After Andy

by Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni

  Having always been “relax max” about being recognized, suddenly Mick’s famous features were swaddled in scarves and he was playing mysterious and incognito. Apparently, this odd behavior was due to the disappointment of his second solo album, Primitive Cool, which had scored only in Japan. In my usual frank fashion, I did try to say, “What’s with the scarves, Mick?” but he didn’t really answer. Poor Mick, it must have been awful.

  According to Bob Colacello, “Andy liked Mick but also thought he was incredibly cheap.” I never found that. I wonder if he and others weren’t threatened by the fact that Mick, away from the strobe lights, was relatively well balanced. His knowledge of music was also unbelievable. I was going through a jazz period and he always recognized Thelonious Monk or whoever else was playing at my home.

  Malcolm McLaren returned, and surprised by claiming undying love. It had been the idea of Menno Meyjes, the screenwriter, that he should just be honest and voice his passion. There was also an Irish film director who was buzzing around. The gesture was more manipulative than attractive and it was fortunate that nothing happened. A successful journalist from Rolling Stone would have been more fun, but he was even more neurotic than I was. There was also Ramin—my platonic Iranian admirer—who had once telephoned Interview asking to speak to “sexy baby.” The magazine’s relatively green receptionist called out, “Sexy baby, sexy baby, who here goes by the name of sexy baby?”

  And then there was the German-born and exquisite Nana, who’d fallen in love with my photograph published in Quest magazine and was convinced that I secretly lusted after women. On our one date we went to see the performance of her great friend Sandra Bernhard, the outrageous comedian who was the famous lesbian of the 1980s.

  After Sandra’s performance, we gathered at the Gold Bar, a place downtown where I was clearly the heartthrob of the night, since I was encircled by twenty women spearheaded by Sandra and Nana. A strange but not unpleasant experience. Just when I was thinking, “Thank God no one I know . . .” I heard the voice of Michael Austin—a dear friend but aka Radio Austin. “Darling, is that you?” he began. “And is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  Meanwhile, the son of a famous novelist became one of those permanent “Should I or shouldn’t I go there?” We met in the best Andy way possible—at a children’s party in the Dakota given by the granddaughter of a Warhol collector. After being introduced, he asked if I was a ballet dancer. Talk about a terrific pickup line. Actually, I was smitten, finding him both good-looking and intriguing. The problem was that, despite his claiming to have my number by his bed, he was the master of the disappearance act. If it was Nicaragua one minute, it was Nantucket the next, but just not Natasha.

  With my unqualified magnet for fellow freaks and commitment-phobes, I was destined to attend all of my Interview column events alone, until one fateful spring evening in 1988. Wandering into the host’s kitchen, I found Richard Edwards, who was “sooo bored” that he was doing the washing up. Since he was chirpy with an infectious laugh, I quickly joined his side. And that was the beginning of the Nat and Dickie friendship.

  Although he was a high-powered British-born lawyer from Herbert Smith, one of London’s top legal firms, Richard accompanied me checking out the latest diamond setting from Israel, attending a Sade concert at Madison Square Garden, and chanting a mantra with Richard Gere at a Tibet House benefit. An ideal companion, the Cambridge-educated Richard chatted everyone up—he pushed me onto Sean Lennon at Mapplethorpe’s Whitney exhibition and encouraged me to photograph Jasper Johns for my column.

  After a few months, I began to add Richard’s name to the roll call of VIPs, which included Lorne Michaels, Calvin and Kelly Klein, and Barry Diller. Occasionally, Shelley would ask, “Who exactly is Richard Edwards?” and my response ranged from “a dear friend” to “someone who’s going to be deeply important.” (Richard is now the power behind the Baldwin Gallery and the Caribou Club in Aspen.) Both worked with Shelley. She was pretty tolerant.

  Shelley also protected me from the wrath of Paige Powell. From a distance, no one was prettier. Each morning, she’d arrive at the office with her Dalmatian, whose black spots on white seemed to set off her enviably straight hair and bangs and colorful outfit by Steven Sprouse or other downtown designer.

