December 1993 was the anniversary of Liz’s first year in New York. I, along with 250 others, arrived at her New York town house to attend a glittering celebration and Christmas party. By now she was basking in the unquestionable success of her sophisticated-looking Harper’s Bazaar, which, in the spring, had won two National Magazine Awards and been roundly acclaimed. The first families of New York social life were all there: Trumps, Lauders, Hearsts, Gutfreunds, and Kempners, as well as Seventh Avenue’s leading lights: Donna, Ralph, Calvin, and Isaac Mizrahi. It was a hugely glamorous evening. But as I was about to leave, Liz took me to one side and said, “They just discovered I have ovarian cancer. I’m going into hospital tomorrow for exploratory surgery.”
I was in shock. My friend had cancer?
Liz went through surgery a couple of days before Christmas, then endured the first of many rigorous courses of chemotherapy. After much research, she came to believe that the drugs she had taken when she was younger for her in vitro treatment might have contributed to her illness.
She was given at the most seven or eight years to live. Months passed. Every day she thought she was winning the battle for survival only to be told the cancer had returned and she needed to submit to another round of chemo. Her love of life was fierce, and she wouldn’t let go easily. No matter how weakened she was during these periods, she insisted on living as normal a life as possible. The Hearst Corporation, which owns Bazaar, was completely supportive and kept her totally involved. Every day she was in hospital, the magazine sent the “dummy” of the upcoming issue over to her for approval.
When the cancer was in remission, Liz would be up and about and, remarkably, traveling to the Paris collections. She shed a huge amount of weight, and Karl Lagerfeld was now dressing her in the finest Chanel couture. She looked incredibly chic. Didier trimmed her hair into a flattering elfin cut while it was growing back. All traces of her former mumsy bob completely disappeared. She also hosted the gala for the Costume Institute exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum and even managed to once again snag Princess Diana, this time as her star New York guest, a spectacular triumph that generated huge headlines around the world.
Liz with Princess Diana, collecting her C.F.D.A. award
Most important, Liz believed in educating women about ovarian cancer and was very verbal about it. She involved herself in the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund and held its first fund-raiser at her house in the Hamptons. She and Donna Karan inaugurated a huge summer charity event called Super Saturday, which became an established tradition.
Inevitably, Liz fell terribly ill again. In 1998 she bravely agreed to a bone marrow transplant, an extremely harrowing treatment. She couldn’t see anyone for weeks except her close family and me. When the doctors needed more bone marrow, I volunteered to give her some of mine, but for all the ways we were compatible, alas, in this one crucial way we were not.
Liz rallied for about a year but never really regained her strength, and in April 1999 she was back in hospital. I had just returned from a trip to India with Arthur Elgort when she died. I saw her the night before. Andrew had warned me that it wouldn’t be long. She was so very weak and had the look of death on her face. Early the next morning he called to say she had gone.
Half an hour later, Anna called. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t I know she was so close to death?” she asked, clearly distressed at the news. Then, with great compassion and respect, she asked if I would write an obituary for the next issue of Vogue. She knew how much it meant to me, and though I was in floods of tears, I managed to pull myself together enough to finish it at the office with the help of Charles Gandee, a Vogue features editor at the time. At home, I looked through all the snapshots of our good times together and, again in tears, added these to the page.
There was a small funeral with only Liz’s immediate family and housekeeper in attendance, along with Patrick Demarchelier, his wife, Mia, and Didier and me. Her two boys were so brave, it was heartbreaking. Later there was a huge memorial service at Lincoln Center. I remember Andrew’s speech for its eloquence and tenderness. Many others spoke as well, though I did not. Andrew asked me, but I just couldn’t have held myself together. Even six months after her death, I was too raw. I miss her still.
XVII
ON
BEAUTY
In which
makeup is
removed, looking
older is no bad
thing, allergies
are acquired, and
hair is molded
with clay.
