Though becoming a model is a dream for many all over the world, the truth is it is not an easy job. More often than not it is about being rejected, about feeling bad about yourself. Most of the top agencies mean well and are caring for the girls—some are even outstandingly protective—but there are pseudoagencies and there is trafficking and prostitution that happens “in the name of fashion.” I cannot warn girls enough to be vigilant. Don’t dream of becoming a model unless it is genuinely possible. Look for other doors. The business of beauty can often be anything but beautiful.
In fact, I plead with young girls, except the very few genetically exceptional ones, not to try and become models. “Use your brains, your common sense and do not become an object,” I told one graduating high school class. “The way you look is important, but who you are and how you project it is eventually who you will become and how you will appear.”
I became convinced that the CFDA had to take the initiative to promote health as beauty. We established industry standards in 2007, working in partnership with medical experts, modeling agencies, and Vogue editor in chief Anna Wintour. These standards include commonsense recommendations to protect the girls; workshops for designers, models, and their families on how to recognize the signs of eating disorders; and encouraging models with eating disorders to seek professional help.
Next we addressed age. Youth is a huge factor in the business of fashion and the age issue is a stubborn and long-standing one—for many, the younger the better. It is a hard battle because many designers think clothes look better on very tall, extremely skinny girls, and the younger they are, the less formed they are. Those designers influence the bookers and force the model agencies to supply girls who are younger and younger. We had to stop that downward spiral, or at least slow it down. Every member of the CFDA—the top 450 designers in America—is now required to check a runway model’s ID to ensure that she is at least sixteen and that those under eighteen are not kept at work past midnight at fittings or photo shoots. Health is beauty. Beauty is health.
* * *
I was diagnosed with cancer in 1994, at the age of forty-seven. One minute I was fine, the next I was undergoing radiation at the base of my tongue and soft palette. It started at a lunch with Ralph Lauren at the famous midtown New York restaurant La Grenouille. It was supposed to be a business lunch but we talked about everything, including love and the fragility of life. He had recently had a benign tumor removed from his brain, he said. “How did you find out you had the tumor?” I asked. “I kept hearing some noise in my left ear.” As he said those words I heard a noise in my left ear. The following day it was still there. Could it be my imagination? I made an appointment with an ear doctor.
“There is nothing wrong with your ear,” the doctor told me, but he found a swollen gland on the right side of my neck. He didn’t seem concerned and gave me antibiotics. The noise disappeared but the swelling did not. I then had a biopsy and nothing bad came out. “It is a benign cyst, don’t worry,” I was told. I did not like the idea of having a cyst, so I scheduled a surgical procedure to have it removed the following week, on Friday, May 13. The unlucky date proved prophetic. As I woke up groggy from the anesthesia with Tatiana and my mother by my side, the doctor told us the news. When they removed the cyst, they had cut it in half and found tiny, tiny bad squamous cancerous cells that had already metastasized. Tatiana was shocked. My mother thought she’d misunderstood what she’d heard so she turned to Tatiana and kept insisting, “Translate for me! Tell me in French!”
The following days were terrifying, going for all kinds of tests and fearing the worst. An operation that would cut most of my neck away? Chemotherapy? Everything sounded scary. It did not help when I went home the night of my diagnosis and turned on the news to hear that Jackie Kennedy Onassis had died of cancer that day.
At first I felt in the dark and very worried, but little by little, as I understood better what the doctors were explaining to me, I regained my strength and pushed away the fear. I had to accept that I had cancer and deal with it. Seven weeks of radiation. An unexpected summer was suddenly laid out in front of me. It was going to be a time of treatment and healing. I had no choice but to accept it, take time for myself, and focus on my health. I had to get well, kill the bad cells forever, and never, ever let them come back. I repeated that sentence over and over to myself so often that it became a little victory song in French.
My mother stayed by me. She did not act worried, which gave me strength. Alexandre returned from Hong Kong where he had been working at a bank; Tatiana was nearby. Barry was hit hard by the news. My doctor told me he saw him walking to his car the day I was diagnosed and never had he seen someone’s posture reveal so much distress.
