Linda’s back! As the fashion world swoons at the return of Linda Evangelista in a dazzling portfolio by Steven Meisel for British Vogue, here are some extracts from a diary I didn’t keep often enough.
Thursday, 4th March, 2004.
The art director of the Telegraph magazine, calls at 9:30 am. “You're not in Paris by any chance?” “No” (he has called my studio number in Brighton). “Can you be there on Sunday, we’re doing a cover story on Linda Evangelista which would be perfect for you” “An illustrated cover? Has she agreed”? She has. This is big news. A coup. I am thrilled. I call Philip (Treacy) immediately. Philip reveres Linda and has been advocating I try and get a sitting with her, “if you just draw her nostril we’ll know who it is.” It turns out he will also be in Paris this weekend with Grace Jones and Jean-Paul Goude. The planets are spinning, the stars are aligning. He suggests I draw GJ, who will be wearing a ‘vertical veil,’ while I’m in Paris.Later, Didier, Linda's manager and trusted right hand, calls; would I mind being filmed drawing Linda for a documentary they are making. Not at all. Tell that to Thames and Hudson (who had just turned down my book proposal)
Saturday 6th March.
Eurostar to Paris. Everything is set. I have an appointment to draw LE tomorrow, ‘11ish ‘til 3ish’, at The Four Seasons (formerly the George V). I've also brought some drawings to show Grace Jones, although I have to admit I'm nervous about the prospect. I'm sitting opposite a woman I've taken a chemical disliking to; Blonde and thin lipped, she has been berating staff since we boarded. We lock eyes and take our seats.As soon as train pulls out, I move and commandeer an empty table for four. Minutes later, she plops herself into the seat opposite, drawing daggered looks from me for a full two and half hours. In Paris, no taxi queues, I head to my favourite hotel de charme,* near Palais Royale.
I am due to meet Philip and GJ at 9 o'clock at the Meurice. Philip is bunking in with GJ and they have suggested I join them in going to her son’s gig. According to Jasmine Guinness, GJ’s son, a musician, is the most beautiful man in the world. I have to admit I didn't know she had a son. I take the lift to suite and am met at the door by Philip, “She's getting ready, give us 10 minutes.”
I go down to the bar, shadowy, grand luxe. The hush feels expensive. I order a coup (18 euros). I have never met GJ but am confident she will not be down in 10 minutes. I take stock; Drawing Linda has been one of my long standing ambitions. I can’t think of a more purely cinematic face. She is ‘starriest’ of the supermodels, a chameleon who is always herself (in the way that Garbo is always Garbo, Hepburn always Hepburn).
The bar is empty other than a couple of uncertain age directly across from me. I realise with a start that the woman is Juliette Gréco. Pale as the moon, dark eyed, bouffant haired, she's talking with an elderly gentleman with silvery slicked back hair and an immaculate camel coat draped over his shoulders. He looks Argentinian. They seem easy with each other. I get out my sketchbook and order another drink. It’s 9.30. Gréco gets up to leave, she is as frail as a starling and chic in a black Russian coat. Her friend cannot get out of his seat.
At five to 10 GJ sweeps past, with Philip. I pay and run out after them. Outside, the sky is purple and the rue de Rivoli is bumper to bumper, red light to red light.GJ is tall and imposing, wearing a fur hat. She is friendly, but agitated that she will be late for the gig. Her car is nowhere to be seen. When it finally pulls up I make the snap decision not to get in. Visions of Griffin Dunne in Scorcese’s After Hours swirl in my head. Tomorrow I need to be on my game. I watch the car nose into traffic and then text a friend who I meet for supper at Café Rue. I’m in bed before midnight.
*The charme was renovated out of it a few years later.
Absolutely wonderful experiences. Thanks for sharing David.
You write better diary entries than most journalists' stories.