As soon as I joined British Vogue, I pretty much stripped off all my makeup, with its clever little tricks and flourishes carried over from my modeling days. Out went the professional touches like fake freckles or eight-hour cream on the lips, which became the big thing after the late, great Diana Vreeland recommended it as a way of giving the mouth a modern, glossy look—but it was so thick and gluey, you stuck to the pillow all night if you put it on.
First to go was my heavy black eye shadow and the doll-like lashes I painted below the eye socket. From then on I used nothing, not even a hint of mascara; just a little foundation on my eyelids for that pale, bald Renaissance look. I think it was because I was getting back to reality, to being me rather than a model, who is generally called on to play someone else. I hate a lot of makeup in my fashion pictures now, too. I mean, cover a pimple if you must, but it’s fine to have bags under the eyes and a few lines on your face. It’s who you are. Nor am I terrified of looking older. Besides, seventy isn’t seventy anymore; they say it’s the new fifty.
“Running to a show is far from my mind, girls”
Every day I wash my face with soap and water. Only recently have I begun to use moisturizer, because as I grew older, my skin started to dry up noticeably. After all those years of ignoring beauty routines and not listening to anyone’s advice, expert or otherwise, I’d like to say my skin is beautiful. But it isn’t. Not taking enough care while sunbathing or working outside has left me with considerable sun damage.
In those teenage years when I used to go drifting about in my little sailing boat, suntan lotion was thought of only as an aid to getting a tan, not something that could contain ingredients to protect your skin. We even used pure olive oil for those occasional periods when the sun broke through the island’s banks of costal cloud. And in the sixties, while I was lolling on the beach in Saint-Tropez, I used to splash on lots of coconut milk, under the illusion that it would turn me brown. But it didn’t, because I don’t have that kind of skin.
The allergic reactions I first experienced as a child became much more severe in my late twenties. On a photo shoot with David Bailey in Peru, we were taking pictures on Machu Picchu when he, being a bit macho, challenged me to race him to the top. It didn’t appear to be that hot up there, but the air was so clear that the sun’s rays were unexpectedly powerful. By the time I had climbed halfway up, my face was as red and round as a toy balloon. But nothing was as ghastly as the day at British Vogue when I found out I was suddenly allergic to oysters, a seafood that, until that unhappy moment, I had thoroughly enjoyed.
After a delightful lunch with Vogue’s ex–travel editor Martin O’Brien at Scott’s in Mayfair, known for its fine fish, I was discovered collapsed in a toilet cubicle back at the office and carted out of the building on a stretcher, which is very embarrassing because you meet all kinds of people you know on the way down.
These days I use as little foundation as possible, mostly to cover the scars on my left eyelid and match it to my right, and to mask the dark circles under my eyes. These are telltale signs of yet more allergies that I contracted after I turned fifty. I was staying in Italy at the house of my friend Carla Sozzani, owner of the Milanese designer store Corso Como. Much to my delight her dog, a chow chow, slept on my bed. When I awoke, however, I couldn’t open my eyes. They were incredibly swollen and stuck together. I’ve had allergies to practically everything ever since, except, strangely enough, cigarette s
moke. Perhaps all my years of smoking in London have left me immune.
The only makeup I really use now is lipstick. I have to first make an outline with a pencil to stop it from running because of the deep wrinkles around my mouth. I don’t have eyebrows anymore. I had heavy ones in my early modeling days, until Eileen Ford ripped them out. They’ve grown back higgledy-piggledy ever since, so I keep them plucked.
I do spend a lot of time on my hair. If it weren’t for that, I would be totally unrecognizable. It needs to be recolored every two weeks, not the six to eight it used to be. Louis Licari, my brilliant colorist, says red hair is the most difficult to work with. Because it requires so much maintenance, I’ve been thinking of just letting it go gray.
Steven Meisel told me on a shoot recently that I couldn’t leave his studio before having a trim, and I must admit my hair was looking quite raggedy and unkempt because Didier—who has a lot of hair, and very good hair, too—had been away for a while and he is the only person I allow to cut it. Although I might think of going gray, I’m never cutting it short again. I need a big frame around my head because it helps to make my body look smaller. At least that’s what I like to think.
