The Face That Changed It All

by Beverly Johnson

  The opportunities for adventures in the romance department were there for the taking if I had been interested, but I really wasn’t. For example, Warren Beatty felt the need to test my interest after Lisa and I had dinner with him at his Hollywood Hills home. As we wrapped up the evening, Beatty coyly suggested I stay over. It wasn’t that late, I wasn’t that drunk, and I had a ride home. Lisa was clearly in the middle of a romantic relationship with Beatty at this time, so I assumed he was suggesting we have a threesome. I didn’t know if I should be flattered or offended—or both. I hadn’t gotten that type of invitation before, though I was aware they were extended all the time. Any other man would have surely received a piece of my mind after making that kind of request to my face, but this was Warren Beatty in his glory days when he was a true Hollywood movie star. In the end, I said a simple no thank you. Threesomes weren’t my cup of tea, and I wasn’t about to change that just to fit into the Hollywood scene or to make the admittedly adorable Warren Beatty happy for a night. (Later, though, when I thought about it some more, I realized it had been a damn insulting and outlandish suggestion.)

  Though Warren Beatty was a bust, I was pleasantly surprised when Jack Nicholson arrived in New York not long afterward and called to ask me to join him for a night on the town. We went to the theater (not a clue as to what we saw that night) and had dinner afterward. Jack is both charming and entertaining as all get-out, and even then he had a reputation as a ladies’ man. At the end of the evening, he politely asked me if I wanted to join him back at his Upper East Side apartment. I liked Jack, but not enough to join him back at his apartment that night, though I was flattered he asked. Without missing a beat, Jack flashed me that infamous Nicholson grin before signaling to his driver to take me home.

  I didn’t get a call from Jack for a second date. I sometimes wished he had called because I would have loved getting to know him better. But with so many options, famous men really have little incentive to get to know someone better. For the record, inviting a woman home after the first date is not an example of real interest from my standpoint. But I didn’t hold it against Jack, and now, whenever I see him out and about in Los Angeles, he always waves at me and blows me a kiss from across the room.

  Lisa was a doll for introducing me to all her famous pals—not everyone would have been so kind as to share so many big-name celebs with a friend. She had beauty, money, and access to the most famous names in the business, and I never thought twice about what might be happening in the rest of her world. I wasn’t big on digging into other people’s personal lives, because I sure didn’t want anyone digging into mine. If someone wanted me to know something, they would tell me, and vice versa. Lisa had a lot of relationships with men, which could have signaled something deeper or nothing at all. What did I know? What I did know was that she would often complain about her parents’ backward views on race in America. They hadn’t evolved on the issue as much as she had, which seemed to bother her a great deal.

  Whatever life issues Lisa was facing, I never suspected they were serious enough that she would try to take her own life.

  Lisa always showed up for work—we both shared that trait. So I knew something was wrong when she missed a Vogue photo shoot. That just wasn’t Lisa. Worried, I called Eileen Ford, and Eileen, being Eileen, went into full mama bear mode, calling the NYPD, demanding they break down Lisa’s Upper East Side apartment door. That was one time I was grateful for Eileen’s dominating personality. The police found Lisa just in the nick of time—she was close to death from a drug overdose. Her life saved, she entered therapy, and eventually returned to modeling, where she enjoyed a long and thriving career.

  Lisa is now healthy, married with kids, and has spoken openly in several documentaries about the many personal demons that haunted her both before and during her days as a model. She emphasizes that modeling only helped magnify her struggles. Our experiences together, both good and bad, created an unbreakable bond between us that I hold very dear.

  Lisa wasn’t alone in her struggles with drugs. Drugs were pretty much everywhere during the seventies. Hollywood, the music industry, the fashion industry, or right up front in my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s side hustle—there was no escaping the hold drugs had on that era or on my generation. The civil rights movement ended, the conflict in Vietnam was winding down, and people across the country in general appeared to be in need of a release from the heavy emotional burdens of the previous decade. Drugs fit that bill.

