Bob Colacello was 19 years old when he entered Andy Warhol’s orbit. She had just graduated from Columbia University and was writing articles about Fellini and Goddard for the Village Voice, one of New York’s cultural newspapers of the 1970s, when Warhol suggested she do his magazine Interview after reading what she was about had written him. And so a deeply professional relationship arose, in which Warhol put out a publication that combined his ideology, his taste, with his artworks, and there Colacello outlined his journalism as a tool to reflect juicy social changes in a very peculiar chronicle. He accompanied his columns with photos he took himself. They weren’t just any snapshots, they were those of someone inside, next to, and in league with those being photographed. Colacello resigned from Interview and joined Vanity Fair. Warhol died after gallbladder surgery. Celebrities and social writers, from Alaska to myself, have educated themselves by reading Colacello. Those photos slept in boxes until Vito Schnabel, son of Julian Schnabel, one of the Warhol-sponsored artists, urged journalists to do something with them. They retrieved them, put them together, and the result was to be exhibited at Elena Ochoa’s Ivorypress gallery in Madrid. But the pandemic prevented it from becoming the social event it deserved. Until French gallery owner Thaddaeus Ropac organized an exhibition smaller than the one originally conceived by Ochoa and Bob Colacello used his legendary agenda to bring those photographed back together.
It was at a dinner at Maxim’s in Paris on January 20, christened by Colacello as A Night of the Divas. Starting with Bianca Jagger, the picture on the invitation, who entered the semi-hidden venue wearing a hat, glasses and mask, daring everyone she knew to recognize her. Paloma Picasso, with a bespoke Saint Laurent tailor and beyond vintage, says yes in the three languages of the night. And it is. oui. Yes, Marisa Berenson, beautiful, but she avoids shaking hands or being kissed. Without affectation, with trained common sense. “He must have had a good time during the Covid,” I said boldly. He answered with a sideways glance. Nothing really happens if you decide not to shake hands, I get it. It wasn’t my only mistake tonight. When I met Betty Catroux, Yves Saint Laurent’s muse and nightlife partner, I blurted out, “Madame Catroux!” which she accepted with disgust. “It’s worse than an insult,” he said.
Invited Bianca Jagger to dinner at Maxim’s Restaurant in Paris, dubbed “A Night for Divas” by Bob Colacello.
Elena Ochoa, who managed to publish the book that summarizes all the snapshots that could not be seen in Madrid, took me to another corner to introduce myself to Georgina Brandolini, who is wearing a tight suit with colorful stripes. “Each stripe is a decade of the life… of the suit,” he joked. Accompanied by her husband, Sir Norman Foster, Elena introduced me to baby Jane Holzer, the sole survivor of Warhol’s superstars. When Elena said she was the “St. Moritz Group” to explain that this was where the dinner was at Maxim’s, Baby pointed out that she was from Palm Beach. I felt like I was finally in one of Colacello’s OUTs. Columns I read and memorized in my youth in Caracas.
“I don’t know Caracas, but I speak Spanish,” a nearby voice suggested. It was Doris Brynner, widow of Yul, the unforgettable interpreter of The King and I. In her curious gaze and dose of warmth, you can tell what separates a doyenne from a normal person. Nothing scares him and everything amazes him. Over dinner (risotto with black truffle for starters, lobster for main course, cream puffs filled with vanilla ice cream for dessert) Betty Catroux, seated, offered the phrase of the evening: “We are survivors and we are legends. What more do you want?”.
The small orchestra at Maxim’s kept twirling its Parisian jazz, the Art Nouveau ceiling brightened and became more kaleidoscopic over legends and survivors. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate Chinese New Year, the Year of the Rabbit.
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