By Paulina Porizkova
An incisive, superbly written first novel through a former twiglet that explores the glamorous and gritty global she inhabitedOnly a handful of girls on this planet have skilled what Paulina Porizkova has -- being whisked away to version in Paris whereas nonetheless undefined, achieving the top of the career prior to her schoolmates had even graduated -- and less nonetheless have the perception to seize it on paper.In her first novel, Paulina tells the tale of Jirina. A tall, scrawny fifteen-year-old woman from Sweden, she's even more conversant in scoffs and disdain than admiration and affection, no matter if from her classmates or her circle of relatives. that each one adjustments whilst her simply good friend, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images talents on Jirina. nearly sooner than she understands it Jirina is on a aircraft to Paris, the place she is going to spend the summer time in a milieu totally alien to her. dwelling on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and continuously subjected to blunt actual exams, catty and sometimes merciless fellow versions, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously sufficient, whereas occasionally feeling actually appealing -- Jirina embarks on a trip past her wildest imaginings. among picture shoots in Italy and Morocco and events with types and musicians, Jirina manages to make a couple of acquaintances, fall in love, and, finally, consider the very grownup discomfort of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy which may simply come from real-life event, A version summer season is either the debut of a particularly gifted novelist and an surprisingly well-informed glance backstage at an international many of us fantasize approximately, yet few fairly be aware of.
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Additional info for A model summer
This other me, floating in the windowpane, has hollowed eyes and cheeks, and looks very young and scared. Port de Clignancourt is full of small pastry shops, dusty drugstores, and cars parked haphazardly on the narrow sidewalks. I negotiate through them with my portfolio under one arm, my diary, address book, and Plan de Paris in a plastic shopping bag in the other, while keeping a busy eye on storefronts for any signs of cosmetics sales. I find a heavy burgundy door with the corresponding number, and push my way into a long white hallway lined with poster-size Elle covers.
On my right, a setting sun bounces fiery sparks off of windshields and side mirrors of dusty cars seemingly intent on driving through a red stoplight, on my left, it colors the buildings Byzantine gold and turns the river into a gleaming snake. Small wooden bookstands that are really just boxes with a few shelves line the walkway, exhibiting old paperbacks, maps, postcards, and photographs of Paris. I look upward, to the cloudless sky and silvery roofs. The twin towers of Notre Dame are saturated with an orange glow and shaded in violet blues.
Everyone looks expectantly as we enter, but seeing only us, they go back to circulating the room and smoking. There must be about fifty people in here, no one is familiar and everyone looks old. The guys are dressed in brightly colored silk shirts, unbuttoned so one can admire the gold chains resting on their hairy chests. I guess they didn’t get the “Disco’s Dead” memo. The women are glossier and haughtier versions of the girls in Fiorucci. They sit on floors, recline on couches, and rest against the none-too-steady side tables.