  It was an “anything goes” time for some of us. And in my world, there was no better example of the anything-and-everything-goes lifestyle than the famed nightclub Studio 54. I only made one trip to Studio 54 in all my years in New York. That said, although I may have stepped foot into the place only once, I ended up staying three days once I got there.

  If ever there were a world similar to what I thought Sodom and Gomorrah from the Scriptures would have been like, it was that legendary establishment. On the Friday I arrived, one of the club’s owners, Steve Rubell, singled me out of the huge crowd outside and I walked right into the world’s most famous nightspot.

  The ground floor of Studio 54 had tables with servers circling around you carrying plates of anything and everything your heart desired, and I do mean drugs. Downstairs, where the bathrooms were, anything and everything you could imagine was happening. People were shooting up, snorting up, and screwing, as if they were in the privacy of their own homes. You literally would have to step over couples fornicating in the middle of the floor to get into a bathroom stall. Used condoms were stuck to the floor panels and half-naked men and women (or completely naked) walked around as if they were in the Mardi Gras parade. Cocaine was being passed around on trays.

  I’d seen my share of shocking sights in the early years of my modeling career, but nothing really prepared me for what I saw at Studio 54 over the course of those three days. I understood that I wasn’t dealing with reality anymore.

  But I also understood the life I was living at that moment, and that I had been placed there for a reason. My goal was to reach the highest levels possible in modeling, so turning back was not an option for me. Getting what I wanted meant I couldn’t always be in my comfort zone, and there were people at Studio 54 whom I needed to see.

  I finally made my way up to the third floor of the club. Halston, Andy Warhol, and countless other famous faces of the day huddled there on long, cozy couches. There, these independent thinkers exchanged ideas on books, fashion, movies, plays, and whatever else brilliant minds share when they get together in one room. I felt pretty special sitting in the middle of all that. It was a big confidence booster for me to realize they wanted to hear my input.

  Breakfast was ordered in for all of us, as was lunch. Then, like Groundhog Day, the night would begin all over again. Clothes and costumes were already there, so there was little need to go home to change. Halston, Calvin, Ralph, Diane von Furstenberg, and countless other designers who regularly called the famed nightclub their home away from home made sure an endless supply of everything guests needed was on hand. I’ll never forget dragging myself into work Monday morning and hearing my hairdresser, as he pulled confetti out of my hair, say, “I know where you were the last few days.”

  As for drugs, you didn’t have to go to Studio 54 to get your fix. In the fashion world, they were provided for us models free of charge.

  I won’t sugarcoat my involvement with drugs. It really came down to vanity, pure and simple. The allure of cocaine for me was initially tied directly to what I saw when I looked in the mirror. When I was using coke, the whites of my eyes seemed much clearer, my weight dropped, and the bone structure in my face became more pronounced. This is exactly the result every model wants. That’s how you get roped in, and that’s how you get stuck.

  That’s more than likely what happened to the model Gia. There is really no way to discuss this period of my life or the drugs that ran rampant in the modeling industry without mentioning Gia Carangi.

&
nbsp; Gia was a gorgeous girl from Philadelphia, whose dark, melancholic Italian looks stood in bold contrast to the typical blond-haired, blue-eyed beauties who dominated the fashion industry back then. Gia was often a part of my group of girls, the ones regularly chosen to appear in fashion layouts together for top magazines. We all formed a pretty tight bond as a result, but Gia always remained a bit of an outsider. Friendly, but aloof, Gia was difficult to figure out, but over time the reasons behind her mysterious personality would become painfully apparent.

  Gia and I shared a champion in famed photographer Francesco Scavullo. He had been instrumental in launching Gia’s career and would soon play a key role in defining mine, too. It was hard not to adore Francesco because his heart was so big and so giving. Francesco was set to shoot just the two of us at his studio for a feature magazine spread, and it wasn’t until he brought us together that day that I began to fully appreciate the depth of Gia’s drug issues.

