After Andy

by Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni

  “Andy had to die to have a show at MoMA,” comments Fremont. True, yet it became an Andy event without the distraction of Andy. Viewed as “a blockbuster” by The New York Times’ Michael Brenson—it had three hundred works spread over two floors as well as an accompanying program of Warhol films—he described it as “the most ambitious solo show at the Modern since the Picasso retrospective in 1980.”

  A considerable success—“even if they put the Disaster paintings in the basement,” notes Gagosian—it encouraged discussions for a Warhol museum in Pittsburgh, the artist’s birthplace. In his will, Andy made no mention of such an establishment. “It came from Robert Becker, a former Interview editor who came from Pittsburgh,” says Fremont. “He was contacted and then contacted Fred.” The city of Manhattan wasn’t interested.

  “There were three partners,” says Fremont. “The Carnegie bought the building and the artwork was provided by the Dia Art Foundation and the Warhol Foundation.” Concerning the artist’s personal inventory, an art advisory team decided on the selection of paintings. “The quality had to be exceptional for the museum,” Fremont states. It would open in spring 1994.

  Naturally, Bruno Bischofberger continued to organize shows in his Zurich and St. Moritz galleries. However, the role of Leo Castelli was totally eclipsed by Larry Gagosian. Everyone loved Leo. Few weren’t charmed by the handsome Mitteleuropean powerhouse who played a key role in shaping American art and fostering international acceptance of Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Roy Lichtenstein, and Frank Stella. Yet almost everyone agrees that Leo did not love Andy’s work. Johns was more his aesthetic. Castelli’s lack of understanding was demonstrated by the incident, fabled in the art world, when he dared to show Warhol’s Dollar Signs and Knives in the basement. Still, it takes Brant to point out it was a group show celebrating Castelli’s twenty-five years in the New York art world. “Andy had a Mona Lisa upstairs next to one of Rauschenberg’s eagle paintings,” he says.

  Nevertheless, Gagosian swooped in, or was “banging on the door,” to quote Fremont. His first show was Warhol’s Most Wanted Men, in 1988. “I couldn’t afford the catalogue but I sold the work,” he says. Soon his galleries began to exhibit all of Warhol’s later work, such as the abstract Shadows, Rorschachs (inkblots), Camouflage, as well as Dollar Signs and Ladies and Gentlemen (drag queens). “Larry was essentially doing shows of unpopular Warhol work that nobody wanted,” recalls art expert Abigail Asher. Gagosian, however, viewed it differently. “I was doing shows of overlooked work,” he says. “They were not always well considered but nor were they properly dealt with. I showed the paintings with conviction and gave them a dignity. Andy was the biggest name in the art world and I believed in them.”

  Some argue that Gagosian’s charisma and growing reputation as an art dealer did change the Warhol marketplace. Excellent as MoMA had been, seventy-five percent of the exhibition had been 1960s Pop art. Gagosian’s continuous shows, however, began a reevaluation of Warhol’s later work.

  Peter Brant, on the other hand, holds Fremont as most responsible for improving the Warhol market “because he approached it in a scholarly way. Vincent developed a constituency, he approached entrepreneurial people, made the catalogues, and spread the religion across the world.” A few exhibitions linked to Fremont include Andy Warhol Drawings (Anthony d’Offay, London, 1988); Heaven & Hell Are Just One Breath Away (Gagosian Gallery, New York, 1992); Andy Warhol: Portraits (Museum of Contemporary Art Australia, Sydney, 1994); Gems and Skyscrapers and Stitched Photographs (Galerie Bruno Bischofberger, Zurich, 2001, 2002); and Public Faces, Private Lives (Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, Paris, 2002).

  “I’d agree that Andy’s performance detracted from the painting,” says Irving Blum, the legendary art figure. “But now what’s left is the work. And it looks better and better with time.” In 1996, Blum’s Campbell’s Soup Can paintings—exhibited at his Ferus Gallery in 1962—were acquired by MoMA for $15 million in a partial sale, partial gift arrangement. An exceptional arrangement, given that Blum had bought them from Warhol for $1,000.