On my first weekend in Connecticut after the diagnosis, my friend, producer, and agent Sandy Gallin, gave me a life-changing gift. He sent Deepak Chopra, the famous Indian New Age doctor and author, to visit me at Cloudwalk. We sat together as he taught me how to meditate. His way of explaining things reached me, reassured me, and turned out to be extremely helpful. He invited me to the Chopra Center for Wellbeing in La Jolla, California, and I went before starting the radiation. Tatiana took me there and spent the first two days with me, but I needed to be alone. I meditated and repeated the sutras Deepak gave me: Peace, Harmony, Laughter, Love, Creativity, Affluence, Abundance, Discrimination, Integration, Freedom, Truth, Knowledge, Infinity, Immortality, Enlightenment, Holiness. I walked on the beach for hours, swam hundreds of laps in the pool, and had long conversations with myself and God. All of that plus the Ayurveda treatments of diet, herbs, and massage, along with the calmness around me, helped prepare me for this unexpected battle.
Back in New York, Alexandre took me to an appointment where they made measurements for a mask and put tiny tattoos on my face to ensure the rays would aim precisely. Years later my doctor told me Alexandre had returned to him after walking me out to ask him to take special care of me, “Remember: it’s my mother you’re dealing with.”
I took a photo of my face in the bathroom mirror before I went to my first radiation session. I wanted to remember me as I was, not knowing if I’d be changed forever. And then the routine began. Every day I walked to Sloan Kettering and put on the mask that was attached to the table. For thirty seconds, the rays targeted each side of my neck and the middle. I would then start walking home to the Carlyle Hotel, stop to have wheat grass juice at the health food store (it was nauseating, but I believed in its natural healing powers), and then walk on singing my little French victory song to kill the bad cells. At home, I meditated for hours, had a daily massage to stimulate the immune system, and gargled with sesame oil. On the weekend, when there were no treatments, I went to Cloudwalk and enjoyed the beauty of nature—the forest, the flowers, the deer among the apple trees. Nature had never felt more beautiful, more peaceful, and more reassuring.
Deepak called every day. So did Egon from Italy, Mark Peploe from London, and my friends from all over the world. I felt loved without being pitied and serene from the strength that comes from love. Barry started to talk about us living together, getting a house, and started inquiring about my relationship with Mark, which he’d never done before. I was vague. My future was uncertain; I did not know what I wanted except to get well.
In the middle of the treatment my friend Mort Zuckerman, the real estate tycoon, invited me to go to the White House for a state dinner the president and Mrs. Clinton were giving for the emperor and the empress of Japan. I was excited and accepted. The grand master fashion designer of the moment, John Galliano, happened to be doing his first personal appearance at Bergdorf Goodman across the street from my office, and I borrowed his most beautiful ball gown: pale pink and blue chiffon, with lots of ruffles and a long train that went on forever. In spite of the radiation burn shadings on each side of my face, which I managed to hide with makeup, I ended up looking beautiful as I walked into the tented Rose Garden. The dinner was a historic event and I really enjoyed be
ing there. At my table were some important Japanese businesspeople who could not believe that they actually were in the same room as their emperor. In Japan, they would have had to be separated by a screen because no common subjects can be in the same room with his Excellency the Emperor!
For me it was a different kind of excitement. I loved my voluptuous dress, though I had to shuffle carefully with my long train that nonetheless was stepped on by everybody and ended up in shreds by the end of the evening. Feeling frivolous and beautiful in the middle of my painful treatment was a wink to myself. It felt great.
The news from Belgium, however, was not good. Philippe phoned me just before the Fourth of July. My father’s health was failing; we had to get ready for the worst. The radiation center in New York was closed for a few days over the holiday weekend and Barry generously gave me his plane to visit my father. By then, I had lost all sense of taste, my throat was hurting, and my skin was very burned, but I had to see my father. His Alzheimer’s had taken a bad turn and I knew he would no longer recognize me. Still, I wanted to kiss him and thank him for the love he had given me. Tatiana came with me. It was the last time we saw him.
