Life with My Sister Madonna

by Christopher Ciccone

  As she is well aware, Sotheby’s policy is that if paintings bought from them in auction are returned, they will, within a year, re-auction them. If a subsequent sale is then made, they will retain half the proceeds. But for her own reasons, Madonna is obviously pretending that she doesn’t know that.

  “I can’t take them back, Madonna, Sotheby’s has a no-return policy. They won’t give me all my money back. If they do sell at auction, I’ll only get half the money back—and I can’t afford to lose the rest of it. You have to reimburse me for the landscapes.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want them.”

  I feel as if I am going to throw up. “But, Madonna, I’ve spent my own money on them. I don’t make the kind of money you make. I never have. I can’t just drop sixty-five thousand dollars. That’s all the money I have.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “But you can’t not care.”

  “Sell them to somebody else. If they are worth that much money, sell them to somebody. I don’t care what you do. I don’t want the paintings. Anyway, I have to go to a meeting.”

  She gets up and sweeps out of the room, leaving me standing there, clutching an invoice for $65,000, with three paintings, and feeling as if she has punched me hard in the stomach.

  I sink back into the deep purple club chair I’d so lovingly selected for her living room, struggling with a combination of shock and sheer bafflement at what she is doing to me, what this means, and what she has become.

  I reason that in her head, she must be telling herself that because I am her brother, I should cope with whatever hand she deals me. After all, I am not only her brother, but also her employee, even though we have nothing in writing. Still, I never dreamed that she would ever treat me with such a lack of caring, lack of respect.

  Because I was her brother and because I was honest, no matter how famous she was, no matter how much money I was offered for my story, I never did interviews about her, never talked to people about her. I protected her, lied for her, fired people for her, was loyal to her, advised her on her career, supported her, apologized for her, and loved her.

  Today, I suppose, is a milestone. The day on which I first experience the full force of my sister’s dark side, her lack of concern for someone whom she purports to love.

  Our father had instilled the value of loyalty and honor in all of us. But over the years, my sister’s sense of loyalty, fairness—the ability to discern who is on her side, who is not, whom she can trust and whom she can’t—has clearly been eroded by the adulation, the applause, the sense of entitlement.

  IT TAKES DARLENE and me six months to resell the three landscapes. Six months during which I can’t pay my rent, have to borrow from friends, have to struggle to survive. While my sister, the cause of my predicament, knows, yet does nothing. By the time I finally manage to sell the pictures and recoup my money, my feelings for her have undergone a radical shift.

  NINE

  Big sisters are the crab grass in the lawn of life.

  Charles M. Schulz

  I FIND NO excuse for Madonna’s grossly unfair treatment of me. But when, in November 1995, she tells me that she is deeply unhappy with Carlos, I conclude that she might have been venting her unhappiness by treating me so unfairly.

  Madonna feels mistreated in her relationship and says that she won’t stand for being treated like a doormat or disrespected. She thinks Carlos behaves like a spoiled child. She is hurt and unhappy, and I know from her that she feels that she has never before given so much love to one person in her life. Despite that, she changes the locks on the New York apartment, which she and Carlos have been sharing, and has his things packed up and sent to him.

  I realize that she regards Carlos—who, in happier times, called her by the endearment “baby chicken”—as far more than a stud she has cast in the Daddy Chair. That she really is in love with him and is fighting for their relationship to survive. An excuse for having left me in the lurch with the paintings? Perhaps. I give my sister the benefit of the doubt. So I forgive her. But I don’t forget.

  I’M IN MIAMI in November 1995 and celebrate my birthday there at the opening of Ingrid’s new club, Liquid, where I meet the British supermodel Kate Moss, who soared to fame at the age of just fourteen when she became Calvin Klein’s muse. Like most child stars catapulted to success far before their time, Kate is outwardly fragile and gives the impression that she might easily fall apart at the slightest provocation. Yet underneath her frail facade, she is extremely self-assured. I instantly click with her and her best friend, her fellow supermodel Naomi Campbell. The three of us become firm friends and, now and again, party together. Madonna hears that I’m hanging out with them and berates me for spending time with drug-user models.

