chapter 25
THINGS ARE LOOKING UP
My model card for Wilhelmina, 1970.
The beautiful Indian summer day put me in such an optimistic frame of mind that I decided to splurge on a cab. Before getting in, I double-checked my wallet to make sure I had enough money for the fare. The cabbie flicked on his meter, and I held my breath. Just by stepping inside, I’d already depleted a quarter of my stash.
We stopped in front of a very tall building and I got out, scraping together the fare. I entered and then hesitated before pressing the elevator button. I asked myself why I was going to a new agency when I was already with the best in the country. But Tracy, Hector, Bobby, and Stephen were always telling me that I should be higher up on Ford’s list. And I knew I could trust them because they were doing so well themselves.
Wilhelmina—or Willy, as she was known in the industry—was a shot at something different. Her agency was having an open model call, which meant any young man or woman seeking representation could show up out of the blue, without an appointment.
I pushed the button and went up to the twelfth floor. The elevator opened directly into a small white room, and as I got off, two luscious male models got on, giving me a smile and a wink. Nice-looking guys! I liked what I saw so far. Then I shook my head, distressed that I’d lost myself in a reflexive boy-crazy moment instead of focusing on my mission. Before I could gather myself fully, a perky, fresh-faced young woman passed me in the hallway and asked, “Are you looking for someone?”
“I’m here for the model call,” I said.
“You’re really early; we don’t see anyone before ten,” she said. “But you’re welcome to stay.” She gestured to a nearby room.
Walking toward what I assumed was the waiting room, I noticed a photo of a beautiful woman and then many more, all of the same woman. Indeed, the walls were lined with pictures of her on the cover of Vogue. I started counting: twenty-seven. My eyes widened, and my mouth dropped. Twenty-seven Vogue covers! Amazing. Who was this woman? The answer, of course, was Wilhelmina.
Her face was perfect, with beautiful brown eyes and lashes, lashes, lashes. Her neck was long, slender, pale, and smooth. I remembered that my mom had done a few illustrations of her when I was a child. She’d seemed otherworldly back then, and she still did, as if she’d been sculpted by a master. I stared for at least ten minutes at one photo, in which she was the face of a Revlon campaign for a new lipstick and nail polish color called Fire and Ice. She looked cool and poised, with her slender hands showing off the nail color next to her pouting fire-engine-red lips. No one was wearing that color anymore except me. Stephen had told me I looked good in it, and I’d worn it from then on. That very day, I was wearing the most vivid crimson lipstick I’d ever owned.
Studying the picture, I wondered idly if I could ever be a Revlon girl. Could I look sufficiently aristocratic or classic? Did Wilhelmina suck in her cheeks to get that high-cheekbone look? Did she deliberately pout to get her lips to look so luscious? What tricks did she use to appear so perfect? I started to suck in my cheeks, trying to feel my cheekbones, until the inside of my mouth hurt. Then I attempted to pout, puffing out my lips slightly, until I wondered if they looked too big, since thin lips were the preferred look at the time.
It was now a quarter to ten, and I was getting anxious, because I had a go-see to squeeze in before my work with M. Tiffeau. I decided to speak up. As I headed toward the front hallway, I saw a gracefully thin woman walk across the back hall, followed by three girls carrying portfolios, so I ran back to my seat. The girls came in and sat near me; we talked for a bit, and then they were called into another room. That’s not fair, I thought. I was here first. But I kept waiting. Finally, it was my turn. The perky-faced woman called me over, introduced herself as Fran, and escorted me to the door of Wilhelmina’s office. “You can go inside. She’ll be here in a moment.”
Wilhelmina’s office was modern in decor, with a wall of windows that looked out onto the Empire State Building. I was so caught up in the view that I didn’t notice Wilhelmina herself walking in, taking a deep drag on a cigarette. She looked utterly divine: sleek and thin, dressed in a black pencil skirt and a white satin blouse, and dripping with loops of pearls. Her long-limbed body seemed to have a life of its own. I couldn’t believe I was sitting in her presence, but before I could say a word, a tall blond man entered the room and blurted out, “That shit! I say we fire him, Willy!” Then he left.