On the way back from Belgium, we landed in Gander, Canada, to refuel. It had been raining and the plane sat between two complete rainbows. Tatiana told me to make a wish. I wished to be cured. There were another dozen daily treatments left to go, a dryer throat, and more burns. Deepak kept on calling, my mother, Barry, and the children were nearby, and I was counting the days. It was the year of the World Cup. Brazil won, and I did, too.
I went back to Deepak’s center in California after the treatments to recuperate. That was the worst week of all. As my doctor had predicted, the discomfort increased. I was burned inside and out from the radiation and exhausted. The adrenaline that had sustained me during treatment was gone because I knew the treatments were over. I locked myself in my room and moaned. The only thing I forced myself to do was fifty laps in the pool, repeating my sutras.
At the end of the week, a call came in the middle of the night, morning in Brussels. My father had passed away. My brother and my mother were on the phone, crying. My eyes stayed dry; my father was gone forever and there was nothing I could do to change that. On the plane from La Jolla, I picked up Alexandre in Las Vegas and we flew to New York and then on to Belgium. Tatiana met us at the Brussels airport—she had come from Portugal. We went straight to my father’s apartment, the apartment I grew up in. His room seemed smaller than I remembered; the coffin seemed small, too. I sat by it. On the side table there was a lit candle and photos of my father’s parents and brother. I felt helpless but peaceful, thankful for the love my father had given me. We buried him in a lovely cemetery, surrounded by trees and stillness. The children left that afternoon. I needed a break. I decided to go to Berlin for a long weekend and meet Mark, who was there editing his movie Victory. My brother thought I was too weak to travel, but I wanted to feel life and love, so I went. I rested in my hotel room during the day while Mark was working, but at night we walked around the streets of the newly united Berlin and loved it.
A few days later, I went back to Brussels to tidy up my father’s home. Like me, he had kept everything: diaries, letters, photographs . . . memory lane in all its splendor. I missed his presence, his smell, but in the mirror I could see him—our features are so similar. Before leaving, I took his favorite watch, a gold Omega, his crocodile wallet, and his two Russian glasses with silver holders in which he drank his tea every day.
* * *
Confronting my cancer was challenging, but enriching. I became more compassionate to the sufferings of others, appreciated the value of health, became more spiritual and understood both my fragility and my strength. I have been thankful ever since to God, the doctors, my family, my friends, and my own power. My little French song worked and I have been cancer-free ever since.
I became much more health conscious after my bout with cancer. I eat lightly and in moderation—fresh, organic vegetables and fruits, grains and beans, little meat—and I resist sugar as much as I’m able to, but I still love dark chocolate and an occasional glass of great red wine. I drink lots of water—lots—and cups of hot, fresh ginger tea with lemon and honey.
My legs are stronger than they were when I was thirty because of all the hikes I love to do. Uphill, the steeper the better. The Appalachian Trail winds through the hills near Cloudwalk on its way from Maine to Georgia, and Barry, Shannon, and I hike on sections of it every day we are there. In LA we meet the children between our homes, at the bottom of Franklin Canyon, and hike to the peak together. When we’re on the boat, we hike on whatever island or coast we pull into. I lead the way because I am faster. We are silent going up. Hiking is a meditation of sorts to me and I use it as a time to go within myself and enjoy the effort of climbing and the beauty of nature. We linger at the top, enjoying our accomplishment, and Barry leads the way down. That’s when we talk, often our best talks, because of the long silence of the climb and the space that nature has given our minds to get clearer. I love those moments.
When I’m in New York, I climb up and down the five flights of stairs at the DVF headquarters, sometimes taking the steps two at a time, even in high heels. I swim just as strenuously, whether in the sea, the pool at Cloudwalk, or any hotel I stay at around the world. It is also a meditation. Exercising and counting the lengths crowd all thoughts out of the brain and I’m alone with myself.
