Model Girl: The Autobiography of Jean Dawnay - Dior's 'English Rose'

CHAPTER I

THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL

April 1956 in Majorca was warm and sunny, but as we sat at lunch, the blinds of the yacht Deo Juvante, anchored off Formentor, were tightly drawn. I was the guest of Prince Rainier of Monaco, and his bride, the former Grace Kelly: all around us reporters, photographers and sightseers were milling with field-glasses, cameras and even telescopes. In spite of the weather, sunbathing was out of the question, so after lunch, we sat drinking coffee in the saloon. Princess Grace and I were soon deep in discussion about horoscopes and fate; she asked me when my birthday was, and told me hers was November 12. She said how different her life had been only a few years ago, when everything seemed to have gone wrong. As she spoke, I too began to think of the contrast of the past and the present. Now I was lunching aboard the yacht of the most publicized honeymoon couple in the world. Nine years ago in November 1947, I had been a hard up air hostess, looking desperately around for some other means of supplementing my income. It was then that somebody suggested I should try modelling. At that time there was nothing like the enormous amount of publicity given to models and modelling that there is to-day, so unless one knew someone in the fashion trade, one knew nothing whatsoever about it. I had never really registered the fact that the faces of the girls showing clothes in magazines belonged to real people—they always seemed like stuffed dummies—and it certainly never entered my head to become one; nor had I ever seen a model in real life and I couldn’t imagine them leading normal human lives—having to eat, sleep and clean their teeth at regular intervals.

The war had felt as if it would go on for ever. I was at school when it started and when I left it seemed rather pointless to have ambitions about anything, as everyone was drafted into war work of one kind or another. I drifted along through WAAF’s and a parachute factory and various other things, with no idea of what I wanted out of life, except a restless ambition to be famous—at what, I didn’t know. I finally ended up as an air hostess with Westminster Airways, a private charter company, and by September 1947 I was living in London on £8 a week (my only source of income), which after my food, rent and tax were paid left very little for anything else. Being a private charter company, the work was very irregular, and sometimes there would be long, irritating spells of doing nothing. Secretly I began to toy with the idea of modelling—I say secretly because I felt rather self-conscious at the idea of my being attractive and vain enough to consider it possible. Finally, my need for money got the better of me and I decided to have a shot.

I had absolutely no idea how to set about becoming a model, until I hit on the bright thought of looking up ‘photographers’ in the London telephone book (I can’t imagine now why I didn’t ring up a fashion magazine). The first dozen or so were of no use whatsoever, being the type of photographer who takes machinery or weddings or babies on fur rugs. I was getting nowhere fast, when I had the further bright inspiration to look up ‘studios’, which were more to the point. Finally, one patient voice at the end of the line explained in answer to my request, ‘Did they need any models?’, that they got all the models they required through an agency, and my best policy was to join one. They then gave me the address of two. I hated the idea of ringing up strange people and asking for interviews, but I telephoned and made appointments to see both the agents.

The first was Pat Larthe, who asked me to bring any snaps or photographs that I had and told me where her office was. I dressed myself up and thought I looked fine, although I realize now I must have looked like a trussed chicken. I arrived at a depressing-looking building near Covent Garden, feeling sick with nerves, which were not at all helped by passing several self-possessed and, to my mind, over-made-up girls on the stairs. I had to sit in a waiting room with about ten other girls, all apparently waiting for interviews like myself. It was my first inkling of the number of girls who wanted to be models.

The interview was short and humiliating. I showed Miss Larthe my pictures (snaps, and one or two studio portraits, that up to now had seemed very glamorous). She barely seemed to glance at them before telling me I was too ordinary, that modelling was the toughest, most soul-destroying profession in the world, and that girls who had far more than I in the ways of looks and figure, got nowhere. Never having been told the frank truth about myself before, I had to try hard to hold back the tears of embarrassment and confusion—I didn’t succeed very well. One’s friends and relations are inclined to shelter one from the harsh reality about one’s appearance: it needed the detached business-like view of a good agent to give a cold douche to my illusions. However, Miss Larthe ended by saying that if I was still interested, I could have a copy of her list of photographers and visit them to see if any of them would give me a ‘test’ (whatever that was). She added that it was extremely unlikely!

