Life with My Sister Madonna

by Christopher Ciccone

  When it comes to selecting the wood for his closet, he is hands-on. I show him twelve samples and he tells me that they all look “twee.” He uses the word over and over, and I get the message: I am gay and he doesn’t want the house to reflect my sexuality, which is hardly likely.

  Perhaps to safeguard the entire interior of the house from becoming contaminated by my homosexuality, he has his assistant decorate his office, at the back of the yard. A large picture of the queen is hung on the gray wall above his desk, along with an enormous white leather sofa and filing cabinets.

  Meanwhile, Madonna and I argue over fabrics and textures. We argue over the slightest little detail—a doorknob, a light switch. We’ve never argued over such details before, and I feel as if I am falling into a strange, dark hole. I am angry and bitter.

  Finally, this seemingly never-ending job is at last completed, and I go over to the house to meet Madonna and together assess the finished interior.

  When I arrive, she is alone, but Guy is to come home and pick her up. We then stand in the driveway, talking about the house for a few hours. She is facing me and I am facing the front gate.

  The gate opens. Guy drives up in Madonna’s black Mercedes. She doesn’t turn around. Guy drives in my direction and when he is about a foot away, he veers the car away, just missing my foot.

  I neither flinch nor move from my position in the driveway.

  He stops the car, rolls down the window, and says, “Are you trying to prove a point?”

  I say, “No, but I think you must be.”

  He rolls up the window and drives into the garage.

  Madonna turns to me. “What just happened?”

  I say, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and leave.

  IN APRIL 2001, the London Sunday Times names Madonna and Guy Ritchie as number six on their list of Britain’s richest people, citing their joint fortune as $260 million. When the Drowned World tour tickets go on sale at London’s Earls Court, sixteen thousand are sold out in fifteen minutes, and eighty thousand tickets for five extra dates are sold out in only six hours. In the United States, one hundred thousand tickets for the show will be sold out in just a few hours.

  The Drowned World tour will become Billboard’s number one Top Ten Concert Grosses, for five concerts at Madison Square Garden with sold-out crowds of 79,401 and gross sales of $9,297,105. When Madonna Live! Drowned World Tour is broadcast live on HBO from the Palace of Auburn Hills, it is seen by 5.7 million viewers and is the network’s third-highest-rated prime-time concert special since 1997.

  Microsoft announces that it has licensed “Ray of Light” for $15 million as the official theme song in their advertising campaign for Microsoft Windows XP.

  The Immaculate Collection is certified as having sold 10 million copies and will become the all-time bestselling greatest-hits album ever made by a female artist.

  The Drowned World tour grosses $74 million.

  Madonna is named Britain’s highest-earning woman with an annual income of £30 million—$43.8 million.

  MY WORK ON the Roxbury house is now completed. I wait for my last payment, which is around $10,000. I can really use the money, so when it doesn’t arrive, I call Caresse and ask where it is.

  She stalls.

  Within moments, she calls back again. “Okay, Madonna will pay you the final payment just as long as you agree to go to Kabbalah. The next meeting is at my house on Wednesday.”

  I tell her I’ll think about it and hang up.

  That same afternoon, Caresse messengers over The Power of Kabbalah—Technology for the Soul by Yehuda Berg, which is an official publication of the Kabbalah Centre International. On the cover, there is a quote from Madonna: “No hocus-pocus here. Nothing to do with religious dogma. The ideas in this book are earth-shattering and yet so simple.”

  I read the book and learn about Kabbalah, a power that has been around for the past two thousand years, which has influenced the world’s leading scientific, philosophical, and spiritual minds throughout history. A mix of Judaism, Buddhism, Catholicism, and a bit of old-fashioned common sense thrown in for good measure, Kabbalah immediately interests me. As I study the book, I begin to think about spiritual issues I’ve long stopped pondering, and I am curious. I also realize that I’ve bought into the L.A. scene far too much and for far too long. Besides, I know that my connection with my sister has weakened and feel that attending Kabbalah may strengthen it once more.