  I did notice that Fred had little time for Rage Bowel, and remembered how he’d groan about her lack of sophistication, and her self-importance, pushiness, and greed, mentioning that it was all starting to “grate on Andy’s nerves too.” Even Wilfredo Rosado, Paige’s friend, sensed that her relationship with the artist “was like an obsession. She felt like his wife!” says the jeweler. According to Vincent, “Paige went a little nuts. She was going to have a child by Andy.” Warhol’s diaries mention Tama Janowitz being in cahoots with the idea. His attitude being “What’s wrong with them? Can’t they see they’re barking at the wrong tree?” Professionally, Paige had also stepped on Vincent’s toes. “When I was doing the MTV programs, Paige could sabotage the shooting lineup,” he says. “We were working for the same organization.”

  But that often happens with members of an erstwhile family: people behave bizarrely and not everyone can get along. So I was rather flattered that Paige liked my British accent, presumably thought advertisers might agree, and invited me to the occasional business lunch with her. During our halcyon days, she even arranged a discount on my pair of navy Belgian shoes. Then it was obvious that I talked too much, wasn’t scared of voicing my political opinions, and was quite happy to order dessert when no one else did. Whoops! So the lunches stopped, my column began, and then Paige organized an Interview party and invited only a few people from the magazine. I thought it was unfair—very unlike Andy Warhol in behavior (only to be corrected by Kevin Sessums that “it was oh so like Andy!”)—and called Paige to air my grievances. Suddenly her voice changed from passive Paige who articulated every word like a creaky old granny to a New York harpy. “Fuck off,” she snapped. Finally, I thought.

  Somewhat miffed, Paige tried to take her revenge by getting me to handwrite all the invites for her future events. Her argument being that I was an assistant, after all. When the stack of invites increased to several hundred and dear Paige accused me of having “fucking attitude,” Shelley managed to intervene. With her habitual calm, she then declared, “Oh dear, she [Paige] has gone off her head.” And so my adventures in Warhol Land via Interview continued.

  18 Life with Talcy Malcy

  At the end of September 1988, the exhibition Impresario: Malcolm McLaren and the British New Wave opened at the New Museum in New York. Eclectic, it documented Malcolm’s contribution to the British and American worlds of music, fashion, and popular culture from the punk and New Wave eras to the present. Tangible objects like photographs, videotapes, film, clothing, and other items from McLaren’s fashion boutiques showcased the impresario’s career, from his early days as a self-described “cultural anarchist” to his latest music, theater, and film projects.

  In the Impresario catalogue, Paul Taylor, the show’s curator, described Malcolm as a “bad guy” of contemporary pop culture, which gave him serious kudos in the late ’80s. Taylor also made a valid point that Malcolm was “like a new type of artist. A ‘producer’ in more than one sense of the word, he has literally orchestrated new musical events and created provocative ‘cultural texts’ within the mass-media. McLaren is a popularizer, which is to say that he is a pioneer.”

  As I’ve mentioned, Malcolm McLaren was like Andy Warhol for my generation in England. And the Impresario show confirmed this. Through fashion with Vivienne Westwood, and the music world with the New York Dolls, the Sex Pistols, Adam Ant, and other bands he managed, Malcolm provided a scene and gave us aspirations.

  The major difference was that Andy was tireless and worked all the time. With his “I’ve got to keep the lights on” ethic, he knew how to pace himself and remain organized, and reliable. Whereas Malcolm had a
n “I know how to avoid paying the electric bill” mentality. He worked extremely hard, but in fits and starts, and he could disappear. It explained why Andy had an inner core group and Malcolm didn’t: he was scattered and irresponsible, and ultimately people felt used and occasionally abused. To cite Nathalie Delon again, “Chriiis, he ’ate you and he love you.” It was a shame, because Malcolm was a cultured original with a spongelike mind that could also brim over with ideas.

  In general, there was a tremendous fondness for Malcolm. Whatever city he arrived in, there was always a movable feast of old and new pals who seemed to sway around him. Through him, I met musicians like Bootsy Collins and Iggy Pop, and photographers like William Klein. He had a Pied Piper effect. Malcolm was best in the company of women; among younger, attractive males, he became a long-winded raconteur, with all the old chestnuts involving Sid Vicious and the rest of the Sex Pistols.

