By Paulina Porizkova
An incisive, superbly written first novel through a former stick insect that explores the glamorous and gritty global she inhabitedOnly a handful of ladies on this planet have skilled what Paulina Porizkova has -- being whisked away to version in Paris whereas nonetheless undefined, attaining the head of the occupation earlier than her schoolmates had even graduated -- and less nonetheless have the perception to seize it on paper.In her first novel, Paulina tells the tale of Jirina. A tall, scrawny fifteen-year-old woman from Sweden, she's even more conversant in scoffs and disdain than admiration and affection, even if from her classmates or her family. that each one adjustments while her simply pal, Hatty, asks to perform her make-up and images talents on Jirina. nearly prior to she understands it Jirina is on a aircraft to Paris, the place she is going to spend the summer time in a milieu solely alien to her. residing on the domestic of her modeling agency's proprietor and consistently subjected to blunt actual checks, catty and infrequently merciless fellow types, and womanizing photographers -- and, miraculously adequate, whereas occasionally feeling actually attractive -- Jirina embarks on a trip past her wildest imaginings. among photograph shoots in Italy and Morocco and events with types and musicians, Jirina manages to make a couple of neighbors, fall in love, and, finally, believe the very grownup soreness of betrayal and heartbreak.Told with the grace, simplicity, and accuracy which could in basic terms come from real-life adventure, A version summer season is either the debut of a significantly proficient novelist and an strangely well-informed glance behind the curtain at a global many folks fantasize approximately, yet few relatively be aware of.
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Extra resources for A model summer
I say, with more than a little surprise. “One,” Marina replies with the tone of someone recounting cancerous tumors. Nonetheless, it cheers me enormously. I already miss Kristynka with the same sharp pangs as hunger. She was born after my father left us, the year I turned seven. At first I had no idea why my mother suddenly swelled up and turned even more irritable than usual. I figured it was somehow my fault, like so many other things: the unwashed dishes in the sink, my father leaving, the crack in the kitchen wall, my bad grades in math, the disappearance of the scissors, and my audacity for physically resembling my father when he became the person most hated on my mother’s list.
Kristynka is a different story. She hardly ever sees my father, in part because father doesn’t like small children, but mostly because he suspects Kristynka is not his child anyway. I pull out The Castle, and set it down on my nightstand next to Anna Karenina and my well-worn copy of The Wild Ass’ Skin. Britta hops over to browse through my reading selection, and wrinkles her nose. ” MARINA STANDS BY the stove when we enter the kitchen, stirring the contents of a large pot. A cigarette bobs in her mouth and gently deposits ash into what, I presume, is our dinner.
The pizza no more. Tu comprends? ” Britta laughs with obvious relief. Her measurements, thirty-six, twenty-five, thirty-five, are noted, as is her height, five-eight; hair color, blond; and eye color, brown. This does not in any way do her justice. Why not describe her hair as gold with hints of champagne, and her eyes as chocolate? The bookers scrutinize her perfectly manicured hands at close range, debating whether she merits an “Extraordinaire” under the heading of “Special Qualities,” and decide against it.