  Alas, this was not to happen to Fred Hughes. Unlike other collectors who were holding on to their Warhols in the early ’90s—1992 was a slump year for contemporary art—Fred decided to sell ten of his paintings in May 1993. “I need the money,” he told Carol Vogel from The New York Times. Being seriously stricken with multiple sclerosis and lacking medical insurance, he clearly did. However, the sale was rife with problems. “It was not a good market,” says Brant. Warhol’s prices were on a roller-coaster ride. In 1989, the record price for a Warhol was set when a Shot Red Marilyn, a forty-inch-square painting from 1964, went for $4.07 million. Otherwise Warhol prices were taking a beating, unless the work was viewed as extraordinary; the 210 Coca-Cola Bottles from 1962 sold for $1.4 million at Sotheby’s. According to Brant, the quality was mixed. “Some of those pictures were not meant to see the light of day,” he says. But Fred was desperate. His MS had also affected his eyesight. “He was no longer able to authenticate Warhols,” recalls Fremont.

  Before Sotheby’s, some of the paintings had been shown at Bruno Bischofberger’s gallery in Zurich. Fred would not let them be sold. “I had people who were interested,” Bischofberger recalls. “But Fred said, ‘You don’t give me enough money.’”

  Thomas Ammann and Larry Gagosian had tried to buy all the paintings privately from Fred. “We made him a big cash offer,” says Gagosian. The selection included a Double Elvis from 1963, a Telephone from 1961, and a Princess Diana from 1982. “But Fred refused,” says Gagosian. “He believed Dede Brooks [the head of Sotheby’s], who said that the prices would go through the roof, and of course they didn’t.”

  Out of the ten paintings offered, only two found buyers—a Telephone and a Princess Diana—and both reached less than their estimate. “The prices were too expensive,” says Bischofberger. “It was very bad for the Warhol market.” All in all, it had been a disastrous night for contemporary art at Sotheby’s. Only forty works out of seventy-seven had sold. The next night at Christie’s, all eyes were on the four Warhols and none of them went. Two weeks later, Carol Vogel referred to “a domino effect in the entire Warhol market. They brought to the forefront lingering questions about how many great Warhols actually exist,” she wrote, “forcing dealers and collectors to reassess their holdings.” Fremont recalled that the auction disaster did make Warhol collectors nervous. “But no one reacted.” To have further flooded the market would have defined foolish. “It was a dreadful error that should have never happened,” Irving Blum commented to Vogel at The New York Times. The poor sales also affected the value of the artist’s estate, which was the focus of an extremely bitter lawsuit.

  Ed Hayes, the lawyer for the Warhol estate, was suing the Warhol Foundation, contending that he was owed two percent of what he estimated the artist’s estate to be worth. Hayes put the estate at $600 million, whereas the foundation came up with $120 million. Hayes’s claim gave a bout of negative publicity to the Warhol market. More problems would continue between him and the foundation.

  Meanwhile, Fred was managing to battle with both Hayes and Archibald Gillies, who took over as head of the Warhol Foundation in 1990. Gillies—a man Fred appointed and then ultimately loathed. Fortunately, it would come to a cease-fire between Fred and the foundation in July 1993, when Christie’s estimated that the estate’s value was $220 million, and he was awarded a $5.2 million fee for his services. Reached on vacation in Venice by The New York Times, Fred was happy the matter had been settled. “On the subject of Mr. Hayes, the less I say the better,” he had concluded.

  17 Joining Andy Warhol’s Interview Magazine

  Once Shelley Wanger’s appointment as Interview’s editor in chief was announced, I began to plot and plan to get over there. It was my belated New Year’s resolution for 1988. Although I had fooled around on camera for director Don Monroe—Fred was keen that I end up with a presentable TV screen test—writ
ing was my new goal.

  I wasn’t quite as bad as Richard Harris, who’d disguised himself as a waiter when trying to be recast as King Arthur in Camelot. Desperate to capture the attention of the musical’s director, Michael Rudman, Harris arrived singing and serving. Then again, I was pretty shameless with Shelley: dropping my mother’s name and Harold’s too. Had my five siblings been present, they would have been horrified. Naturally, I harped on about how much my mother had “loved” writing for Shelley at H&G magazine. But after the third time of mentioning this, even I felt mildly embarrassed.

