A model summer by Paulina Porizkova

By Paulina Porizkova

An incisive, superbly written first novel by means of 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 occupation earlier 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, even if from her classmates or her family. that every one alterations whilst her in basic terms good friend, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images abilities on Jirina. nearly ahead of she understands 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. dwelling on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and always subjected to blunt actual tests, catty and infrequently merciless fellow versions, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously sufficient, whereas occasionally feeling actually attractive -- Jirina embarks on a trip past her wildest imaginings. among picture shoots in Italy and Morocco and events with versions and musicians, Jirina manages to make a couple of pals, fall in love, and, finally, believe the very grownup discomfort of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy which can merely come from real-life event, A version summer time is either the debut of a significantly proficient novelist and an surprisingly well-informed glance backstage at an international many folks fantasize approximately, yet few fairly understand.

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Example text

Yeah, right. Only a few days before, my classmate Pelle had whacked me over the head with his history book to “kill the lice,” though my hair was, as always, spotlessly clean. I don’t tell Britta this part. Instead I describe my meeting with Jean-Pierre—the owner of Sirens agency in Paris—which Malin had set up right before my fifteenth birthday. The meeting took place on a bench in a mall and lasted all of five minutes. Jean-Pierre complimented me on my pretty skin, told me he appreciated conservatively dressed girls, and asked me if I wanted to model in Paris over the summer.

It’s a little past noon and the flat, leaden sky threatens rain. My stomach lurches uncomfortably. At this point I’m not sure if it’s due to hunger or nerves. By the time we get into a taxi, sharp raindrops tap the windshield. The car also smells of cigarettes, but if I roll the window down I get wet. Windows up—I can’t breathe. So I alternate between the two as I watch Paris approach. At first, the city is an indistinct mass on the horizon. Soon, we leave the billboard-littered plains behind and enter upon avenues lined with trees and the elegant, haughty buildings of the city.

I exit the Metro and walk down Quai St. Michel. 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.

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