By Paulina Porizkova
An incisive, fantastically written first novel through a former twiglet that explores the glamorous and gritty international she inhabitedOnly a handful of ladies on the planet have skilled what Paulina Porizkova has -- being whisked away to version in Paris whereas nonetheless undefined, attaining the top of the career sooner than her schoolmates had even graduated -- and less nonetheless have the perception to catch it on paper.In her first novel, Paulina tells the tale of Jirina. A tall, scrawny fifteen-year-old lady from Sweden, she's even more acquainted with name callings and disdain than admiration and affection, no matter if from her classmates or her circle of relatives. that each one alterations while her in simple terms pal, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images abilities on Jirina. nearly sooner than she understands it Jirina is on a airplane to Paris, the place she's going to spend the summer season in a milieu solely alien to her. residing on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and regularly subjected to blunt actual tests, catty and infrequently merciless fellow versions, 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 couple of buddies, fall in love, and, ultimately, think the very grownup discomfort of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy which may in basic terms come from real-life adventure, A version summer season is either the debut of a particularly proficient novelist and an strangely well-informed glance behind the curtain at a global many folks fantasize approximately, yet few rather be aware of.
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Additional info for A model summer
I’m used to dark summer nights from my trips to Czechoslovakia, but I still agree there is something unsettling about the combination of a black sky and warm air. Back home, the nights in the summer never get darker than tarnished silver. We finally settle ourselves at an outdoor café and order Sandwich Jambon Fromage from a surly waiter with a handlebar mustache. Our new bond feels sweet but thin, like sugar crust. “So, I found where we can buy the makeup,” Britta says. “There’s this store, Prisunic, close to the agency, and they have loads of things, and cheap, too.
After a quick consultation with my map, I head for rue St. Denis. Lined with tourist shops selling T-shirts, and leather goods stores, the street is long, narrow, and intersects with a pedestrian square, where a fountain squirts merrily in front of a Fiorucci store. Here are clothes I’ve only seen in magazines. I glance longingly at the neon wares displayed in the windows: pink ruffled mini skirts, lime-green tube tops, cotton candy–pink leg warmers on mannequins with electric-blue hair. Further down the street, I enter a cobblestoned courtyard filled with rusty bicycles, and finally find an unmarked door behind an old, mint-colored Vespa.
She looks at me, her frown never changing. “Merci,” she says and lights another cigarette off the stump of its predecessor. Is this it? I don’t dare to ask, so I pull my jeans back on and leave. The streets have suddenly lost some of their charm. I squeeze between two cars parked on the sidewalk and hit my knee. Why can’t the French park like normal people? A tickle of tears nestles in my sinuses. What now? Will the woman call the agency and tell them to fire me? I imagine them all sharing a chuckle over “the poor, dirty commie cow” who thinks she can be a model.
A model summer by Paulina Porizkova