After Andy
Page 1
ALSO BY NATASHA FRASER-CAVASSONI
Sam Spiegel: The Incredible Life and Times of Hollywood’s Most Iconoclastic Producer, the Miracle Worker Who Went from Penniless Refugee to Show Biz Legend, and Made Possible The African Queen, On the Waterfront, The Bridge on the River Kwai, and Lawrence of Arabia
Tino Zervudachi: A Portfolio
Dior Glamour
Monsieur Dior: Once Upon a Time
Loulou de la Falaise
BiYan
Vogue on Yves Saint Laurent
Vogue on Calvin Klein
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Photography credits can be found here.
Blue Rider Press is a registered trademark and its colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fraser-Cavassoni, Natasha, author.
Title: After Andy : adventures in Warhol Land / Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni.
Description: New York : Blue Rider Press, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017012299 (print) | LCCN 2017013244 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399183553 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399183539 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Warhol, Andy, 1928–1987—Influence. | Fraser-Cavassoni, Natasha—Travel—New York (State)—New York. | Warhol, Andy, 1928–1987—Friends and associates. | Artists’ studios—New York (State)—New York. | Pop art—New York (State)—New York. | New York (N.Y.)—Intellectual life—20th century. | New York (N.Y.)—Social life and customs—20th century. | Socialites—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | British—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | Young women—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Artists, Architects, Photographers. | ART / History / Contemporary (1945– ).
Classification: LCC N6537.W28 (ebook) | LCC N6537.W28 F73 2017 (print) | DDC 700.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012299
p. cm.
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
Version_1
FOR REBECCA, FLORA, BENJIE, DAMIAN & ORLANDO
—
CONTENTS
Also by Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 01 | Andy’s Memorial
Chapter 02 | Early Years
Chapter 03 | Early Lessons in Style
Chapter 04 | Holiday Home
Chapter 05 | The Bells of St. Mary’s Ascot
Chapter 06 | When Harold Met Antonia
Chapter 07 | The Effect of Punk Rock on England
Chapter 08 | Early Euphoria Under Thatcher
Chapter 09 | A Whirl with Michael J
Chapter 10 | Discovering the Joys of a Monthly Paycheck
Chapter 11 | Leaving England
Chapter 12 | Andy Up Close
Chapter 13 | Frederick W. Hughes
Chapter 14 | Preppy Vincent—The Only One with the Warhol Enterprises Checkbook
Chapter 15 | Andy’s Sale at Sotheby’s
Chapter 16 | Andy’s Estate and Aftermath
Chapter 17 | Joining Andy Warhol’s Interview Magazine
Chapter 18 | Life with Talcy Malcy
Chapter 19 | The Publishing of Andy’s Diaries
Chapter 20 | Headed for Paris
Chapter 21 | Andy, Mick, and Yves
Chapter 22 | Getting the Keys to Karl’s Kingdom
Chapter 23 | The Chanel Studio
Chapter 24 | Chanel and Paris’s Social Swirl
Chapter 25 | The Reign of Frogchild
Chapter 26 | Warhol Land Continues to Haunt
Chapter 27 | Fashion’s New Guard
Chapter 28 | Andy’s Flower Paintings Leading to Louboutin’s Red Soles
Epilogue
Photographs
Acknowledgments
Notes
Selected Biography
Photo Credits
About the Author
01 Andy’s Memorial
When I moved to Manhattan, Andy Warhol’s memorial was my first New York society event. It took place on April 1, 1987. The New York Times’ Grace Glueck described the attendees as a “glittering” crowd and some of “the world’s most droppable” names in “art, fashion, society and entertainment.” In many ways, it was the perfect way to start my adventures in Warhol Land.
I knew most of the service’s details in advance because I was working at the Warhol Studio. Four days before Andy’s death on February 22, I’d been officially hired. After lunch, Fred Hughes, Andy’s business manager, had set my terms and salary—five hundred dollars per week—and then we met up with the artist, who’d just arrived from one of his shopping expeditions. It was about twelve hours before he checked into New York Hospital.
