There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me (24 page)

•   •   •

It was during my high school years that Mom decided she wanted to get her eyes done. She consulted with Dr. Sherrell Aston about an eye lift. Her top lids were drooping slightly, and her theory was that if you got such work done in your earlier years, it was less obvious. Your skin had more elasticity and therefore healed better. The doctor agreed but suggested that she also get a slight face-lift. Mom agreed but said that, so help her God, if she came out of surgery with her
bottom lids looking pulled down she would “break every bone in his hands.”

She made him swear he would not give her bug eyes and that her lids, when closed, would completely meet in a clean line. He assured her she could wear makeup in a week.

“Yeah, if you want to look like a friggin’
clown
,” she said. “Forget makeup—just make sure my eyes close or I’ll come after you!”

Even though she was joking (sort of), Mom was scared about her eyes being too taut and skeleton-like. She had seen some actress or news anchor whose bottom lids looked as if they were being pulled down by invisible strings with tiny lead weights at the ends. Mom was terrified of a similar result. She had always been savvy about plastic surgery—she could pick out a nose job from miles away and could often even name the doctor whose work it had been.

Well, anyway, she got the surgery. Afterward she developed some kind of infection that traveled down her neck and she had to stay in the hospital for a few extra days.

One of the horrible nurses tried to get Mom to give her a tip when her shift was over. The woman began rummaging through Mom’s closet for her purse to get her money and to get her own tip. I guess Mom was getting scared and upset and obviously, because of medication, did not have her wits about her. She called me in New Jersey sounding upset and a bit panicked. The large Jamaican woman spoke little English but seemed to be raising her voice, trying to get my mother to understand that she had to leave and wanted a tip.

Mom put me on the phone with this crazy nurse and I threatened to get her fired if she did not leave my mother’s room that instant. I called our part-time driver to take me into the city to settle everything. I had my license but did not feel comfortable driving into Manhattan. By the time I got there the woman was gone (angry and without a tip) and Mom was doped up and chatty but more relaxed. I made arrangements for a different nurse and remained near Mom
while I completed my homework. I kept my schoolbooks with me at all times because I never knew when I might be called to work or find I had some spare time to study. Mom had a small drainage tube coming from an insertion in her neck and connected to a little plastic bag. It was meant to drain the fluid from the infection. Mom called it her “purse.” Every now and then she would loudly say, “I should have given her this purse and told her to fuck off!” She was obviously uncomfortable and in pain, but I was sure glad she still had her humor.

However, I was trying to do my French homework, and she would not shut up about any of it. I could not really follow all her jabbering and really needed to get my work done. I patiently suggested she shut her eyes for a bit and take a nap. I would be right there by the window and would not leave without telling her. She quieted a bit and I began, once again, to study. At one point I glanced up at her and was shocked that even though she had stopped babbling, she was sneakily peeking out at me! I couldn’t believe that she could not resist spying on me. Did she not trust me to stay?

I jumped up, went to her bed frustrated, and said, “Mom! I’m right here; I’m not leaving, close your eyes and rest!”

Well, she had actually been asleep, and after being startled awake, she growled, “They arrrrrre clooosed!”

Oh boy, I thought. Her eyes were swollen and could not yet close all the way, and it looked as if she was squinting through them. I prayed for the doctor’s sake for that to be the actual truth. I apologized for waking her, told her she was fine, and got her to settle again. But it was a laugh we had for years to come. It was always laughter that maintained our deep bond. It was the truth in our connection. The sound of Mom’s sober laughter was like music and medicine to me.

While she was in the hospital recovering, it was one of the best times for me. My aunt Lila was living with us in the house in Haworth, so I was not alone, but this was the first time since Mom went to
rehab that I could be calm knowing she was alive and not drinking. I could relax. I had peace of mind and a regular schedule.

