Desert Flower (23 page)

He looked so sad and pathetic that I felt guilty. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I shouldn’t have ‘ come. I’ll take the first flight home tomorrow.”

“Good! Go! I don’t want to see you in that apartment when I get home from the studio. I’m working here this isn’t a holiday. I don’t have time for your craziness.” But when I got home the next evening, he hadn’t budged. He was sitting there looking out the window of the dark apartment listless, lonely, miserable but there all the same. When I started screaming, he agreed to go the next day. And the next. Finally he left and went back to Wales, and I thought: Thank you, God; finally I can have some peace. My stay in New York lengthened as the work continued to pour in. However, Nigel didn’t permit me any peace for long. He flew back to New York again twice more, three times in all, each time showing up unannounced.

In spite of the absurd situation with Nigel, everything else in my life was heavenly. I was having a great time meeting people in New York, and my

career took off like a rocket. I worked for Benetton and Levi’s, and appeared in a series of commercials for a jeweler, Pomellato, wearing white African robes. I did makeup ads for Revlon, then later represented their new perfume, Ajee. The commercial announced, “From the heart of Africa comes a fragrance to capture the heart of every woman.” These companies were utilizing the thing that made me different my exotic African look, the same look that had kept me from getting modeling jobs in London. For the Academy Awards, Revlon filmed a special commercial where I appeared with Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer, and Lauren Button. In this spot, each of us kept asking and answering the same question: “What makes a woman revolutionary?” My answer summed up the bizarre reality of my life: “A nomad from Somalia becoming a Revlon model.”

Later, I became the first black model ever to be featured in ads for Oil of Ulay. I made music videos for Robert Palmer and Meat Loaf. These projects kept snowballing and soon I was in the big fashion magazines: Elle, Allure, Glamour, Italian Vogue, French Vogue. Along the way, I got to work with the biggest photographers in the business, including the legendary Richard

Avedon. In spite of the fact that he’s more famous than the models he photographs, I loved Richard because he’s so down-to-earth and funny. And even though he’s been doing this for decades, he would constantly ask my opinion about shots: “Waris, what do you think about this?” The fact that he cared enough to ask meant a lot to me. Richard joined my first great photographer, Terence Donovan, as a man I respected.

Through the years, I’ve developed a list of favorite photographers. It sounds easy to have a job taking pictures all day, but after I became more experienced, I started to see a huge difference in quality, at least from my perspective of being the subject of those photographs. A great fashion photographer is one who is able to bring out the true individuality of the model and enhance it, instead of imposing a preconceived image on her. Part of my appreciation may be that as I get older, I appreciate more who I am and What makes me different from the women I Constantly work with in the modeling business. To be black in this industry, where everybody’s six feet tall and has silky hair down to her knees and porcelain-white skin, is to be an exception. And I’ve worked with photographers who used lighting and makeup and hair stylists to make me

look like something I wasn’t. But I didn’t enjoy it, and I didn’t like the end result. If you want Cindy Crawford, you should definitely use Cindy, instead of taking a black woman and slapping a long wig and a bunch of light foundation on her to make a weird, black Cindy Crawford look alike. The photographers I enjoyed working with appreciated the natural beauty in women and tried to seek out that beauty. In my case, they no doubt had their work cut out for them, but I respected the effort.

As my popularity grew, my commitments grew, and my schedule was packed with castings, shows, and shoots. All of it was very difficult for me to keep track of, with my bias against wearing a watch. I discovered problems trying to tell time the old way; it was tough to observe the length of my shadow amidst Manhattan skyscrapers. I started to get in a lot of trouble for showing up late for appointments. I also discovered that I was dyslexic when I kept showing up at the wrong address. My agency would write down the address for me, and I would always reverse the numbers. They’d give me an address, 725 Broadway, and I’d show up at 527 Broadway wondering what happened to everybody. I had done this in London, too, but since I was working so much more in

New York, I began to realize this was a constant problem.