  Gia rushed into Francesco’s photo studio late and immediately asked me if I wanted to meet her in the restroom to do a quick “one and one” before our session began. (One and one is when you take a hit of cocaine in one nostril and then a second hit in the other.) Everyone in those days carried their cocaine in these cute little glass bottles that looked like petite decorative vases. In the restroom I watched in horror as Gia began to pull out a rumpled piece of aluminum foil from her handbag. In my head I thought, What is this crazy chick doing?

  But Gia had another huge surprise for me that day. She wasn’t carrying cocaine in her purse. She unraveled the aluminum foil to reveal something else entirely: heroin. Only then did it hit me how much trouble Gia was really in.

  I had used my fair share of cocaine, but heroin was hard-core, and I knew enough at that point to run in the opposite direction of it and from anyone using it. I’m pretty sure that was the last time we ever worked together and possibly the last time I ever saw Gia.

  She continued to get jobs here and there for a while after that, but eventually her drug addiction got the upper hand. Makeup artists began to complain about the extra work required to cover the track marks on her arms. Years later, we would all learn of Gia’s death due to AIDS. She had moved back to Philly to live with her parents after she could no longer find work. Francesco, bless his heart, continued to send financial support her way until the end. Gia was only twenty-six years old when she died.

  Gia’s AIDS- and drug-related demise didn’t quite have the sobering impact it should have had on the modeling industry at the time, partially because she had vanished from the scene years before her death. What was clear was that the fashion industry had the potential to crush even the best and strongest of us. Your life was often not your own, and yet everything was handed to you on a silver platter whether you asked for it or not. It sounds fun, and it can be for a time, but it can also emotionally stunt you, leaving you ill-equipped to face the future. For many, fame and fortune is a lonely journey that ends abruptly. And reality is often far away. I can recall few times when I was a top model that I scheduled a doctor’s appointment, pumped gas, bought an outfit, or purchased groceries. How can you become whole and complete without those basic life experiences to draw upon? That’s why I continued to yearn for and search for a sisterhood beyond my siblings and Dada. Oftentimes, I’d find that connection in the strangest places.

  During the seventies, roller skating rinks grew to be the funkiest and most fabulous spots for the hippest parties in town. A skating rink soiree was one of the hottest tickets back then, and it didn’t matter the name on the invitation, I always wanted to throw my skates on. Skating rinks have always had a special place in my heart, even before my wedding reception at Skateland in Buffalo.

  One night, at one skating party in Manhattan, I was rolling along, minding my own business, when I was bumped hard from behind and almost fell to the floor. I was really mad, and it took a moment for me to regain my composure. I looked back to see who had pushed me, and there was a semi-bald, hot-pink-shorts-no-top-wearing Grace Jones!

  Nothing pisses Grace Jones off more than being ignored—so I ignored her.

  Grace’s androgyny, her commanding voice, her crew cut, her mile-high cheekbones, her dark brown skin, and her steely stare had turned her overnight into a fashion superstar. She had walked the runways for Yves Saint Laurent and Kenzo and had become a cult figure. Her beauty was unique, and she cleverly turned her looks into a career that showcased both her singing and acting ability. I always admired a good hustle, and Grace’s was among the best in the game. A true friendship between us wouldn’t develop until years after the skating incident, when many of the personal demons we had both tried to sidestep could no longer be avoided.

  As my list of friends expanded, so did my workload, and I needed my own glam squad to keep me ready at a moment’s notice. This style and beauty crew would be exclusively in charge of making certain I appeared my best each time I stepped out in front of a camera.

  Ultimately, that glam crew came down to just one man: James Farabee. I can’t remember exactly how I met James. But like most black women, I was always on the lookout for a good hairstylist, which is likely how we crossed paths. You never lose the number of a good stylist, and James was practically perfect in his presentation and his craft. He had been trained in the beautification of hair and skin, and just one visit to his salon was life-affirming for any woman who sat in his chair. In those days, black skin and hair were still deep mysteries to the mainstream world of beauty professionals. The most renowned hair and makeup experts hired by most major publications for photo shoots were white and not trained to work with curly, kinky hair or darker skin tones. We black women were forced to do our own research to find our own wonder beauty products, so when I found James, it was true love from day one.

