My Best Friend Is a Celebrity Make-up Artist. We Switched Jobs for a Day.

Lady Gaga’s former make-up artist takes over SOS, while I ruin her face.

I can’t tell you how many times over the past twelve years we’d been in the same room together, yet never formally met. From sold-out arenas to various bars on the Lower East Side, I have basked in the glow of this petite beauty’s infectious energy, but every time one of our many mutual friends has offered to introduce us, I have immediately bent over backwards to spider-walk away like Regan in The Exorcist.

Let me tell you why: Tara Savelo is the make-up artist behind some of Lady Gaga’s most-iconic looks. From world tours like “The Monster Ball,” “The Born This Way Ball,” and “artRAVE: The ARTPOP Ball,” to television performances, interviews, album covers, films, and street looks, and countless photoshoots. Tara’s work has been featured on the cover of Harper's Bazaar, Elle, V Magazine, I-D, and in the Louvre in collaboration with photographer Robert Wilson. Her looks have been replicated all over the world, from Madame Tussauds to umpteen YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok make-up tutorials.

THIS IS WHY I HAVE PANICKED. Until recently, my resume has just been a picture of me screaming into an old jug!

My relationship with Tara went from fan to friend only last year, when our mutual bestie, Breedlove, connected us. To no one’s surprise, we felt like we had known each other forever, and we instantly bonded over our shared struggles with chronic illness, pain, and almost identical senses of humor. We’ve remained inseparable since, becoming creative partners and working together on a slew of projects, one of which we’re excited to announce today.

We thought a fun way to introduce ourselves as a duo would be to switch jobs for a day, so it is my honor to host Tara’s words in this newsletter, which you can read below. I was blown away by her honest and heartfelt writing, and I know you will be, too.

***

Last week, during the Queen’s funeral procession, the BBC aired these photos from December 2009, a week that changed my life.

A week before that now-iconic performance was taped, I was in my old stomping grounds: Boston. On one blustery December morning, I opened a fresh pack of yellow American Spirits and lit up while I checked my Blackberry for news from my Aunt Barbie. Barbie worked downtown and was walking over on her lunch break to meet me at my hotel, the Mandarin Oriental (the nicest hotel in town). This was a big moment for our family. For me. It had been about a week since I was hired on as Lady Gaga’s make-up artist, and we were on tour, getting ready to play a sold-out show in my hometown that night.

I knew a shift was imminent, and it wasn’t merely the chilly weather cooling my cheeks. What I didn’t know was that this intoxicating feeling was only a glimpse of what was yet to come.

***

I had been working in some capacity since I was nine years old. From babysitter to nanny, assistant to teacher, telemarketer to jewelry salesperson, I had always had a job—but never a career. These were all jobs I wasn’t necessarily qualified for, by the way, at least not in the traditional sense.

I was born into the arms of the self-proclaimed “Church” of Scientology. Many of you have undoubtedly heard of this organization—this cult—so I won’t go into detail about it right now, but, it was because I had friends and family within this nefarious community that I was able to get a number of these aforementioned jobs.

The process for getting hired was quite simple: They looked at what Scientology services you had completed. You took a series of “tests,” which I always did well on, rating higher than most. While I didn’t love working for Scientologists, it was often my last resort—this insulated cycle continued, no matter my location.

But I awoke early one morning in 2007 feeling different, almost like a spell had been broken.

My boyfriend had died in a car accident the year prior, and my whole world had imploded. I don’t know if it came to me in a dream, or something of that sort, but I went to sleep feeling hopeless, and awoke with a sense of purpose. I wanted to become a make-up artist—whatever that entailed.

***

Later that night in Boston, Gaga performed to a sold-out theater. After my visit with Barbie, I was summoned to Gaga’s hotel room for glam.

I discovered upon arrival that she would be doing a shoot for the Los Angeles Times, and my anxiety morphed quickly into full-on panic sweats. I worked through nerves that threatened to shake the brushes right out of my hands. After I finished the look, I packed up my things. Her management approached me to inform me that I was now invited on their upcoming trip to London. I had done a good job, and even better, she was happy with my work!

It was then that I thought maybe I could do this.

Just as Gaga screamed onstage every night to a sold-out crowd, “The Monster Ball will set you free!,” something inside me screamed to be released.

***

When I turned seventeen, I packed up my car and drove to Los Angeles. I told my friends and family that this was purely to pursue my dreams of working in Hollywood, but in truth, it was two-fold. I had recently joined Scientology’s version of a clergy, the Sea Organization, but had ultimately resigned, which had left me ostracized and alienated from my community. I felt like I was drowning, and my only option was to start over somewhere else. With the help of my mother, I was able to afford beauty school, and within time, eventually completed my program.

Suddenly, I had a path. I had goals. I had artistic skills that were monetizable. At long last, I could be hired on my merits—my talents—and not based on how many “church” services I had attended.

Finally, I could just be Tara. I could just be me.

In October 2008, I was hired to assist with the make-up for the “Bad Romance” music video. I didn’t know that this song I was hearing for the first time would, in a few months, become my sound cue to return to the dressing room for touch-ups backstage. To this day, hearing the “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh” at the beginning of “Bad Romance” still makes the corners of my mouth turn up, and my heart skip a beat.

I couldn’t have imagined, back in June 2008, backstage at a runway show, that the following year, this woman at my table would not only become my client, but a close friend, someone who would come to not only embrace my creativity and propensity for weirdness, but celebrate it—and encourage it.

