By Paulina Porizkova
An incisive, fantastically written first novel by way of a former twiglet that explores the glamorous and gritty international 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, attaining the top of the occupation prior to 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 woman from Sweden, she's even more familiar with name callings and disdain than admiration and affection, no matter if from her classmates or her family. that each one alterations whilst her in basic terms good friend, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images abilities on Jirina. nearly prior to she is aware it Jirina is on a airplane to Paris, the place she's going to spend the summer season in a milieu fullyyt alien to her. residing on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and consistently subjected to blunt actual tests, catty and infrequently merciless fellow types, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously sufficient, whereas occasionally feeling actually attractive -- 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 neighbors, fall in love, and, ultimately, believe the very grownup discomfort of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy which may purely come from real-life event, A version summer time is either the debut of a particularly gifted novelist and an strangely well-informed glance backstage at a global many folks fantasize approximately, yet few quite comprehend.
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Additional info for A model summer
Our bedroom is that way,” Marina points. ” She pivots on her heel and loses a slipper. ” She kicks it with her bare foot, takes three steps to the left, and opens the door to the kitchen. My ears still burn with Marina’s vulgarity as sunlight temporarily blinds me. I blink. A big wooden table sits in the middle of the room, a large stainless steel range looms against the right wall, and white glass-fronted cabinets exhibit stacks of dishes. It’s bright and cheerful and as incongruous in this apartment as coconut palm trees on a Swedish beach.
In truth, there is not much to see. The desk takes up most of the room and the white walls are lined with black-and-white checkered posters of passport-size heads, which on closer inspection don’t bear much resemblance to actual passport pictures, since every person exhibited is too gorgeous for real life. I glimpse a few faces familiar from magazines and Hatty’s sermons: Evalinda, the blond Swedish goddess; redheaded Mia who, according to Malin, is missing a finger. We are shown the intricacies of the desk, where the three people I’ve just met, “bookers,” sit all day, taking and making phone calls, booking jobs.
Come to think of it, nearly all models I’ve seen in magazines are blondes. ” Then she asks me for my photos and waits patiently as I free them from my underwear in my duffel. There are three of them, printed on eight-by-ten glossy paper, all from my one and only photo session to date. The first photograph is of my face in muted pastel colors and soft focus. My eyes are staring at some invisible spot behind the camera, which was in fact the photographer’s balding pate. He was a soft-spoken Indian man who ran a pizza parlor by day and did test photos for Malin as a hobby.