Walk on the Wild Side

“I'm a thousand different people. Every one is real.”

Her eyes glittered with the drunken rush of old Hollywood glamour. Her pouty red lips brought grown men to their knees. Her dramatic, self-indulgent wit made her an icon.

Her name made people smile.

Candy Darling.

She was born a male. In the 1950s, people knew her as little Jimmy Slattery, the boy with the drunken gambling father and sweet, but timid mother.

To escape her stifling blue-collar life in New York City, the future diva drowned herself in old Hollywood films. She worshipped Kim Novak. She envied Elizabeth Taylor. She dreamed of being Marilyn Monroe.

By the time she was a teenager, Candy was putting on her most stylish dresses, perfecting her makeup in the mirror, and strutting out the door to party at all the hottest gay bars in town. She changed her name and never looked back.

As a gorgeous woman with an outgoing personality and loads of confidence to boot, Candy was naturally drawn to the stage. She wanted to be beyond famous. She wanted to be a STAR.

She was starring in a burlesque show (featuring a talented, but virtually unknown actor named Robert De Niro) in 1967 when she caught the attention of pop artist Andy Warhol.

Intrigued by her addictive charisma and overwhelming sexuality, Andy asked Candy to act in his next film, Flesh.

Soon, the pair became best friends. Candy was a staple at the Warhol Factory. With the famous artist by her side, she lit up the most glitzy nightclubs in the world. She mingled with movie stars. She was the subject of several extremely famous rock songs. She was at the height of her fame.

But it was too good to last.



It wasn't long before Andy grew bored with the "chicks with dicks" theme. It was so last year, he decided. So, he ditched the transsexual. Candy went from being his BFF to being shunned by the man who had made her a superstar.

Suddenly, she was all alone. It was cruel and shocking to the 20-something performer.

Using her Warhol boost, Candy managed to keep her career afloat for a while during the early 1970s. She had small roles in low budget and even big budget films. She starred in a smattering of plays.

And then the inevitable occurred.

Candy was diagnosed with leukemia. It was the result of the hormones (mostly estrogen) she had been taking to maintain her feminine appearance during the last decade. The cancer ate away at her body with incredible speed.

Instead of being depressed, Candy saw her deadly illness as the role of a lifetime. The 29-year-old played the dying femme fatale with so much style and flamboyance, it would have made her old Hollywood idols proud. She even posed for a deathbed glamour shot.

She quite possible left the most charming death note in celebrity history:

To whom it may concern

By the time you read this I will be gone. Unfortunately before my death I had no desire left for life. Even with all my friends and my career on the upswing I felt too empty to go on in this unreal existence. I am just so bored by everything. You might say bored to death. It may sound ridiculous but is true. I have arranged my own funeral arrangements with a guest list and it is paid for. I would like to say goodbye to Jackie Curtis, I think you're fabulous. Holly, Sam Green a true friend and noble person, Ron Link I'll never forget you, Andy Warhol what can I say, Paul Morrissey, Lennie you know I loved you, Andy you too, Jeremiah don't take it too badly just remember what a bitch I was, Geraldine I guess you saw it coming. Richard Turley & Richard Golub I know I could've been a star but I decided I didn't want it. Manuel, I'm better off now. Terry I love you. Susan I am sorry, did you know I couldn't last I always knew it. I wish I could meet you all again.

Goodbye for Now

Love Always
Candy Darling

And just as she dreamed, Candy Darling has become a legend. She was the first drag queen to take over pop culture. Her influence can be found in movies, famous drag queens, and reality shows to this day.

With her fabulousness and cheerful glamour, she changed the world...and made it a more special one.

"Modern Art on Legs"

June is LGBT Pride month. To kick off the celebration, here is a profile on the glam-fucking-tastic gaylien force, Leigh Bowery. I hope you enjoy the series on LGBT icons I have in store for you these next 30 days.

Leigh Bowery grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood in Australia.

Miserable in his working class town, he shied away from boys his own age who were more interested in playing sports or sneaking a delightful peek at pornographic photos. Instead, Leigh hid under his covers at night pouring over the latest fashion magazines and kept his weekends filled with classic films, especially those starring his idol, Elizabeth Taylor.

