No Lifeguard on Duty

by Janice Dickinson

  Now I was really confused. “Excuse me?” I said.

  “That’s my husband, Helmut Newton.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. I’d totally blown it. I turned around. Helmut was coming toward us, on his way back to the hotel. He was seething.

  “Mr. Newton,” I stammered.

  “You’ll never work again,” he said, and moved past us into the hotel.

  I buried my face in my hands. I thought I was going to die.

  The woman laughed. “Forget about him,” she said. “Why don’t you let me photograph you instead?”

  “You?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m a photographer, too. Maybe not so famous, but not so temperamental as my husband, either. I’m Alice Springs.”

  I was in shock. “Come on,” she said. “You are so beautiful.”

  We went inside—she took me by the hand and dragged me into the lobby—and she stopped to make a quick call on the courtesy phone. When she got through, she started barking at someone in French. Vite vite. Maintenant. Tout suite. I just stood there, dazed, numb, writing my own modeling obituary in my head.

  The next thing I know I’m down at the beach with Alice and her two assistants, in a gauzy cotton shirt, my hair glistening with globs of Brylcreem. And then I’m coming out of the water looking like Jacqueline Bisset in The Deep, but sans tits, admittedly. And Alice is snapping away, laughing, loving it, telling me I’m magnifique, incroyable, delicieuse.

  I made the cover of Elle. It was my very first cover. I was up at the crack of dawn the morning the magazine hit the stands. I couldn’t believe it—there I was, staring back at me. What a feeling! On the cover. I looked like a water leopard in that tight, wet T-shirt. And my alligator grin wouldn’t quit. It was genuinely overwhelming. I started laughing like a crazy woman. People stared. I didn’t give a shit. I bought four copies and hurried back toward the apartment, but in my excitement I stumbled near the corner and one of the magazines slipped to the sidewalk. There was a man in a dirty white apron standing a few feet away, in front of the fish market, shucking oysters. He set down his knife and leaned over and reached for the magazine. As he handed it back, he noticed me on the cover. He looked from the magazine to my face and back again.

  “C’est toi, non?” he said, smiling.

  I shook my head from side to side, grinning like a mad-woman. “Non,” I said. “C’est pas moi.” No. It’s not me.

  “Mais oui!” he said, laughing. “C’est toi!”

  I took the magazine from his big cracked hands and thanked him and hurried away, still laughing.

  Patrick Demarchelier called later that day. He had seen the cover and heard parts of the Helmut Newton story. “Is it true you told the old man to go fuck himself?” he asked. Those were the first words out of his mouth.

  “Yes,” I said. And I gave him the short version.

  “I love it,” he said, laughing. “I want to hear the whole thing. In detail. You can tell me on the way to Morocco.”

  And that was my next big shoot. Fucking Morocco! We drove up to the Berber Mountains and posed with the Blue Mountain Men. Patrick was brilliant. We were out in the dunes and he would wait until the sand and wind and light and breeze were just perfect—and boom!—he’d get his shots. He was the Ansel Adams of fashion.

  “You know who you should work with?” Patrick said that night, over dinner. And I said, “If you say Mike Reinhardt, I’ll kill you.” And of course he said Mike Reinhardt.

  When I got back to Paris, people began to notice me. I’m not just talking about people on the street, either. Reporters started calling. Who are you? Where did you come from? We’ve never seen anyone like you!

  PATRICK DEMARCHELIER. I LOVE PATRICK!

  It was a trip. I loved the attention. I felt energized. I would leap out of bed in the morning, excited about the day ahead. And so grateful. The French photographers were turning me into the star the Americans had said I’d never become. Back then, there was this crazy notion of American beauty, like it was the goddamn gold standard or something. And I’d been told I didn’t have it—which was true, I guess. I wasn’t blond, and I was too exotic, and my almond-shaped eyes made me look Asian. But what the fuck is wrong with that, people?

  Most models—hey, they just show up and look beautiful and they’re off. Me, I had to fight like hell to convince people I was beautiful in my own Polish half-breed way. The French were the first to go for it. And I love them for it.