This made me the last employee to be hired under Andy. Or the last English Muffin, which was the term for well-born British women working in the place. It was a tradition that was put down to Fred’s love of Old Blighty and its customs. Still, the artist was not averse. Noticing that there’s an acceptance and even veneration of the different among the English. When meeting Andy for the first time in 1980, I had no idea that his white hair was a wig. Having been brought up around eccentricity, I thought Andy looked pretty straight and normal in his jacket and jeans, actually.
Sabrina Guinness, who never worked for Warhol but was part of his extended circle, senses that “Andy was surprised by the English girl’s confidence. The type who turned up in laddered tights, showed no fear, and chattered away,” she says. The social ease was of the utmost importance. “Andy liked beauties and talkers,” says Bob Colacello, who ran Warhol’s Interview magazine for twelve years. To focus on the latter, I have yet to meet a British woman who doesn’t have the gift of the gab. Or, taking it to extremes—my case—couldn’t talk the ear off a donkey. There was also the lively sense of the ridiculous. Again to quote Colacello: “You couldn’t be around Andy for any length of time unless you had a sort of camp sensibility and Oscar Wilde approach to life.”
My chat-up and charm-school skills made Fred think I was the perfect casting for Andy’s MTV program. Being self-effacing and energetic, I would be the ideal interviewer on-screen and foil to the enigmatic Pop artist. So imagine Fred’s irritation and fury when I pretended to be blasé about Andy’s memorial when the guest list was hopping—gasp!—with names like Richard Gere, Roy Lichtenstein, Calvin Klein, Yoko Ono, and Raquel Welch and actually sent me into a total tailspin. Fortunately, such behavior came to a grinding halt when Fred asked what I was going to wear. “Oh, I really don’t know,” I said. A major case of Pinocchio because as soon as I heard about the event I knew it would be my Max Mara wool skirt suit and Manolo Blahnik suede pumps that I’d worn to my father’s funeral in 1984. And I can still picture Fred turning to me, dapper as ever in h
is dark charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and yellow-and-orange stripy tie with gold tiepin, and saying, “This doesn’t happen every day, Natasha.” Andy’s memorial was huge for Fred, and he expected enthusiasm. The artist’s death must have devastated Fred, just as it had everyone else. Vincent Fremont, vice president of Andy Warhol Enterprises, compared hearing the news to “being punched in the stomach and thrown out the window.” However, the Texan-born Fred was too stoic to voice such feelings. “He behaved like Jackie Kennedy did when her husband was assassinated,” recalls Peter Frankfurt, who knew Andy from childhood. “He was determined to keep it all together.”
Keeping it together meant focusing on appearance. Fred also reveled in women making an effort and was slightly miffed if they didn’t. One of his favorite quotes about dressing up came from Loulou de la Falaise, designer Yves Saint Laurent’s fabled muse, who once admitted, “Whenever I hear that someone has died, I always think, ‘What am I going to wear to the funeral?’”
Initially, there was a plan that Zara Metcalfe, my flatmate, and all the other Manhattan-based smart Brits, like Vanity Fair’s Sarah Giles, Tatler’s Isabella Delves Broughton, and Miranda Guinness, who worked for Mick Jagger, would go in together. That idea didn’t pan out. It was just as well, because I was much more interested in standing outside and people-watching. Even then, I sensed that we would be witnessing history. Andy’s memorial service was the Big Apple’s equivalent of a royal event like the Queen’s Jubilee or Charles and Diana’s wedding. There was also the fact that, like Andy, I loved celebrities. Bob Colacello reckons that being “the kid from the wrong side of the tracks from Pittsburgh” made Andy impressed with famous people. Not quite my case. I wasn’t so much a groupie craving a mosh pit as I was someone who wanted to stand and stare from a distance. Andy’s first autograph was Shirley Temple’s. Mine was George Savalas’s—Kojak’s younger brother. Never has a B TV star been more thrilled to be spotted on the Fulham Road. The situation had then dramatically improved when my mother, the bestselling historian Antonia Fraser, went off with the playwright Harold Pinter. And suddenly I had Edward Fox, Steve McQueen, and Jack Nicholson in my collection of autographs.