  The following Wednesday, I attend a meeting at Caresse’s house on Sunset Plaza. A two-story colonial brick house, nicely landscaped, on an expensive street. She’s only Madonna’s assistant. I can hardly pay my rent. I push all bitterness aside and join the meeting.

  Inside are Madonna, her real estate broker, her masseuse, her costume designer, her choreographer, two assistants, her acupuncturist, and her two dancers. Clearly, she’s involved everybody in her life with Kabbalah. The edict that you have to belong in order to work for her hasn’t yet been formalized, but I suspect it will soon be. I also know that since Kabbalah has become so integral to her existence, she sees less of people who aren’t involved in it.

  We all sit down in a big circle. This meeting—and all that follow—has a particular topic, which Eitan, our teacher, teaches, then we all discuss it. The meeting lasts a couple of hours. Caresse serves crackers and other snacks.

  Most of the time, I attend meetings at Demi’s, Caresse’s, or Madonna’s, and on some Friday nights I go to the L.A. Kabbalah Center for Shabbat. There, I am not surprised to find that Madonna and Guy are treated like the uncrowned king and queen of Kabbalah. One of the basic premises of Kabbalah is that no individual is entitled to anything more than he or she has earned, yet every time I attend Shabbat at the center, Madonna and Guy sit on either side of the Bergs, who founded the modern Kabbalah movement.

  “I’ve been coming here for fifteen years, and I’ve never gotten to sit next to the Bergs,” I hear one woman complaining.

  Kabbalah teaches the antithesis of envy, yet I can feel the envy rippling through the center, particularly when Guy, dressed in white robes, is regularly given the honor of carrying the Torah up to the altar.

  Madonna has given millions of dollars to Kabbalah, and the movement is looming increasingly larger in her life and that of Guy.

  I attend a twenty-four-hour Kabbalah session with them and Madonna’s assistant Caresse in Anaheim. This is the first big Kabbalah event I’ve ever attended. Held in a hotel conference hall, the session starts at 7:30 p.m. All the men are instructed to wear white. Madonna and Guy are seated at the top table on the dais, but sit on opposite sides of the table to conform with the rest of the male and female attendees, who, according to tradition, sit on opposite sides of the hall. As the night proceeds, there are readings from the Torah. I follow as best as I can, but have no idea what is really going on. Even in that environment, for much of the night all eyes are on Madonna, and she is still the star of the show.

  The press may report that Guy isn’t as involved in Kabbalah as Madonna, but that isn’t true. In fact, Guy’s world and his conversations nowadays revolve around Kabbalah. According to Melanie, who still sees Madonna and Guy regularly, they often come over for dinner, but will only talk about Kabbalah. If the conversation strays to any other topic, they lose interest.

  As for Madonna, I believe that Kabbalah has given form to her nebulous world, and I think it has given her a purpose. Because she is treated differently from all the other acolytes, she feels that her existence has been validated. After all, she has an entire spiritual movement backing up her decisions. She now believes she has God on her side. Armed with that belief, she often seems to use Kabbalah as a weapon.

  HOWEVER, DURING MY involvement with the L.A. branch of Kabbalah, I discover that Madonna isn’t the only star to do so. One of the lessons Demi and I attend centers around the topic of asking for help and teaches that one shouldn’t be afraid to ask for it. I take that to mean that if you are lost on the highway, ask for
directions, or if you are in pain, seek help.

  The following morning, Demi, who is staying at the Peninsula, calls me and says, “Wasn’t that a great lesson last night!”

  “Really interesting,” I say.

  “I’m just about to make Charlie’s Angels II here and I’ve decided to rent another house because I’m bringing my daughters out as well.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well, Christopher, I need help in decorating the new house. Will you help me?”

  “Of course I will.”

  The next morning, we meet and talk about the house, but Demi doesn’t mention a word about my fee. But I’ve committed to doing the job, so I feel I have to follow through.

  Inside, though, I’m annoyed.