When he graduated high school, the chubby teenager attended fashion school in Melbourne, but got bored after a year and moved to London in 1981, with nothing but a suitcase and sewing machine. He was ready to take on the world.

He moved in with two guys who were hip to the homosexual party scene and he started his career as a fashion designer. His outfits were so outrageously loud, colorful, and bizarre, he got noticed by the industry immediately.

Everywhere he went, whether it was out to the grocery store on a lazy afternoon or partying at the hottest dance club, people stared. They had never seen someone like him before!
 His wigs! His face paint! His shoes! Who was this Leigh Bowery?!

He showcased his collection at London Fashion Week and all over the world. His clothes were sold at Barney's. He even designed stage costumes for a hot new pop star named Boy George.

While he was on top of the world, Leigh started a disco night club called Taboo. It became the hottest place to be in London, with orgies practically manifesting themselves on the dance floor. The drunk DJ spinning without a record. Celebrities getting high...or down. And as the queen of the ball, Leigh lit up the room every night with his jaw-dropping attire.

He wore everything from white lacy nightgowns to an actual disco ball on top of his head. His most popular outfit involved a glittery Chanel-inspired jacket with a plastic toy policeman's helmet.

In 1986, however, the club closed down when the tabloids revealed the "shocking" exploits carrying on every night.

But it didn't matter because Leigh was bored with it all already. He was in the midst of moving on into another career: performance art.

Without much trouble, the party monster booked gigs all over London.

He did everything from pretend to give birth on stage to channeling Jewish persecution in World War II.

In 1993, he added another job on his resume when he started a pop band with a few friends. Their single, "Useless Man," became a hit in Europe.

But while he was busy shocking the world with his bold artistic expression, Leigh's life was literally falling apart.

In the mid-1980s, he had been diagnosed as HIV positive. He only told a couple friends at the time, begging them to keep his secret. He didn't want the deadly disease to overshadow his work.

He even married a close friend, Nicola, as performance art, and never even told her what was going on with him.

But by late 1994, seven months after their marriage, the tired artist could no longer keep his illness in the dark. He grew increasingly sick, having to cancel gigs and spend weeks in the hospital.

It was time to tell everyone.

In January of 1995, Leigh passed away, right after pleading with his friends to simply tell people he had moved to Bolivia to become a pig farmer. He still didn't want the disease to be his legacy. It just didn't seem fair.

Fortunately, his wish came true.

Since his death, Leigh has been remembered in three books (two biographies and one photo collection), a documentary, countless art shows, and in Boy George's Broadway musical, "Taboo."

His eclectic style has influenced artists like Alexander McQueen, Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano, and Lady Gaga.

People remember his spirit. Not his death.

Not bad for a "Bolivian pig farmer," eh?

Don't they know it's the end of the world.

Clueless. Girl, Interrupted. Eight Mile.

Her films defined a generation. But when your career hits a snag, the Midas touch of Hollywood turns to ash within the blink of an eye.

With rumors of prescription drug abuse and anorexia, the film offers stopped coming. She clung to whatever independent or low-budget movie she could score, no matter how terrible the script.

She fell in love with a con artist, who flaunted himself as a rich, powerful producer with connections. After they married, the financially struggling actress was paying off her unemployed husband's debt.

In the final two weeks of her life, she was so sick with pneumonia, her lips were blue. She could barely breathe. Yet she was still playing nurse to her ailing mother and husband, who were also sick. Her domineering husband convinced her that they didn't need a doctor.

One afternoon, she was on the floor, unable to breath, her face turning blue. She refused to go to the emergency room. Instead, she told her mother she was going to die. Nobody called 911.

Five hours later, her prediction came true.

After her death, the bitter reality became painfully obvious: If Brittany Murphy had seen a physician at any point before her death, she wouldn't have died. By not seeking medical help, Brittany Murphy had essentially killed herself.

I've always seen myself as one of those 'show people.' My earliest memories are wanting and needing to entertain people, like a gypsy traveler who goes from place to place, city to city, performing for audiences and reaching people.