Each day I wake up as stiff as a rake. I hate going to the gym. The instructor always says, “You’ll grow addicted to it,” but I never do. I’m English, and English people always hate going to the gym. I like Pilates, though. I go two or three times a week, and it does help to stretch. I walk in hunched, come out much straighter, and find I can breathe much better, too.
I don’t believe in face-lifts. Besides, after my car crash all those many years ago and the five operations on my eyelid, I’ve had enough plastic surgery to last me a lifetime. And to be honest, I think people look much better before than after. I’ve seen what happens to them—they all start looking the same. What’s wrong with a few wrinkles, anyway? Breast implants? I think they throw people out of proportion. Liposuction? I’ve seen it on TV, and it looks so terrifying I could never go there. This Botox thing is indecent, too. Willingly putting poison into your face and losing all your facial expressions? That’s mad!
My favorite bit of beauty pampering nowadays is my “mani-pedi,” the manicure and pedicure session I regularly indulge in at Think Pink, my local New York salon. The entire staff is Korean. And they love me. “Glace! Glace!” they shout when I walk in. They used to like sitting me near the window so passersby could see me. Pedestrians looking in often came up to the glass. When they realized I couldn’t hear them, they mouthed things at me like, “I love The September Issue. I love your work.” Because of all these interruptions, the therapists now discreetly seat me at the back so I won’t be disturbed.
My job brings me into contact with beauty practically on a daily basis. After all, I do work for a magazine dedicated to beautifying people’s lives. Beautiful people, beautiful objects, beautiful clothes, all shown in beautiful photographs. Not to mention on beautiful models—although it is well known that my notion of a beautiful girl is not exactly the same as that of most other fashion editors. I prefer a much quirkier kind of beauty. And I learned early on, as far back as the seventies in London, when everything was based on silver-screen glamour, that a great hairdresser or makeup artist can make a picture better, even when it looks as though they have done very little. They can enhance whatever image is being attempted. I have undoubtedly worked with a few who are considered geniuses at this.
Stretching out at Pilates with Kayoko & Lovie
The first time I found out about the makeup artist Pat McGrath was by listening to two great models, Shalom Harlow and Amber Valletta, sing her praises. “She’s amazing,” they told me. So I booked her for a job with Helmut Newton in the South of France. It was a bit of a test, because working with Helmut was always a little challenging. The pictures were with the blond German model Nadja Auermann, and it was the shoot that included the infamous picture of Leda and the swan.
We had never met before, and I didn’t see Pat arrive at our hotel—she came with one little bag and no assistant—but once she was there, she called my room and said she would love to come over right away to discuss the shoot. When I opened the door, a big, beautiful black woman was standing there smiling at me, so open and friendly, in a way that is far from inevitable in the fashion world.
Pat did an amazing job. Even Helmut was impressed. Nadja had never looked more dewy and luminous. From then on I worked with her whenever I could. Soon afterward she began collaborating with Steven Meisel. It was love at first sight, and they ended up working together virtually every day. Pat is very loyal to him. Once, in the middle of the international collections (she does practically every single show), she flew from London to New York to work with Steven and me for the day, then flew back the same night, the instant she finished. She would do anything for him. If he can’t get her for the makeup, I know he often doesn’t take the job.
Pat is famous for traveling with upward of fifty bags, big black canvas holdalls of makeup and reference materials. At hotels she has to book an extra room solely to keep them in. Extra cars are ordered to carry them. In Paris she hires a special delivery van to transport them from job to job and show to show, while she speeds off to the same venues on the back of a hired motorbike, which enables her to nip through the traffic at high speed.