As I became more experienced and confident in my career, my favorite part of modeling emerged: the runway. Twice a year, the designers hold shows to announce their new line. The circuit for the fashion shows begins in Milan and lasts for two weeks. Next it’s on to Paris, then London, then New York. My nomad days prepared me well for this life: traveling light, moving on when the work did, accepting what life had to offer and making the most of it.

When the shows begin in Milan for the season, every woman and girl in modeling heads there, along with every woman and girl who’s ever dreamed of becoming a model. Suddenly the city is mobbed by extremely tall mutant women, running everywhere like ants. You will see them on every street corner, at every bus stop, in every cafe models. Oh, there’s one now. There’s another one. Yes, there’s one. There’s no mistaking the look. Some are friendly. “Hi!” Some just look each other up and down. “Um-hmmm.” Some know each other. Some are complete strangers, there for the first time all alone and scared to death. Some get along. Some

don’t. There are all kinds, all types. And anybody who says there’s no jealousy, well, that’s complete bullshit. There’s plenty of that going on, too.

The agency sets up your appointments, then the models run around Milan going to castings, trying to secure a spot in the shows. This is when you realize that modeling is not all about glamour. Hardly. You might have seven, ten, eleven appointments in a single day. And it’s very, very hard work, because you’re running around all day; you don’t have time to eat because you have one appointment and are late for two others. When you finally make it to your next casting, thirty girls are lined up waiting. And you know that every single one of them has to go before you do. When it’s your turn, you show your book your portfolio with your photographs. If the client likes you, he’ll ask you to walk. And if he really likes you, he’ll ask you to try something on. Then that’s it: “Thank you very much. Next!”

You don’t know if you made it or not, but you don’t have time to worry about it, because you’re on to the next one. If they’re interested, they contact your agency and book you. Meanwhile, you better learn quickly not to dwell on the job, or get upset about losing jobs you really wanted, or feel hurt being rejected by your favorite designers.

When you start thinking, Oh, did I get it? Am I going to get it? Why didn’t I get it? you drive yourself absolutely crazy, especially when you’re turned down for assignments. If you let it bother you, you’ll soon start falling to pieces. Eventually you realize the whole casting process is mostly about disappointment. In the beginning, I used to worry, Well, why didn’t I get that one? Damn, I really wanted that job! But I later learned to live by my motto with this business: C’est la vie. Well, shit, it just didn’t work. They didn’t like you, simple as that. And it’s not your fault. If they were looking for somebody seven feet tall with long blond hair who weighs eighty pounds, well, they’re not interested in Waris. Just move on, girl.

If a client books you, you go back and do the fitting for the clothes you’ll wear in the show. All this activity is going on, and we haven’t even gotten to the show yet. You’re getting run-down and exhausted, and you haven’t slept well, and you don’t have time to eat right. You’re looking tired and skinny. And then skinnier and skinnier, while every day you’re fighting to look your best, because your career depends on it. Then you’re wondering, Why am I doing this? Why am I here?

When the fashion shows begin, sometimes you’re still doing castings at the same time, because the whole process only lasts two weeks. On the day of the show, you have to be there about five hours before it begins. All the girls are packed in, you get your makeup done, then you sit around, then you get your hair done, then you sit around waiting for the show to start. Next, you put your first outfit on, then you stand around, because you can’t sit down and wrinkle the clothes! And when the show starts, suddenly it’s chaos complete madness. “Whoa! Where are you? What are you doing? Where’s Waris? Where’s Naomi? Come here. Come front hurry up. You’re number nine. You’re next.” You jerk your clothes on in front of all these strange people you don’t know. “Ah, ah, I’m coming, yeah hold on.” Everybody’s pushing everybody. “What are you doing? Get out of my way I’m on!”

And then, after all that hard work is the best little bit: you’re on. You’re next, standing off stage. Then BOOM! You walk out on the runway, and the lights are blazing, and the music’s blasting, and everybody’s staring, and you’re sashaying down the walk for all you’re worth, thinking, I AN IT. ALL OF YOU LOOK AT ME You’ve had your hair and makeup done by the best in the business, and you’re wearing an outfit that’s so

expensive you could never dream of buying it. But for a few seconds it’s yours, and you know you look like a million bucks. The rush shoots through you, and when you leave the runway, you can’t wait to change and get back out there again. After all that preparation, the whole show lasts only twenty or thirty minutes, but you may do three, four, five shows in a day, so you have to tear out and head to your next one as soon as you’re finished.