  Malcolm could be a mensch. Or he was with me. I realized this when Brigid Berlin decided to rubbish my “Anglofile” column. It was at the beginning of September, less than two weeks away from Malcolm’s show Impresario. And Brigid had burst out, “I cannot understand your ego, and who cares what you think?” The features of her refined face had hardened, and her delivery was scathing and entirely unexpected. I just happened to be in the Warhol Studio paying a friendly call. Instead of which I felt assassinated on the spot.

  I called Malcolm and within half an hour he was at the diner opposite my office. “Why did she do that?” I kept asking. “Because she’s a nutter, a fruitcake,” Malcolm replied, and then explained that Brigid was one of “those old birds” who was “a casualty of the sixties. She’s probably forgotten what she said,” he reasoned. But I knew that dear Brigid hadn’t. He then explained that via my column, I was pushing myself forward. “You’re getting attention and not everyone is cool with that,” he said. “But no one reads ‘Anglo-fucking-file,’ Malcolm,” I screeched. “It’s a total fucking disaster.”

  This cracked him up. And it cracked me up too. For several minutes, we could not stop laughing. Then, with a certain wistfulness, I said, “Oh God, what are we doing here?” And Malcolm bounced back into action and said, “It’s not so bad, Nat.” After all, he was about to launch a huge show at the New Museum. Nevertheless, I often wondered about him and America. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had much choice. The Sex Pistols had sued him for embezzling funds and there had also been the disastrous court case against Richard Branson and Virgin Records. The United States of America flickered as Malcolm’s last hope. His CBS contract in Hollywood had petered out. And now it was the music and art scene in New York.

  A few months later, George H. W. Bush’s inauguration beckoned. Thanks to my friend the writer Laurie Swift, her contacts in Washington, and my mother’s friendship with Evangeline Bruce—one of the capital’s grandes dames—I attended all the inauguration balls and the celebratory parties around them. It was one of my better “Anglofile” columns. Dressed in Calvin Klein’s cruise line, borrowed from the fashion house, I met various powers such as Katharine Graham, the owner of The Washington Post; Art Buchwald, a famous journalist and wit; J. Carter Brown, the National Gallery of Art’s patrician director; Mary Jane Alsop, an éminence grise of the Camelot era; and Pamela Harriman, who’d been my father’s childhood friend. With Evangeline, I attended the National Gallery’s grand soirée, where the gossip of the evening was more about Harriman’s face-lift—the seventy-year-old siren had dropped two decades and resembled a Romney portrait—than Barbara Bush and her brood. With my newly svelte physique, Calvin’s 1930s sailor-type styles looked spiffy. A few admiring glances came in my direction, but I could think only of Malcolm.

  So when I returned to the Big Apple and the Great Man—ahem—declared undying love, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. “I adore you, I adore you,” he began. Taking my advice, Malcolm had met and spent several days with his mother, described as “man mad” by his grandmother, who raised him. I was convinced that his chronic commitment problems stemmed from his lack of relationship with his mother. Needless to say, it didn’t make an iota of difference. In fact, he then disappeared for twelve days without a trace!

  I gave up on him there and then, thankful that I had not moved into his apartment as he had suggested. Strangely enough, it was at that precise moment that Page Six wrote about Malcolm and me. Since no mention was made of my mother—a first by a gossip column—I didn’t mind. This played in direct contrast with Carrie Fisher, whose opening line to me was: “Oh yeah, your mother’s a big deal in London, right?” (A few months later, Carrie sincerely apologized. Since she’d just done an Interview magazine evening with Mike Nichols, I felt flattered.) It was also poles apart from a New York Times journalist who asked, “What’s it like being the daughter of someone famous and accomplished?” This was in April 1989, when my mother’s book Warrior Queens was being launched in New York. I stared at the journalist. She repeated her question and I replied, “I’d have to think about that.” My mother interrupted. “Say something, darling,” she said. But I couldn’t.