  Perhaps it was just an oversight by Demi, and I certainly could have raised the issue myself, but instead I end up feeling as if Demi has taken the Kabbalah lesson on asking for help a little too literally. It’s as if a producer asked her to help him by starring in his movie for free. Using Kabbalah in this way is not in my view what the movement teaches. So I go to IKEA, pick all the furniture for the house, the children’s furniture, everything from top to bottom—all unassembled—and have the bill sent to Demi.

  I feel sorry for her assistant, who is left to deal with assembling a truckload of furniture. But in the end, I don’t think Demi gets the message or the joke. She is just as friendly as ever and probably assumes that IKEA is my designer of choice.

  Demi isn’t the only actress with whom I’ve become friends. I meet Farrah Fawcett at superagent Ed Limato’s Friday-night Oscar party, which he throws each year for all that year’s Academy Award nominees and their friends. We instantly connect and spend most of the evening talking exclusively to each other. I walk her to her car when we leave.

  Some months later, Farrah invites me to her cluttered apartment in a high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard. She paints and sculpts and tells me she wants me to look at her work. I flash back to Lauren, but Farrah’s paintings—abstract—are for the most part quite good. We do shots of tequila together, I play her Mary J. Blige, and she tells me her dream is to have her own art show. Eventually, that dream comes true. She has an art show at the L.A. County Museum of Art. I attend and am pleased that she has achieved her long-standing ambition.

  I AM INVITED to the 2002 Academy Awards, but have been allocated just one ticket to the Vanity Fair after party. Farrah’s assistant calls and says Farrah would like to go with me. I call Vanity Fair and they say I can bring her.

  On the night, I drive my car—now a used black Cadillac Escalade with 50,000 miles on it—over to her apartment. When I walk in, she’s in the bathroom. I wait half an hour for her. Then I yell through the door that we have to go because they won’t allow anyone into the party after midnight.

  Farrah opens the bathroom door. She is wearing a simple black silk knee-length dress with spaghetti straps. She looks great. I notice that she has powder all over her dress from leaning against the sink while doing her makeup. I brush it off for her. Then she checks her makeup in the mirror and gets powder all over herself again. I brush it off. Then she does it again. I brush it off. Then she does it again. I brush it off, then drag her away from the mirror and we leave at last.

  WE PULL UP outside Morton’s, where there is a long press line. I ask Farrah if she wants to walk the line alone. She says no and asks me to walk with her.

  The first reporter to stop us is from the E! network, who asks Farrah how she’s doing.

  “Hey, you got my name wrong last time you did an item on me. You didn’t spell it right,” she says.

  She goes on like that for the next fifteen minutes, while the E! reporter just stands there, stunned. I gently pull Farrah away, and we continue down the line together.

  Finally, we make it into the party. The first person we run into is Ryan O’Neal. She is visibly unnerved, but tells me she is going to talk to him. I go off and dance with Helen Hunt.

  When I come back, Farrah is sitting with Ryan.

  She tells me that they are going to Harvey Weinstein’s party, but that if I want to go, I can follow. I tell her that I am not on the list and don’t want to be turned away, so she should go without me. She thinks for a few moments, then decides to go with me after all.

  We end up at a party at my friend Andy Will’s house, which is full of gay men who all fall in love with her on the spot, and she is thrilled.

  IN AUGUST 2002, Madonna invites me to her birthday party at Roxbury. The invitation to the fifty select guests is from “Mrs. Ritchie.” It strikes me that when she was married to Sean, she never called herself Mrs. Penn. She now bears practically the most famous name in the universe and has never before relinquished it, yet now she has—just to make Guy feel better about himself. A kind and loving gesture, perhaps, but I also feel that she is acting a part.

  The invitation states that the dress code is kimonos only. Anyone not wearing one will not be admitted to the party. I have a really nice red cotton kimono with white writing all over it, which I bought in Tokyo during The Girlie Show, so I wear that.

  At the house, all the pathways are lined with lit votive candles and the garden looks really pretty.

  Gwyneth and I start chatting.

  All of a sudden she screams, “Christopher, you’re on fire.”

  I look down. Flames are curling up my kimono. I rip it off, pour water over it. Gwyneth and I step on it and stamp the fire out.

