Ten Pounds
Paris, protection, and the price of staying innocent
My boyfriend wasn’t even bothered by my ‘association’ with Warren Beatty. His advice to me was pretty much... “work it!”
What?!
You can imagine how confusing and conflicting that kind of encouragement can be coming from someone I thought had my best interest at heart. I certainly wasn’t about to pass on the opportunity to be mentored by one of the most accomplished filmmakers in Hollywood, so, I responded to his call. A number of times. I was more than flattered that Warren had taken a special interest in me and the advancement of my career. Maybe he was more focused on my fledgling sex life, either way, we tried a little of this and a little of the other kinds of things that directors do when they don’t happen to be making a movie at the time. I was definitely getting an education in extracurricular activities. I still had interests in acting to pursue, so I wasn’t particularly shy about asking him if he could make any introductions, or help me out career-wise.
“Have you ever thought of modeling?” He inquired.
I told him I fancied myself as more of an actress than a poser, which got a bit of a laugh out of him. I went on to explain that I had been told by some very legitimate theatrical agents that I was more of a commercial type.
“ But, I did take some modeling classes once.” I told him. “John Robert Powers classes.” I explained. “My boyfriend says I’m not tall enough, though. That I don’t have high cheekbones or an exotic look or anything.”
“What does he know.” Warren assured me.
I told him that Dick was really into models and did some photography on the side. “He’s into Janice Dickinson.” I told him. “She’s got those huge lips and everything.”
“Yes, she does. Doesn’t she?!” Warren concurred.
“He’s obsessed with her.” I told him.
“Well, I’m really into you.” He confirmed, as he stretched me out, with extra assurance, on his cool, smooth, white sheets. “What would he say about that?!”
Warren knew a woman who had a modeling agency in Paris, The Delphine Agency. He put me in touch with Marilyn Gauthier, who set me up to see a photographer in Los Angeles, because, well, she was in Paris. In a matter of days I was standing in front of this French photographer, being scrutinized from all angles. Large bolts of thick paper were leaning against the walls. Another was suspended high above on stands that looked rather challenged to actually support the weight of the demand. This backdrop had texture, painted to look like a cubist’s interpretation of clouds on a sandy beach. A smattering of this, a swath of that. There were, what looked to be, a couple blocks, in front of the backdrop, covered with a thick canvas drop cloth painted in a similar manner.
He asked me to sit on a stool in the middle of his large studio loft downtown.
I had clothes on. I was wearing a wool Icelandic sweater, a cream colored fleece Norma Kamali cheerleader skirt with textured grey tights and ballet slippers. I wore an acrylic Ivory bangle and a strand of pearls wrapped twice around my neck. My thick wavy hair was tied up in a ponytail accented by a plaid ribbon. I was clearly making a fashion statement. More than hinting at my willingness and enthusiasm to grace the cover of Vogue. They wouldn’t even need a stylist. As far as I was concerned I was the multi hyphenate they never knew they were looking for. I fancied myself more of a creative director than a model anyway. My little fantasy bubble burst when he asked me how tall I was.
“I’m 5’8”.” I answered, adding… “Well, 5’7” and three quarters, actually.” I knew they wanted models tall, but he marveled at my very long legs and assure me that they more than made up for what I might lack in height. He echoed the consensus that I had a very commercial look, a very American, fresh face. He liked my freckles.
“But, you are going to have to lose… 10, maybe 15 pounds.” He added very matter-of-factly. “You know that, right?”
“Oh, OK.” I responded.
He could tell I was a little thrown by the news.
“Because the camera puts on extra weight.” He explained. “But you look young and pretty. Let’s see what the camera has to say about it.”
He took a few shots of me sitting on the stool and then instructed me to go over and lounge on the blocks, where he took more. He had me change outfits and directed me into the same position on the blocks, and took more. That would do. He told me he would send the photos on to Marilyn. Finis!
I got the offer. She liked my look, I guess, provided that I lose the weight, of course. I felt fine with my body at the time. I mean, I was definitely not on the super skinny side. I was just fine. I wasn’t overweight. I look back at the photos now and I was just right… for normal life, but apparently not for modeling.
I did have long legs that went on forever when I wore heels, but at 5 feet 8 inches, I was just under low-end model specs. Sure, I had secret desires of being portfolio perfect, and deep down inside I had a swank super model ready to bolt unto the runway of life. But, not exactly the determination of someone who would parlay that passion into cover girl promise. So, when presented with the opportunity to go to Paris and model... well... it really hinged on ten pounds.
I told my boyfriend about the offer to go to Paris and model, as I picked up my plush wooly lamb, the size of a standard bed pillow, and hugged it in my arms. I kept it on the couch as a sort of comfort pillow. It also served as a Pop Art reminder that I was still closer to my childhood years than anything I was becoming. Art Nouveau posters of women in turn-of-the-century soap advertisements looked down on me as I fiddled with my lamb’s velour ear. Dick sat across from me on an oversized blue velvet chair accented with cream colored piping. Ours was an eclectic mix of a living room, all carefully curated pieces that screamed artsy young entrepreneurs with diverse tastes but a desperate desire to make it all work.
“I just have to lose some weight.” I told him. “But that’s fine. I can do that.”
“You don’t want to be a model, Lisa. You want to be an actress! You don’t want to go to Paris and model. You’re no Janice Dickinson. You’re pretty, but you don’t have high cheekbones or an exotic look or anything. You’ve got that blonde hair, blue-eyed, all American, girl-next-door sort of thing going on, but you don’t exactly have that high fashion look.”