Although the morning of Andy’s service was crisp and springlike, the limousines lined up outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral looked dark, foreboding, and vaguely out of place, suggesting a night at Nell’s or another nightclub. Guests emerged from their cars in front of the neo-Gothic architecture and two soaring steeples on Fifth Avenue, and passed the crowd gathered on the pavement. Along with the public, and the policemen monitoring the events, I hovered and watched.
Wearing large insectlike sunglasses, Yoko Ono appeared in a black pantsuit with a preppy-looking escort who I discovered was Sam Havadtoy, her boyfriend. Nick Love, an actor pal from Los Angeles, then appeared with Fred. John Warhola, one of Andy’s brothers, made his entrance. With his hat, he reminded me of a racing bookie. And then there was a flood of celebrities.
Calvin Klein, wearing a loud pinstripe suit, resembled his Interview cover even if he was senator-handsome. His appearance was all-American, and Kelly, his wife, was slim and coltish. They were the fashion power couple.
Liza Minnelli arrived on the arms of Mark Gero, her younger sculptor boyfriend, and Halston. As she was Hollywood royalty and instantly recognizable, the crowd was more excited by her than the Kleins. I’d already met Halston. That day, he was a wearing a suit, tie, and red scarf with the requisite large sunglasses. Albeit film star–like, the fashion designer looked better casual. On various occasions, he’d come into the Warhol Studio wearing gray slacks and a pale-colored cashmere sweater with another one wrapped around his neck. There was also the hair, the height, and the walk. The fifty-four-year-old’s brief appearances lingered for hours afterward. Graceful, he gave an impression that his body was both fluid and faultless. When I answered the telephone, there was a bit of a ridiculous English accent. “Is Mr. Hughes there?” he’d say. If it was a tease, I held back from tittering. Halston never hid his impatience, and ultimately had a regard that withered.
No question, Raquel Welch was the most famous celebrity in the group. Sporting cropped, spiky hair, she arrived in a fur coat and seamlessly posed in teetering high heels. Beautiful and vivacious as she was, her height was a surprise. Raquel Squelch (my nickname for her because of her generous cleavage) was a pocket Venus! It made no difference to the crowds. They were delighted. Not to be outdone, Grace Jones, wearing leather and wool—I presume Azzedine Alaïa—gave a sort of mini press conference on the cathedral’s steps. Meanwhile, the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe walked past. Good-looking, he had a peachy bloom and possessed a major mane of hair. There was also a sense of purpose in his stride.
Richard Gere rushed in with his Brazilian girlfriend, Sylvia Martins. The Hollywood heartthrob was wearing jeans. Almost on cue, Bianca Jagger arrived very late, with Italian film producer Franco Rossellini. Not a morning person, she still looked fetching in a black felt hat, large gold bauble necklace and chunky bracelets, long black trench, and flat shoes. Then singer Debbie Harry and fashion designer Stephen Sprouse appeared. Although she was sensual—a case of messy blond hair and Slavic cheekbones—the punkish-looking Sprouse had his eyes cast down and was smoking. Unmade bed in attitude, Harry and Sprouse personified cool. In fact, out of all the looks that I viewed that day, they and Fred Hughes defined the term timeless.
One person who summed up the 1980s was Isabella “Issy” Delves Broughton, who later morphed into Isabella Blow, the outrageous Philip Treacy hat–wearing fashion icon. Her outfit consisted of a boxy skirt suit with vast gold buttons and a hornets’ nest of a hat made of net and black-lacquered straw.
Issy captivated Andy. Like him, she got the big picture and had a truffle nose for people who counted. She also intrigued the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, who hung out at her desk when she had worked at Vogue. On initial contact, she seemed like the naughty little cherub who would tug at God’s beard. Nothing then seemed sacred to Issy.
A cousin of mine by marriage, she spoke briefly with me before the service. Her suit was Valentino, the very expensive Italian couturier. Surprising, until Issy then revealed that her £50,000 trust fund had been blown on designer clothes. A detail that Andy would have appreciated, even if it was mildly exaggerated. That morning, when putting on her sinister square sunglasses and applying yet more garish red lipstick, she became pure Fellini, bringing to mind his films from the 1970s.
