Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

A revelatory and redemptive memoir from Beverly Johnson, the first black supermodel to grace the cover of Vogue , and who, over five hundred magazine covers later, remains one of the most successful glamour girls ever.

In The Face That Changed It All , Beverly Johnson brings her own passionate and deeply honest voice to the page to chronicle her childhood growing up as a studious, and sometimes bullied, bookworm during the socially conscious, racially charged '60s. Initially drawn to a career in law due to the huge impact the Civil Rights movement had on her life, Beverly eventually made her mark as the first black cover model of American Vogue in 1974. A successful three-decade career in modeling followed.

Offering glamorous tales about the hard partying of the 1970s and Hollywood during the '80s and early '90s, Johnson details her many encounters and fascinating friendships with the likes of Jackie Kennedy, Halston, Calvin Klein, and Andy Warhol, as well as stars such as Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Jackson, Eddie Murphy, Jack Nicholson, Keith Richards, and Warren Beatty. But not everything that glitters is gold, and Johnson's memoir reveals the countless demons she wrestled with over the course of her storied career. She brings us into the heart of her struggles with racism, drug addiction, divorce, and a prolonged child custody battle over her daughter that tested her fortitude and sanity. She shares for the first time intimate details surrounding her love affair with the late tennis icon Arthur Ashe, giving little known insight into the heart, mind, and spirit of the revered tennis legend. She also pays homage to her mentor, the late Naomi Sims, while lifting the veil off the complicated, catty, and often times tense relationships between black models during her fashion heyday. Familiar names from the catwalk, such as Pat Cleveland and Iman, appear regularly in her story, illustrating how each had to fight various battles to survive not just the system at large, but each other.

Featuring gorgeous, never-before-seen photos from Johnson's childhood and modeling days, The Face That Changed It All gives a no-holds-barred look at the lives of the rich, fabulous, and famous. It is also a story of failure and success in the upper echelons of the fashion world, and how Beverly Johnson emerged from her struggles smarter, happier, and stronger than ever.

Table of contents provided by Syndetics

• Foreword (p. vii)
• Introduction (p. 1)
• Chapter 1 Who's That Girl? (p. 3)
• Chapter 2 Smile (p. 14)
• Chapter 3 Girl on Fire (p. 24)
• Chapter 4 New York, New York (p. 29)
• Chapter 5 The Goal (p. 40)
• Chapter 6 Friends and Foes (p. 50)
• Chapter 7 Naomi (p. 62)
• Chapter 8 "Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll" (p. 74)
• Chapter 9 "Darling, You Should Always Wear Red!" (p. 90)
• Chapter 10 The Distinguished Gentleman (p. 108)
• Chapter 11 What's Love Got to Do with It? (p. 118)
• Chapter 12 If It Isn't Love? (p. 133)
• Chapter 13 The Other Shoe Drops (p. 143)
• Chapter 14 Bob Marley, the Devil, and Me (p. 158)
• Chapter 15 Doing Bad All by Myself (p. 171)
• Chapter 16 Mr. Cosby (p. 191)
• Chapter 17 Iron Mike and the Real Fresh Prince of Bel-Air (p. 196)
• Chapter 18 Victory Is Mine! (p. 207)
• Epilogue (p. 227)
• Timeline (p. 229)
• Acknowledgments (p. 231)
• Index (p. 235)

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

The Face That Changed It All Foreword Beverly Johnson made history in 1974. Her story is both powerful and unique. She was the first African-American woman, a woman of black skin, whose face appeared on the cover of the world's most prestigious fashion magazine, the holy grail of style--American Vogue. Since that defining moment in 1974, Beverly has journeyed on in her life with grace, gravitas, and gold-rimmed guts. Beverly Johnson shattered the ideological standards of beauty in a commercial domain, introducing a whole new paradigm not only for black women, but for the world and its acceptance of and response to black beauty as a whole. Beverly should be considered among the most important faces to alter the image of fashion, and the entire cultural dynamic, over the last century. Her staggering influence in that world still looms today. This is the story of an American woman, a role model, and a mentor for so many women, particularly women of color all over the world. And for all of us: I became the first African-American man to break the secret code of the Vogue culture when Anna Wintour named me one of the magazine's creative directors in 1983. I flew into that gilded cage nine years after Johnson's historic breakout cover. Beverly becoming the first black woman to grace the cover of Vogue signaled a bold game change in the world of fashion. The year 1974 was a hallmark year because of the courageous decision of