Wilhelmina dropped her cigarette on the floor, rubbed it out with her foot, bent to pick it up, placed it in an ashtray, reached into her pack for a new one, and lit it. As she did this, the man came into the room again, walked over to her, and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. “And I told you to stop smoking.”
She grabbed the cigarette back. “You make me smoke.” Then they looked at me and seemed to become aware of my presence. But not for long. “Hello,” they both said, trying to cool down before quickly going at it again. “You’re drunk, Bruce. How about you stop drinking at ten in the morning, then I’ll stop smoking,” Willy said, puffing harder on her cigarette.
“How do you like that?” he said, turning to me. “I’m telling her something that’s good for her.” He left the room again. I have never wished so hard to be invisible.
“You see how men are,” she said, looking straight at me. “This is my business. He has the Carson show, and I have this.” She picked up her telephone. “Can you please tell Bruce to bring me a tomato juice?”
She hung up the phone, took a couple more drags on her cigarette, and snuffed it out in her ashtray, which was overflowing with cigarette butts. Bruce—I’d figured out that he was her husband—came in and handed her the tomato juice. “I settled it,” he said. “I just fired him.” His wife shot him a dirty look, and then he was gone.
Wilhelmina started flipping quickly through my portfolio. Then she slowed down and started to scrutinize every photo. “Well,” she said, “I really like the way you look.”
Ding! Did she, the great Wilhelmina, say she liked the way I looked?
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Wilhelmina said, “but I’m not feeling well. Can you come back tomorrow, and we’ll go over everything together? I know who you are, Patricia. One of my favorite male models, Renaud White, told me about you. I’d love to have you in my agency.” She closed my book and left the room, calling out, “Bruce!”
I sat there, flummoxed. Should I take my portfolio or leave it? Thankfully, Fran came into the room, wrote my name and the time for my appointment the following day on a card, and handed me my portfolio.
Descending in the elevator, I felt as though I were ascending instead. Wilhelmina wanted to sign me! But there was no time to savor my triumph; I was running late, and without enough money in my pocket for a cab, I had to fast-walk in high heels. My first stop was a go-see with Claude Picasso, the photographer son of the Picasso, an artist whose cubist works I had adored when my mom had taken me to the Museum of Modern Art as a kid; I’d also studied them in great depth in my high school art classes.
Claude didn’t seem particularly interested in me, but I think a bit of his father’s magic rubbed off on me, because later that day I did some of my best work ever for Jacques Tiffeau as I modeled for the buyers. I held my most elegant posture and moved as gracefully as I could to showcase his designs. “You worked very well today, Patricia,” M. Tiffeau said approvingly. I told him that I’d just met Picasso’s son, and he gushed to me about meeting Claude’s mother, Françoise Gilot, in Paris. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said in his adorable French accent, “and a painter, too.” It’s a small world after all, I thought, the Disney song reverberating in my head.
At nine sharp the next morning, I returned to Wilhelmina’s agency. This time, when I entered her office, she was sitting tall behind her desk, drinking a big cup of coffee. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, because I didn’t want to be late, and the aroma soothed my senses.
“Patricia,” Wil
helmina said, standing up from her desk. “You’re prompt, which is very professional. I’m glad I didn’t scare you off yesterday. Please, sit down.” She sat. “Bruce, my husband, whom you saw yesterday, had a lot to do, and one of our partners was not on board . . . Anyway, I understand you’re with Ford.”
Oh no, I thought, she doesn’t want me because I already have an agent.
“I used to be with Eileen. How’s she treating you?”
I had no idea how to answer.
“You know, if you sign with us, I’ll get you a better rate. My girls start at sixty an hour.”
Sixty an hour! My head rang a series of dollar signs, as in a slot machine. I started fantasizing about my bank account. She continued, “We have a whole new look and lots of work for girls like you. But first let’s get down to business. Do you want to be with my agency?”
“Yes!” came out of me so fast, I didn’t even hear it myself.