Andy’s service had been strangely moving. I write “strangely” because I discovered facets of his personality that I hadn’t been aware of. Going through the program, I read the tribute by the Reverend C. Hugh Hildesley, the pastor of the Church of the Heavenly Rest, who described Andy serving food to the homeless at the church at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. I knew Andy was Catholic. It was an element of our childhoods that we had in common. However, I hadn’t realized what a believer he was. Most Catholic people I knew were lapsed.
On the altar banked with tulips and forsythia, the Reverend Anthony Dalla Villa eulogized Andy as “a simple, humble, modest person, a child of God who in his own life cherished others.” I wondered about this. Andy was reputed for using others. Like everyone, I had gobbled up Edie: American Girl, the biography of Edie Sedgwick, written by Jean Stein and edited by George Plimpton. The book showed Andy in a fairly poor light, except that, if you read between the lines, it was obvious that Edie was a complete addict. Whether in a heightened anorexic state or flying high on heroin, she had her finger on the autodestruct button.
John Richardson addressed this side of Andy in his eulogy. Now known for being Picasso’s biographer, Richardson was then revered as an establishment figure—an erudite art historian, exhibition curator, and critic who didn’t mind Warhol photographing him wearing full leather “cruising” regalia. In Richardson’s opinion, the “hangers-on” at the Factory in the 1960s were “hell-bent on destroying themselves” and Andy was “
not to blame. . . . He was not cut out to be his brother’s keeper,” said Richardson, because that would have destroyed Andy’s detachment, which was “his special gift.” However, Richardson felt that Andy had “fooled the world into believing that his only obsessions were money, fame, and glamor and that he was cool to the point of callousness.” In fact, Richardson viewed him as more of a “recording angel” and thought that the “distance he established between the world and himself was above all a matter of innocence and of art.”
In her eulogy, Yoko Ono, the widow of John Lennon, noted Andy’s kindness toward her son when his father was assassinated. She viewed him as “a mentor to Sean.” When Ono said that, I looked around the room and wondered where Jade Jagger was. Andy had been important to her. Then again, her parents were alive.
Afterward, Nick Love read from Andy’s writings. They captured the artist’s self-effacement. “A lot of people thought that it was me everyone at the Factory was hanging around, that I was some kind of big attraction that everyone came to see, but that’s absolutely backward,” he wrote in POPism. “It was me who was hanging around everyone else. I just paid the rent, and the crowds came simply because the door was open.” This caused a ripple of laughter. As did Andy’s sentiment about death. “I do like the idea of people turning into sand,” he wrote in The Philosophy of Andy Warhol. “And it would be very glamorous to be reincarnated as a great big ring on Elizabeth Taylor’s finger.”
To the sound of Ravel—piano music that had been chosen by Fred—we poured out of the cathedral. There was a brilliant blue sky, and I remember seeing the likes of fashion designer Diane von Furstenberg, who was with Alain Elkann, her Italian writer boyfriend; São Schlumberger, the Paris-based art patron, accompanied by Bob Colacello; Lynn Wyatt, the lively Texas socialite, with Jerry Zipkin, Nancy Reagan’s favorite walker. Andy had done portraits of Furstenberg, Schlumberger, and Wyatt.
En route to the memorial luncheon, Issy Delves Broughton grabbed me. “Come with us,” she said, hailing down a taxi. “Us” was the actor John Stockwell, who was an Andy intimate. An odd coincidence, but when I first met Andy in 1980, he had teased me about how I should step out with Beauty Samuels (Stockwell’s occasional nickname and original surname). I briefly mused on this as the recently separated Issy batted her spiderlike lashes and chirped away at Stockwell, who took it in his stride. When we arrived at Billy Rose’s Diamond Horseshoe (aka the Paramount Hotel), however, and Issy started doing her favorite party trick—flashing her tits—Stockwell looked briefly surprised. Having flown in from London, Issy was up for fun and games. And showing her ample pair was part of that.