The Face That Changed It All

by Beverly Johnson

  “Vogue, of course!”

  I asked if she could please repeat those words because I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. She said it again, this time a bit slower. “You are on the August cover of Vogue!”

  “Really” is the only word I could manage to get out of my mouth. I believe I said thank you before ending the conversation, but the memory is fuzzy all these years later.

  Though I took Willy at her word, “only seeing equaled believing,” as we said in my neck of the woods. I hurriedly pulled on my jeans, threw on a white T-shirt, and ran down to the local newsstand without even thinking to take my purse with me. The early morning rush in Manhattan was on, with the nine-to-five work crowd in line for their java and a newspaper. I was still too hyped to realize I had no money. When I pointed to the Vogue magazine featuring my face and that beautiful blue sweater styled by Frances, I knew the man recognized that it was me on the cover and was impressed, but not impressed enough to hand over the magazine for free. But at least now I had proof the cover was mine, so I took my time heading back to my apartment to pick up my wallet. On the way, I stopped by a pay phone to call my mother—collect—to tell her about the cover. I was screaming with excitement and so was she, though I doubt she understood the significance of it all.

  In a matter of days my entire world changed. Though I hadn’t thought much about what it would mean to be the first black woman on the cover of Vogue magazine, I had no choice but to seriously ponder its significance after the cover debuted.

  For generations in this country, beauty was traditionally represented by three very distinct ideals in virtually all media: blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. Whether in movies, on television, or on magazine covers, that stereotype never deviated. My Vogue cover shattered that notion forever. It built an immediate bridge for a group of women who had long been invisible to mainstream beauty editors and Madison Avenue. Women of color could boldly say to the world, “Hey, look at me! I’m here and I have value and I am beautiful.”

  Beautiful black women had only been sporadically seen and acknowledged before the seventies. Lena Horne, Dorothy Dandridge, and Pearl Bailey had appeared in occasional film roles during the forties, fifties, and sixties. In fashion, Helen Williams and Donyale Luna had only rarely been able to model outside the confines of the traditional black magazines, Jet and Ebony.

  In Africa and especially Europe, the press were the first to recognize the importance of my Vogue cover when it hit the stands. Magazines on those continents had already been far more likely to showcase black women’s beauty, and accordingly they put in the first requests for interviews with me and highlighted the issue of race in the world of fashion and entertainment.

  On the rare occasions when the beauty of black women was recognized in the US, the impact was often minimal. As the sixties ended and the seventies began, Cicely Tyson, Diahann Carroll, Pam Grier, Diana Ross, and Tamara Dobson were all black women with notable names enjoying a high level of visibility not seen before by women with darker hues.

  Still, there was controversy surrounding many of the images depicting black women. Many felt Pam Grier’s roles on the big screen were overly sexualized and reinforced stereotypes of black women present since slavery. Pam has been a longtime friend of mine, and I was happy she finally got a chance to shine in the 1997 film Jackie Brown, for which she was nominated for a Golden Globe Award.

  The faces of Diahann Carroll and Diana Ross were less controversial, because they portrayed less racy characters, but in any case, as with Pam, audiences had to pay to see their films and listen to their albums. One of the reasons my Vogue cover resonated in the way that it did was because it was sold at every grocery store checkout counter around the country, and every newsstand carried a news banner that ran across the top of the stand showcasing the Vogue cover of the month. There was simply no way to escape my face during the month of August 1974, no way to escape what the new face of beauty might look like in the coming years. That fact alone left an enduring mark on the country, its view of beauty, and the meaning of beauty for decades to come.

  It may be hard to believe today, in an age where everyone appears to have an agenda for just about everything, but it was never my goal to become the first African-American woman to appear on the cover of Vogue. President Barack Obama didn’t campaign to become the country’s first black president in 2008. He was a man who wanted to be president of the United States based on his merits and his work as a community servant. He just happened to be black.

  If I’d gone to meetings with Eileen or Willy with any type of agenda, my face would never have landed the cover of Vogue. My reasoning for wanting the cover was connected to my deep passion for my work and the legacy I wanted to create and leave behind. My race was merely the icing on the cake.

  I always wanted the distinction to be that I was a top model who also just happened to be black. I was by no means some black revolutionary fighting for racial equality. That wasn’t my job, though I admired those who took it upon themselves to fight for it, and I did understand the significance of progress. Of course I appreciated how my face on the cover of Vogue reverberated the way it did then, and I appreciate the way it continues to have significance.

  From day one the cover was described as breaking the color barrier much in the same way Jackie Robinson broke it in baseball. That was a lot to take in as a twenty-two-year-old girl from Buffalo. I was overwhelmed by the enormous honor, while at the same time frightened that I wouldn’t be able to live up to what it meant. Twenty-two years old is pretty young to take in much of anything, especially what you mean to an entire race.

  As proud as I was of being the first African-American model to appear on the cover, I realized I didn’t know quite enough about the history of my race. To combat that, I began collecting books on African history, the slave trade, and the early years of Africans on American soil. My parents hadn’t taught any of us much about our African past, and the school system hadn’t done much better. (In fairness, my mother and father hadn’t been taught much by their parents or teachers, either.) And you can’t teach what you don’t know.

