messages on Montmartre’s love wall in languages from all over the world. In my mind I was already tripping through the sunny streets and watching life go by through an art-deco window in a bohemian cafe like I’d seen them do in a thousand films – the food, the shopping, visiting Versailles outside the city.
The spring was warm and it was great to be out on the streets when I got to see my first Sony Walkman. At 17, I felt young, beautiful and ready to conquer the city and I was incredibly impressed by the American model rollerblading through Parc Monceau with a big pair of headphones connected to this clunky, battery-powered tape player. I did a double-take and grinned, not quite believing he could listen to music while he was out. He looked so cool and this was exactly the sort of sophisticated display I had been expecting to see in fashion-conscious Paris. When I later found out the enormous price of those Walkman players I almost passed out. The future had arrived, I decided, though even that wasn’t as expensive as the car phone I got to try around the same time. To this day my mother has never quite accepted that the excited call she got from me in Paris was really made on the move: the phones weren’t even on the market.
I lived in an apartment with two other models in Montmartre. We were at the foot of the hill that leads up to the Moulin Rouge. Elite’s headquarters were in the heart of the city in an old building. Inside you could expect to find top models such as Janice Dickinson, Jerry Hall and Gia – Gia Marie Carangi. Later portrayed in a movie about her life by Angelina Jolie, Gia’s tragic life ended at the age of just 26. I remember her as a friend and someone who made a unique impression with her completely exclusive way of living. Constantly on the covers of Vogue, Cosmopolitan and many other fashion magazines, she was like a goddess in her photoshoots, but I was shocked when I saw her early one morning before the make-up artist had got to her. Therewas a young, lost soul screaming in pain which could only be anaesthetised through a shot of heroin. Her eyes were sunken and black and she was shaking. I’d seen nothing in my limited experience like it, no film depiction of addiction had ever looked as bad as that; it was very scary.
Gia had the world’s photographers around her from the day she started in New York. The little bisexual boy/girl from Philadelphia never had the tough skin that modelling needed and she paid for it with her life. On 18 November 1986, she died of AIDS – and hardly anyone noticed. Her story made her famous but by the time she was acknowledged for being the world’s first supermodel it was too late. I would think of her again when I started to poison myself with my own addiction.
While I was in Paris I would get yearning letters from Gia. She poured out her love for me, which just made me really embarrassed. There was no problem for me with being gay and it was quite accepted in Denmark but it just felt strange that she was attracted to me. My letters in return were guarded, as friendly as I could make them knowing that I couldn’t give her the response her vulnerability needed. I had a sense of self-preservation that helped me to toughen up enough to survive the world in which we were both trying to find our way.
Paris and I had a far less harmonious relationship. We were speedily heading from honeymoon to irreconcilable differences after just a few months. My working life had become a living hell, far worse than anything I’d encountered in Germany. I felt every inch the giraffe again and I began to suffer panic attacks. ‘Who do you think youare?’ the bookers said. Here it was again. ‘You’re too skinny…’ ‘What do you look like?’ ‘Your hair is terrible!’ ‘How dare you come here with three pictures in your portfolio!’ ‘Just get out!’ I was pushed around verbally and physically. It wasn’t like they were just dismissive, they seemed
The spring was warm and it was great to be out on the streets when I got to see my first Sony Walkman. At 17, I felt young, beautiful and ready to conquer the city and I was incredibly impressed by the American model rollerblading through Parc Monceau with a big pair of headphones connected to this clunky, battery-powered tape player. I did a double-take and grinned, not quite believing he could listen to music while he was out. He looked so cool and this was exactly the sort of sophisticated display I had been expecting to see in fashion-conscious Paris. When I later found out the enormous price of those Walkman players I almost passed out. The future had arrived, I decided, though even that wasn’t as expensive as the car phone I got to try around the same time. To this day my mother has never quite accepted that the excited call she got from me in Paris was really made on the move: the phones weren’t even on the market.
I lived in an apartment with two other models in Montmartre. We were at the foot of the hill that leads up to the Moulin Rouge. Elite’s headquarters were in the heart of the city in an old building. Inside you could expect to find top models such as Janice Dickinson, Jerry Hall and Gia – Gia Marie Carangi. Later portrayed in a movie about her life by Angelina Jolie, Gia’s tragic life ended at the age of just 26. I remember her as a friend and someone who made a unique impression with her completely exclusive way of living. Constantly on the covers of Vogue, Cosmopolitan and many other fashion magazines, she was like a goddess in her photoshoots, but I was shocked when I saw her early one morning before the make-up artist had got to her. Therewas a young, lost soul screaming in pain which could only be anaesthetised through a shot of heroin. Her eyes were sunken and black and she was shaking. I’d seen nothing in my limited experience like it, no film depiction of addiction had ever looked as bad as that; it was very scary.
Gia had the world’s photographers around her from the day she started in New York. The little bisexual boy/girl from Philadelphia never had the tough skin that modelling needed and she paid for it with her life. On 18 November 1986, she died of AIDS – and hardly anyone noticed. Her story made her famous but by the time she was acknowledged for being the world’s first supermodel it was too late. I would think of her again when I started to poison myself with my own addiction.
While I was in Paris I would get yearning letters from Gia. She poured out her love for me, which just made me really embarrassed. There was no problem for me with being gay and it was quite accepted in Denmark but it just felt strange that she was attracted to me. My letters in return were guarded, as friendly as I could make them knowing that I couldn’t give her the response her vulnerability needed. I had a sense of self-preservation that helped me to toughen up enough to survive the world in which we were both trying to find our way.
Paris and I had a far less harmonious relationship. We were speedily heading from honeymoon to irreconcilable differences after just a few months. My working life had become a living hell, far worse than anything I’d encountered in Germany. I felt every inch the giraffe again and I began to suffer panic attacks. ‘Who do you think youare?’ the bookers said. Here it was again. ‘You’re too skinny…’ ‘What do you look like?’ ‘Your hair is terrible!’ ‘How dare you come here with three pictures in your portfolio!’ ‘Just get out!’ I was pushed around verbally and physically. It wasn’t like they were just dismissive, they seemed
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