New York
Talk about synchronism. The invitation to the launch of John Richardson’s A Life of Picasso arrived the same day as Peter Arnold’s letter concerning the artist. Volume III, 1917–1932, was reviewed by William Boyd on 3 November, in these here books pages. The novelist loved it and eagerly awaits more. I like John Richardson, in fact I had sat next to him at dinner one week previously, but I do not like Picasso, hence I have not read the book, although the mother of my children bought it. The reason I did not attend the party for it, but sent my concubine instead, was the hostess, Mercedes Bass. I have known Mercedes forever. She was born Tavacoli, a Persian, then married Francis Kellogg, followed by the billionaire Texan Sid Bass. Until she struck it rich with Sid, Mercedes was a fun lady to be around. Then something happened. I suppose writing as I did that Sid Bass paid 200 million for a used Mercedes did not help. For some strange reason she was not best pleased. But I meant it as a compliment. Never mind. I am one of the world’s most misunderstood souls.
Mind you, Mercedes has not looked back since. In fact she might not be able to because of the hauteur of her gaze. At times she reminds me of Margaret Dumont, the lady who played it straight while the Marx Brothers performed their high jinks around her. The perpetually dyspeptic demeanour of a high-society lady who has mistakenly found herself in a brothel. The trouble is that ladies who are well born usually burst into laughter on such occasions. Not our Mercedes. Yet one of the funniest sights I have seen was Jacob Rothschild playing Sancho Panza to her Don Quixote at some gallery while she inspected the available goods.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in