“Good.” Wilhelmina moved gracefully to the door of the office, like a calm breeze. “Fran!” she called out mildly, not as she had the day before. Fran came in immediately with papers for me to fill out. When I finished, Wilhelmina flipped through my portfolio and selected a recent photo that I’d added the night before. “We can use this on the head sheet,” she said, referring to a collection of head shots of all the models represented by the agency, which includes photos, names, sizes, and hourly rates. My, I thought, this is going really well.
Willy sat in the chair behind her desk and poured herself another cup of coffee—her third since I’d been there. She cast those beautiful brown eyes on me, and a pensive look passed over her face. Abruptly, she sat forward and said, “Pat! Just Pat. Do you mind?”
Mind? What mind? She was my mind now, and whatever she said, I agreed with.
“I want to abbreviate your name. I couldn’t use my full name, you know; they call me Willy. You can be Pat. It’s easier to remember, and it suits the times, what with the world being so unisex. It could go either way, boy or girl.”
I could see the logic in what she was getting at, though no one called me Pat. If it wasn’t Patricia, it was Patty, or Patsy, or Trish.
Her eyes took on a faraway look. “It’s a shame how men try to rule the world,” she said, taking another sip of coffee. Then she started rifling around in her desk drawers. “Just a moment.” She left the office and came back with a new pack of Lucky Strikes. Then she put the pack down and whispered, “No, not today. I’m trying to quit.” She turned back to me. “Pat, you have a very poetic look. We won’t have a problem with that. But to make it here in America, you’ll have to travel to Europe first.” This was something I’d never heard before. Europe? “The world will love you, Pat, but let’s get you on that head sheet and do what we can while you’re here. I’ll arrange for you to go to one of our agencies over there, and when you come back, you’ll have so many magazine shoots and tear sheets that they’ll speak for you. Does that make sense? You can go into the bookers’ room now. Fran will introduce you to everyone and get you started. Maybe we can get a few editorials in before you fly over there. Oh, and if you need anything, please call me. Here’s my number at home. I’m always here for you unless I am with my children.” As I walked out of Willy’s office, another girl with big dreams walked in.
Everyone welcomed me into the agency and called me by my new name, Pat. “PAT C.” was immediately written on my booking chart, and I was given a voucher book with “Wilhelmina Model Agency Inc.” printed on the cover.
Pat. I’m Pat. I’m Pat Cleveland! I felt invincible. I left Wilhelmina’s office and went to the French Institute on East Sixtieth Street and signed up for French lessons. I’d need to know another language if I ended up in Europe. Then I dropped by the drugstore to pick up my new pack of birth control pills. I had a date that night with Matthew, who had just returned from California. The game was on. And with my new name, my new agency, and my sexual freedom, I felt poised to win.
chapter 26
A STAR IS BORN
Anne Klein show at the Plaza Hotel. They said, “Do what you feel,” and so I did.
Courtesy of Roxanne Lowitt.
The Coty Awards, which were sponsored by Coty Fragrances and recognized the work of American designers, were the Academy Awards of fashion. Eleanor Lambert, the fashion publicist who created the Best-Dressed List (which was pretty much the goal of anyone who cared passionately about clothes), was the force behind the awards. The girls who usually worked the ceremony were a group known as “Seventh Avenue models.” These were models who worked mostly for designers in their showrooms, as opposed to the glamour-girl photography models who made their living by appearing in glossy magazine spreads. Except for maybe Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton, there were still no supermodels who moved easily between these two very different spheres.
The Seventh Avenue models were the real workhorses of the industry; if they’d been dancers, they would have been the chorus girls. These girls were pros through and through, and I liked them immensely and was always eager to learn the tricks of the trade from them, whether it was how to stuff my bra, or keep my shoes from falling off, or just how to be patient and respectful. (They were so nice that I was shocked when, later in the business, I met a lot of models who were out for themselves and didn’t care whom they hurt.) I wasn’t really aligned with either camp, but Eleanor Lambert suggested to a few of the top designers that they use me for the 1970 awards ceremony. She was very high on Stephen Burrows, as were most of the New York designers who knew of his work, and she wanted to help him and his gang in any way she could. It was a huge break for me.