  That is not, of course, a fair description. Kate and Naomi are both stylish, elegant, smart, and fun. Kate has an apartment off Washington Square, where we often hang out. Naomi lives in a large TriBeCa loft with rolling racks of clothes people have given her from shoots. An open kitchen. A large living area and two bedrooms, with clothes covering every surface. She owns art books, but not a lot of art, with the exception of three paintings that I did for the Wessel and O’Connor exhibit, which I have give her.

  One night David Blaine, the magician, is over at her apartment. He is young, unknown, and full of enthusiasm.

  We are in the kitchen together talking. He asks if he can show me something.

  I don’t know what to expect. When he levitates himself off the floor a full five inches, I call Naomi. He does it again for her. We are both amazed. Soon he will be levitating for all the world to see.

  Naomi tells me that one of her greatest ambitions is to become a singer. She plays me her record, which she has been working on with Quincy Jones. It isn’t very good, but I hold my blunt Ciccone tongue and tell her it is great and that she should keep working on it. I am not being altogether insincere, because I respect her for attempting to express herself artistically and want to encourage her to persist.

  I see an uncut version of the documentary about the trip she and Kate made to Africa. The entire film makes them both seem ridiculous. It features a scene on a plane in which a fellow passenger wants to snap a picture of Naomi, but she doesn’t want her to, and a rather funny yet absurd fight ensues.

  In South Africa, competition breaks out between Naomi and Kate over who is going to get the better present from a rich South African guy who is flirting with them both. He gives Naomi a really expensive jewel-encrusted egg, a Fabergé knockoff. And Kate gets really annoyed. In the end she also gets a gift from him that he says is expensive. She takes it back to the shop, where she finds out it isn’t that expensive at all. So she goes to the guy and complains he didn’t give her as expensive a gift as he did Naomi. (It could be the other way around.)

  Neither Kate nor Naomi is happy with the movie because they both come out of it poorly. I commiserate with them, but have secretly spent many a night with friends laughing at one hilarious scene or another.

  Kate is seeing Johnny Depp who is living in Bela Lugosi’s former mansion above Sunset Boulevard. I visit them there, and when I walk in, the first thing I see is an electric chair. Johnny is in the library, and I am impressed by the breadth of his literary tastes, which range from Moby-Dick to an Einstein biography. I note that every single volume in Johnny’s extensive library is well thumbed—no books-by-the-yard on display for decorative purposes or to impress for this most erudite of Hollywood stars. Johnny exudes smartness in spades.

  We chat briefly about a movie he’s working on, then he joins Liam and Noel Gallagher of Oasis in his dark-wood-paneled lounge, furnished with dark-brown-leather club chairs, a dark-wood bar, and boasting a view of West Hollywood. Johnny offers me a shot of bourbon. I refuse, then go up to the finished attic where Kate is hanging out with Naomi. The three of us lounge on blue velvet cushions, drink champagne, and party. After a while, I feel that I ought to go back downstairs and pay some attention to our host, but fi
nd Johnny and the Oasis boys swigging bourbon. The air is thick with the smell of pot. I spend the rest of the evening shuttling between the supermodels in the attic and the men downstairs in the living room.

  In contrast, Johnny and Kate hardly hang out together at all. They don’t kiss, don’t hold hands, don’t even touch, and it seems to me that—despite their stunningly sexual good looks—they are far more buddies than wild, unbridled lovers. The whole evening has a distinct whiff of high school about it: the boys downstairs smoking and drinking and the girls upstairs giggling and doing blow.

