Dressers

Dressers are the women who help you dress during fashion shows. The changes are quick. An experienced model chats with her dresser beforehand and discusses who will zip, button, ect. One does the upper half, the other the bottom. You always use a scarf to cover your face to prevent staining your clothes with your makeup. No modesty. You are pretty much naked - no bra - just a flesh-colored thong. Sometimes not even that. One designer, an illustrious aristocratic descendant of the Italian house of Torlonia once sent his models on the cat walk without underwear. I sat in the front row as one of his potential clients after retiring from the industry. The comments from the audience were highly amusing.

Furthermore, designers often showcase portions of their shows according to variations of the same outfit. In those circumstances, shoes in your size are hard to come by. It often happens that runway models have to make due with shoes that are one or two sizes smaller or larger than what they actually wear. In that case, you caution your dresser to never step away from your rack (the rack upon which your clothes are hung, along with the accessories), because models have been known to switch shoes.

Now, when that happens, you usually know who was the culprit. But by the time you realize what happened, it is usually too late to do anything about it, because you normally have from one minute to five max to make your changes before your next exit.

I had modeled in Tokyo for four years before finally arriving in Rome. There I had met a model (whom I have long since forgotten her name), who was the darling of the agency with whom I was contracted. She was also the lover of the man who was its president. When I finally made it to Rome a year after she did, we did quite a few shows together. During one of them, she managed to take my shoes right under the nose of my dresser. I walked in an evening gown with shoes two sizes too large. At one point one of them slipped off and I nodded to a photographer, hoping he would put it back on my foot. He didn't. I had to bend down and with as much aplomb as I was able, retrieve it, put it back on, and finish my exit.

It is all about style. Always. On the cat walk and off.

Note: All fashion pictures are of myself during the time I worked in the industry.

Life as a high fashion model

The fashion industry is cut-throat. It is what it is. Unless you are cover-girl material, or one of those rare exceptions, your career wanes in your late twenties. It is an adventure. If you are smart, you take it as such. The industry is rife with pitfalls. But the money is good and if you want to leave your small hometown to see the world, modeling serves its purpose.

I was a bit too tall. I am six feet one inches. My height narrowed my job opportunities. But I managed to be in the top 15 ranked run-way models in Italy for the entire time I worked. Along the way I met such runway stars as Pat Cleveland, Iman, and many others.

The concept of super models was just around the corner. When I worked for Calvin Klein one season in New York, I shared mirrors with those women who were among the first super models, such as Christy Turlington and Cindy Crawford. I didn't have what it took to become that famous, but I did enjoy my moment of fame. More to come.

In anticipation of my impending trip to Rome on September 30, 2009

Rome is so many things in my mind, but she is quintessentially female. She is an aristocrat decked out in the beauty of her fountains, parks, and belle arti. She is an aging courtesan with an interesting past. She is a young woman discovering the power of her femininity for the first time.

It is a sensual city full of sounds, odors, visuals, and foods to be savored.

During the Spring, the historical center is pervaded by the distinctive fragrance of the False Chestnut trees lining the Tiber river. The weather is as fickle as Roman politics. Huge vases of flowers along with youths line the stairs of the Spanish Steps. Skirts are suddenly shorter and necklines are lower.

The coming of Summer brings with it hoards of tourists and San Pietrini cobblestones baking in the sweltering heat. Italians and tourists alike sit at street-side tables. Conversation is punctuated by laughter and the clattering of dishes being served or taken away: pomodori al riso, pizza, spaghetti alle vongole. Cars crawl past the restaurant tables crowding the narrow streets while moped zing.

Fall is my favorite season there. It is gourmet heaven: Mushrooms,Truffles, and Monte Bianco dessert. It is finally cool enough to enjoy heartier dishes: amatriciana, carbonara, straccetti, bistecca fiorentino, patati arrosti, polenta con salcicce. A gastronomic litany for the palate.

In the Winter, the rain renders the cobblestones slick and unlocks the scent of history embedded in the cracks between them. The perfume of roasting chestnuts sold by street venders mingles with the odor of fireplaces and hovers in the cold air.

Ah, Roma. Ma quanta sei bella. You are so beautiful. I shall see you soon, once again.

Note: All photos on my blog of Rome are my own.

Coconut Girl in a High Fashion World

This blog is about the life experiences of a Hawaiian, Chinese, Haole (Caucasian) woman who left Hawaiʻi at 19 in 1979 to work as an international fashion model. Nearly 22 years and 30+ countries later, she returned home to Hawaiʻi in 2001. 16 of those years were spent in Italy.

The title of this blog is inspired by a song written by Brother Noland.