Condé Nast and then Vogue editor-in-chief Grace Mirabella to use Beverly's image on the front of the revered fashion bible. It was all at once a beautiful and triumphant nod to the 1960s--that eventful and fascinating decade of civil rights, women's liberation, feminism--and a breakdown of the invisible codes of prejudice on the hallowed pages of the gold standard of fashion. And it was only one of the fabulous moments that make Beverly Johnson's life and narrative so wonderfully rich and so fabulously vivid. Today, Beverly is a strong businesswoman, daughter, mother, grandmother, and a true survivor of life and everything it's thrown at her along the way. She is a true force of nature--determined, fighting back from the brink of destruction--and to this very day she is still just as elegant and just as beautiful as she was on that now-legendary Vogue cover in 1974. If Beverly's life were fiction, it would be a great masterpiece from the very grand Toni Morrison, the Nobel Prize-winning African-American author. If Ms. Johnson's life were a film, it would no doubt be directed by Steve McQueen, whose 12 Years a Slave won Best Picture at the Academy Awards in 2014. Beverly is brutally honest throughout and doesn't hold back the tears, even when revisiting some truly heartbreaking life events. She is especially introspective when delving into her seriously troubled second marriage, which ended in an ugly divorce and an even uglier child-custody battle, in which she lost her daughter. But she fought back and survived it all with grace and style. In the light of the disco ball, which she aptly calls "smoke and mirrors," where money is big, egos are colossal, and evidence of a noble human spirit is a rare thing, Beverly amazingly managed to survive fame, celebrity, and all the damage it can do to the human soul. Beverly's journey is one that should inspire every woman from any generation and from any walk of life to keep soldiering on no matter the endless land mines she may come across. More than just a face, Beverly is a bona fide living legend. As I reached the end of her manuscript, tears of joy welled up in my eyes. Her life thus far is a story that should uplift the human spirit of both men and women. She has lived through it all: adversity, fame, fortune, love, marriage, divorce, marriage again, divorce again, addiction, redemption, renewal of spirit, and just plain life in general. Beverly's history is not just a chronological tale about her rise to the top of the world of fashion, it's also the story of a woman who refused to give up even when the world seemed to turn against her. Ultimately, Beverly Johnson's story is one of infinite grace and towering strength. --ANDRÉ LEON TALLEY CONTRIBUTING EDITOR, VOGUE INTRODUCTIONOde to Gloria My mother, Gloria Johnson, always had the most towering presence in my life, all of my life, and what a gift she has been. When I think of my lucrative and history-making career on the covers of so many national and international glossy magazines, I can't help but bring to mind my mother's looming influence. When my father forbade me from entering the modeling world oh so long ago, it was Gloria Johnson, ever so sweet and proper, who did the unthinkable. She defied my father's wishes and made the phone call to New York to set up appointments for me to be seen by those who could help steer me toward a career that I could have never imagined for myself. My mother rarely defied my father, but that time she did. Many years passed before my mother told me that she, too, had once dreamed of a career in modeling. But the times didn't allow it, and my mother's prayer remained unanswered. She was determined to make sure my dream didn't suffer the same fate. I think in many ways I fought hard to develop my career in fashion as a tribute to my mother and to make her proud. Deep down inside I knew I was also helping her fulfill the long-lost dream she had been denied so many years ago. Gloria Johnson was my hero then, and she remains my hero today as she gallantly fights the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's disease. She always said she didn't want to experience pain as she got older, but we never thought she would suffer the pain of a disease that attacks the mind in the way Alzheimer's does. How I loathe this unrelenting disease that has stolen so much of my mom from me and my entire family. Alzheimer's has stolen too much from far too many families, and I pray a cure is close at hand. The memories that once made my mother laugh, cry, and smile are no longer there. She barely recognizes me or my name now without my prodding, yet she is still the mother I adore, and I'm forever her daughter. The smiles, hugs, and girlish giggles we share together are more precious now than ever. I thank God every day for the gift of my mother and her unwavering support. My mother's love was always deep and always