actively angry at the way I looked when I turned up. I kept asking myself what was wrong with me: I secured not a single job, not one.
Catalogues had been reliable standby jobs before but now even their bookers were looking at me as if I had marched in through the wrong door. Within weeks I was back to crying myself to sleep. I still dreamed that my handsome prince would ride up and save me – but these days he no longer spoke French. The exhaustion and depression manifested themselves as physical symptoms. My hair started to fall out, my lips were raw with cold-sores. In turn, this look did little to improve my chances at the few casting sessions I was still getting.
Paris made me feel as if I were a waste of everyone’s time. I was as total a flop as I had been promised I would be a superstar. Each day that passed ran up more bills for the modelling agency. What a fiasco, what a failure!
‘But you’ve just started here in Paris, Gitte. There’s no model who would get work the day they arrive. Keep your head – it’ll be okay.’ This was Monique, the director of Elite in Paris. She tried to get my spirits up. Monique had played the mother hen role for some of the most beautiful models in the world, but they were out there making piles of money and after two months of absolutely nothing I was all ready to pack up and go home. I was spent. My interest in thework had gone with my energy. I was feeling homesick. It just wasn’t meant to be for me in the fashion world: I was what I had grown up as – a skinny creature who didn’t fit in. The agency was supportive – they also didn’t want to see their investment disappear to Denmark.
Monique called John Casablanca in New York. ‘You just wait and see – she’s going to be a superstar. I’ve seen her pictures,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we just need to set her up somewhere else.’ He was just about to fly over to Paris anyway and he promised that he would come up with a new plan.
The very next day I was called in to a meeting with John himself. He thought I would have better luck in Italy, where the designers were more progressive. ‘Why don’t you pack your bags?’ he said. ‘We can fly out this evening.’ He continued with a few casually-delivered hints as to how I might improve my chances, which coming from him sounded very much like orders.
‘Do something about your look. You have a fabulous face, but we need to do something different… Cut your hair short, buy some new clothes, change your shoes…’ He handed me $2,000. And that was that. In that moment, everything changed – about me and about my career. I got my hair cut boyishly short and had it bleached, and that became my iconic look.
We flew from Paris that day and John presented me to his Milan agency with the implied expectation that I would be respected by them and they would work hard for me. He called all his contacts in Italy and told them the new girl in town was one to watch. That night we spent together in thehotel. I remember thinking John was so old – I mean, for me at 17, he just seemed impossibly ancient. I wasn’t even fluent in English, and I had a boyfriend back in Denmark. But it was also the point at which my career began to take off.
Suddenly everyone was crazy about my Scandinavian look and my short hair; I was the new trend everywhere. Milanese designer Luciano Soprani was huge in the ‘80s. He’s since passed away but back then he worked with Max Mara, Heliette, Basile, Nazareno and Gabrielli, all key figures in Italian fashion. Luciano hired me when he was head designer for Gucci and he was crazy about me. And because he was crazy about me, everybody else wanted me. The assistants at the modelling agency hardly had time to keep up – Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace… everyone was calling for me. I travelled to exotic locations for photoshoots in private jets and might be having brunch with Mick Jagger one morning and tea with Prince Albert of Monaco the same
Catalogues had been reliable standby jobs before but now even their bookers were looking at me as if I had marched in through the wrong door. Within weeks I was back to crying myself to sleep. I still dreamed that my handsome prince would ride up and save me – but these days he no longer spoke French. The exhaustion and depression manifested themselves as physical symptoms. My hair started to fall out, my lips were raw with cold-sores. In turn, this look did little to improve my chances at the few casting sessions I was still getting.
Paris made me feel as if I were a waste of everyone’s time. I was as total a flop as I had been promised I would be a superstar. Each day that passed ran up more bills for the modelling agency. What a fiasco, what a failure!
‘But you’ve just started here in Paris, Gitte. There’s no model who would get work the day they arrive. Keep your head – it’ll be okay.’ This was Monique, the director of Elite in Paris. She tried to get my spirits up. Monique had played the mother hen role for some of the most beautiful models in the world, but they were out there making piles of money and after two months of absolutely nothing I was all ready to pack up and go home. I was spent. My interest in thework had gone with my energy. I was feeling homesick. It just wasn’t meant to be for me in the fashion world: I was what I had grown up as – a skinny creature who didn’t fit in. The agency was supportive – they also didn’t want to see their investment disappear to Denmark.
Monique called John Casablanca in New York. ‘You just wait and see – she’s going to be a superstar. I’ve seen her pictures,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we just need to set her up somewhere else.’ He was just about to fly over to Paris anyway and he promised that he would come up with a new plan.
The very next day I was called in to a meeting with John himself. He thought I would have better luck in Italy, where the designers were more progressive. ‘Why don’t you pack your bags?’ he said. ‘We can fly out this evening.’ He continued with a few casually-delivered hints as to how I might improve my chances, which coming from him sounded very much like orders.
‘Do something about your look. You have a fabulous face, but we need to do something different… Cut your hair short, buy some new clothes, change your shoes…’ He handed me $2,000. And that was that. In that moment, everything changed – about me and about my career. I got my hair cut boyishly short and had it bleached, and that became my iconic look.
We flew from Paris that day and John presented me to his Milan agency with the implied expectation that I would be respected by them and they would work hard for me. He called all his contacts in Italy and told them the new girl in town was one to watch. That night we spent together in thehotel. I remember thinking John was so old – I mean, for me at 17, he just seemed impossibly ancient. I wasn’t even fluent in English, and I had a boyfriend back in Denmark. But it was also the point at which my career began to take off.
Suddenly everyone was crazy about my Scandinavian look and my short hair; I was the new trend everywhere. Milanese designer Luciano Soprani was huge in the ‘80s. He’s since passed away but back then he worked with Max Mara, Heliette, Basile, Nazareno and Gabrielli, all key figures in Italian fashion. Luciano hired me when he was head designer for Gucci and he was crazy about me. And because he was crazy about me, everybody else wanted me. The assistants at the modelling agency hardly had time to keep up – Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace… everyone was calling for me. I travelled to exotic locations for photoshoots in private jets and might be having brunch with Mick Jagger one morning and tea with Prince Albert of Monaco the same
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