  AROUND THE SAME time, I move from my duplex into a high-rise apartment building in Hollywood. One Friday night, Ingrid comes over with a few friends. During the evening, she pulls out a bottle containing some cocaine and asks for a mirror. I find a small framed one. Ingrid cuts three or four lines and offers me one. I am paranoid about doing drugs in public with anyone else. I never do lines, either, “because that’s too much of a commitment for me,” I say to her. I prefer doing small key bumps—putting an extremely small amount of cocaine on the end of a key and taking it that way. While I like the little pick-me-up coke provides me, I have always been determined not to lose control because of it—the way I did the first time I did it with Martin Burgoyne all those years ago. I’ve always maintained a very casual ralationship with cocaine—I like it, but don’t need it. So I refuse Ingrid’s offer of a line, but do a key bump with her instead.

  Within days, Madonna writes me a concerned email insinuating that Ingrid has told her that I may have a drug or alcohol problem. Neither is true.

  Madonna chides me in a rather maternal way: “I only want to say that I know you’re unhappy and I’m here for you if you need support or a friend” and “it infuriates me that my favorite brother is treating himself so badly. You have so much talent and so much to offer.” But she is also stern, telling me that if I want to live a self-destructive lifestyle, that I don’t do it around or in her homes. The email ends on a nice note, though: “I love you dearly and I want you to take care of yourself.”

  I am mollified by her concern, but am furious at Ingrid. She has drug problems of her own, and has apparently accused me of being a drug addict. And my sister believes her. From this point on, nothing I can say or do will ever change Madonna’s mind.

  John Enos has become a co-owner of Atlantic Restaurant on the corner of Beverly and Sweetzer. He asks me to design the interior. I’ve never designed a restaurant before, but once again jump at the chance to try something new.

  Then Madonna finds out and calls me. “You’re not to hang out with John, Christopher.”

  “But he’s one of the owners of the restaurant; I have to,” I explain with as much patience as I can muster.

  “I don’t care. You have to stay away from him.”

  “Sorry, babe, I’m hanging out with John.” And I do.

  Meanwhile, I am painting more than ever. On weekends, I am the unofficial host at Atlantic Restaurant. I am starting to feel independent, to crawl out from under Madonna’s shadow. Celebrities flock to the club, including Brad Pitt and Denzel Washington. One night, Denzel is at the restaurant and two drag queens walk in.

  “What the hell is that shit!” he says.

  “That shit is what makes the world go round and makes it interesting, so deal with it,” I say indignantly.

  He instantly apologizes.

  In preparation for Evita, Madonna is taking regular voice lessons. She has always shunned formal training, but she’s really enjoying them and the strength they bring out in her voice. She is nervous, though, about making the movie, and in the wake of all the bad ones she now recognizes she’s made, she is determined to make a good one at last. I tell her this is the perfect part for her and that I know she will be wonderful. During filming, she tells me things are going relatively well, but that she never sees the dailies because she’s afraid to. Not to mention that director Alan Parker is keeping her and her ego on a tight leash, which I secretly applaud.

  SOON AFTER, SHE discovers that she is pregnant by Carlos and she is expecting Lola, as she has chosen to call the baby who will be baptized Lourdes. Madonna decides that because she is now pregnant, Castillo del Lago is too cumbersome for her and might be hazardous for a new baby. So she buys a new house on Cockerham, in Los Feliz, and asks me to decorate it.

  We meet at the house and together figure out what I am going to do with the interior. During the meeting, she raises the subject of my supposed drug addiction and tells me that she is worried my drug use will distract me from my work on the house. I feel a surge of anger that Ingrid’s report of my drug use is coming between me and my sister. After all, our filial bond is difficult enough to sustain—what with the ripple effect of Madonna’s fame and fortune and my own role in her professional life.

  I take out my anger for Ingrid’s meddling on Madonna. I tell her she’s wrong about the drugs and that if she has any doubts about my professionalism, she ought to get another designer who might suit her better. She assures me she won’t, and we decide to go ahead together on the house.