I left the agency feeling crushed and dispirited. This was my initiation into the toughness and cattle-market attitude of the model world. When I look back on that interview now, with my experience of the profession, I realize that Pat Larthe was being an efficient agent in giving me a truthful picture of modelling; and although her judgment of me was harsh, it was nevertheless fair—I was ordinary. My fair hair was fuzzy from cheap ‘perms’, my eyebrows ragged and ungroomed, my two front teeth were crossed and ‘rabbity’, my cheeks too plump, and my make-up did nothing for me—altogether I was just what an agent didn’t need, at a time when the current type of successful mannequin was apparently tall, glamorous and ultra-sophisticated.

The most that could be said for me was that I had a certain type of sweet English prettiness, in a negative sort of way, with absolutely no poise or self-confidence whatsoever: the sort of girl you see anywhere in England, who walks into a room as if she’s afraid someone is going to bang her on the head, and hides her hands as if they were a pound of sausages. Of course, this described my ‘outside’, but inside I was burning with ambition and determination to be ‘somebody’. In my secret dreams I was the most fascinating creature, full of grace and beauty.

The morning after my interview with Miss Larthe, I decided to start visiting some of the photographers on the list she had given me. I set out on what I was soon to discover is the most heart-breaking part of a model’s career, ‘doing the rounds’. In other words, going to all the photographers in turn, leaving them a photograph in the hope of getting work.

The first few weeks I had no photographs to leave and could only show them my snaps and studio portraits, which were practically useless: the former being melon-faced, jolly-looking, and rather blurred, the latter, vague pictures of me wearing a string of Woolworth pearls and a soulful expression. Nowadays, things are much better organized: many photographers will take a few pictures at a special price for models and one can buy several dozen copies to take on one’s rounds. I hated every moment of those weeks and months, and never want to go through anything like it again. I would try to find any excuse to put off going, like—‘it’s raining too hard, I’ll arrive bedraggled and spoil my chances’ or ‘I have a spot on my chin’ or ‘my best shoes are at the menders’—anything to avoid the agonizing and humiliating experiences of being continually looked over and continually turned down.

The first studio I called at was in Chelsea—it was in a very dingy looking block of artists’ studios, with a dark corridor full of empty beer bottles leading to some unlit stairs which smelt of cats. I knocked and opened a door which said ‘Studio’. My eyes were dazzled by the sudden blaze of the strongest lights I had ever seen—all focused on a very glamorous and willowy looking girl. Everyone shouted to me to come in or go out, but not to stand gaping with the door wide open. I could hardly believe I was actually in a photographer’s studio, as I took in the huge lamps and cables on the floor and the general atmosphere of unreality. My heart sank and I felt very small and foolish as I looked around. I would never be able to look like that girl standing there in her slinky black dress with glittery stuff on it, her hair drawn back so tightly into a bun that it gave her face a Chinese look. I suddenly realized what a fool I was being imagining I could earn money by my looks. I wished desperately that I was back home in bed, but already a man in shirtsleeves who had come out from under a black cloth which covered an enormous camera, was asking me what I wanted. I felt all eyes upon me as I heard myself say: ‘I’m just starting modelling and Miss Larthe sent me to see you.’ I could sense the look of patronizing boredom in his face almost before it appeared; I wished helplessly that I was tall, smart and terribly sure of myself, and able to change that look of indifference to one of admiration. It was hard to admit I was 5 ft 5¾ ins, rather dowdy and terribly ‘green’. I don’t remember what he said, all I remember is going back to my depressing basement flat in a mood of utter despair, convinced I’d never make a model.

But my mood changed; and suddenly, from having been just a means to make extra money, modelling represented a goal which was out of my reach and, therefore, irresistible. All at once it became terribly important to my self-esteem to make a success of it, and in this mood of renewed enthusiasm I went to see the second agent whose name I’d been given (not realizing it was unethical to have two agents).

Miss Jean Bell was far more intimidating than Miss Larthe. She was the acme of sophistication, and looked like a cross between a beautiful ballerina and a severe school-mistress. I had changed into my air hostess uniform, hoping it would make me look smarter and take me out of the rut of ‘ordinariness’.

However, Miss Bell was as unimpressed as Miss Larthe and the Chelsea photographer had been. She explained that unless girls could work full time at modelling, they could not hope to get anywhere, certainly not when they were starting, and as I was obviously an air hostess I should stick to that. She explained kindly but firmly that I was too short, my hair all wrong and that I really fell far short of the standard required. Finally, after discouraging me as much as possible, she agreed to give me her list of photographers. At least that was something.