  Of course I wasn’t making much money. Editorial shoots didn’t pay well in the States, and they paid even less in Europe. And they still pay shit. But I had to start somewhere, and the European magazines were easier to crack than the American ones. So I fought like hell to be seen, to get my face in their faces. Because the magazines are really no more than catalogs. Within those pages, Fashion’s Decision Makers will find the next Revlon girl, or the girl behind the wheel of a Mercedes-Benz, or the new face of Versace. And that’s where the real money is, not in magazines. Because here’s a horrible, ugly secret, people: Even Cindy Crawford gets the standard hundred and fifty dollars when she’s on the cover of Vogue. And she doesn’t give a shit about the money; it’s about the prestige of being on the cover, about keeping that face alive.

  And that’s what I needed; that’s the dream. You take your lousy hundred bucks from Elle to sell tacky silk sheets, because—Hello!—Bloomingdale’s just called: They want you for a catalog shoot at $15,000 a day, and they’re figuring on three days.

  So, yes—you take all the shitty, no-money gigs in the world to become The Next Big Thing—even if The Next Big Thing is fucking Corn Flakes.

  “There’s always one person who comes along and turns things around for everyone,” Dominick Silverstein told me one day. “Everything people have been saying about what a model needs to look like, well—you’re proving them wrong. You’re redefining the whole notion of beauty.” Dominick liked to wax lyrical. “You’re going to open doors for all sorts of interesting women.”

  Did that go to my head? You fucking bet it did.

  One day I walked into Christa and everyone was all aflutter. Peter Knapp wanted to meet me! This was a big deal. Huge. Peter Knapp wasn’t just a fantastic photographer; he was the art director for Elle.

  I took the Metro to his studio, a copy of People with me, and I flipped through the pages like an addict, admiring all those beautiful faces. Fame was taking on a life of its own.

  I got to Knapp’s studio and rang the bell and a sweet little gay man let me in. He asked me to wait inside, showed me the way, and disappeared. I looked around. It was a huge open space, filled with incredible art of all kinds. A pair of giant thumbs was parked in one corner of the room, looking like they were made out of cheese—which reminded me I was hungry. I stole into the kitchen and assumed the position in front of the fridge.

  A few moments later, I heard a man behind me. “Anything good in there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, turning around to look at him. He looked lost, as if he’d stumbled into the kitchen by mistake. “Lots.”

  I found some excellent Brie and attacked it with gusto. The man smiled at me and left the kitchen. I noticed a bottle of Chateau Margaux on the counter, found an opener, and popped the cork. The man came back. “So you’re thirsty, too?” he said. He was grinning ear to ear. I wondered what function he filled in that busy studio; he was such a happy guy.

  “It’s delicious,” I told him. “Grab a glass.”

  The little gay man walked in on us. “Excusez moi, on vous demande a l’appareil, Monsieur Knapp.”

  Monsieur Knapp! Shit! It was Peter Knapp! This was his cheese I was eating, his vintage wine I was drinking, his kitchen I was invading. Knapp reached for the phone—there was a call for him—and chatted for a few seconds. I was dying. I had a hunk of Brie in my mouth and thought I’d be wise to just choke on it and die. Knapp hung up and turned to look at me.

  “So, Janice,” he said sweetly. “Anything else I can get you?
”

  I swallowed the cheese, not without difficulty, then noticed a box of Swiss chocolates on the counter between us. They looked very expensive. “I wouldn’t mind a little chocolate,” I said. “I love chocolate.”

  That grin of his wouldn’t quit. “I like you,” he said. “I’m going to put you on the cover again.” And he did. I had four back-to-back covers in Elle. I went island-hopping in the Caribbean for them with Sascha, a French photographer, and her Tunisian slave-boyfriend. She’d bark and he jumped. Next stop, Tunisia. A week later, I’m working with Guy Bourdin—one of the masters.

  A photo session with him was almost as good as sex. He was on top of you. Touching, posing, rearranging. He generated heat—creative heat. He made me feel like the most incredible woman on the planet.

  Suddenly I am hot hot hot. Everyone was asking about that American girl who didn’t look like all the other American girls. The Polish mutt was on fire!

