Diary 34

on."

"Robert, after all these years, you have not grasped the meaning of modeling and fashion."

"What is it?"

"Give me names. Yves Saint Laurens, Gucci, Noriel, Nina Ricci. Ask me how they reached the top. They did not do it with their butts seated on patterns or fucking all their models. They did not rely on magic to turn their names into one worth millions of bucks. If you expect a fashion designer to keep a model out of courtesy or pity, I am sorry. The job of a fashion designer is to make a change every second. There is no permanence in this work. Fashion is not a sculpture or painting or novel or music. It is no Broadway, no Shakespearian play, no chorus line. When fashion touches a thread, a cloth, a material - the designer distorts it, reshapes it, cuts through it, transforms it. It is a mobile art, a tool to create an illusion, an illusion intended for patronage and profit. It lasts only for a moment, pretty much like the model that displays it. I thought you’ve known this all along, Robert. Your value to a fashion house is very shallow, it hangs mainly on your body contours, facial symmetry, skin tone. You are expected to complete an illusion. There is no emotion here, no love, no philosophy no principle. It is purely visual. An art that thrives also in competition, Robert, it is a jungle out there. True and fake artists alike clash in grabbing the money allotted by the rich for the illusion. You’ve heard the other stories before. Issey Miyake comes up with a trend that will trample the Haute Couture of Pierre Cardine or Ungaro. The losers will join forces with Chanel to beat Valentino. If you were one of these contenders, what will you do? Especially if you are a small unknown struggling designer like me? In my small domain called Manila, I pour all my talents and strike anyone - come what may. I live dog-eat-dog because the sole purpose of my life is to, one day, be invited in the great fashion capitals of the world. I change tactics, I change looks, lines, faces. Try anything different. In the world of fashion, you can never fix clothes like a Van Gogh or a Picasso. This has been true in the entire history of fashion business. From Greeks to Romans to Victorians, to World War I, to World War II , to the Hippies, to whatever transpired in history, fashion went along and chipped off its own share. A designer like me believes that the goddess of fashion doesn't come out like genie or fairy. I grab it and mold it. For I feed illusions. I can't afford to stay behind while I am young. This is the fact Roberto. Listen to what I say now because I want to save you. Like eyesight, or strength, or fame, we re both bound to fade. You’re a has-been in Manila Robert. If you wish to go on, then go to Paris or Milan or London or New York. Pray they will notice you there. Give your profile to all the great names even to those who are dead: Hubert de Givenchy, Bohan, Fiffeau, Pipart, Venet, Emilio. You are young and ethnic, who knows. But do not set your eyes here in Manila anymore because the only road open to you is destruction. For Manila is no Paris. They do not keep models here for long, there is no loyalty. This country needs a new face every season. And this is a country not always ready to break its rules."

I did not understand his long winded speech. "What are you trying to tell me?" I asked.

"Well, what I am trying to say is to leave this world of fashion with dignity. Leave without looking back. Go on with your studies, finish a career, work and settle down with a family of your own. Think of the last two years as years of glamour and nothing else."

I kept shaking my head. Every fiber of my muscles was twitching. I was sweating profusely. I was desperate. "I have nothing else but this job. Please keep me even for a low pay. I need the money."

Ismael walked toward the door and before leaving said with finality. "I hate to tell you this, starting tomorrow, you have to pay the rent of this apartment. Isla also tells you to return the Toyota. I’m sorry for these troubles Robert."

"You have no heart."



February, 1989

Dear Diary,

The ruthless strikes and I was left alone and defenseless. This is what happens when I sow sins, I reap pain and failures. After working hard and taking my job seriously I was discarded like a rotten vegetable. What hurts the most is the fact that after two years, I have not a single friend in this world to comfort me. Worse, I feel I’m losing you too, God. Oh, why am I so lonely? Two years ago, I thought I saw the light. But when the light dimmed , I found I was blind all along. I have no one to blame but myself. I wrongly assumed that the fashion business would last forever. I thought that by selling myself to the public’s materialism and cynicism, I would acquire happiness, success and power. I am defeated. I just wish it didn’t happen this fast. Fashion is a fast ascent and descent, just like looks. I was in the wrong profession at the wrong time with wrong hopes.



That night, I could not sleep. The only option for me was to call Arnie Te. I told him Ismael and Isla were done with me.

Arnie was quite direct, he seemed to have heard the same pleas from other desperate models before.

"Actually, you don't need this modeling job, Robert. What you need is money."

"However you put it, I need the job."

"Robert, you have the power to make all the money you wanted in the world."

"How?"

"You've got the body and the looks." His offer was obvious. "What you did with me was great. I was thinking that if you would do it with others, and I know a lot of others who would be willing to part with thousands of pesos just to experience what you did to me, you will not need anything else in this world. I want to be straightforward with you and you may or may not accept this offer. Robert, you can start living a wonderful life if you start pleasing a lot of people I know this. There were many models before you. "

My hangover dissipated instantly. I saw myself as the lowest type of animal on the face of the earth. This was prostitution. Yes, I was no different from the other models. I heard the same story before. I was afraid of this, to end this way. I heard the same story before - about fallen models now branded a hotel and toilet kings and queens. Some were heard performing porno films, even live sex in foreign clubs. Damn, did I work hard all my life just to end this way?

Arnie knew how to lure, how to make all things appear right and easy. "Robert, what I am about to offer you is a big and easy way to acquire money, lots of it. If you want to support you college degree, then listen to me."

I did not need to listen further. I nodded while holding the phone tightly, tears welled in my eyes.

His instructions were cruel and blunt. "Take this opportunity I am offering you. Let them have you for a charge, a fee. Call it entertainment service. You’ll find out it’s nothing. When it is over, you can go straight into the shower and feel clean all over again."

Faces rushed before my eyes. Old men and women who were ready to rip me apart, destroy the very foundation of my soul. The dawn was fast approaching. I heard myself utter a prayer. "God, please save me from this when the sun comes up."

I walked towards my bed, in the loneliness of dawn, I embraced one of my pillows and pressing it against my face started crying and wailing.

I got up. I went to the mansion of Tia’s family. I wanted her to hear me. I wanted her to help me. I wanted her to save our child. What would I tell my child in the future?

At the village gate, the guard told me she flew to New York with her parents. "She had a miscarriage."

A miscarriage? She had to fly all the way to New York for a miscarriage?



February, 1989

Dear Diary,

Lord, I know you are mad at me. But it is the only thing left that I could do. Oh how I wish I'd never knew you at least I would be free of guilt. Here I am, in a snake's pit. Sometimes, I refuse to pray anymore because I’ve lost the right to face you. What use is there in praying to you now that I have nothing. They even took my own child.

I am sinful and stupid. Amen.

Alex Maskara