With a few exceptions (such as my wonderful Jacques Tiffeau), the French thought that Americans had no taste. Consequently, most of the elegant women in the social elite went to Paris to buy their clothes from the established couturiers there. Here in the United States, designers like Donald Brooks, Geoffrey Beene, Chester Weinberg, and Bill Blass (who was himself on the International Best-Dressed List and whose name was already on products ranging from car upholstery to sheets and perfume) were beginning to put this country on the fashion map. And these were the designers for whom Coty and Eleanor Lambert created the awards.
So off I went to meet Bill Blass at 550 Seventh Avenue. I had to wait for him, of course, and when he finally did show up, he seemed to appear out of nowhere, through one of the farthest doorways of his showroom. He was a tanned, ruggedly handsome man dressed in a tweedy English country-style sports jacket with a silk ascot around his neck, like someone from a fifties movie. He held a cigarette in one hand, and its long curls of white smoke danced around his face, which wore a “seen it all” expression. I noticed that he had a lot of laugh lines around his eyes, even though he wasn’t laughing. I looked straight into his deep-set green eyes and waited for his verdict. I was nervous because he was very conservative-looking. Actually, I was afraid of him in general, because he was known for dressing Happy Rockefeller, the wife of New York’s governor, Nelson Rockefeller, who was one of the richest men in the world.
Mr. Blass looked me up and down—I could have been cattle—then he laughed and said, “You’re awfully skinny.” He called his assistant, who came running. “We’ll give you a try,” he said, winking at me. Then he turned and left without another word.
I stood there wondering what to do next, but his assistant led me into a small room with a large three-way mirror. I stayed there all afternoon, trying on dress after dress. I felt almost like one of Mr. Blass’s wealthy clients. The workmanship of the dresses was remarkable—I always checked out the seams of anything I tried on (once a design student, always a design student)—but they seemed more appropriate for older women or politicians’ wives like Mrs. Rockefeller than for a twenty-year-old like me. Still, I did my best to look as sophisticated as I could, even though the clothes were two sizes too big for me. I guess I pulled it off, because before I left, several dresses had been chosen for me to wear.
Two days later, I went to Alice Tully Hall
at Lincoln Center, the grand New York City performing arts complex that had opened the year before, where the Coty Awards would be held. Eleanor Lambert had set up (through Wilhelmina) an appointment for me to meet the designer Kasper, whose designs I would also be modeling. Alice Tully Hall was spectacular—a shrine to classical music awash in polished white marble (I thought it worthy of the ancient Greeks)—and I was overjoyed to be there.
When I arrived, a rehearsal was going on. An assistant came up and asked whom I was working for, and I said, “Kasper.” Right away, I was taken to a dressing area, fitted into a bathing suit, and told to go to the stage area, where I was introduced to the choreographer. It was easily the most glamorous place I’d ever worked.
I had to line up with fourteen other girls and go on stage. The choreographer asked us all to do our own movements, as if we were swimming. I really got into it and started to “swim” like Esther Williams in all those old movies I used to watch. Next thing I knew, the choreographer pointed to me and said, “Girls, I want you to do what she’s doing.” Then she pulled me out of the line of girls. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Pat,” I answered. It was the first time I’d identified myself that way professionally.
She put me up front of the line. “Okay, girls, I want you all to follow Pat out onto the stage and copy her movements.” My, my, this is an interesting turn of events, I thought. (Who would have guessed then how irritated I would eventually become every time I’d invent some interesting or unique move and the person in charge would tell the other girls, “Okay, do what she just did.” I always want to say, “Do you have any idea how long I worked to come up with that? Why don’t they do their own thing instead of copying mine?”)
The next evening at the awards ceremony, I led the pack onstage at Alice Tully Hall in doing something memorable and outrageous on the runway. In truth, I felt as though those fourteen girls were a boat I was pulling behind me: They were ever so slow, and as usual, I wanted to move fast, fast, fast. But I couldn’t, lest I lose one of them along the way. So I just swam upstream across that stage, trailed by my cargo of fourteen mermaids, until I got to the other side. And the audience ate it up.
Walking with the Muses Page 17
