An American Jew growing up in Europe with French as my first language, I was unmoored from any sense of belonging. My parents left Hollywood when I was three; my father found success as a producer in London, I went into magazines — we were both hypnotized by ideas of beauty and success. Throughout a life of international glamour, I kept looking for moral codes by which to live: the Gates of Repentance on one hand and French 19th century rules on the other. I edited Paris Vogue but the price of illusion came due when I was sent to rehab for a drug problem I didn’t have. Then again, when American Vogue sent me to interview the first lady of Syria before her husband began to murder his people, I was made a scapegoat for having completed the assignment. The grasshopper had to become Job before I could find myself.
The Price of Illusion
- From the Publisher
May 16, 2017
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