  Shelley was elegant, poised, and cool. Others might have been stopped in their tracks by her immaculate Agnès B. uniform of blouse, cardigan, and short pleated skirt, and by her general allure. Not me, because I was convinced that working for her would change my life. It did actually! But like a gun dog, I pointed myself in her direction whenever I could. It didn’t matter if it was a social event like a lunch at Kenny Jay Lane’s, where we were surrounded by Park Avenue princesses looking flawless in their gray flannel getups; I would barrel in and sell myself. Shelley didn’t mind my pushiness. As the daughter of film producer Walter Wanger, she was familiar with the “I can sing and I can dance” routine. I also made her laugh—Shelley is known for her sense of humor. Finally, she felt familiar. I was reminded of my parents’ friends, elegant literary types who were au courant and well connected but wore it lightly. They instinctively knew how to play intense at a dinner party and be frivolous too. A subtle art that I certainly lacked. That said, after my fifth or even seventh time of asking to move over to her side, Shelley agreed and took me on board.

  Fred was positive about the move, as was Vincent. Brigid, on the other hand, stuck her nose in the air. I didn’t really care about her reaction. Brigid represented the past, I ruthlessly decided.

  Nevertheless, joining Interview was a shock. At the Warhol Studio, I had been one of the office pets who sort of did what I wanted. Occasionally, an exasperated Vincent would say, “Natasha, what exactly do you do?” Then a Warhol dealer like Hans Mayer might arrive and save me—I excelled at welcoming and offering tea, coffee, or soft drinks!—or there would be a mini drama like the sudden appearance of Jerry Hall. Yikes. She came to be filmed for the final segment of Andy’s show. I hadn’t been warned. And, to the huge amusement of Vincent and Fred, I disappeared and powdered my nose for over two hours. There was also my very own version of Disney’s “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” when I attempted to change the water cooler outside the dining room. Unaware of the weight, the tank fell from my hands, cracked, and suddenly Fred was greeted with a river of water during a business meeting with Japanese clients. “Fraser,” he yelled. “Is that you?” He actually laughed. Whatever the circumstances, it tended to be active at the studio.

  Not that it was dull at Interview. However, under Shelley’s reign, it became ordered and controlled. Before joining Condé Nast’s H&G magazine, she had earned her stripes at The New York Review of Books, where she assisted Barbara Epstein and Bob Silvers, renowned for their exacting standards. Such an attitude was certainly new for Interview, which, to quote Bob Colacello, had prided itself on its “Yes, we’re deeply superficial” stance and way of being “serious but so undone.” During Gael Love’s reign at Interview, I’d seen her and Marc Balet, her art director, going over the proofs of an issue. Essentially, they were correcting pages, but it didn’t stop either of them from eating chocolate-covered Häagen-Dazs ice creams as they did so. A splat of ice cream or chocolate and the page would have been ruined.

  Such behavior would have shocked Shelley to the core. She was admired for her conscientious ways, and certain writers were so in awe of her they nicknamed themselves “Wanger’s Rangers.” No demand was too much, and since Shelley worked grueling hours, everyone followed suit. Sometimes her art director, Angelo Savaides, took it a little far. For his first issue, he actually slept in the office. Still, Shelley’s work ethic was steely and strong. Since Interview was a small magazine, it was family-like. On the upside, there was coziness, a united front and sense of belonging. On the downside, there was role-playing and dynamics: winning Shelley’s attention versus losing it. Occasionally, it was high school–like, but that didn’t stop me from joining in. Jeffrey Slonim was a quiet riot to fool around with. He was convinced that, because of her thick reading glasses, Shelley was really a spy. “Spy for who, Jeffrey?” I would say, but he was off imagining her in cloak and guise. Meanwhile, I had a powerful fast track via the Lady Cosima Vane-Tempest-Stewart, a post-Andy English Muffin hired by Fred, who had become Shelley’s assistant.

  I began working for Kevin Sessums, one of the magazine’s top interviewers. Just as Shelley became a professional mentor, so did Kevin, although he managed to double as a life coach. Andy also had a weakness for the “Mississippi Sissy”—Kevin’s self-invented nickname and the title of his first autobiography. A former actor, he became a downtown Errol Flynn–style heartthrob when appearing nude in Equus. He had also worked in Paramount’s press department, where, true to form, he dared to tell Eddie Murphy, the studio’s box-office superstar, not to wear outfits showing his chest hair.

  An “in ya face” outsider, Kevin was the first militant gay I ever met. Refusing to sport the then preppy uniform of most gays, he wore snug T-shirts, tight jeans, and biker boots. Since he had a well-toned body and a lovely shaved head à la Yul Brynner, he got away with it. There was also the wit. I remember asking if John Travolta was gay. “I don’t know about him, honey, but his boyfriend is,” Kevin said. True, Shelley hired me. However, Kevin was the first person to edit my copy and give confidence. He was also the first person to talk about gay rights, the need for the right to marry, and the Reagan administration’s cowardly attitude toward AIDS.