•   •   •

It was around my sophomore year in high school that I was approached to do the infamous Calvin Klein commercials. Mom and I knew Richard Avedon and his creative team, and she was friends with Carl Rosen, who ran Calvin. We were going to do a series of commercials all playing on the word
Calvin
or on famous sayings or songs and their connection to the concept of genes and jeans. There was a great deal of excitement surrounding the whole campaign. No one had ever attempted this approach in advertising. It was also groundbreaking to have still photographers directing the actual TV commercials.

We were also going to be the first brand to advertise in movie theatres before the coming attractions. We filmed a minute-long uncut shot of me describing Darwin’s survival-of-the-fittest law while undoing my hair and loosening my blouse. I memorized the minute-long definition of genes and the concept of natural selection. The funny thing is that the idea that the commercial would show in movie theatres was rejected because the agency said, “The day will never come when brands will be allowed to advertise in movie theatres.” The spots were run only on TV instead. Today you can go to a showing of a movie twenty minutes after the scheduled time, because of how long the advertising spots are before the show.

For a different spot, I was supposed to laugh hysterically and try to get across some messaging. I was so nervous that I would sound fake and that I would not be able to actually crack up on camera. Crying felt easier than laughing to me and I was extremely stressed about it. The sound department gave me a set of earphones and they had prepared a bunch of jokes to tell me to get me to laugh.

The jokes were not really that funny and it wasn’t working. But
then, all of a sudden, I heard my stepsister Diana’s voice in the earphones. She was recounting some of our favorite inside jokes. I couldn’t believe my ears and was so happy she was there, and I got a case of the giggles. It was a “cut and print,” and Mom was thanked for her innovative surprise.

We filmed many different spots for this campaign and they were all unique and fun and amazingly clever. They all had smart historical, sociological, political, and biological references. The only one, however, that will forever haunt us, was one in which a colloquial phrase was grossly taken out of context.

Now, in hindsight, it is possible that somebody in the writers’ room had an inkling that there might be different ways the statement could be interpreted, but I maintain that I was never aware of the double entendre. It would hurt me to think that the creative team was trying to exploit my innocence, and I uphold the belief that their intention was not as crude and juvenile as was the interpretation. I am, of course, speaking about the famous “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins” line.

I think there are a number of misunderstandings about this. First of all, the actual line involved a rhetorical question, not a statement about ejaculation. The line actually was: “Do you want to know what comes between me and my Calvins? Nothing.”

The second misunderstanding is about the tone and meaning. In no way did I think I was saying something controversial or sexual. This was just another spot in which I was affirming how much I loved my blue jeans. I had used a similar expression often, and it had always been meant as a declaration of my love for something: “Nothing comes between me and my mom.” “Nothing comes between me and by favorite doll, Blabby.”

It never occurred to me it could mean that I wasn’t wearing underwear. Or that the spelling of the word
come
was really meant to be
cum
. I swear I don’t believe my mother read into it that way, either.
We just thought of it as another well-conceived commercial. We filmed a number of spots in all and didn’t think about it again.

•   •   •

But when the spots began to air, they were incredibly popular and controversial. My mother and I had been away in Europe, where I was working for
Harper’s Bazaar Italia
shooting the collection, and returned to an onslaught of media attention. The commercial was pulled from the air and I was ambushed by questions as to the “true meaning” of my words. It was ridiculous and insane. Mom was attacked for allowing me to verbalize such smut, and I was once again perceived as both a Lolita and an abused daughter.

We laughed it off at first, but the controversy continued. At times I felt compelled to try to explain, but this proved useless. The press wanted to hear what they wanted to hear. Just as they had after
Pretty Baby
and
The Blue Lagoon
, they wanted to assail my mother and me with criticism and judgment. This one incorrectly quoted line would usurp all positive attention surrounding this innovative, landmark ad campaign.

Nobody talked about how brilliantly the references to history, literature, music, religion, and science had played into advertising blue jeans. Nobody commented on how I had memorized a minute-long monologue and what a brilliant play on words “survival of the fittest” actually was. (Although I would go on to get an A on a pop quiz in school because I wrote out a very in-depth answer to the question “What are genes?” So I guess all wasn’t lost.)

