John Richardson
John Richardson was a friend of my father’s originally, but he became my friend too. John was an art historian and the author of a biography of Picasso which stretches over four volumes. He met Picasso in the 50’s and became a close friend. In spite of their weightiness and serious nature, the books are hard to put down and are full of amazing information and fascinating personal detail.
I remember meeting John in the early 90’s on my first visit to New York. I was invited to tea at his flat, and when I arrived, he was holding court from an armchair with his leg in a plaster cast, exchanging scandalous anecdotes with Maxime de la Falaise. He would get up every now and then and hobble around the apartment on crutches like a giant glamorous rat. I fell instantly in love. Every time I went to New York I would visit John. He had moved into a huge elegant apartment on Fifth Avenue comprised of an enfilade of beautiful rooms, every inch adorned with art: from a table strewn with penis sculptures to a portrait of John by Andy Warhol. John must have been about 70 and I was 30. He was very exciting company and had a way of making you confess everything you wanted to keep back in order to elicit his conspiratorial laugh, with the sideways glance of approval at having amused him. When he was 83 he embarked on a fling with a new boyfriend. He was in high spirits and showed me his new black rubber floor to ceiling sculpture which made up an entire wall, with stranger protuberances emerging from it. He also declared he had taken on a personal trainer. John could be a terrible gossip and spreader of untruths. In 2006 my then husband was nearly wiped out by a brain aneurism. When I came back from intensive care I went online and looked up what it meant. It said there was an 11 percent chance of full recovery – but luckily my beloved James fell into that category and was restored entirely to his former self, going on to write Keith Richards’ autobiography to great acclaim. It took me a year to recover from the shock, but in the meantime John started a rumour that the aneurysm was caused by Viagra. James had to write him a stern letter – then John was mortified of course.
Towards the end of John’s life, I would go to his apartment for dinner, often just three of us with his wonderful assistant Daryl who was incredibly cool as well as attentive.
When John died there was a huge sale at Christies of all his belongings. I looked through the catalogue hoping to see something I could afford and spied the beautiful plates and dishes we would eat off when I came for supper. They now reside in my kitchen cupboard.