unconditional, and it is that love that continues to sustain me now. Today, my mother isn't able to remember the story of my rise to the top of the modeling world, nor can she recall her role in helping me get there. But I can assure you she was right by my side every step of the way. CHAPTER 1Who's That Girl? I never really thought I was pretty. Not that I gave my looks much thought at all while growing up in Buffalo, New York. Let's be clear: There were more than a few attractive people residing in the Johnson family household. We can start with my mother, Gloria, then move on to my two gorgeous sisters, Joanne and Sheilah; but not me. Never me. So how exactly I ended up being the one with a coveted invitation to spend an evening at the home of designer Roy Halston Frowick for one of his legendary gatherings on this particular day was a true mystery. Though my sisters Joanne and Sheilah were the girls every guy in our neighborhood drooled over at first sight during my childhood, I was the Johnson girl who later moved to New York to model for major magazines. No one saw that coming, least of all me. It was August 1973, the height of Halston's glory days on Madison Avenue, and there I was standing on West Sixty-Third Street, trying my best to figure out where exactly I was going. It was the hottest summer afternoon I could remember in New York City, and the heat wasn't doing my perfectly layered makeup any favors. I hurried down the street, in heels of course, trying to read the house numbers. It seemed like the sun's powerful rays were the universe's way of punishing me for jumping out of the cab before I had my bearings. Even though I was still in my early twenties, my life had already become an endless blur of appointments, interviews, and meetings. My likeness had already begun to appear on a bevy of magazine covers and in advertisements, but I was just learning how to navigate the peaks and valleys of what that exposure really meant for me. Since this wasn't quite the adult life I had envisioned for myself while growing up, I was still adjusting to the madness of running from one photo shoot or fashion fitting to another. The sheer weight of the logistics could easily frazzle anyone's nerves on any given day. If that weren't enough, I was also encountering some self-inflicted personal drama in the form of an ex-husband who refused to comprehend the true meaning of "ex." Many days I found myself just trying to keep my head above water. Don't get me wrong, I loved the life I was living, but I wasn't always prepared for the nonstop demands and pressures it presented. Somehow I had gotten on a fast-moving roller-coaster ride, and I wasn't at the controls. Still, even with all that background noise in my head, I couldn't afford to be out of sorts that afternoon. I had to appear flawless when I entered Halston's party, and flawless is what I was determined to be. There could be no clothing mishaps, and no evidence that my perfectly applied makeup had encountered that sweltering New York City day. While I was enjoying a booming career in the world of high fashion at that time, I knew I had really arrived when I received an invite to a dinner party at the home of one of the world's most prominent designers. Halston was by far the most celebrated and influential designer of the seventies, and I loved him something fierce. Everyone did. Halston--one name was all he needed--emerged as the first billion-dollar fashion designer in the world of haute couture and single-handedly developed the blueprint for the likes of Oscar, Ralph, Calvin, and Diane to become household names the world over. Until Halston appeared on the scene, most of the highly respected, famed, and grand design houses were located in Europe, in either Paris or Milan. Halston would change that the day he created a pillbox hat for Jacqueline Kennedy to wear as she watched her husband take the oath of office of the President of the United States in 1961. After that major coup, Halston's designs routinely graced the bodies of some of the world's most stylishly stunning women. Fabulous ladies such as Lauren Hutton, Princess Grace of Monaco, Ali MacGraw, Bianca Jagger, Liza Minnelli, and Lauren Bacall were photographed regularly in his couture designs. Then of course there was me. I'd always been fascinated by each and every aspect of the fashion industry, and Halston was the first to take my call when I yearned to learn even more. He agreed to put me in his runway show at a time when well-known print models, which I was at the time, rarely did such a thing. Runway modeling was considered a few steps beneath print during the sixties and early seventies. But that did little to discourage me from wanting to be on the runway. As far as I was concerned, a rule wasn't a rule until somebody had the gall to break it. Thankfully, Halston was happy to oblige me. Early one week in 1973, I