This proved to be yet another example of the press preferring a sordid story to a creative one. I was not immune to criticism, but I was getting familiar with a certain amount of controversy surrounding almost everything I did.

Mom capped it all off once again with her “Fuck ’em” attitude. “You know what you meant. Are you proud of the commercials?”

“Yes.”

“So fuck ’em.”

And that was usually Mom’s attitude about these types of things. I don’t know if she was actually hurt, angry, or regretful, but if she was, she’d never let me know.

I am not sure if my mom knew how conflicting the images of me she was projecting were. When I was young I was looked at as a provocative young woman, yet I became the virginal “America’s sweetheart.” I went from doing movies like
Pretty Baby
and
Endless Love
to working with George Burns and Bob Hope and having a doll made in my likeness.

The body of the doll actually had to be altered to honestly represent my flatter chest. Most dolls by the same company take their template body and just change the heads. My mom contractually made the factory create a new mold of the body with a smaller chest. The fifties’ big pointy boobs did not represent a teenager. Mom insisted.

This was all very weird for me. Not only is it strange to have a doll made of you, but to then also have it be publicly known that the boobs had been shaved off did not make me any more comfortable in high school. To be called a beautiful doll was too outrageous for me to bear, but it was fun to help design her fashionable leggings and long sweaters, as well as her prom dress, which was a copy of a McCall’s pattern I had modeled and Lisa and I both actually wore to our junior prom.

Mom even had the Brooke Shields Glamour Center (a head with hair you could style) sent back to the factory three times because the cleft in the chin was not right.

All the while, I was being photographed looking much older on the covers of major fashion magazines and doing ads like the controversial Calvin commercials. There were such polarized views of me concurrently being disseminated that it is no wonder I wasn’t the only one confused.

During this time period I began to more frequently get invited to and attend parties at Manhattan clubs. Excursions to Studio 54 were always connected to some event. It might have been a Warhol party, a Calvin Klein launch, or a film premiere. I had been on the cover of
Interview
magazine and had become friendly with Andy. I would always go at the beginning of the night and the event. The paparazzi would line up outside on either side of the infamous red rope, and the crowds waited to be selected for entry.

My mother would get so mad at me because I never wanted to get out of the car and go in first. When we arrived at the club, I always cringed inside once I saw the mob. I’d wade through the throngs of people to reach the rope, which would suddenly be dramatically lifted, like a magician pulling off a cape to reveal the rabbit in the hat. I would apologize to those waiting as I was ushered ahead of them. The flashes blinding me helped mask the looks of rejection from the crowd.

Even though I loathed the feeling of waltzing right past everyone, once inside I could fully relax. Even today I can easily picture the long corridor that led into the club, with dark red carpet stretching the distance and red-painted walls. There was always a moment after the mayhem of the outside, when the doors closed behind you and you were temporarily free from photographers, fans, and disgruntled, rejected, and desperate people. When all you’d hear was the faint thump of the music and the promise of a good time. You’d get a feeling in your stomach, like right before a roller coaster takes its stomach-flipping descent.

I would quicken my pace a bit in anticipation of going through the main door. I was probably going to see famous people and I was going to hear all my favorite songs. Even though I was a celebrity myself at this time, I was always a bit starstruck by the people I’d see inside. There was always somebody famous to say hello to and take some photos with. Whether it was Calvin Klein, Diane von Furstenberg,
Bianca Jagger, Cornelia Guest, or Debbie Harry, Steve Rubell corralled them all and took very good care of us.

I must admit, I had no issue with special treatment once inside the club. Sitting inside the club was always easier than getting in because people were busy dancing and having fun and were not focused only on people coming in. On any given night it was dark enough to feel anonymous, and there was a roped-off VIP area I could use. There was always some group laughing and drinking on couches placed a bit higher than all the other seating areas. I was relieved to be seated there, not because I felt superior, but because I felt protected from drunk, intrusive, and usually stoned clubbers.