The Face That Changed It All

by Beverly Johnson

  As the months turned into years and then decades, I would see my mentor only sporadically around New York as her business ventures began to wane and her public appearances became virtually nonexistent. Still, there is no chance of my forgetting the last time we saw each other in person. It was during Oprah Winfrey’s Legends Ball held at her spectacular Montecito, California, home in 2005. The three-day celebration honored twenty-five African-American women in art, entertainment, and civil rights. Coretta Scott King, Diana Ross, Maya Angelou, and other women of note were honored as Legends. Many others were in attendance. Although I can’t take full credit for Naomi’s invitation, I often praised her publicly, including to Oprah and everyone around her. My goal was to make sure Naomi was included at all major events such as the Legends Ball and to encourage continued recognition for all her many contributions to the world of fashion. For reasons I never really understood, Naomi rarely got the attention she deserved for all her accomplishments, and that hurt my heart so much. I felt it was my duty to right that wrong any way I could. Oprah, being Oprah, loved hearing about Naomi’s trailblazing work and immediately sent an invite Naomi’s way. The Queen of Daytime Talk did more than just invite Naomi, she honored her as one of the 25 Legends, which I really think overwhelmed Naomi. She seemed truly grateful for all of the attention that weekend.

  I think what connected me with Oprah was very much what connected me with Naomi. In Oprah, I felt the same kindred spirit I felt with Naomi. I could see someone traveling on an uncharted path, all the while preparing a road for the next generation to follow, to allow them to shine even brighter than the generation before. For that very reason, Oprah and I have shared a long and warm relationship that goes all the way back to her reporting days in Baltimore. When she first requested an interview with me in the very early eighties, my small inner circle of friends thought an interview with her would be a complete waste of my time because she wasn’t working on a national show, but I strongly disagreed. I have always been honored when anyone had any interest in me or my journey over the years. No one is obligated to care about you or your accomplishments, so I have never taken a request for an interview lightly and pray I never will. I happily accepted the invitation to talk to the woman with the unique name.

  During that first interview, Oprah and I strolled down West Fifty-Seventh Street together, discussing my career and the fashion world in general. We handed the microphone back and forth as we laughed and walked. Not to pat myself on the back too much, but I don’t mind saying that I knew soon after meeting her that Oprah was destined to be the next big thing in television. The way she took charge of the interview that day made it clear to me that this lady had serious staying power in the entertainment industry. Oprah had an unmistakable sparkle and a forceful drive that were apparent to me from the first time we shook hands. What she wanted she got, and what she wanted was a national daytime talk show. You know the rest of the story.

  What I love and still always admire about Oprah is her immense loyalty to those who were there for her from the beginning. When she became a household name with her award-winning daytime show, she often invited me on as a guest, a thank-you of sorts for that day on the streets of Manhattan. I appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show twelve times, which was a godsend for me as my career transitioned from magazine covers to my own business ventures in beauty and television.

  So I was in “sista-girl heaven” at Oprah’s palatial mansion on that beautiful day in 2005, at the beginning of the Legends Ball weekend. Maybe because it had been such a long time since I had been in her presence, I didn’t immediately recognize Naomi. She looked amazing as always and relatively the same as she had that day at the Halston show so many years before—still, something was just a bit off. Naomi was only four years my senior, but she always seemed so much more worldly, wise, and mature than me. I think it was because she began modeling when she was fifteen years old and she had seen so much more of life than I had by the time we met. I would learn much later that day at Oprah’s house that Naomi was battling a form of cancer that would take her life just four years later.

  Naomi Sims was also struggling with bipolar disorder. Apparently, this disease hit her hard while she was still in the modeling business and was the ultimate reason behind her many late arrivals for photo shoots, her disappearances, and her early retirement. It explained so much about her withdrawal from public life for long periods of time and the fact that she never developed extended and meaningful relationships in the industry. Seeing her at Oprah’s home was the last opportunity I had to speak with my gorgeous mentor, the last time I had the chance to laugh and talk about funny moments of days gone by. The next call I received about Naomi came from her family to inform me of her death.

  Her passing was sad, but the circumstances surrounding her funeral in Manhattan in 2009 were even sadder. Only about twelve people, including her children, were in attendance.

  As I sat in the pew at the church with my dear friend Deborah Gregory—whom I modeled with in Europe, and who wrote the popular children’s book series The Cheetah Girls—I was so angry that so few people turned out to celebrate the life of such a legendary and game-changing beauty. Why weren’t more industry people of every color there showing respect for her life’s contributions? Where were the designers with whom she worked? Where were the African-American magazine editors and beauty writers who knew her story and struggle all too well? Where were all the brown and black models (both young and old) who surely knew the story of how this woman opened—no, kicked down—doors for them? And I knew they knew the story because I had told it to them! (For the record, former models Alva Chin and Coco Mitchell attended, as did Essence magazine’s Mikki Taylor and former editor-at-large of Vogue André Leon Talley.)

  My heart broke, thinking of all those fake people who had jumped through hoops just to get into every one of Naomi’s invitation-only cocktail parties at her home. But on her final day, they couldn’t make the time to utter one last farewell.