When the two weeks of insanity is finished in Milan, the colony of designers, makeup artists, hairstylists, and models moves on to Paris like a band of gypsies. Then the whole process repeats itself, before they go on to London and New York. By the end of the circuit, you’re barely hanging on, and when you finish in New York, you better take some time off. You’re ready to go to some little island somewhere with no telephones to try and relax. Otherwise, if you don’t, if you try to keep working, you’ll go absolutely mental from being worn out.

While modeling is fun and I admit to loving the glamour and glitter and beauty of it there’s a cruel side that can be devastating for a woman, especially a young one, who’s insecure. I’ve gone for jobs and had the stylist or photographer

exclaim in horror: “My God! What is wrong with your feet! Why do you have those ugly black marks all over them?” What can I say.) They’re referring to the scars caused by stepping on hundreds of thorns and rocks in the Somalian desert; a reminder of my childhood, when I walked for fourteen years with no shoes. How can I explain that to a designer in Paris?

When they’d ask me to try on a miniskirt at a casting, I’d immediately feel sick. I’d walk out and stand on one foot, twisting around, hoping they wouldn’t notice my problem. I’ve got bowlegs the legacy of growing up in a nomadic family without proper nutrition. And I’ve been fired from jobs because of these bowlegs, a physical ailment I had no control over.

I used to be so ashamed, so hurt, because of my legs that I once went to a doctor to see if he could fix them. “Break nay legs,” I ordered him, ‘so I won’t have to feel humiliated anymore.” But thank God, he said I was too old, the bones were already set, and it wouldn’t work. As I got older, I thought, Well, these are my legs, and they’re a result of who I am and where I’m from. And as I got to know my body better, I came to love my legs. If I had broken them so that I could do some runway show for five minutes, I would be very, very

angry with myself today. I would have broken my limbs for what so I could make some guy’s clothes look good? Now I’m proud of these legs because they have history; they’re part of the history of my life. My bowlegs carried me thousands of miles across the desert and my slow, undulating walk is the walk of an African woman; it speaks of my heritage.

Another problem with modeling is that the fashion business, like any other industry, has its share of unpleasant people. Maybe because so much is at stake in some of the decisions, people let the stress get to them. But I remember working with a particular art director at one of the major fashion magazines, who for me epitomized the bitter, bitchy attitude that made a photo shoot feel like a funeral. We were in the Caribbean, shooting on a beautiful little island. This place was like paradise, and all of us should have been having a great time, since we were getting paid to work in a setting most people would pay dearly to visit for a holiday. But not this woman. From the minute we arrived she was on my back. “Waris, you really need to get yourself together. You need to get up and get moving you’re just lazy. I can’t stand working with people like you.” She called the agency back in New York and complained that I

was just a moron and refused to do any work. They were quite mystified, but no more so than I was.

This art director was a heartbreakingly sad woman. She was obviously frustrated, she didn’t have a man, no friends, nobody to love. And all her life, love, and passion were poured into this business because she had nothing else going for her. So she took all her frustration out on me, and I’m sure I wasn’t the first one or the last. After a few days of this, however, I lost my sympathy for her. I looked at her and I thought, There are things I can do to this one: I can slap her across the face, or I can just look at her and smile and say nothing. And I thought, It’s best to say nothing.

The saddest thing is to see a woman like this art director get hold of young girls who’ve just starting out in the business. Sometimes these girls, who are no more than children, leave Oklahoma or Georgia or North Dakota and fly to New York or France or Italy alone and try to make it. Often they don’t know the country or the language. They’re naive and get taken advantage of. They can’t deal with the rejection and fall apart. They don’t have the experience or wisdom or inner strength to realize the fault doesn’t lie with them. Many wind up coming back home sobbing, broken and bitter.