  What I didn’t want to do was to sit in an interview and be asked a question regarding black history that I couldn’t answer. Fortunately, right before the cover appeared I’d hired a publicist, and she sometimes stepped in when it appeared I might be oversharing my opinions during interviews. But she didn’t intervene the day a reporter asked me how it felt being the top black model in the industry. I corrected him by saying that I was the top model, not just the top black model.

  There would be plenty of backlash from that one comment. Some couldn’t believe I would be so bold as to put myself on the same level as superstar white models like Christie Brinkley or Cheryl Tiegs, or worse yet, above them. I wouldn’t feel the full consequences of my success, or that bold declaration, until a few weeks later at fashion shoots with other white models. Models who had always been chatty and friendly with me previously now had very little to say. There was resentment and anger toward me where there hadn’t been before. One friend suggested I recant my statement. I had no intention of doing that. I had said what I meant, and more important, what I had said was true! Boohoo if it made some people uncomfortable or angry. But I was hurt and surprised by a few of the women’s responses to my success. It was just fine if I got a Glamour magazine cover here and there, but Vogue seemed to be considered above my pay grade. It wasn’t as if I’d put myself on the cover of Vogue—the powers that be had made that decision.

  If that wasn’t enough, my own community (i.e., the black community) decided it had issues with me, too. Some were unhappy that I appeared more in mainstream magazines than I did in the handful of black magazines that were on the newsstands, and some even went so far as to suggest that my “European features” were the real reason I landed the cover of Vogue and had had so much success in the white fashion world. Funny how my so-called “white features” never helped me get cabs on the streets of New York,
or prevented me from being followed by security every time I stepped foot inside expensive Madison Avenue boutiques.

  In the midst of all this I got a call from the designer Valentino Garavani, asking me to join him in Italy for a few weeks to serve as his muse while he designed his spring collection for 1975. Valentino was a favorite designer of Jackie Kennedy, and even designed the white dress she wore when she married Onassis. I was happy to agree to the trip.

  Those weeks in Italy with Valentino were divine. He spent days draping yards of satin and lace around my frame, and would often ask for my opinion on textures, lengths, and style patterns. Once the day’s work was done, I’d spend time lounging around his villa on Lake Como. The designer had an abiding love for Asian culture, and his house featured a massive collection of Chinese figurines.

  When I returned to the States from Italy, I began to take acting lessons from the father of method acting, Lee Strasberg. This was the man who trained Paul Newman, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and James Dean, among others. Strasberg plays Hyman Roth in The Godfather Part II, and his performance in that film sent chills down my spine. That he gave me a positive critique for my acting remains one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

  As if the year couldn’t get any better, in the fall my photographer friend Peter Beard invited me out to his Montauk home to take some test photos for a future layout. Peter was a pretty cool guy who would later marry Cheryl Tiegs, and he was handsome—I enjoyed hanging out with him just for the eye candy alone. He loved all things African and could talk about the motherland seemingly forever. Peter was so good-looking that I question to this day my reason for missing out on that love connection. When I arrived for the weekend at his estate, Candice Bergen was there, too, hiding out from some ex-boyfriend she never wanted to see again. Peter’s house was so secluded and secure that no one could find you if they didn’t have the exact directions.

  As Peter snapped me in different outfits around his large estate, he couldn’t stop talking about his latest amazing find in Africa. This was his usual conversation when we chatted, since he was always off saving some elephant, tiger, or other animal he felt was in danger.

  But this time his excitement wasn’t about a four-legged animal in jeopardy of immediate extinction. This time he was talking about a flesh-and-blood human, a woman named Iman Mohamed Abdulmajid. Peter kept gushing about how he discovered Iman in the wild bush of Africa, implying, or so I thought, that she had been in some tribal village in the middle of nowhere. He showed me a few pictures of her dressed in traditional African garb and explained his plans to bring her to this country. He thought she’d be a perfect model.

  The more women of color in the world of fashion the merrier, so I was happy to give my approval. I didn’t give our little chat much thought after that weekend. Just a few months later at a party given at some swanky Manhattan home, I saw Peter arriving just as I was about to leave for the night. On his arm, all the way from Africa, was the stunning Iman. He’d made good on his promise to bring her to the US. Dressed in a gorgeously elaborate African outfit, Iman was far more breathtaking face-to-face than Peter’s photographs had revealed. I reached out to shake her hand, and I’ll never forget feeling her tremble. She was entering a brand-new world and she was scared to death. Not that I blamed her; I was from upstate New York and felt the same.

  But seeing her in person, it was hard not to question the found-her-in-the-bush story Peter had told me, because frankly Iman’s skin was far too flawless, her long, slender polished red nails were far too groomed. But my motto remained, “Never knock anyone else’s hustle,” even though I knew that story would come back to bite someone in the ass.

  After Peter introduced us, he asked if I could stay a little longer to get more acquainted with Iman. I was so fascinated by his African queen that I immediately agreed. That was how it all started, the complicated and rather complex sisterhood of sorts that I have shared with Iman for over three decades, and that continues to this day.