 

Everybody has difficult years, but a lot of times the difficult years end up being the greatest years of your whole entire life, if you survive them.

God forgot to give me the jealous bone.

I'm a giver. I have learned to be selective of the people in my world, because if I love someone, I will give them my blood, whatever they need. In doing so, one can end up with little left for themselves. It's a lesson in self-preservation that I'm still learning. If you don't have yourself, you have nothing to give.

I don't even take myself seriously, so how could I possibly take Hollywood seriously?

I have always wanted to be really tall for a day. That's kind of a superficial thing. I'm 5'3, but for one day I would love to be 5'9 and tower over everybody.

 I can't believe that people actually know my first and last name. I think it's really, really, gosh-darn neat.



 I think to call my mom and I best friends is almost an insult to our relationship. She's the greatest in the whole wide world, and I don't feel closer to anyone. She's a pillar of strength, and she doesn't flaunt it. She has this will - she just knows she can get through things. It's inspiring.

 

It's easy to get wrapped up in sharing everyday life with a partner. It's fun to get lost in love and romance. It's the best. But holding on to yourself while doing that is the most important thing.

 

I would like to be very, very, very, very old.

"I'm from the moon, darling."

I can't imagine being a teenage girl in a world where millions of people think you're ugly and they hate you, even though they've never even seen you.

No matter who you are or what you look like, you're trash. And it feels like there is nothing you can do about it. You fall asleep crying. It seems like the world can truly offer you no hope.

You stare into space while you're in class, dreaming of a way to be happy, fantasizing about a world where you are special, and wishing with every ounce of your heart that maybe one day you will feel beautiful.

This is a story about one of those girls.

Donyale Luna was born to a poor black family in Detroit. Her father was cruel and abusive. The gangly, somewhat awkward beauty was quiet, but inside her head raged an elaborate fantasy world. She daydreamed constantly. Her relatives thought she was odd. Her schoolmates made fun of her.

Desperate to leave behind her miserable life, she moved to New York City in 1965 to pursue a modeling career and changed her name to be racially ambiguous.

Her stunningly gorgeous face and long, never-ending limbs shocked the fashion scene. She was immediately signed to an exclusive contract with a famous photographer and a sketch of her appeared on a now-historic cover of Harper's Bazaar. She became famous, fast.

Modeling jobs were overwhelming her schedule. Everyone wanted to be her friend. She started hanging out with Andy Warhol, Mia Farrow, and Mick Jagger. She was the guest of honor at the wildest Hollywood parties.

But only a few months after she found fame and fortune, she received devastating news. Her mother had murdered her father, out of self-defense one night, when he came home drunk and violent.

Unable to cope with the tragedy, Donyale turned to drugs and alcohol for the first time in her life.

Plus, her photo shoots in Harper's Bazaar were having a negative impact on a nation being ripped apart by the civil rights movement. Advertisers in southern states were pulling their advertising and the magazine lost hundreds of subscriptions over it.

Horrified and betrayed by the reaction, she fled to Europe to model over there.

Fueled with self-hatred towards her own race and desperate to be somebody, anybody, other than herself, the supermodel turned her fantasy life into her real life.

She wore blonde wigs. She sported green contact lenses. She made up an elaborate tale to the media, and her new famous friends, about how she really wasn't black, but actually an exotic mix of Irish, Native American, and Indonesian. But her birth certificate and relatives back home knew the truth.

In 1966, she became the first African-American to appear on the cover of Vogue (the British version) but posed in a concealed way that wouldn't offend the magazine's white readers.

She also pioneered the way for non-white models by appearing on the cover of several other major fashion publications.

Time Magazine declared 1966 the Luna Year in her honor.

But while the white public was adoring her, the black community was starting to hate her.

Donyale made it clear in interviews that she couldn't care less about paving the way for non-white models. She distanced herself heavily from the much-publicized civil rights movement occurring in her homeland. She only married and dated white men. She refused to even call herself black, insisting she was that ridiculous global mixture. It was insulting to the black community around the world, to say the least.