strolled along in his show wearing several of his slinky halter-neck dresses and wide-legged jersey trousers. I loved every minute of it! Despite my initial terror of sashaying around a room filled with potential buyers and New York socialites, my first foray into the world of runway modeling had been as seamless as one of Halston's pricey cashmere designs. Simply put, I nailed it! After the show on a Tuesday, Halston casually mentioned a little dinner party at his home that Friday and suggested I stop by. Stop by? Of course I would stop by! Yes, I had a modeling assignment for Glamour magazine on the island of Saint Martin the day following the show, Wednesday, and wouldn't be returning until Friday afternoon. But a little thing like being out of the country wasn't going to prevent me from accepting one of the most desired invitations in town. Halston was the king of the New York social scene, and his parties were as legendary for their ambience and fine dining as they were for their cachet and megastar power. Halston personified everything that made the crazy seventies the decade many people wish they had been part of. It was a sparkling new age that seemed to belong exclusively to the young, or at the very least the young at heart. The baby boomers of today were actually teenagers back then, which means those years were all about exploration and experimentation. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll ruled the day, every day. But it was also a decade in which people searched for their identity and for truth, including me. Halston embodied all of that complicated seventies angst in his talent, in his style, and in the manic way in which he lived his public and private life. And I wanted to be in the middle of it all. But first I had to get to his party. The actual logistics were complicated. The dinner began at 7:00 p.m., and my plane didn't land back in New York at JFK until 4:00 p.m. If you've ever tried to get from JFK airport to Manhattan at that time of day, you know what a nightmare it can be. There was a fifty-fifty chance I'd make it on time, but nothing was going to stop me from trying. I was in luck--my cabdriver seemed to think he was driving in the Indy 500, and though I kept thinking that I really would rather not succumb to the flames of a fiery car accident just to get to a party--not even Halston's--we somehow made it to my apartment safely and in good time. Which was good, because the party was sure to make the top of Liz Smith's celebrity gossip column in the New York Daily News the next day. After debating half an hour what to wear to my first big-city party, I chose a long black jersey cape over a matching long black dress. But it wasn't a Halston, even though I had a closet half-filled with his designs. (Note to self: You really should wear the design of the designer to his dinner party.) Those days were long before the era of personal makeup artists arriving at your house before an event. That night I had to do my own, and I think I did a pretty jam-up job, if I do say so myself. My hair was pulled back in its usual neat bun and my silhouette was chic, slim, and sleek. Once I was ready, I grabbed yet another cab and raced from my West Forty-Eighth Street apartment to the Upper West Side soiree. Fortunately, I found that my "face" had stood up well against the smoldering August heat, as I finally found the famed 101 West Sixty-Third Street address. I arrived looking exactly like the version of Beverly Johnson most expected to see out and about in the big city. I entered the designer's glass-façade town house and stopped dead in my tracks; I couldn't believe I was still in New York City. Halston had transformed what had originally been an eighteenth-century carriage house into a virtual oasis, a more-than-seven-thousand-square-foot home solely created for him to peacefully exist in his own space and time, completely oblivious to the concrete jungle just outside his door. I steadied myself as I stood in the huge foyer and tried my best to take in everything that was going on. In front of me, a staircase seemingly floated in the air, like a mini catwalk, and on it the seminude bodies of models Pat Cleveland and Sterling St. Jacques danced to Sister Sledge's "He's the Greatest Dancer." As I watched them, Halston appeared and glided down the rail-less staircase. The designer's suave movie star looks nicely complemented his tanned skin, model-like height (six feet, two inches), and freshly styled salon hair. He was wearing his signature uniform: black cashmere turtleneck sweater, formfitting suede jacket, dark trousers. His left hand held his ever-present long cigarette while his right hand waved at the crowd of friends gathered in his living room. Halston loved nothing more than throwing parties for his famous friends, stars like Andy Warhol, Candice Bergen, Anjelica Huston, and Margaux Hemingway. I