  I won’t lie. My relationship with Iman has been full of ups and downs over the years. I guess this business isn’t exactly the best foundation for building trust and lasting ties. At its core, modeling is based on what’s on the outside—the superficial—and that can bring a world of insecurities to the surface for women.

  But as the years have gone by, our lives have merged and intertwined in ways neither of us could have ever imagined on that first fateful night at a Manhattan house party.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Distinguished Gentleman

  There are more than a few advantages that come along with having your face plastered on the front of glossy periodicals several times a year. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that one of the biggest and best perks of the bunch is catching the attention of world-famous and globe-trotting wealthy men.

  I lost count of the number of times I was invited to dinner parties of rich and fabulous men who only wanted a few hours of my time with no strings attached. One well-known world leader’s dinner party came with a stunning Van Cleef & Arpels five-carat ruby ring sitting right alongside the salad plate. I still take that ruby ring out occasionally to admire it and reminisce. But a call in 1975 from one of the most revered men in sports really sent my head reeling.

  Arthur Ashe was then, and as far as I’m concerned will always be, the stuff bona fide legends are made of. To this day he remains the only African-American man to win the singles titles in tennis at the US Open, the Australian Open, and Wimbledon. And he was fresh off his win at Wimbledon in 1975 when his agent called and suggested we meet for a cozy dinner date in New York City. Since I had been a serious athlete in high school, I took great interest in the young star’s career, and was beyond impressed by his skill, his grace under pressure, and the fact that he’d accomplished so much in a sport that wasn’t exactly known for its inclusiveness or its diversity.

  The intelligence Arthur displayed during his interviews after his matches was matched by the elegance of his serve. He was a class act, but I thought he was a smart, sweet, and adorable nerd—cute, too, yes, but not someone I would consider dating seriously.

  My preference in men had always leaned toward the suave, debonair, and edgy type. I liked men with a certain amount of swagger and bravado. Not a bad boy per se, but not a squeaky-clean guy, either. Arthur was pretty squeaky clean from what I could tell before we met. There was nothing wrong with that, but it just wasn’t my cup of tea.

  Not that Arthur had much choice in the matter. The world he lived in and the game he played didn’t open its doors for just anyone. Swagger of any kind wasn’t allowed in the highbrow world of tennis. The fact that he was allowed in at all showed how truly special he was.

  I’ll never forget explaining my reasoning for turning Arthur down for a date to my guru, James. The look of horror on his face was priceless. Once I’d finished, James took a long, deep breath before explaining the many, many reasons why Arthur Ashe was exactly the man I should be dating at this point in my life. I was one of the most famous black women in the world, he said, and Arthur was one of the most famous black men in the world. That alone should have been enough, but James went on:

  “Together, you two are the most powerful black people on the planet. Ponder if you will what you both could do together with your power combined.”

  James was a cunning mastermind in the way he saw the world and looked ahead to the future. I loved him for that. The symbolism of the combined power that Arthur and I had as celebrities hadn’t crossed my mind. We could have been the Jay Z and Beyoncé of the seventies.

  James closed his very convincing argument with the sly remark that no client of his would be turning down any offer for a date with Arthur Ashe. By this point, I was in total agreement.

  Two days later, Arthur picked me up from my apartment in a black Lincoln Town Car. To my surprise he wasn’t nerdy-looking at all. When I sat face-to-face with him, I saw that he was rather noble-looking, with a distinct square jaw, beaut
iful caramel complexion, and a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses that framed his narrow profile to perfection. He took my hand when I entered the car that night, and the first words out of his mouth continue to bring a smile to my face whenever I think of him:

  “I admire the work you’ve done to get where you are,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You’ve accomplished so much in your career, and I applaud you for that. I admire you very much. Congratulations.”

  No man had ever given me any kind of kudos in my life, so I was floored by how easy it was for Arthur to express himself so sincerely. In those days, men didn’t go around passing out compliments to women for their achievements—or even opening the car door for women for that matter. But Arthur Ashe was a totally different kind of man.

  Arthur had been assigned to West Point as a young lieutenant in the army before he broke down barriers in the all-white world of professional tennis. He had also been the captain of the US Davis Cup team and winner of the WCT Finals. The records Arthur Ashe created as the only black man to win those major singles titles remain unmatched and unbroken today, some forty years later. No black man had ever won those three titles before Arthur, and no black man has come remotely close to winning them since.

  Now, that’s what I call a legend, and that’s what I call a hero. So it breaks my heart when I talk to young people today and they say they have never heard of Arthur Ashe. How is that even possible in the age of the Internet?

  Arthur’s graciousness won me over minute by minute on that first date in 1975. We shared a charming dinner, then went to see a funny movie starring Richard Pryor. Arthur was a bit shy and not the most gregarious man I’d dated, but, hey, I have been known to carry on a conversation for two, so that proved to be no problem at all. He kissed me on the cheek at the end of the night and asked if he could call again. I felt like a schoolgirl after a drive-in movie. Was this my real Prince Charming at long last?