  Naomi taught me many valuable lessons while she lived, but none were as essential or as painful or as true as the one she left me in her death.

  “Enjoy your life. Toot your own horn while you can, because in the end you die alone.” Harsh, I know, but ultimately as real and as honest as it gets.

  That’s one lesson that stays with me to this day. Thank you, my dear Naomi.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll”

  Two years into my professional modeling career, I had become an incredibly big name among the fashion elite in a relatively short period of time, but sometimes I had to ask myself if success had come at too steep a price.

  By my own measure, I was missing out because I hadn’t been able to acquire many of the precious things I’d always imagined I would have by my early twenties. I didn’t have the “perfect” life my friend Dada had—kids, the picket fence, and a beautiful white house with the powder-blue shutters to match. That safe and serene life was everything I yearned for some days. My face had appeared in a few top magazines, and I’d traveled to some amazingly beautiful places, but I had also had to ride in back of a train filled with goat manure. Celebrity wasn’t all about champagne and roses.

  But I was grateful for the life I was living because I knew it was truly out of the ordinary. I was accomplishing something few women of color ever had a chance to, and I never took that for granted, even if the enormity of it all was sometimes overwhelming. There were just days when I wanted it all to slow down for a few hours, so I could exhale and, as clichéd as it may sound, catch my breath. I wanted to be a “regular” girl. I didn’t feel that way about my life every day, just as I assume Dada probably didn’t dream of being somewhere other than living in her white house with the picket fence in Buffalo. But I’m sure she had her days, too.

  Nothing convinced me more of my new semi-fabulous reality than the day I was headed down the escalator in Bloomingdale’s in Manhattan at the same time that my old pal, Jackie Ke
nnedy, was coming up the escalator on the other side. Jackie very politely waved to me and said in a loud voice, “Hi, Beverly.”

  You know you’ve arrived when Jackie acknowledges you first in a public place.

  While Jackie’s public shout-out said something about my current station in life, I actually gauged my success in other ways. The mere fact that I was constantly booked for editorial layouts by some of the top magazines the world over said a lot; appearing regularly in Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and Glamour was now my job, and that was no small feat.

  But in other areas of my life, things were not going so well. My marriage to Billy was at the top of that list.

  We had been husband and wife for eighteen months, and Billy still wasn’t working—well, not at a job where he was able to fill out a W-2 form. Making matters worse was how comfortable he seemed with this totally lopsided arrangement. My husband was quite content to live off my earnings for as long as I was content to allow him to do so. He broke my heart piece by piece every day for those eighteen months, and I was much too embarrassed to let anyone know what was really going on in our marriage.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell my mother, or even Dada, that I had known on my wedding day I was making a mistake by marrying Billy. If I had been honest with myself I would have admitted that I was blinded by his charming nature from day one. Billy was so good-looking and smart, but what did it matter if he wouldn’t put any of it to use? This was the early seventies, just as the seeds of another brilliant black art form—hip-hop and rap—were being planted in New York City. I could have imagined Billy using his smarts to land at the forefront of that movement, but that wasn’t in the cards, and sadly neither was the continuation of our marriage.

  As I began to mourn what I realized was the start of the end of our union, I began seeking new, nonromantic relationships to fill the emotional void. That wasn’t an easy task given the insane number of work hours I put in going from job to job. Editorial shoots often had a call time in the wee hours of the morning and would continue throughout the day until all hours of the night.

  To help me through those times, I started to gather an array of interesting gal pals, gay friends, and characters of all types from inside my work world. Many of my nearest and dearest gal pals from those years remain in my life today, which is a rarity given that fashion is filled with big egos.

  Fortunately, Lisa Taylor, Rosie Vela, Patti Hansen, and Grace Jones entered my life around this time. All these women were strikingly beautiful, and each modeled at one point in her career. Each would leave her own unique thumbprint on my life.

  Patti Hansen and I had some pretty crazy, sexy, and very cool times during our photo shoots and magazine assignments over the years. Watching her fall in love with Keith Richards was both scary and incredibly fun. Patti grew up so fast once she met Keith. Nothing can prepare you for the wild antics you witness while hanging out with the Rolling Stones, just as nothing can prepare you for witnessing the notoriously cheap Mick Jagger excuse himself just before the waitress brings the check for dinner.

  I loved it when I had the chance to fly on the Concord with Patti and the Stones. Keith would often play a new song for me and then wait like a little kid for my opinion. He truly valued my musical ear and knew I’d give him my honest thoughts. He will forever be the talented, cool, rocker guy.

  Mick Jagger was once married to another model gal pal of mine, Jerry Hall. Long before she married him, she turned up to a photo shoot dripping in diamonds and wearing a luxurious chinchilla fur, considered by many to be the fur of furs. Jerry told us that she had been invited to some faraway Arab island for the weekend and was given the luxury goods at no charge—and nothing was given in exchange.

  “I didn’t even have to screw them!” she said proudly in her Texas drawl.

  Jerry also told me she would ask about my joining her on the island the next time. I liked that idea—I wasn’t hurting for anything, but I could always add another fur and some diamonds to the wardrobe.