(Although, it could be argued that by denying her full-black heritage and pretending to be multi-racial, Donyale was actually breaking barriers by forcing people to view the human race as a global, interlaced species).

As the years went by, her loopy tales and drug use were spinning out of control. She crawled on runways. She showed up late for bookings. Sometimes she wouldn't even show up for photo sessions at all.

In a time where non-white models had to work extra hard to prove themselves, Donyale was unraveling her own career with her own self-destruction. Younger black models, who were hungrier and more professional, such as Beverly Johnson and Pat Cleveland, trampled over her lifeless career.

In the 1970s, she barely made waves, except for appearing nude in Playboy in 1975. She also had a daughter with her Italian lover around that same time.

In 1979, at 32, Donyale accidentally died of a heroin overdose, leaving behind an 18-month-old daughter, Dream.

And while her climb to the top in the modeling industry is epic, her tale is mostly forgotten.

The girl who dreamed of being beautiful and being special and being recognized for who she was, rather than her race, erased her own footprints in the sand because she couldn't even acknowledge her own reflection in the mirror.

She couldn't accept herself.

Sex. Drugs. Fame. Fabric.

Six inches of glitter dusted the floor.

Pink disco balls sparkled from the ceiling.

On the crowded dance floor, a gorgeous blonde supermodel gyrated against a rock star. In a dark corner, sitting on a velvet couch, a famous pop artist discussed politics with a flamboyantly gay journalist. A sultry brunette movie star sat next to them, sipping a neon orange cocktail and staring into space, stoned out of her mind.

This was the glitzy, drug-induced, money-soaked, rock-and-roll masturbation fantasy of the 1970s Studio 54 scene in New York City.

This was the world of Halston.

I recently watched a very interesting documentary called Ultrasuede: In Search of Halston.

It chronicles the career of the world's first superstar designer, focusing on the height of his fame during the 1970s.

Halston was born in Iowa and started his career in Chicago, designing hats. His world changed forever when Hollywood and Camelot took an interest in his work. His pillbox hats were made legendary by the brand new First Lady Jackie Kennedy and his haute couture hats were worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

His career escalated into a billion-dollar empire. By the 1970s, there wasn't a supermodel, movie star, or princess who wasn't draped in his long, flowing dresses.

Halston was jaw-droppingly wealthy, blindingly handsome, and fabulously eccentric. In his giant modern New York City apartment, he threw elaborate dinner parties attended by his closest friends, such as Andy Warhol, Bianca and Mick Jagger, Elizabeth Taylor, and Michael Jackson. Most of the time, things got inappropriately out of control, with clothes flying off and people waking up the next morning in questionable locations.

His best friend was the dazzling superstar Liza Minnelli.

Together, his jet-setting group of glamorous, beautiful friends stormed the New York City night club scene. Studio 54 became their home away from home. While hundreds of attractive, shivering people stood in line for hours outside in the freezing winter nights, desperate to be chosen for admittance, Halston and his friends laughed and danced and basked in their fabulousness inside the protected paradise.

They were the most famous people in the world. And they knew it.

I don't want to give away too much, because I think it is really important, especially if you are a fashion blogger, to view this documentary.

Let's just say Halston's contributions to the fashion world were astounding.

You can see the influence of his work in fashion today. His style has never left us.

Halston ran his empire like a homosexual Hugh Hefner. He never went anywhere without his entourage of stunningly gorgeous models. They were like his family. He not only chose all of their outfits, but made them change five times a day, usually in matching or complimentary dresses. With his movie-star good looks and his bevy of long-legged beauties trailing behind him like puppies, Halston always made an unforgettable entrance.

Of course, Halston had no romantic interest in his sexy models. They were merely his background dolls.

He loved men. But not just any men. He craved intellectual, wild, and exotic men. Bad boys.

He was so, so gay.

Unfortunately, a risky business move (ironically, something that would have probably saved his career today) finished him professionally during the 1980s.

Depressed and sick, he uncharacteristically withdrew from his social circle later that same decade. His desire to be fabulous simply vanished.

He died in 1990.

What do you think of Halston?