  Although I get over my anger at Ingrid, Madonna’s unfairness over the Sotheby’s paintings still rankles. I may have forgiven her, but I haven’t forgotten. I decide to be more self-protective this time around, as I am determined that she will never put me in the same position again. From now on I won’t lay out any of my money for her. So I draw up our first decorating and designing contract. Just to soften it, I call it a “Letter of Agreement.” It reads:

  This is a letter of agreement between Madonna Ciccone (the Client) and C.G.C. Art + Design (the Designer).

  For interior design service to be rendered at [her address], Los Angeles, California.

  Fee for services rendered for phase one of the job as discussed in meeting on Thursday, July 11, 1996, at above location will be $50,000 (fifty thousand), one half of which is due upon the signing of this agreement. The other half is due one week after Madonna Ciccone occupies the premises. If this agreement is canceled by the “Client” prior to final payment the retainer is forfeit. If the agreement is canceled by the “Designer” the fee will be prorated per day from the date of the signing of this agreement to the 15th September and paid on that daily rate from the signing to the date of the cancellation, any outstanding monies will be returned.

  All items billed by C.G.C. Art + Design must be paid in full prior to purchase of said items. All sales through C.G.C. Art + Design are final. Any items purchased directly through the wholesaler or retailer of said items are not the responsibility of the “Designer.”

  C.G.C. Art + Design will oversee work but takes no responsibility for any work done by sub-contractors not billed through the “Designer.”

  C.G.C. Art + Design takes no responsibility for any items damaged or destroyed in shipment or en route from one residence to another.

  C.G.C. Art + Design takes no responsibility for any delays due to inaccessibility of the premises.

  C.G.C. Art + Design promise to make its best efforts to see that the job is complete on or about the 15th of September but makes no guarantee to do so by that date.

  Signed,

  I am not altogether sure how she will take me asking for a contract, so I fax it to her along with this cover letter:

  Dear Madonna,

  I realize that this is the first contract that you and I have ever signed between us and at first glance may appear one-sided and to the point, but it is fairly standard as far as design jobs go.

  I also understand that you are concerned about my supposed lack of interest in the job. That could not be any further from the truth. I would like to do this job for you if that is what you want. I am well aware of your “condition” and all that that implies and it would bring me pleasure to be able to provide you with a space that will be comfortable for you and Lola. I believe I have proven my abilities to you in the past and would hope that that would give you some measure of relief.

  I have no doubt that the house
can be put in order in the time allotted, obviously I could not guarantee that but I will do my very best to achieve it.

  I feel that I should also say that if it is your desire to approach other designers to do this job I will not be offended. That is surely up to you. We have achieved great things, you and I, both in private and public and I would never begrudge you the opportunity to try something new and different. I suppose I have seen too many people latched on so tightly to your star only to see them come crashing down when one feels the need for change. Obviously I am not made of stone and using another designer would give me some pause, but alas I am only human.

  So read the agreement and let me know how you wish to proceed.

  Yours ever, Christopher

  I go out to run some errands and come home an hour later. The red light is flashing on my answering machine. I don’t have caller ID, so I don’t know ahead of time who has left the message. I push the button and Madonna’s voice screams at me.

  She is pissed off that I sent her a contract and calls me a fucking piece of shit, and tells me she made me what I am. She ends by telling me that she’s not signing the contract and that I am not working for her anymore. Click.

  I freak out, furious that just by asking for what any designer would has automatically unleashed this monster. I stare, livid and hurt, at my answering machine, the rage building in me.

  I sit down at my desk, open my computer, and write a response in which I push every button I know Madonna has.

  Madonna,

  To even bother discussing whether or not you have done me favors in life or if I’m taking advantage of you is a waste of my time. I know what you have done for me and you know what I have done for you.

  Further, I know that at no time nor in any way have I taken advantage of you. More often than not it was the other way around.

  It has become very clear to me these days that it’s your preference to have someone’s nose up your ass rather than hearing the truth. That, I suppose, is the prerogative of an aging pop star. But it is not a path I will walk, the truth had always worked for us and I will take no other route.