  A few months went by before we saw each other again, and when we did, I asked Jerry about the trip. She laughed and said when she’d showed the Arab men my photograph they had said, “She’s beautiful! But she looks just like our wives, and we don’t want anyone who looks like our wives.”

  Rosie Vela was drop-dead gorgeous, with strawberry-blond hair, and her lips were so naturally lush and full that kids teased her while she was growing up, calling her “Nigga Lips” back in her hometown of Galveston, Texas.

  I kid you not, that is one of the first stories Rosie told me the day we met. I knew immediately we would become the very best of friends for life.

  Rosie was so full of vigor and uninhibited fun that I loved hanging out with her. She was a real down-home Texas girl whose first passion was music. When we initially met, Rosie was in a relationship with the artist Peter Max. Max is known for his use of psychedelic shapes and bright colors in his artwork, and in the 1970s he was also heavily involved in efforts to restore the Statue of Liberty. My visits to the apartment Rosie and Peter shared on Riverside Drive were some of my most, shall we say, spiritually enlightening moments of the decade.

  Peter would bring out these crazy oversized blank canvases for the three of us to paint to our hearts’ desires. That little exercise released pent-up stress and anxiety I didn’t know was buried deep inside me. As the night wore on, Peter would often do what many great men of that decade did—he’d bring out the good stuff so we could really paint our masterpieces in 3-D. Well, Peter painted masterpieces; ours fell way short. He offered us a little “shirt,” a hallucinogen, something akin to LSD or magic mushrooms, and boy did that make our night that much more fast and furious.

  Billy’s side career had already introduced me to various versions of all types of drugs, so I was pretty familiar with how to manage that trippy feeling you get after taking magic mushrooms. But out-of-body experiences weren’t the only perks I received when I visited Rosie and Peter. The fabulous pair also taught me something else of immeasurable value: how to eat, and when to eat.

  It was absolutely an unspoken rule in the world of modeling then—as it is now—that the thinner you were the better you’d look on a page. We all lived or died by that rule and achieved it by any means we could. I remained thin by relying on any number of vices, each one more detrimental than the next. The first involved barely eating anything, all in order to maintain my 108-pound, five-foot-nine frame. I usually drank black coffee through the day to keep my energy levels up and sipped chicken broth at times to squash hunger pangs.

  On one occasion my twenty-year-old body rebelled against my decision to deny it food. I was riding in the backseat of a taxicab one day, heading home from a modeling job in New York City, when suddenly, I started twitching uncontrollably. Convulsions began to take control of every inch of me as my poor cabdriver watched in the rearview mirror. I yelled at him to pull over because I knew exactly what was wrong—I had witnessed it before with other girls who weren’t eating. I ran (well, wobbled) to the bodega on the corner and grabbed a bag of M&M’s and devoured them. My body stopped shaking immediately, and just like that I was fine.

  Now, the average person would likely reconsider her eating habits after a scare like that. But not me. To quote Tina Chow—a famous model who would one day marry Michael Chow, the owner of the famous New York eatery Mr. Chow, “Not a morsel of food shall pass these lips.” I wholeheartedly agreed and would repeat that mantra daily.

  I continued to barely eat until Rosie and Peter showed me the proverbial light. Once a week, Rosie would treat herself to a small bowl of brown rice and a poached egg. When I dined on that at their apartment for the first time, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. For years I was certain rice was Satan, and now I was learning I could eat brown rice once a week without gaining an ounce. I could also eat an egg once a week without gaining a pound. Why hadn’t someone thought to give me this crucial information sooner? Who knows what other damage my body suffered as
a result of improper nutrition during all those years?

  Lisa was an entirely different kind of person from my other friends.

  Lisa was an honest-to-goodness, true-American blue blood, and the first real one I had ever met. Her family owned a mega textile empire and had more money than the Rockefellers and the Gettys put together, or so it seemed. On most days, Lisa appeared not to have one care in the world, and why would she with a pedigree like that? She was completely fascinating and absolutely adorable. But nothing is ever as it appears, and I would later realize Lisa’s happy-go-lucky persona was a façade. Still, the two of us had some kick-up-our-heels good times before some real hard truths came crashing down around us.

  One of our first few outings together was to pose for the respected German-Australian photographer Helmut Newton in California. He was well known for his sexy black-and-white images, but he rarely photographed black girls, so I was pretty excited, as well as honored, to be included in one of his shoots.

  Newton did his best to live up to his erotic reputation the first time Lisa and I stepped in front of his cameras in a hotel on Sunset Boulevard. He insisted we remove our tops and bras; Lisa had few inhibitions about most things, and that flowed over to disrobing for art’s sake. So I relaxed and did the same.

  After we completed the work part of our day, Lisa took charge of the rest of the evening by introducing me to all her famous friends—male friends mostly—and I do mean famous. Our So Cal evenings were never dull, as we were constantly being wined and dined by Dustin Hoffman, Warren Beatty, Jack Nicholson, and Robert Evans. Dustin Hoffman was my favorite because he was just so cute and always told the corniest jokes. Lisa had dated all of them at some point, and appeared more than happy to share the love had I been the least bit open to the idea of dating any of them, too.