  After Malcolm’s letdown and endless fibs, I began to wonder about my future at Interview and my future in New York. Through Kevin Sessums, I’d met Barry Diller, who was then running Fox Broadcasting Company. Barry was taken by my vitality and humor. “If only we could capture that energy on television,” he told Kevin. I then discovered that he’d said the same to Angela Janklow, a great friend. My TV test was promised when I went to Los Angeles. It was a TV test that was promised and would hover until I left the United States in September 1989. As the daughter of a top agent—Mort Janklow—Angela got further.

  19 The Publishing of Andy’s Diaries

  In 1989, Manhattan was rife with an onslaught of VIPs, confirming Andy’s legendary prediction: “In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.” There were various categories: the “almost famous,” the “recently famous,” and the “once famous.” In many ways, the thirst for fame gave rise to the gossip culture and the celebrity gossip columnist who did, after all, write about all and everyone.

  With this in mind, Beauregard Houston-Montgomery monitored the New York Dish seminar. Held at the Puck Building, it was an event presenting a panel of gossip columnists such as Page Six’s Richard Johnson and The Village Voice’s Michael Musto. The goal was to discuss and promote the importance of dish, juice, and so forth in Gotham City. Alas, flop sweat was the best way to describe my participation.

  I should never have agreed. I was hardly a bona fide gossip columnist; dishing dish was not my raison d’être. But I liked Beauregard, who worked at Details magazine during the day and was a walker of golden-oldie stars by night. “You’ll need to talk briefly about yourself,” he said. It was, after all, going to be my very own fifteen minutes. I heard him but forgot. Or rather, had no idea that I should have prepared. Instead, I was more concerned about my wardrobe, choosing black pants and a cropped wool jacket from Charivari that Fred Hughes described as “multo contessa.”

  Michael Musto and others got up before me. Glorified divas of dish, they lapped up the moment and caused the right titters in the audience. At first, I joined in the appreciative laughter about my fellow journalists. Seated side by side, we were on a stage overlooking a packed house. Then I began to inwardly freak, realizing that my turn hovered and I had precious little to offer. Suffice to say that I rose from my chair, introduced myself, mentioned Interview, and spewed out three or four incoherent sentences punctuated by a few errs and ums. The situation worsened when I spotted a fellow journalist in the audience with whom I’d recently had a falling-out.

  At the end of the disaster, Laurie Swift’s grandmother came up and complimented me on my appearance. What a ninety-one-year-old swell she was. It was the only pleasant moment of the afternoon. “Na-ta-sha. What. Happened?” said Beauregard, who widened his eyes and looked aghast. No doubt, he had pushed the importance of my participation on Michael Musto et
al., who must have grudgingly agreed. Then it was so very much about image—whom you were seen and photographed with—and I projected loser on every level. Only Richard Johnson was sympathetic—even if the quizzical expression on his handsome face implied, “What the hell possessed you to do this?” He was the only straight member on the panel. And despite his reputation as the great white in the shark kingdom, he could recognize a damsel, well, a dodo, in distress, while the others weren’t interested. The disastrous situation was furthered when supposed pals like Nancy Huang, Selina Blow, and Vogue’s Gabe Doppelt appeared by my side and decided to say nothing. One big fat lie would have actually helped, ladies!

  Clearly, the stars remained unaligned, because I then went to the opening of 150 Wooster, the new Brian McNally restaurant, co-owned with Nessia Pope and Sylvia Martins. There, I bumped into my Rolling Stone journalist admirer, who chose that very moment to yell at me. Resembling a furious penguin—his flapping arms resembling wings—he claimed to have left four telephone messages and was apoplectic that I had ignored his calls. In hindsight, it was a shame that he hadn’t arrived at the Puck Building (later filmed in When Harry Met Sally) and exploded at the New York Dish seminar. It would have added a dash of dish in my direction!

  Ten days later, Paper magazine described my answers as “comatose,” then adding, “But what would you expect from someone who has such a birdbrain column?” Shelley had shown me the article. “I thought it better to warn you,” she said. However—to show how topsy-turvy my adventures in Warhol Land were—a few minutes later I received a call from Vogue’s Anna Wintour. I presumed it must be about a party she was giving—mentally, I was “really up there,” to requote Andy—but it concerned an assistant position that had become available.