  I am wearing black trousers and a black shirt underneath. I stay at the party dressed like that.

  Madonna walks by. I show her my burned kimono, which now has a hole in it as big as a beach ball.

  She shrugs. “Put that back on. No one is allowed to stay at the party if they aren’t wearing a kimono.”

  Don’t ask me if I am okay, don’t ask me if I am burned, just stick to your fucking rules.

  I ignore her and go back to dancing with Gwyneth.

  DESPITE MY INSUBORDINATION at the party, Madonna invites me to attend the dress rehearsal of Drowned World. With mixed feelings, I go along to Sony Studios at Culver City. When I arrive, the stage is dark. The lights go up, and there, center stage, is my tree. My concept. Only it looks like something out of Caligula, dark, ominous, and unfriendly. Just like the show.

  Watching, I am sad. It hurts me to see Madonna performing at half her potential. She seems to be in a very dark place, and that is reflected in the show. I don’t tell her, though, because I know how much her tours mean to her, and I want to be supportive.

  Driving home alone after the dress rehearsal, I feel like crying. I know that I could have done so much better with the show, and I know how much better Madonna can be when she is properly directed. And I wish fervently that our relationship hadn’t downward-spiraled so much.

  MY SISTER AND I rarely share feelings when we are alone together, but we do so from time to time through letters. In early 2002, our correspondence affords me a glimpse into the issues in her marriage and how they deeply affect her. My sister tells me that she relies heavily on Kabbalah, and sees her counselor frequently.

  Her love for Guy shines through her sentiments. Despite all the acrimony between us, I realize that she is committed to him. I wish the marriage well. I send her a positive letter, in which I take Guy’s part and try to help her understand his vulnerability. I tell her that he is living in this incredible world with her, has an ego of his own and an idea of what he is, and that she may have shattered the illusion, but he is clearly now trying to find his way. I suppose, to some extent, I am writing about myself as well.

  She responds immediately, telling me that London can be lonely at times, but that she is hopeful she will find her way. I hope she will. No matter how much I dislike Guy, he’s her husband and I want her to be happy with him.

  Still, I worry about Madonna. Guy is ten years her junior, and she’s given him latitude to pursue his own interests. But they are very different people, with different approaches to things, and I wonder
whether they will be able to bridge the divide. I suspect that Kabbalah will help them through any rough times. And I only hope that the openness of her communications with me signals a new phase in our relationship and that we will one day be close again.

  IN MAY 2002, she invites me to London to see her opening in the play Up for Grabs. I fly over to London with my good friend David Cooley, stay at Home House, and on May 23 attend the first night with Rupert and Gwyneth. The play is confusing, with Madonna playing a commercial art dealer who makes out with a woman. At one point, she holds up a black dildo, and the entire scenario eludes me completely.

  Guy is in the audience, but we don’t talk. The next day, Madonna invites me to lunch at her house in Marylebone. She has obviously weathered the crisis in her marriage, and I am relieved.

  The restored Georgian terrace home, not far from Hyde Park, has a dramatic staircase, five reception rooms, a large library, eight bedrooms, fifteen-foot ceilings, and a huge twenty-eight-square-foot drawing room. But I am far from happy with the way David Collins has decorated the house. Her office, though, is similar to my work in the New York apartment.

  We go out for a walk. Suddenly she says, “Guy told me about this pub; let’s take a look.”

  “But you don’t drink beer, Madonna.”

  “I do now.”

  We go to the pub, and she orders a pint of bitters. I watch her face as she drinks it. She is pretending to like the beer, but by the look on her face, I can tell she doesn’t.

  “My husband is a beer drinker, and I want to experience what he experiences,” she says in explanation.

  I realize that it isn’t just Kabbalah that has saved Madonna and Guy’s marriage. Madonna is striving hard to please him and probably always will.

  BACK IN L.A., I continue working on my designs for Central Restaurant on Sunset Plaza. My fee trickles in slowly, but I have a stake in the restaurant and am forced to wait for it to open before getting paid. Madonna invests $45,000 in the restaurant, which is nice of her and indicative of hope for our relationship.