watched my dear friend as he was surrounded by people who hung on his every word. Who could blame them? Halston had an incredibly endearing way of telling a story that made every detail come alive and dance before your very eyes. And boy did that man have stories to tell about the unbelievable life he had lived, from growing up in Iowa to his years in New York. And when he wasn't throwing his own parties, he could be found holding court at the infamous Studio 54, his home away from home. Halston wasn't just the toast of the town--he was the toast of the entire fashion universe, and he wasn't shy about tooting his own horn to let you know about it, either. Halston actually wasn't shy about anything! Eventually the crowd parted and I got a quick hug and a kiss from the man of the hour, and then he was gone again. I decided to take a further look around his unique and elegant home. Fireplaces roared in eighty-degree temperatures, there were bamboo gardens in the backyard--complete with mirrors to reflect light back into the house--and as if that were not enough, the house boasted a rooftop deck the size of a baseball field! It was breathtaking! The legendary architect Paul Randolph had been responsible for the interior design, which was awash in various tones of white and gray. Those colors mixed perfectly with the furniture, upholstered as it was in the same knit flannel Halston often used in his clothing collection. Gray was a color Halston thought looked good on just about everyone and everything, so even the floors in his home were covered in a gorgeous gray velvet carpet. Adding to the sense of restraint, my dear friend Halston avoided using a lot of artwork on the walls, and there wasn't much in the way of accent pieces, either. It was haute, and minimalist, and all quite spartan. After I completed my tour, I noticed that Pat and Sterling, who had previously been dancing seductively on the catwalk, were now mingling with the crowd. Sterling, an absolutely beautiful black man, had a small (well, not so small) cup covering his private parts, while Pat was now gleefully free of any clothing at all and proudly showcasing everything for all to see. She was particularly interested in highlighting the fact that her pubic hair had been waxed into a perfectly defined heart shape. I was completely taken aback (one of the many times that night) when I heard her ask people their opinion of her new design. Pat's exhibitionist ways turned what I had hoped would be a fabulous night of fun into something rather uncomfortable for me. She was the only other black woman in attendance and now she had become the "show" for the evening. I suspect that Pat had done her homework and discovered that the easiest entrée into that world was simply becoming the night's exotic entertainment. By "that world" I mean the white, upper-crust, very wealthy one that few blacks ever got the chance to witness, much less enter. Performing for the crowd was Pat's hall pass through the front door, I suppose. It seemed to have unlocked many doors for her, but I guess my twenty-one-year-old mind just didn't fully understand or appreciate Pat's thought process that night. In the wake of the civil rights movement, I felt obligated to those who had fought and died for my right to be treated equally. There were so many who had marched and sacrificed their lives so that I could have a place in the mainstream world of fashion and even attend that party that night. Maybe Pat felt the same but just had a very odd way of showing it. Juggling the knowledge of this country's volatile racial past while navigating the hippie movement of the seventies would often put me at great odds not only with others in the industry, but with myself at times, too. Whereas the sixties demanded a certain amount of social responsibility, the seventies demanded the complete opposite. Halston's designs and Pat's unabashed nature defined an era known for both its luxury and excess, and they were two vices that became far too comfortable for far too many of us. There were other vices, too. Cocaine was Halston's drug of choice, and all of his dinners offered a large supply of it. The drug was presented in small salad bowls alongside tall glasses of champagne. As my relationship with Halston grew, I regularly observed him enjoying his daily intake of the three c's; caviar, champagne, and cocaine. We sometimes joked with each other that water simply had too many calories! It all seemed so fun and harmless back then. With Pat's heart finally out of view, I made my way through the throng of guests to the dining room. In the middle of the room there was a rather odd-looking Lucite block table that easily could have been confused with a large slab of Antarctic ice upon which Elsa Peretti-designed votive candles and Tiffany flatware had been placed. There was also a marble-topped cocktail table, numerous hassocks, and