Everything in Pat’s bags is immaculately filed and carefully labeled. One might contain beige foundations 1 through 100 and another might have orange lipsticks 15 through 50. She takes two to three bags filled with books: film books, books on the thirties, forties, and fifties. Then there are the Polaroid albums that contain every look she has ever done, documented with each product she has ever used. So on any given day, she can turn to an assistant and say, “Now, what was that very pretty pink lipstick we used two years ago for such-and-such magazine on so-and-so?” and the assistant can look it up and locate that exact thing. Lately, Pat has lightened her load a little by putting much of this documentation on her iPad.
Normally, Pat works with between six and eight assistants. Meanwhile, she’s developing new makeup and shades of color for the industrial giants Procter & Gamble, cajoling the photographers she works with, and giving interviews. Throughout, she’s never, ever in a bad mood. She has even developed a beauty video game; it’s remarkable. Nowadays at fashion shows, she mainly directs. She will make up a model’s eye and an assistant will copy it, filling in the other. Each of her assistants has a specialty. One will do lips and another will shape the eyebrows, though they can all do skin. Before Pat arrives at a show, the assistants will prepare the girls’ faces so that when she walks in, there’s a perfectly blank canvas for her to work on. She can be creative and extreme, but she’s never torturous. And she cares about everything, every last eyelash.
Pat McGrath, Guido, Di Kendal
Julcen d’ys, Stephane Marais, Gucci, Garren
I met another brilliant makeup artist, Gucci Westman, on a job with Bruce Weber, who does not like a lot of makeup on the skin. In fact, for many years he would work with only a hairdresser, leaving the models’ faces bare and natural, a groundbreaking move in beauty at the time. It says a lot that Gucci could enhance without intruding, so Bruce felt comfortable with her.
Gucci is very easy to work with. A good traveler, she is great to take on a trip because she never complains about her room. She makes people feel at ease. Actresses like her a lot. And she’s a very pretty girl herself. I love what she does—it never overwhelms the girl or makes her appear heavily made up or “draggy.” Gucci can do theatrical makeup as well. I once wanted her to have one of Bruce’s cute boys look wounded on a shoot, and she did a fantastic job reproducing the effects of blood and bruising. On another occasion she managed to completely conceal my black eye and stitches when I fell over just before my appearance on The Martha Stewart Show.
As for the hairdresser, I sometimes think of them for a shoot before I even decide on the photographer. In the sixties it was all about the cut. Vidal Sassoon would do
the actual cutting himself, but once that was done and the hair had been ironed dead straight, there was no need for him to physically attend the photo shoot. It wasn’t until much later that hairdressers styled hair solely for photo sessions and salon work took a backseat. Leonard, who graduated from Vidal Sassoon’s academy and opened his own salon, was the stylist I worked most with when I started at British Vogue. Although he had trained at Vidal, his style was somewhat opposite—very curly and romantic.
The permanently in-demand hairstylist Guido works in much the same way as Pat, except he employs an extra person called “Production” who coordinates everything for him. It is the modern way, and they—he and Pat—are a great team.
Guido creates fashion in hair. He is extremely versatile and has a light touch, so the hair doesn’t look as if it’s been “done.” He adapts his style to both Steven Meisel and David Sims, who likes to pair him with Diane Kendal. Di does gentle makeup, beautifully applied, the kind where you can’t tell whether the girl is wearing any. Extreme is not her thing; to me, her work is very truthful. She is also soft-spoken and self-effacing, which is occasionally a disadvantage, such as when Guido, who is extremely assertive, attempts to dictate the shoot—telling her to remove or bleach the eyebrows, which is a particular hate of mine, by the way. Stéphane Marais, on the other hand, is noted for doing really heavy brows. He and Peter Lindbergh have owned this look since back in the early eighties, together with smudgy black eyes. Stéphane and Julien d’Ys collaborate brilliantly. When booking a team for a shoot, choosing people who work well together and complement each other can make a huge difference to the harmony on-set.
Guido recently told me that both he and Pat have been asked by their respective sponsors to tweet during every fashion show they work on. How crazy is that? It is another insane condition of modern-day working that has been added to their contracts—as if it isn’t enough that they do amazing hair and makeup.
Grace Page 22