  Fun was to be had via staff meetings. We would all squeeze into Shelley’s teeny office and suggest title headings. Much as I enjoyed the sessions, a lot of gossip was shared and the behavior could turn quite raucous. My contributions frequently missed. I was reminded of playing Scrabble during my childhood. The only time I scored was regarding an interview with Gore Vidal. I piped up with “the chore of being Gore” and it actually made the magazine.

  As a consequence of the small staff and lack of funds, I was allowed to interview and write about young, upcoming stars like Julie Delpy, Christian Slater, and Patricia Arquette, who appeared in the front pages of the magazine. Despite the shortness of prose (read: extended caption), I took my research extremely seriously. Alas, this was absolutely the wrong technique. It led to long, overcomplicated questions on my part and a stunned silence or even “Huh?” from Patricia Arquette. Fortunately, the stunning photographs by Paul Jasmin and others made up for my occasionally dotty copy.

  With so much new added seriousness in the magazine—for example, Germaine Greer interviewing Federico Fellini—Shelley decided some froth was needed. Both she and Mark Jacobson, the features editor, noticed that I was never off the telephone and was always off to a madcap cocktail party for an eccentric WASP or on my way to Nell’s for dinner or to stay with the film director Michael Austin at his house in Shelter Island, where a weekend party might consist of the actor Ian McKellen and the writer James Fox. With that in mind, I was given a monthly social column. Called “Anglofile,” it began in format as a personalized letter to my mother—the embarrassment, and naturally “Dear Mum” was delighted—but then, after six months, became a standard roundup of events.

  At first, I was thrilled. Styled by Lisa Wolford, Interview’s junior fashion assistant, I was photographed by Chip Simons at Twin Donuts with an old-fashioned typewriter in front of me. Wearing a Donna Karan black dress with satin lapels and flaunting a large diamanté cuff by James Arpad from Beverly Hills, I felt extremely glamorous. Fame at last, I thought. But then I soon realized that hip people found my column rather lame. Make that extremely lame. So in characteristic fashion, I wavered between thinking this was wildly funny—a kind of “Yeah boo, su
cks to you”—and wondering if I was a total loser.

  For a brief moment, I thought about joining Lorne Michaels at Saturday Night Live. “The Lorne”—my cheeky term—had professionally pursued me and The Lorne could probably professionally tempt a nun. But ultimately the setup didn’t appeal: an assistant to an assistant, with my ego? After several meetings, negotiations fizzled out. Still, to experience The Lorne was to experience the smoothest of operators, with his apartment on the Upper West Side, country pad in Amagansett, private box at Yankee Stadium. His list of intimates included Paul (as in Paul Simon), Mike (as in Mike Nichols), Jack (as in Jack Nicholson), Mick . . . as well as his kingdom at NBC. Several times, the Canadian-born Michaels said how bored he’d been as a child, staring at the same piece of road. I wondered if a change of circumstances and a dull childhood would have led to my ruling the world with an Upper West Side apartment and so forth. But seriously doubted it.

  After a few months, my “Anglofile” column improved in pace and tone. According to readers’ complaints, it needed to. Having been long on commentary and heavy with anecdote, it became more hard-hitting and easier to digest. Yet, flawed as the early columns were, they captured New York at a certain moment. A birthday party for Duran Duran’s Nick Rhodes at MK, Eric Goode’s new nightclub; a book signing at Scribner’s for Elia Kazan and A Life, his autobiography; the outrageous last-Thursday-of-the-month soirées organized by Susanne Bartsch at the Copacabana; the launch of Cher’s fragrance Uninhibited at the Plaza Hotel; the opening of Comme des Garçons’ shirt boutique on West Broadway; the Fête de Famille benefit held outside Mortimer’s; and the reopening of Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager’s Royalton Hotel, coinciding with the publication of Fred Astaire: His Friends Talk, compiled by Vanity Fair’s Sarah Giles.

  Fitting for living my adventures in Warhol Land, a series of male admirers were in and out of my life at that moment. Mick Jagger would call from France and Japan. Pleasant until I heard that Jerry Hall was seeing a Scottish lord. Then I wondered if Mick wasn’t trying to get his own back. He, on the other hand, was going through his brief “Elephant Man” stage.