  One night in Paris, at a party with Bourdin, I told him everything Eileen Ford had said about me. That I was too ethnic; that my lips were too big; that I’d never work.

  “She’s an idiot,” he said. “What does she know about real beauty?”

  Bourdin spelled out what the other French photographers had been trying to teach me. “Be yourself, Janice. That’s what I love about you. That’s what turns everyone on. Your craziness and big mouth and bad-girl attitude. Your desire to be shockant. You are one of a kind, girl.” I could’ve kissed him. In fact, I did kiss him. A woman needs to hear shit like that from time to time. And me? I needed to hear it more than most. Especially now, when I had something to lose…

  The fact of the matter is, I’d always been insecure—I’d been raised that way—and success was suddenly making me more insecure. I would think, It’s all a bad joke. Everyone’s in on it but me. They’re just building me up to knock me down. So, yes—I was still that hyperanxious, hyper-vigilant, cripplingly self-conscious little girl; I honestly couldn’t get my mind around the fact that I was really beginning to make it.

  “What is it?” Dominick asked me at lunch one day. We were at a sidewalk café, near the offices. I was studying the women at the neighboring tables. They were so classy. They dressed beautifully and their hair was done just right and I loved the way they raised their forks to their mouths, unlike me—who bent down to meet it somewhere near my plate. These women even chewed with class.

  “Nothing,” I said, and I smiled the way Dawn Doyle had taught me to smile. My confident smile. She’d shared a whole repertoire of smiles with us: happy sad pouty smirky flirty fierce…I’d learn to fake it, I decided. I’d learn to sit the way they sat; eat the way they ate; walk the way they walked. And of course I’d cultivate that touch of haughtiness that seemed to come so naturally to them. I was uncomfortable in my own skin, yes; but why the fuck did anyone have to know it?

  “I’ve never been happier,” I said, and I raised the fork to my mouth and chewed with class.

  I’m sure you’re wondering about Ron. I was wondering about him, too. I’d written him that long letter, but you know where that got me. Ron didn’t seem to care. I waited for him to call and when he didn’t I swallowed my pride and tracked him down at home and on the road and begged him get help, to clean up his act. I suggested he come to Paris. He said he didn’t need help, that he was clean and just too busy to come to Paris. He never called on his own. Never wrote. And it felt lousy. I had a big jones for love and affirmation, and he’d gone out of business as my supplier. So I thought of him less and less, and called him less and less.

  MY SISTER DEBBIE LOOKING STUNNING AT TAVERN ON THE GREEN IN NEW YORK CITY.

  On the other hand, I did think—and worry—about my sister Debbie. I’d just turned twenty. She was fifteen. She’d just written me a long letter telling me how much she missedme, how unhappy she was. She’d enclosed a picture of herself on the beach with a group of crazy adolescent friends. Most of them had pimples; Debbie glowed.

  I called her and told her how beautiful she was. Debbie cried. It was the end of summer and she was really, genuinely unhappy and didn’t want to go back to school; she wanted to go to New York to sing and act.

  And suddenly I had this crazy idea.

  I phoned the Silverstein brothers and told them to take me to lunch. We met at the Brasserie Lipp, my favorite hangout. “How would you like another Janice?” I asked them. I was pretty full of myself at this point.

  “Another Janice?”

  “I have a little sister. Debbie. She’s beautiful. Very wholesome, all-American looks. You’ll love her.”

  I set the picture on the table in front of them. “Guess which one is Debbie,” I said.

  I was amazed when she arrived. She was drop-dead gorgeous. It had been almost two years since I’d seen her, and the girl had bloomed. She was closer to the “ideal,” too. She was good product. A traditional Cheryl Tiegs type, only more beautiful: pure home-baked apple pie.

  We went back to Christa’s and she got the futon next to mine. She wasn’t even vaguely disappointed. Debbie is a survivor. Her attitude has always been “No matter how bad it is, I can fix it.” We talked all night. Families are complicated, but they can also be wonderful. I would have done anything for Debbie—was it guilt over having abandoned her to the rat bastard?—and I did.