I stay supple by doing yoga a couple of times a week in the yoga studio I built in a room next to my office. The stretching and the twists make me aware of every part of my body and keep me very flexible. Deep breathing is an integral part of yoga and I practice the long inhale and slow exhale to ease stressful moments. I also have a facial once a week from an Englishwoman named Tracie Martyn who attaches something, I don’t know what, to her fingertips, which channels low-voltage electricity to my face and helps fight gravity. (So does smiling, I learned from fashion photographer Mario Testino.) I’ve been going to Tracie for fifteen years now, and my office knows it’s the only appointment that can’t be canceled.
Most important, I have a massage at least once a week, especially when I’m traveling. I used to think massages were vain and indulgent, but I’ve learned that isn’t true. Massage bolsters the body’s defense system, aids circulation, and rids your body of toxins.
While I was undergoing the cancer treatments, I started a weekly Shiatsu session. (I also have deep-tissue massages from Andrey, an excellent Ukrainian masseur.) My wonderful Shiatsu practitioner, who unexpectedly died of a stroke last year, was a talented Japanese man named Eizo who also healed the radiation blisters in my mouth by giving me a powder from a rare mushroom. He worked on me for nineteen years, every Tuesday morning before Tracie Martyn, giving me a deep-tissue massage to correct disharmonies and walking up and down my back to crack me. I miss him dearly.
Another result of my encounter with cancer is Dr. Durrafourd, a homeopathic doctor in Paris that my friend actress Marisa Berenson introduced me to. I see him once a year. He does full blood work, calculates the results, and prescribes me all kinds of antioxidants—all plant-based and natural. I have a dozen little bottles of pills and some liquids, which I keep together in a bag that I carry with me around the world. Have they had a positive effect? I like to think so. I went through menopause easily, for example. One day I stopped having my period and that was it.
Marisa also introduced me to Bianca, a healer who was able to ease the discomfort of my burns. I still call her in moments of crisis. I am the godmother of her son, Julien.
What I have learned is that when you are sick, much of healing is in the hands of doctors and science, but part of it is finding and using your own power.
* * *
Aging is out of your control. How you handle it, though, is in your hands.
When I was a girl, I always wanted to be older than I was. Instead of sitting, I knelt next to my father in the car so that people would think I wa
s a grown-up. I pretended I had wrinkles and scratched my face with my nails because I wanted to have a lived-in face like the French movie star Jeanne Moreau. When I turned twenty and my mother asked me, “How does it feel being twenty?” I said, “Well, I’ve been telling people I’ve been twenty for so long that it doesn’t make a difference.” I always looked older than my actual years, so much so that when Newsweek put me on the cover on March 22, 1976, the editors didn’t believe I was twenty-nine and sent a reporter to the Brussels town hall to check my birth certificate.
I had started my adult life at twenty-two, had two children by the time I was twenty-four, and a successful financial life by thirty. Looking back, I realize I was pretty in my late twenties, but I didn’t really think so. I knew how to enhance what I had, highlighting my eyes and cheekbones, playing with my hair and my legs and acting with confidence. I knew I was seductive, but I never thought I was beautiful.
My thirties were my best years. I was still young but felt grown up, lived an adventurous life, raised my two children, and ran a business. I was independent and felt very free. I had total complicity with myself and my looks and I felt in charge. I had become the woman I wanted to be.
The forties were harder. My children went off to boarding school and college, and I sold my business. I was not sure who I was or who I wanted to be anymore. I went in and out of looks and started to question my own style. When I lost my fashion business, I lost the way of expressing myself creatively. I also had my battle with cancer.
Things got better when I hit fifty. I went back to work, creating a new studio environment and repositioning my brand. I surrounded myself with a new generation of girls. I was again the woman I wanted to be . . . engaged and engaging. I married Barry and became a grandmother. I embraced my age and my life. It was the beginning of the age of fulfillment, which continues. Now, in my sixties, I know I have less time ahead and want to enjoy, enjoy as much as possible.
The Woman I Wanted to Be Page 12
