By Paulina Porizkova
An incisive, superbly written first novel by means of a former stick insect that explores the glamorous and gritty global she inhabitedOnly a handful of girls on the planet have skilled what Paulina Porizkova has -- being whisked away to version in Paris whereas nonetheless undefined, achieving the top of the career earlier than her schoolmates had even graduated -- and less nonetheless have the perception to trap 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 acquainted with scoffs and disdain than admiration and affection, no matter if from her classmates or her circle of relatives. that each one adjustments whilst her merely pal, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images abilities on Jirina. virtually earlier than she is aware it Jirina is on a airplane to Paris, the place she is going to spend the summer season in a milieu totally alien to her. residing on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and continuously subjected to blunt actual checks, catty and infrequently merciless fellow types, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously adequate, whereas occasionally feeling actually appealing -- Jirina embarks on a trip past her wildest imaginings. among photograph shoots in Italy and Morocco and events with types and musicians, Jirina manages to make a number of pals, fall in love, and, ultimately, suppose the very grownup ache of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy that could in basic terms come from real-life adventure, A version summer season is either the debut of a significantly gifted novelist and an surprisingly well-informed glance behind the curtain at a global many folks fantasize approximately, yet few fairly understand.
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Extra resources for A model summer
Me, the girl with an unpronounceable name, second-hand clothes, and a smile that reveals wide-spaced front teeth. When Hatty informed everyone at our school of my summer plans, it was greeted with the same disbelief as if she had just announced I was a secret love child of King Carl Gustaf. I stood at my locker where someone had scribbled in black magic marker, “Hot chick NO, hot chicken YES,” a few months back. Despite my vigorous attempts to remove it, it remained imbedded in the orange paint; a clear, if somewhat faded statement of who I was.
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. Cigarette smoke mingles with scented candles and the stereo belts out an electronic pop song with a deadpan vocal in oddly accented English.
But she just shrugs. “I believe you,” she says, and takes a gulp of her drink. ” Relieved, I babble on about my best friend, Hatty, to whom I owe this outing in the clouds. It was her obsession with fashion and makeup that led her to find an ad in the local paper for a modeling seminar, run by a “famed modeling scout to the most exclusive modeling agencies in the world,” whose only requirement was a fee of twenty-five kronas. Hatty seized this as an opportunity to offer her services as a makeup artist to a bunch of model wannabes and convinced me to tag along to keep her company.