***

When I was in middle school, I wrote a story in creative writing, which was my favorite class. I loved to write. We weren’t given any specific guidelines other than to just write a short story about whatever we wanted. I wrote a story about aliens attacking and killing everyone. I liked my story. I knew it was dark, but I thought it was interesting and well-written. I had put thought into it.

Someone snatched my story from my hands, as mean kids at that age are wont to do, and started to read it aloud. The other kids made fun of me, and thought I was a weirdo. I can still see my story crumpled up in my little fist, hidden under my desk. I was embarrassed that something I had created only resulted in people thinking I was weird.

This memory stands out to me because this random story I had written in middle school represented a huge part of my creativity that I was unable to access for years. My story was filed under “too weird for public sharing,” but was filled to the brim with primo content. I wasn’t around the right people, the right creatives, and didn’t have the right outlets for my expression, so I kept all of my thoughts, stories, and other projects safely filed away, and began instead creating only “safe” and “happy” for the classroom. On the inside, I felt all kinds of different things, but I couldn’t express them because I kept them in secret folders.

I was always this way—creative—but my capacity for imagining what I could accomplish and create had drastically changed over the years I spent working with Gaga. After I was hired as her make-up artist, I was suddenly thrust into a world of magic and endless possibility. “Unsafe” creative visions were supported, had merit. This was difficult for me at first. My instincts were to fight against it and make everything beautiful, comfortable, safe.

During the Monster Ball, slowly but surely, the part of my creativity that I had kept locked inside for so long loosened, and was eventually unleashed.

***

The Monster Ball had two different versions: the theater tour, and then later, the arena tour, which we lovingly called “Monster Ball 2.0.” My favorite part of the revamped show was during Act II, when Gaga would emerge from the subway car to perform “LoveGame” in a latex, almost nun-inspired outfit. The energy of the crowd would rise to a chaotic level, all the bodies in the room dancing and jumping in unison. Her words and primal screams dislodged any shred of inhibition you had left in you, and the bass pounded through us from head-to-toe, making the whole building reverberate.

The excitement was palpable.

The male dancers would circle the end of the runway, fans’ fingertips outstretched to graze theirs as they humped the air while Mother Monster slowly and rhythmically said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I have a pretty tremendous dick.” The crowd’s frenzy would intensify. Parents and elders in the audience would flush with embarrassment while subconsciously bouncing on the tips of their toes to the ratcheting beat. “So come on, get your dicks out! Because I’ve heard they have some pretty big cocks here in”—and then the screaming would drown the arena when she said the name of the city we were playing that night. “Welcome to the Monster Ball,” she would say, before taking a beat. And then: “Now dance, you motherfuckers!” The beat would drop, and everyone would completely lose their shit.

Every night, I stopped whatever I was doing to experience that moment. I would squeeze my way through the pulsing crowd, then still anonymous, and once I wedged myself in between a bunch of sweaty bodies, I would wait for the wave of energy and elation to carry me away. Every night, the Monster Ball washed away a layer of my past, and unearthed the confidence that was waiting inside me to be set free.

Night after night, I watched her perform “Dance in the Dark,” and waited anxiously for “Glitter and Grease,” the next song, where she would take her sunglasses off, revealing her full beat.

Each time I saw my work displayed on the big screens across the arena felt like the first time. Some nights I winced in disappointment for not being as precise as I thought I could have been. I learned from those nights, so that I could be a better artist the next time. I learned surprising things about myself after every moment of challenge and panic; I learned that I am capable of so much more than I ever imagined. It was absolutely terrifying and completely invigorating all at once.

During her moments performing at the piano, it felt like her words were meant for just me, even though I knew she was speaking to everyone in the audience. It all felt relevant to me. I cried more nights than I can count.

***

I don’t know if I believe in fate, or any sort of divine path. I used to be the kind of person who said everything happens for a reason. I don’t know if I believe that—or ever truly did. What I do know for sure is that life plays pranks on us. It intertwines us inextricably, like the roots of an old tree, in ways that often take years for us to see.

My views of what was possible changed. Almost nothing became impossible. It was like I had been holding my breath for a very long time, and I could finally breathe. During that tour, I found my courage. I found my creativity. I found out who Tara really is. It turns out, Tara is not a cult member.

I’m a free bitch, baby.

***

Tara’s Tips for Getting Papped

1. Always be chewing gum. (Really adds a “devil may care” vibe to your look. When in doubt, blow a bubble.)

2. Candy and lollipops make great props. “Sorry, can’t chat, my mouth is full!”

3. Wear super high heels. I wouldn’t recommend wearing them if you’re walking on cobblestones, unless you have a very loyal friend who is willing to be your human cane. But if you can resist twisting and breaking an ankle (which I have also done and wouldn’t recommend), you will tower over people and feel strangely powerful.

4. Wear large hats, preferably huge stabby ones that will poke an eye out of all those who dare come close to you. That’ll show ‘em.

5. Sunglasses, sunglasses, and more sunglasses. Haven’t you heard? Cameras can steal your soul!

6. Lastly, have fabulous friends.

Xoxo,

Tara

***

And now, hit Play to watch our first YouTube video together, in which I attempt to re-create one of Tara’s signature looks for Mother Monster—the operative word here being “attempt.” Enjoy, and don’t forget to—as the proverb goes—follow, like, and subscribe!

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Credits

Cover art by: James Jeffers

Photo credits: Carolyn Cole, Nick Knight, Josh Olins, and Terry Richardson

Editorial assistant: Jesse Adele

You can follow my other unhinged missives by following me on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. My debut memoir, Born to Be Public, is out now.