50 Days 'Til 50 Day 13--Parlez-vous makeup? pt.1

50 Days ‘til 50Day 13Parlez-vous makeup? (Part 1)I couldn’t let today go by without an acknowledgement to all my French friends on this, their Independence Day, Bastille Day. Those of you who know me personally know that I am a total Francophile, lover of all things French. Being adopted I had access to my birth records many years back and discovered one of my parents was French, the other English. So Voila! It was set before I could even hum the tune of “Sur le Pont D’Avignon”. (Most of you can hum this along too so don’t get discouraged too quickly.)During my educational years, not a super brain when it came to things math and science I did have a love for language, writing, and reading. It seemed to come a bit more natural to me than the other side of my brain stuff that did not. To my memory besides some world history stuff that we were taught I didn’t have much exposure to other lands far away. We traveled quite a bit as a family, but usually it was within a few days drive or to Florida, which seemed like the other side of the world when you’re an 8 year old. Growing up in New Hampshire back then we weren’t a melting pot of various cultures and languages as we are today. We were pretty much white toast when it came to diverse and different cultures and their people. A Chinese restaurant in Portsmouth was about as exotic as it got on world culture. In school I only had two options when it came to taking any language classes, French or Latin. The Latin classes weren’t very full so the French class was packed full of girls and boys reciting our French numbers and alphabet and having to address the teacher only in French. Madame et Monsieur and a few other choice words were all I seemed to take away from those years of classes.After high school I made a quick exit from New Hampshire and ended up in South Florida where it became very apparent that I wouldn’t need any of my French skills but would go on to learn everything Spanish. It’s amazing to live in a city and adopt or be adopted in the culture by proxy. Today I can carry on conversations and do a little reading of the Spanish language thanks to an open mind and being a minority in a city of some 70% Hispanics.As my career as a hair and makeup artist began in Miami, South Beach to be exact, there was a big movement there in the industry of production. Production in this case were movies being filmed there, European companies were flying over to shoot their latest catalogues, modeling agencies were opening on every corner and of course it became a haven for artists living on the cheap. It was dirt-cheap. It was slowly changing out of an era where octogenarians, waiting to meet their Maker, lined the streets and the last of the cocaine cowboys lurked around the alleyways at night. It was an interesting time to be there. Having hardly any experience under my belt as a hair stylist (I had only worked in a few salons for short bursts of time and only did hair, no makeup) this whole new world seemed very exciting to me, highly creative, and I was to quickly find out highly lucrative. I could command $1200 a day for a photo shoot for a catalogue and the clients would even take you to lunch. I was hooked. Since I knew little of the industry the trick was to get hired into one of the modeling agencies that also represented hair and makeup artists. To get the good jobs back then you almost always needed representation from someone that already had the relationships with the clients and could keep you working.These people were called the “bookers”. Positions usually filled by assorted lesbians who secretly lusted after all the girl models, gay men who lusted after the male models, or frustrated women who never made it in the modeling world but could somehow maintain some vengeful power over all these young gorgeous girls. Telling them things like they “weren’t pretty enough” or “weren’t right for the job.” If I just bought these bookers a coffee, maybe a little gift here and there and were just visible and available you’d be in good favor with them and usually get the jobs, at least in the beginning. Mainly just some mild ass kissing would suffice. I was ok with that. The other must-have, as any artist will confirm with me, is the coveted portfolio. We’ve all seen the models walking around with their “books” under their arms trotting around to different agencies and casting calls. This was Mandatory. I'm sure today everyone has their portfolio online, or on their ipad as I do. Back then it was all paper photos slid into an 11” by 14” book that we shopped around to all the perspective clients. Also as technology was changing having your photos on CD was all the rage. The trick of course was to have photos in your book of 1, a famous person who you worked with or 2, pages of a magazine that actually printed your work (tear sheets as they are called in the biz.) Half of my time after a job was spent chasing clients, models, and photographers around to get a photo of my work that I could then proudly move to the first page in my portfolio. I have so much work out there I never got to see or get a copy of. It’s frustrating but you learn to deal with it and just move on to the next job.Stick with me, Paris is coming….I promise.Somehow heaven and earth moved and I got into an agency. Maybe being a smart ass 23 year old or good timing, or whatever it was I was in. The first thing they do is print a composite card for you. It’s usually a 5 by 7 card with images of your work and your name printed boldly across the top. These are skimmed over whenever a client comes into the agency looking for a hair or makeup artist or both. We also carried them around with us as sort of a giant business card to pass out to photographers we would meet, models that we wanted to work with, or basically anyone who would take one. After you had your comp made you would just hope and pray that your booker would call with your next gig with the agency taking a huge percentage of your pay but saved you from having to do all the footwork. I got a few small jobs to start with, mostly as just a hair stylist. I had been asked by the agency if I did makeup and of course I said yes. The truth was the only time I had picked up anything to do with makeup was when I wanted to put black eyeliner on so I could look like one of the Ramone’s. I thought I could wing it. I had zero skill and zero makeup in my possession but had to just go with the flow. Inevitably the call came for me to do a job as JUST the makeup artist and it was to be printed in a local arts and entertainment paper…on the COVER! My stomach dropped. I had to run to Walgreen’s and grab everything I could think of that I might need and with only $50 in my pocket, I wasn’t buying much. Calling what few friends I had that did makeup and borrowing whatever they would let go out of their collections. Makeup artists are very stingy when it comes to giving away our favorite eyeliners and lipsticks just for the record. The job came and went and to everyone’s horror after I saw the proofs of the job it actually was printed. Her makeup looked like I had driven over her eyes with a bicycle tire, all black and splotchy and sure enough, there was my name in the credits big as day as, “the makeup artist.” I wish I had a copy of that shoot that I could show you here. Later I remember talking to another makeup artist that I loved her work and who had seen the cover and she said “oh, that was you?” “I never quite got which direction you were headed with that makeup choice.” My first thought was to yank the weave out off her head”…but I opted to just say it was creative license. I left Miami a few weeks later.The owner of the model agency who represented me was always very sweet to me. She was a raving bitch to many others…alas, the roles of a business owner. She’d introduce me to photographers that I could work with on the side, she’d show me photos of other makeup artists work and try and get me to see the certain lighting of a shoot or the way it was photographed. She was very patient with me and since I did great hair, she kept me around. One day, shortly after my makeup fiasco hit the newsstands she called me into her office. She said, “Josh, I like you.” “You’re young and energetic and the clients like you.” “You’re an amazing hairdresser.” I knew what was coming next as I held my breath. And then she said it. “But your makeup sucks.” I think those were her exact words. I was exposed. There was no talking my way around those words, as she was correct. She didn’t fire me but did go on to tell me that they had just opened a sister office in Paris. Hint hint. She couldn’t promise a ton of work for me over there but she thought that it would be a perfect thing for me to do. I didn’t have strong roots in Miami, was still relatively young and free, and since that first day of French class in school I had a longing to go there. I thought to myself “Was I being run out of town?” Then it hit me. Paris! Paris, France! I was packed with two suitcases in two weeks. Hair and makeup in one bag and all my clothes in the other, a passport, and about 5K.I was moving to Paris.   (to be continued)jf