some people were even eating on the stairs. Halston's best-buddy-for-life Liza Minnelli always ate on the stairs, and that night there she was, in her favorite spot, laughing it up as she drank glass after glass of champagne. Waiters were beginning to serve the meal created by Halston's charming live-in assistant, Mohammed Soumaya, so I decided against joining Liza on the steps and instead cozied up to the Lucite table for a sampling of the meal du jour. And what a meal we dined on that night! Crudités for starters, followed by an entrée of blanquette de veau, and Halston's favorite, a baked potato topped with caviar. (Later, I would learn that though the entrée menu varied from party to party, that side dish rarely, if ever, changed.) As I began to eat, I briefly looked up and found myself staring at the most beautiful pair of violet-hued eyes I'd ever seen in my life. In fact, I'm quite sure I hadn't seen a pair of violet-colored irises ever until that night. Sitting across from me was the grand dame of all grand dames, Ms. Elizabeth Taylor, in all her legendary glory. I knew she and Halston were great pals and that he'd designed a number of her most beautiful gowns, but I'd never imagined for a moment that I would be in the same room with her. But there she was, looking exactly how I'd have imagined she would, and more. She was incandescently beautiful, with the most gorgeous porcelain skin and a head full of glossy dark-brown hair. I had to force myself not to stare. She said, "Hi," but all I could manage in return was, "I love your ring." That night she was wearing the famed Taylor-Burton diamond, given to her by her then estranged husband Richard Burton. I had followed every detail of their torrid love affair in the popular Hollywood gossip magazines, including the story of that ring. From what I'd read, Liz clearly lived her life unconcerned with how others felt about the decisions she made. I had tremendous respect for her for just that reason. I think she also lived by the motto that life was too short not to look amazing every day, so she never left home without dripping in millions of dollars' worth of bling. I had a tremendous amount of respect for that, too! Yes, Liz had other gems, stones, and diamonds, but none like the diamond she wore that night. The original rough diamond had been found in 1966 in the Premier Mine in South Africa and cut into a pear shape by jeweler Harry Winston. Burton had engaged in a fierce bidding war with shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis just to get his hands on that diamond, and he eventually purchased the 69.42-carat ring from Cartier for $1.1 million in 1969, making it the most expensive diamond in the world at the time. Now that's real love for you. As I gazed at that storied piece of jewelry, Liz Taylor said, "You like it, you wear it." Without missing a beat, she pulled the ring off her finger and threw it across the table. I caught it in midair and slipped it on my finger just to see how it would feel to wear something so rich with history and love. I won't lie. For a moment I fantasized that I was the owner of that amazing rock, waving it around for all to see as I explained that my newest BFF, Liz Taylor, had recently gifted it to me on a whim. My fantasy didn't last long. As I much as I loved the ring, I had an even stronger desire to get it back to Ms. Taylor as quickly as possible. Lord knows the last thing I needed in my life was to lose, or even run the risk of losing, Elizabeth Taylor's history-making, million-dollar ring. I could just see Liz Smith having the time of her life in her column the next morning were such a mishap to take place. But before I could hand it back, Ms. Taylor wandered off to chat with other people, though I'm quite sure she could see me out of the corner of her eye. Clearly the woman known for playing roles in films such as Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Cleopatra was having a good old time watching me sweat. I figured her throwing her huge diamond ring to some poor unsuspecting soul was one of her favorite party tricks, done just for laughs. After what seemed like forever, Liz came back to our large block of ice and motioned for me to come sit next to her, giving me the chance to finally return her ring. With all the stories about her historic Hollywood career and rocky personal life, I honestly didn't know what to expect as I made my way to sit by her side. What in the world would I talk about with this woman I'd watched all my life on the big screen? Or should I breathe a word at all? Thank goodness she was nothing like what I expected. She told me that Halston explained to her a while ago that I was the new and beautiful "It Girl" and now she wanted to know more about me. I may have been the It Girl of the moment, but she was the It Woman of all time as far as I was concerned! Why would she want to know more about me? As the dinner party began to wrap up and the beautiful people in attendance began making their pilgrimage to their next stop on the party train, with Halston leading the way, I decided to head in the opposite direction. I wasn't in the mood for Studio 54, which was no doubt where they were all headed. I needed to go home and prepare for my next day of work. I wasn't much of a club girl. I needed to get some rest so I'd be ready for my next close-up! I wouldn't get it hanging from the rafters at Studio 54. So I took my third cab of the day and headed home. Excerpted from The Face That Changed It All: A Memoir by Beverly Johnson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

