Paris: The Memoir(62)
Go. Do your thing. I trust you.
I imagine those are the hardest words for a parent to say. Maybe it has to come from a godparent first. In my role as fairy godmother to my Little Hiltons, I take that message seriously and keep it in front of them all the time. That’s not something said very often to girls, by kids questioning gender and sexuality, by artists or adventurers, by anyone who dares to be different. Different scares the people who love you. Purely on instinct, driven by fear, they try to protect you. Like my parents tried so hard to protect me. I promise, it’s coming from a place of love. Try not to be mad. If you need to hear someone say it and the people in your life just can’t—I’ve got you:
Go. Do your thing. I trust you.
In spring 2000, David and I started shooting, experimenting, getting together whenever we could find time, coming up with weird ideas and juxtapositions. And with every edgy thought he had, I was like yaaaasssss. He always had the vision, but within that vision, he gave me a lot of freedom. Most of the wardrobe was random, inexpensive clothes I pulled from my own closet mixed with key designer pieces that I borrowed from Nicky and Mom.
There was no expectation as far as publication, so there were no boundaries. The images David created are all about contrast—glitzy meets gritty—which is the soul of Los Angeles, really. He shot Nicky and me in front of the Grand Motel, an infamous “nuisance motel” on La Cienega near Pico Boulevard where people were constantly getting arrested on drug and solicitation charges. The cops were called to the Grand so often, the owners ended up getting sued by the city attorney’s office for being a “drain on police resources.”
Nicky and I stood in front of a pink Rolls-Royce parked next to a rusty phone booth, arm in arm on the stained pavement. She looks sweet and sophisticated in a black-and-white-striped Missoni cocktail dress. Her only accessory is a polka-dot Dolce & Gabbana purse. I’m standing there in Roberto Cavalli short shorts and jacket with no shirt, my legs and lips open. A long Lady Godiva wig cascades over my shoulders, along with assorted bling, including a necklace that spells out the word RICH.
It’s not as simple as good girl/bad girl; the black-and-white stripes are at the center of the photograph, and complexity ripples outward. It was shot in the cool evening hours when traffic was slow and the streetlights were coming on. Nicky and I look fresh and clean. There’s no walk of shame vibe. This isn’t a picture of two girls stumbling home when the party is done with them; it’s two bright fairy lights who just popped in to see what condition your condition is in. The grass at our feet is absinthe green. It’s like he’s saying, “Look at these girls, this place, this moment. It’s not what you think it is.”
I’m sitting here staring at it right now, and after all this time, it holds up, sick in the best possible way. If anything, it’s even more powerful because you know everything that’s coming at these girls, all the blessings and beasts hidden in the oncoming traffic. It’s just a fucking amazing piece of art.
We did a shoot at Zuma Beach, where I was laid out, spread eagle on the burning-hot sand with a halo of curly mermaid hair. David scattered perfume bottles and cash on the sand like seaweed and beach treasures. Surfers stand around me, heads out of frame, holding their surfboards, like “phallic symbol much?” but I was laughing so hard at the time I didn’t even notice. I had mascara running from the corner of my eye down to my ear. There was a lot going on—people buzzing around, adjusting props, hair, sand, lights, makeup—so I wasn’t even aware that a stylist moved the silky top aside to expose one nipple. I’m glad I wasn’t aware, because I might have gotten nervous, and the magic of the picture is in the blissful oblivion, the fully languid lack of attitude.
David became more intense and elated. I was caught up in the feeling that something incredibly cool was being created. It was thrilling. Energizing. The opposite of exhausting even though I was working my ass off. A lot of photo shoots are syncopated by this endless robotic mantra—yes yes beautiful beautiful gorgeous gorgeous yes yes—but David never did that.
“Turn off everything,” he said. “Friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents. Think about what you’re giving, not what you want to get.”
It was after midnight when he said, “We have to shoot at your grandparents’ house.”
“Let’s go,” I said. “We’ll have to climb the fence.”
My ADHD brain has no room for hesitation, and I’d gone up and over that fence more times than I could count. It wasn’t a big deal. I opened the gate for David and his crew, and we crept into Papa and Nanu’s living room, where everything was creamy and regal. Grand piano. Glass coffee table. China cabinets full of fragile treasures. Brocade chairs and spotless drapes. Immaculate ivory carpet. Grecian statuettes on the mantel. A dignified oil portrait on the wall. It was all very stately, very . . . Hiltonesque. Like the lobby of a luxury hotel.
The irony was so easy.
Papa and Nanu were upstairs sleeping, so we had to be quiet, and that made the energy all the more intense. David lit the shot and threw a few random objects—fluffy white bathrobe, detangling brush, telephone—on the floor between my feet. He wanted me to go full trash punk wild child. I leaned into an edgy Courtney Love persona, with a hot pink micromini and a fishnet tank with nothing underneath. The only accessories: sunglasses, silk gloves, and an unlit cigarette. The stylist messed my hair up, choppy and loose, and gave my lips a nice plummy gloss. Strappy black platform heels made me six feet tall.