That evening I reviewed the situation. I had bought a pile of magazines and some new make-up on my way home. I spent the evening in a thoroughly narcissistic way, sitting in front of a mirror pinning my hair this way and that, making idiotic faces at myself and trying out all sorts of make-up, including eye shadow and rouge for the first time. I ended up by looking like a Dutch doll. Then I stood in front of the mirror with a magazine open on the floor, copying the poses made by the models in the photographs. Even though I was alone I felt very self-conscious. I also planned to make an organized tour of all the studios, visiting four a day whenever I was not flying. Then I went through my extremely limited wardrobe and since I could find nothing remotely resembling what I saw in the magazines, I rang up a girl friend, Sonia Melchett, who very kindly said she would lend me anything I needed. Unfortunately she is much taller than I am so it limited the things I could borrow to umbrellas, hats, jackets and anything that didn’t have to fit.

The next day, with my hair scragged back in a poor man’s version of the girl I’d seen in the studio and painted-up like a redskin, I took a 22 bus to Holborn, where there were two studios to visit. At first, a receptionist asked me what I wanted. I asked to see the photographer, saying I was a model. Not attempting to hide her disdainful surprise, she said she dealt with the models and would I show her my pictures. I rather resented having to show my snaps and photos, which were now beginning to get dog-eared, to a girl of my own age—little realizing how important it was to make a good impression on the receptionists at a photographer’s studio, as they book the models for jobs and suggest names to the photographer, completely influencing some photographers against you if they don’t like you. The girl barely glanced at the pictures and told me, rather smugly, I thought, that I was not suitable for the type of work they did.

Feeling crushed once more, I went to the next studio on my list. Here I received a similar lack of interest, but at least the receptionist was slightly apologetic and sympathetic. I had tried to look sophisticated in the same manner as the model in the studio, but obviously it hadn’t ‘come off’. Ah well! tomorrow I’d do better and go all sporty in a sweater and tweed skirt.

In the afternoon after lunching at Lyons and queueing for various buses, I visited two more studios. At the first there was nobody in and guiltily I felt rather relieved. At the second they asked me to call again when I had some better pictures.

Days and then weeks went by in this way, always with the same result—no work. When I tried to be sophisticated they wanted ‘outdoor’ girls; when I went all ‘outdoor’, they wanted them fragile and feminine; if my hair was sleek, they wanted it curly. I was never what anybody wanted. I tried to please everyone and ended up by being a hotchpotch of everything and nothing. In one day I would be told by various studios that I was too tall or too small—too big or too slim—and each day it became more difficult to pluck up courage to keep trailing around. Sometimes when I got home I would cry my eyes out from sheer desperation and disappointment. If only I could get just one job and get a start somewhere…

Finally, after about seven weeks, when I was beginning to lose all hope, I was given a test shot at Studio Sun, which meant they took a few pictures of me to see how I photographed, with a view to using me for a proper job. When they took the test shot I was told to smile but my lips quivered and twitched so much it was practically impossible. I thought the photographer, John Dixon, would get cross and impatient, but in fact he was terribly kind: he was the first person in the fashion world to treat me like a human being. What is more, the test was apparently a success, because a few days later the Studio contacted me via the Pat Larthe agency and booked me for my very first job. At long last!!!

I was told to be at Studio Sun on Thursday afternoon, from 2.30 till 5 and bring along some sun glasses. It was very exciting speculating what the job would be. Why did I need sun glasses? I went to bed very early the night before, though I couldn’t sleep for dreaming about my future…

In the morning I had my hair set and spent hours on my make-up, arriving at the Studio long before I was due in my anxiety. I was in such a fever of excitement about it that I might have been getting ready for my own coronation.

When I arrived, the studio was full of very real-looking artificial snow. I was shown to a small dressing room and told to put on some ski-clothes that were hanging there; not being a skier, this was the first time I’d ever worn ski-clothes. By now I was shaking with nerves and excitement. John Dixon brought me a cup of tea to calm me down and reassuringly told me there was nothing to be nervous about. All I would have to do would be to stand or sit in the ‘snow’ wearing the ski-clothes and enormous boots, holding some ski sticks. It sounded simple enough, and yet, as soon as I was in the