  I took her downstairs the next morning and everyone fawned over her, just the way I’d asked them to. (So sue me! There’s not much about this business that’s genuine.) But the fawning paid off. By week’s end, she’d booked a couture show for Louis Feraud. This was a good thing. On the very day she booked the job, Guy Bourdin called and told me we were going to Milan for Italian Vogue.

  Before I left for the airport, I gave Debbie some valuable advice about the shoot. One, be on time. Two, don’t chew gum—it’s not classy. Three, don’t act like some goddamn superior queen with the assistants: They’re there to help make you look good, and looking good is what it’s all about. Four, you’re great, remember that, and if you don’t feel great, fake it.

  Finally: Always always always make sure he wears a raincoat.

  I wish someone had given me advice that good when I started out.

  MILANO

  For those of you who don’t know the business, Milan is the capital of the Italian fashion industry. Armani, Prada, Versace, Valentino, Gucci—all the great design houses are clustered together here, and, twice a year—during show seasons in February-March and September-October—everyone who’s anyone descends on the city.

  So Bourdin took me to Milan in September. Me and all the medium names. Our plane was filled with desperate wanna-be models. I felt a little sorry for them, but not too sorry. I’d paid my dues—why shouldn’t they?

  When we got off the plane, the first thing I saw was a bunch of handsome-if-oily Italian playboy types, waiting around with big colorful bouquets in their arms. It reminded me of the day I arrived in Paris, when Dominick Silverstein met me at the airport with daisies, except that all these guys looked kind of sleazy.

  “Who are these creeps?” I asked Bourdin.

  “Rich boys who like to fuck models,” Bourdin said. “It’s a seasonal thing. They show up with flowers and their fathers’ Ferraris and fuck their brains out for a couple of weeks. The locals call them figli de papa—Daddy’s boys.”

  It wasn’t like that for me. There was a limo waiting for us at the airport. The driver got into some heavy fawning. I liked it. This was the A-list ticket, and I’m thinking, I’m the Flavor of the Month, yes. But I’m going to make my month last forever.

  We checked into our hotel and went off immediately to do a shoot for Charles Jourdan shoes. The next day, we did a spread for a Bloomingdale’s lingerie catalog (which has since become a collector’s item, thank you very much). Then Bourdin took me to the city of Parma.

  It was my first time in Italy, and I was seeing it in grand style. I discovered prosciutto. And Parma ham, which is even better. And Parmesan cheese. Everything was delicious�
��the food, the people, the views. I promised myself I would return to Italy someday and sit around and eat and get fat and be happy. I couldn’t stop stuffing my face. There’s a Bourdin shot of me in a spectacular gown, with a hunk of prosciutto literally crammed into my mouth. It was red-hot sexy.

  POSING WITH MYSELF. MY FIRST ITALIAN BAZAAR COVER, SHOT BY JAMES MOORE.

  “That’s you, Janice, all the way,” Bourdin said. “That’s how you are in real life. Hungry. Big appetite for everything. What is this word you use all the time?”

  “Gnarly,” I offered.

  “Yes,” he said, laughing. “Gnarly Janice.”

  Of course, the trip wasn’t all gluttony and happiness. From the figli de papa on, the whole affair had a decidedly dark side. What you have to understand is that a lot of aspiring young models go to Milan to try to make their mark. They have to fight for the all-important tear sheets that will launch a real career back home. And, in Milan, they actually have a shot at it: There are so many magazines and so many photographers and faux photographers and fashionistas that you can literally get discovered on the street. Of course the chances, at best, are still pretty slim.

  Most of the girls stayed in a hotel the locals called the Fuck Palace; those who couldn’t afford it shacked up in the less expensive Pensione Clitoris.

  At night, in restaurants and clubs all over the city, you could see girls of fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—girls who hadn’t made it and probably would never make it—resorting to good old-fashioned sex to survive. Some of them were so desperate they’d fuck a guy for a decent meal.

  The Arabs came over, too, in droves—and not for the fashions. A thousand dollars to them was chump change, and if you’re a pretty girl, in need, and your inner voice is telling you, Hon, you ain’t making it as a model, well, that thousand dollars will help you get home, right? And of course then you figure a second thousand won’t hurt—I’ll take a few gifts back to Des Moines, for the folks—and then a third and fourth…