DIARY
HONOR FRASER Some months ago I posed for the Pirelli Calendar. One reaction I wasn't expecting was the Sun's. That paper suggested that I was anorexic or `shudderingly skinny'. Most models are indeed very thin. In fact many have bodies which would worry the RSPCA. But if the RSPCA were to join me in my bathroom tomorrow morning, its concerns wouldn't be for my welfare. I don't wish to boast, but at 34C I've got bigger breasts than Helena Christensen, Cindy Crawford or Eva Herzigova — who are held to be three of the 'sexiest' models. Richard Ave- don, the calendar's photographer, was accused of using 'ugly, brutal-looking mod- els and trying to make them look like boys'. It seems strange that the Sun doesn't recog- nise a top chest when it appears anywhere other than its own pages.
Iwas then asked by a major British fash- ion magazine to join them for an informal lunch to discuss this alleged issue of skinny models and their influence on their readers' aspirations. There were to be an assortment of people including a medical expert, several designers and others from the industry. The discussion was to take place, appropriately (considering that I was supposed not to eat enough), over lunch. I feel very strongly about the issue, if there is one, and was dis- appointed to have been unable to attend. There are many people in the fashion busi- ness keen to dispel the impression that mod- els promote eating disorders in young girls. Contemporary aesthetics, however, would seem to favour slimness: designers therefore cut their clothes to small sizes and models aim to be thin. Magazines respond to, rather than shape, this slim look. So their models are thin. Alternative magazines such as the Face have been using models with more everyday figures. These images have been received positively, revealing the real flexi- bility of aesthetic demands. I feel that the situation might be remedied to some degree if the establishment fashion magazines were to broaden their selection of models.
Models are intriguing creatures because they are young and beautiful and fly all over the world leading crazy lives. They drink champagne and party with girls, boys and 'superstars'. But in my experience people seem more interested in the size of their pay cheques. It is the question every- one always asks me, 'But how much?' The fact is, it's possible to make massive sums. A teasing guideline, ascribed to Linda Evange- lista, must have aroused much of this inter- est: 'I won't get out of bed for less than 10,000 dollars.' I'm certainly not going to tell you what gets me out of my bed, but I will say that I value my beauty sleep, and wouldn't waste any unless it was worth my while. A model suggesting she could afford such expensive sleep had an extraordinary effect on model salaries in general. Models began to appear as characters rather than just faces. They began to diversify, revealing more about themselves through novels, records, even giving their names to burger meals. By enlarging public awareness of themselves, thanks to the chip fryer or the bestseller list, these girls widen their mar- kets and in turn their market values. They can and do charge giant prices for their faces. Whether Evangelista said those words or not, it's made any amount seem possible.
I don't usually fail to catch aeroplanes, but after a night in Manchester's most insane dance club I couldn't get it together. I was supposed to drive to Heathrow hav- ing spent all night partying in the Paradise Factory. This place played great music. It was a big night because LTJ Bukem and Jeremy Healy were playing. These guys are huge in modern dance music styles, such as house and trance. There were roars of excitement as LTJ introduced himself. Then the dancing began. The floor was loaded with bodies moving to the hard fast beats. I danced along with other Mancuni- ans until the last DJ finished his session. I left the club after six, and stumbled towards the car. The problem was, I couldn't switch the alarm off when the car was unlocked. I wasn't going to drive to Heathrow with this noise, so I missed my flight. Finally I got the alarm fixed, and went off. I remember stopping in a service station to get petrol, and then waking up a few hours later hav- ing passed out in the back seat. I was sup- posed to get the first flight of the day to Rome, but ended up on the last. Fashion has brought London back into fashion. In the past few years a new genera- tion of anarchic British designers has attracted the international press to Lon- don. Alexander McQueen has done it. I have modelled for him dribbling blood, brandishing knives and crowned with thorns. He is unafraid and his clothes are brilliant. The most creative fashion has repeatedly been seen on British catwalks. Last season Owen Gastor made a suit from a plastic fabric which reacted to tempera- ture by changing colour. Hussein Chalayan made a jacket from which extended five metres of parachute strings. Such creativity has caused an international mania for any- thing British, and London is enjoying this positive exposure. It is odd therefore that while the rest of the world wants to visit and hear about it, London is losing some of its top names in fashion. Alexander McQueen and John Galliano are both designing for French fashion houses. Unfortunately Britain doesn't have as many established high fashion names as France, Italy or the USA, so these designers must look elsewhere for work. Abroad, the British have succeeded in maintaining their skilled madness. John Galliano's shows are fast and sexy. The venues are alternative, the music is loud and hair and makeup are always wild; last season the model's hair- styles were shaped with coloured clay. Four times this year, French fashion will be woken up by McQueen's collections, two couture and two ready to wear. McQueen will hopefully continue to show his own col- lection (under his name) in London. At his most recent one, the models had to walk down a steep flight of steps into a huge pool of what I was told was Tanqueray gin. I wore a dress which gave my bottom a cleavage, and had a set of spikes moulded round my neck which stuck out in front of my face. I had a huge nail through my ear. So what will the French get?
I rarely go to Germany, but on a recent trip to Munich I noticed that a sixth sense was not granted to the Lufthansa staff. Ali- talia, Aer Lingus, Royal Air Maroc etc. seem to know I am not native. They will always speak their proficient English, which I think is good of them. Yet, even at Heathrow, the lady at the check-in desk seemed insensible to the possibility that I might be English. She and all her col- leagues spoke only in German. Lufthansa clearly gives its staff training in blind patri- otism. Or perhaps I provoke a strong sense of national solidarity. In fact, I long to speak German like a German. It is fluid and eccentric-sounding. It is only when they speak English that the sound becomes nervous, swallowed and unsexy.
Previous page