“Well, THEY liked my look.” I reminded him.
“Yeah, because you look fourteen! You know, all those models who go to Europe end up looking too old in a few years anyway. Then they come back to the States and want to get into acting. You might as well stay here and be ahead of the game. Come on. You want to be an actress, right?!”
He had a point, I had to admit. “Well, yeah.”
“Exactly. So, you’ve got to stay here and get your career going. Gotta do what you gotta do!”
“What does that mean?”
“You know, you’re meeting some cool people. I mean, come on, Warren Beatty, you can’t get more A list than that! Work it baby.”
“You sound so Hollywood.” I said with a sneer.
“We are Hollywood! We’re in West Hollywood, even better. Closer to Beverly Hills. This is it! Come on, you met Warren Beatty! He’s into you. Do your thing.”
“I don’t have a thing, Dick. You do.” I felt obliged to remind him.
“Come on, Honey Bunny, this is your big opportunity. Carpe Deum Baby, seize the day!
“Don’t you even care?” At this point I wasn’t even thinking about Paris. I just felt like he was throwing me to the wolves either way.
“Of course I care Cuddle Bug. Of course I care. You’re Oscar material Baby Cakes. “
“No, I mean about me.” I felt like I had to spell it out.
“Yeah, you Baby. Of course I do. You’re gonna be an A lister too.”
“About us, Dick. Don’t you care about us?” I was not getting the affirmation I was looking for.
“Yes, US, my little Love Unit, us all the way!”
“Well, why doesn’t it feel like it then?
“What are you talking about? I’m here for you.” He insisted.
“I’m talking about love, Dick. I’m talking about being in love. Wanting to be together.”
“We ARE together, Pumkin.” He pressed.
“And stop calling me Pumkin, and Honey Baby, and Sugar Cube, and all that bullshit, pseudo endearment crap. My name is Lisa.”
“Baby, baby, shhh, come on Baby.”
“And stop calling me Baby. I’m not your baby!”
“Ok, ok, Lisa, come on Lisa. What are you freaking out about?”
“I’m not freaking out!”
“You are, you are... shhhh.”
“And DONT SHUSH ME!”
“Baby. I mean Lisa. Come on Lisa, snap out of it.”
“And don’t tell me to snap out of it.”
“You are completely overreacting.”
“Am I? Because I’m pretty sure that the person who is supposed to be my boyfriend, my true love, The person who I thought was the love of my life...”
“Shhh. Calm down.” He interrupted.
“I am calm! It just sure feels like the person who supposedly cares about me is suggesting that I serve myself on a silver platter for my career.” At that point I was almost in tears.
“Now THAT is an Oscar performance Honey! Just save it for the camera. Don’t be chewing me out. You’re just a little overwhelmed by all these big decisions. Listen, just stay in LA, Honey. Forget Paris. You’ve been there already, anyway. Come on, you don’t want to be a model. Be an actress. Get to know Warren a little better. He’ll put you in his movies. You’ll be a star. I know you will.”
I didn’t think that Dick had my professional interests at heart, and he certainly didn’t want me going off and having all these amazing adventures without him. I could feel a tinge of sabotage and envy in his advice, but I ultimately chose his angle of staying in LA to pursue my acting career as justification for my final decision to turn down the offer. Kind of crazy because years later and only 2 IMDB credits to my name, I have to wonder what the hell I was thinking.
Not going to Paris to model has always stood out as a rather questionable decision in my life. I mostly blame my boyfriend’s influence when recounting that particular squelched opportunity, but, the truth is probably closer to my not wanting to lose those ten pounds. Ten pounds stood between me, and my life as a supermodel. Ok, well maybe that was part of it right there. I never really honestly felt like I could pull that one off.... supermodel? Not quite. As much as I secretly fantasized about possible glamor gigs, I don’t think I ever saw myself walking that walk, putting on that much make up every day, or being very super at doing any model-y kinds of things... like losing ten pounds.
I wasn’t really model material anyway. I wasn’t about to have body and food issues imposed on me. I was not the anorexic/bulimic type. I wasn’t about to sacrifice my napoleons and eclairs for the aesthetic judgment of the modeling world. I was comfortable enough in my body and felt just fine about it. I danced, I stretched, I did yoga, I ate bean sprouts, kale, vanilla bean ice cream, and pizza. So I had a little extra chocolate on my hips and some brie that settled nicely on my belly. So what?! Warren didn’t seem to be bothered by any of it.
But, let the whole truth come out. The whole ten pounds! The ten pounds of protection, the ten pounds of security, the ten pounds that would guarantee my safety and innocence, the ten pounds that perhaps kept me out of the lion’s den. I did have some apprehension as to the nature of the modeling opportunity I was presented with. Instinct, educated guess, or ruminating on a rumor, may have prevented my being indoctrinated into the world of model turned high-class call girl. I had heard stories. My imagination was a flutter with questions and colorful scenarios. My own personal Mr. Big was also Mr. Mysterious and Mr. Reputation. But I was so busy being Miss Naïve, Miss Denial, and perhaps even Miss Magical Thinking that I couldn’t really make sense of it at the time.
Oh what we feed ourselves to hold on to those pounds of protection. Well, I didn’t have to go find out. I didn’t want to be disillusioned, disappointed, let down, taken advantage of, compromised, or, disrespected. I didn’t want to do anything I might regret. Either way I was fucked. How to walk that fine line of having fun, running wild, enjoying life, going crazy, staying sane, living life to the fullest, maintaining a balance so as not to fall off the edge, or face not even having tried.
What is worse really, having ten-pound regrets, or regret not having them?