In this entertaining memoir, supermodel Johnson tells of her rise to success-from her youthful work in a fashion store to juggling college and modeling and then on to taking the fashion world by storm. Johnson became the first black cover model of American Vogue 1974 then continued to model for decades. She also struggled with difficult marriages, drug addiction, financial exploitation, and custody arrangements for her daughter before finally reaching some measure of peace. Johnson details every part of her life, leaving nothing out, and the reward for readers is an intimate look at the world of modeling and the grit and glamour of the 1970s and '80s. She recalls Bill Cosby attempting to assault her, and reflects on how she had the strength to talk about it after other women came forward. While the memoir sometimes jumps in time, making it difficult to follow, the vignettes are clear. Johnson's memoir ends on a note of personal growth (that is, when Johnson decided to get clean and sober). While the writing is lackluster, fans of her career will find much here to interest them. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, in the 1950s and 1960s, Johnson never intended to be a high-fashion model. Those were serious times, and Johnson, a self-described nerd and honors student, had other things in mind. Yet everyone told the statuesque beauty that she had what it took to compete in the world of couture runways and advertising spreads, so with remarkable connections and phenomenal good luck, Johnson entered that rarefied atmosphere along with such icons as Lauren Hutton and Cheryl Tiegs. Being one of the few women of color at the time both helped and hurt Johnson's career, until she finally broke the ultimate barrier by becoming the first African American woman to land the coveted cover of Vogue magazine. While her professional life soared, however, her personal life plummeted, resulting in divorces and domestic violence, custody battles, and cocaine abuse. Filled with titillating tidbits from the commingled worlds of fashion, entertainment, and politics, Johnson's open and honest memoir reveals a woman of daring and determination.--Haggas, Carol Copyright 2015 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

A memoir from the model whom fashion designer Halston once called "the new beauty It Girl.' " In August 1974, Johnson (True Beauty: Secrets of Radiant Beauty for Women of Every Age and Color, 1994) transformed the fashion industry as the first African-American to appear on the cover of American Vogue. That appearance, she writes, "left an enduring mark on the country, its view of beauty, and the meaning of beauty for decades to come." However, as she notes, her life and career have been scarred by unwanted sexual advances that began at age 12 and that include a frightening 1986 incident with Bill Cosby (which the author has talked about publicly following other allegations against the comedian). Johnson's observation that modeling was "an industry that I would find to be overflowing with a toxic mix of deceit, manipulation, abuse, and backstabbing" is echoed in the details of her unstable personal life, which has been marked by a string of codependent relationships with leeching, unfaithful, or drug-dealing men who robbed her of her livelihood and self-respect, jeopardized her health, and nearly ruined her professional reputation. When she finally recognized that her life had become a battle of "self-loathing and self-destruction," she was able to start down the hard road toward redemption. Though she remains a sympathetic, candid narrator, Johnson recounts these doomed romances and other personal issues with repetitious lamentations, and she doesn't seem to have gleaned much wisdom from the experiences. She also litters the book with clichson one page, she uses "bright and early," "best and brightest," "nearest and dearest," and "crystal clear." These are not only distracting, but they hold readers at a distance and demonstrate the author's lack of real insight. Johnson remains a fashion pioneer, but her storytelling lacks the wit or polish necessary to make the book a success. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.