  James created special concoctions at his Upper East Side Manhattan salon to make sure my skin stayed smooth and pimple free. He also created a regimen for my hair so that it would remain healthy and easy to maintain. (James even gave Eileen Ford a perm to straighten her short and frizzy mane.)

  Beyond the beauty help, James also became my mentor in an entirely different level of art and culture from the one I’d known with Billy Potter. James didn’t just talk culture and beauty, he breathed, lived, and created it through his work. Several nights a week, I accompanied him to performances at the American Ballet Theatre, the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre, and the New York Metropolitan Opera. He insisted I grow spiritually and musically by listening to the recordings of Maria Callas, Nina Simone, and Leontyne Price. And he told me it was crazy to live in Brooklyn and not in Manhattan.

  James also balked at my choice of husband and often hinted that it was way past time for a relationship upgrade. His words of wisdom did ultimately push me to finally pull the plug on Billy Potter and his eighteen-month reign of foolishness in my life. The final straw was Billy’s frantic call to me one day telling me of his arrest for smoking weed on the subway. Billy demanded I come immediately to bail him out of jail; I took a deep breath and calmly told my very-soon-to-be-ex-husband that I would not be coming to his rescue that night.

  My career was going too well to get involved in Billy’s dumb-ass antics anymore. His poor parents bailed him out of jail the next day, but not long after his subway arrest, I felt I had no other choice but to file for divorce. That said, it didn’t exactly change much, since it took a while for Billy to move out of the apartment.

  One day while we were lying in bed together, I told Billy that I would be finalizing the divorce papers that very morning. Billy didn’t respond—in fact, he didn’t say a word or even move. So I got dressed and headed to the courthouse to meet my lawyer and sign the papers. Uncontested divorces weren’t very complicated, and since it was the middle of the week, I was back across the Brooklyn Bridge and at home in a matter of hours. Billy was exactly where I’d left him—in the bed, beneath the covers. Seeing him in that same position, I did what any self-respecting woman does when she has
just divorced her husband. I got right back into the bed with him and we made love.

  It would be months before Billy moved out of the Brooklyn apartment we shared. Even then, he would come back and stay whenever he pleased. He was my first true love and those feelings don’t fade easily. Billy and I still speak today from time to time, and I kept in touch with his wonderful mother until she passed away just a few years ago. Some people, friends, and lovers come into our lives for a reason, or a season, and now both Billy’s reason and season were over. He would reappear again over the years in my times of need. But at that moment, history-making events were on the horizon for me, and I had to be ready.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Darling, You Should Always Wear Red!”

  Things changed rapidly after I ended my marriage with Billy. I moved to Manhattan, and almost immediately I landed a prime, six-week modeling assignment in Brazil. Cheryl Tiegs and I would be photographed along the Amazon. Life was good.

  Brazil was wonderfully soothing to me—I fell in love with it the moment our plane touched the ground. Its festive city streets and pristine beaches pulsated with life, and the lushness and beauty was matched by the Brazilians themselves, whose varied cultures—be it indigenous Indian, Portuguese, or African—made for a fascinating melting pot.

  The editors of Vogue had several ideas for the spread, and by far the most dramatic idea was for a gigantic snake to wrap itself around me in the rain forest while I stood perfectly still for the photo. Now, as a rule I was pretty easygoing and rarely complained or said no to the creative ideas or visions of the editors. But the idea of a large snake curling around my body was going a bit too far for my liking.

  I told both the photographer and Vera Wang—who long before being a renowned haute couture wedding gown designer was a senior fashion editor at Vogue—that I was scared. Their plan to reassure me involved taking me to the hut of a very experienced snake owner so I could have a trial run to calm my nerves.