block, I noticed a small crowd gathering. I pushed my way through to catch a glimpse of what all the commotion was about. Well, the commotion was all about Naomi Sims. The undisputed Queen of the Runway was walking down the block clad completely in white. This was one of her signature looks—she donned an all-white winter wardrobe as soon as the temperatures dropped below fifty degrees. She favored that color because of the stunning way it highlighted her beautiful dark skin tone. One piece of clothing I always adored of hers was this beyond-stylish off-white wool cape. It was so drop-dead gorgeous that whenever she draped it around her six-foot frame, people literally stopped in their tracks and watched her walk down the block.
This was one of those days. Naomi was walking down West Fifty-Seventh, totally oblivious to the string of admirers she was leaving in her path. I bought my own wool cape soon after because that’s how much I felt the need to be like Naomi. Friends talked me out of purchasing a cape of the same cream color, and I instead scooped up a purple cape I felt complemented my skin tone a bit better.
That wasn’t the only trick of the trade I would borrow from Naomi. As black women, we often take it upon ourselves to play around with our makeup and hair products simply because we have no other choice. No one understood this reality more than Naomi. She was always whipping together some kind of cream or potion for her face and body to make her look even more stunning. This was the perfect lead-in to the makeup and wig company she would one day found after her departure from modeling. One unique formula Naomi eventually shared with me combined iodine with baby oil to give the face a reddish glow. She always wore this beautiful bronze, reddish concoction in lieu of foundation. I know it sounds a bit odd and oily, but trust me it worked well for Ms. Naomi. I put my own twist on the formula and began using the same ingredients, but only applied it to certain areas of my face that I wanted to highlight.
As our careers intersected, I put a lot of thought into where Naomi’s path differed from mine. I think our different skin tones played a major role in how our careers turned out. Naomi’s complexion was much darker than mine, and in the world of fashion, and more specifically fashion photography, that made a world of difference.
The art of lighting darker skin tones—to ensure that their beauty was truly reflected on glossy magazine pages—wasn’t given much attention before the early seventies. There wasn’t much reason to do so because models of color were rarely used in high fashion before then. Women of color hired in the early sixties usually had very light complexions and strong European features.
Naomi, in all her deep-mahogany glory, appeared on the scene during the mid-sixties, just in time for the arrival of Angela Davis and her massive ’fro, the Black Power movement, and the emergence of the Black Panthers. Perfect timing for those smart enough to understand what it meant to the world generally, but most in the fashion and beauty industry didn’t get the memo.
I can’t really imagine the kind of disappointment Naomi must have felt during that time in her career. I can’t imagine what she thought about reaching a certain level of success in her model
ing career, only to find herself unable to ascend any higher due to cultural ignorance and racial prejudice. To her credit, if those major disappointments in her career caused her any sleepless nights she never mentioned them to me. Whenever we’d see each other in the years that followed, Naomi would give me her signature long hug and congratulate me on all my accomplishments in the business.
I enjoyed the bond I had with Naomi Sims and hated it when, in the mid-seventies, her appearances became less and less frequent in runway shows and in ads. My biggest fear was that her absence was partially related to me and my continued success in the fashion game. At the time, I told myself that maybe she’d had enough of all the comparisons and the talk of there being enough room for only one brown girl at a time. The two of us had had the conversation about ignoring talk meant to pit us against each other, but had it all finally become too much for her? That kind of negative chatter was always within earshot at photo shoots and runway shows, and it could eat you up inside if things weren’t going your way. But as much as I worried about Naomi and her feelings, I never asked her about it, because how honest could she have been with me? How honest would I have been if the roles were reversed?
As the years passed, I decided it wasn’t my presence that led her away from modeling at all. Naomi married a very wealthy man and began building several hair and makeup businesses that thrived well into the eighties. She created the original blueprint for Iman, Tyra, Naomi Campbell, and me to brand our own images beyond being just pretty faces between, or on, the covers of magazines. I felt so honored when Naomi Sims called me and asked if I would appear in a number of ads for her beauty products
The Face That Changed It All Page 7