Why write The Boy in the Hemlock Tree?
I spent twelve years as the most often booked, highest-paid makeup artist worldwide. A pretty bold statement, yes? You may ask why I am not famous outside the fashion industry. Easy. Those who became famous, Kevin Aucoin, Garren, Way Bandy, Orbe, Frédéric Fekkai, and others you may have read about, worked for high fashion magazines for covers and inside editorial features for fame but little money.
The American magazines thought me too clean, not artistic looking—too preppy! I once worked for The Fashion of The Times, the fashion periodical of The New York Times, with famous editor Carrie Donovan. The service (story in lay terms) was to shoot the five most famous women in fashion alongside their daughters. Polly Mellen, then editor at American Vogue, sat before me, extolling my talent as I painted her face.
"You don't know me, and you don't know if I am telling the truth, but you are one of the best makeup artists I have met. (All in a fake, throaty, mid-Atlantic patrician accent.) "Come see me at Vogue—I will make you a star."
I was heading to stardom! I ran to our apartment on Park Avenue South and Twenty-third Street to announce my good fortune!
When I went to see my new best friend, Polly, at Vogue, she looked at me like I had broken into the Conde Nast Building! She opened my portfolio and thumbed through a few pages.
"Who did this makeup? It's beautiful," she exclaimed. I told her I did. "You? But you look so American, so clean. You don't look like an artist! How did you do this work?"
I knew stardom had disappeared behind my horizon and decided to have some fun, knowing I would never work for her.
"Well," I said snarkily. "Polly, it was like this," I said, waving an imaginary makeup brush in her face, "I dipped my brushes into the makeup and applied it to these gorgeous famous girls, and this is the result."
Harrumph! You need to go to Milan. There are over two hundred weekly magazines and only three or four makeup and hair artists. They will hire you no matter how bad your makeup is, and maybe you'll learn from yourself or the models. Come back, and then I'll discover you. Well, I'll pair you with the Living editor for now.
"The Living editor," I laughed. "Does that mean you have a dead editor? Lucky me! I don't think she noticed my extended middle finger as she turned quickly to return to her couture-fashion-filled office.
As it turned out, the Living editor goes to the homes of famous, wealthy art collectors to photograph their collections and homes. My job was to make the lady of the house camera-ready for a shot in front of her Picasso, Renoir, or whatever we had come to shoot. The good part was Horst P. Horst, one of the most famous iconic photographers in the world, who shot many of those services (jobs). In my estimation, it was all a bunch of bull hockey (southern for you-know-what), and I lost interest in the silly people at Vogue America.
Some art directors from major companies like JC Penny's hired photographers who could book the craziest high fashion girls, and everyone snorted coke all day. But not me. Instead, I watched and took notes. I was even fired from a thirty-two thousand dollar job for Penny's on the third day of shooting because I would not use coke.
"Everyone on set is uncomfortable—we are all on a different plain." The famous Japanese photographer asked me to snort or leave. I left. But I told them in no uncertain terms that if they did not pay me the total amount, I would go to the supervisor at Penny's and The New York Times with my story. Different plain? I would show them—I could get on a different plain—an airplane and go back to France and Italy.
My agent in New York at the time was furious I would not cooperate." Jimmy, you'll lose this account for the entire agency! Penny's is a big part of our income." I collected my six portfolios, grabbed my new boyfriend, Billy Knight, and we hightailed it to France, where I taught him how to become an agent.
The foreign magazines Vogue Italia, Vogue Belezza, Vogue Bambini, Vogue Gioielli, and many Italian magazines loved everything the snobby American editors did not.
"Giacomo, your makeup is a bellissima—you are to make me a very happy." Roberta Marioni loved my Southern charm, manners, and gorgeous makeup. "I am so happy you do not have a ponytail; all the American want-to-be photographers who come to me to make them famous look so poor." Senora Marioni laughed as she exhaled a long cone of blue smoke from her long American cigarette. "Who could trust that?"
When I arrived in Paris, the most challenging market for an American artist, the agent told me, "All of Paris believes you Americans have talentless souls—it has always been the Parisians." Francois Chattaney, filthy dirty, with chewed, unclean nails and cats roaming throughout his studio with no litter box, took me on despite his misgivings because Beatrice, my Italian agent, recommended me so highly.
A day later, Francois received a call from an angry editrice of L'Official that the makeup and hair artist was terrible. "You must send me someone else."
I left my room at Hotel Buci Latin in St. Germaine des Pres. I went to the Hotel Bristol, where I discovered a favorite American Model, Marpessa Hennink, floating in a mound of bubbles before German photographer Claus Wickwrath's camera. Marpessa was thrilled to see me, and Claus loved my work. My life in Paris fashion began that quickly.
However, Claus loved to make money! The good-looking, comical photographer shot tons of cosmetic ads, including Bourgeois, French Lancôme, and a large German company, Margaret Astor, which I had shot with Wolfgang Kline in New York. My editorial career quickly morphed into high-paying advertising.
Soon after, an Egyptian photographer in Milano, Bob Krieger, sent for me to shoot Gucci, Andre Laug, Fendi, Basile, Valentino, and many other famous Italian brands.
Foreign magazines paid much less than the Americans. However, those prestigious, coveted tear sheets (pages) grabbed the attention of American magazines and major advertisers. But Italian advertising paid very well, and I lived a great life.
When I returned to New York a few years later (I loved working in Europe!!) I became the darling of cosmetic advertising, Lancôme, Revlon, Maybelline, Covergirl, Clairol, Wella,
Vidal Sassoon and too many more to list, and high fashion shows! Carolyne Roehm had left Oscar de La Renta to open her eponymous brand. I did the makeup for her first show at the Latin quarter, and we made a long-lasting relationship.
American magazines paid hair and makeup artists about one hundred and fifty dollars a day at the time. Cosmetic advertising paid artists like me anywhere from two thousand to twenty thousand dollars, depending on whether for a print ad or a commercial. Fashion shows paid three to five thousand dollars for three hours of work before we moved on to a second and then a third show each day. I abandoned editorial and cover shoots in the USA.
I will never forget the day at a mega-studio complex in Chelsea (New York) when Kevin Aucoin and I shared a Cappuccino break between shots at our respective studios.
"James, I think you're the richest makeup artist in the world." That took me by surprise. "Everyone in the business knows how much the cosmetic jobs pay, and from what I know, you work five days a week shooting all those big ads and commercials."
I had never considered it and was surprised Kevin had. My agent confirmed Kevin's suspicions. I was too busy to care. How about that?
All that I witnessed in those twelve heady years of Studio Fifty-Four, Danceteria, and le Bain Douche in Paris gave me fodder for several books. I have based The Boy in the Hemlock Tree on those adventures. Many participants, although dead or obsolete in most cases, appear under different names and rearranged personas.
Hopefully, an astute, non-jaded agent will realize the value of this story and the sales it will generate for my almost-tell-all and sign me up.
Stay tuned as I share other quips and tales you will find within the pages of The Boy in the Hemlock Tree.
