Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent (3 page)

“That’s because they have a few
professional guests
on board for entertainment,” he said, window-shopping at the Tod’s store for driving shoes.

“What do you mean by professional?”

“Oh, come now, Richard. You know the score. So-and-so provides the Big Boat and then they invite an assorted group of ‘names’ who are happy to freeload and provide entertainment and give the group a bit of polish. Why in the world would Gunther and Cosima Von Snap (not their real identities) mix with that horrid group. All the truly elegant people are on sailboats anyway.” He turned up his nose.

“Why do they go?” I said, still not fully understanding.

“They get a free vacation. They’re
fed, bed, and flown
because they have the name, but they don’t have a POT. It’s the story as old as time.”

“Whose story?” I asked naively.

“Listen, some of these old trust-fund babies live like pensioners. Then they meet the gravy train and once again, it’s flying private and big boats and trips to St. Barths. They’re back in the high life on someone else’s dime.”

“Isn’t that a great deal of
work
?”

“Not if the only place you can go for the summer is a public beach.”

“And do they get spending money too?” I marveled.

“Listen, I will not say
who,
but I actually saw one husband reaching into his pocket, pulling out a roll of bills big enough to choke a horse, and peeling off fifties to give to not one but two or three wives … as if the women were all on the payroll.”

“And what does he get in return?” I asked.

“The pleasure of their company,” he said as he walked into the shoe store. “Like that article you wrote on paid friends.”

If you really want to know what’s going on in Capri, all you need to do is ask the strolling photographers who make their living taking photos of passing tourists.

It’s a respected profession in Capri and harkens back to the days when American stars arrived as they snapped away, long before iPhones and selfies.

“How is your season?” I asked my old pal Fabrizio, who is one of the island’s premier paparazzi and always gives me the update on which nationality is in residence and who has the money. Each year varies; some years the Americans are omnipresent, then the Japanese, then the Russians, whoever it seems has the money that year.

“
Bene,
” he said. “This year is good. The hotels are full.”

“Who is here this year?” I asked as I usually do.

“This year we have plenty of Brazilians. They make all the big parties.”

“Americans?”

“Yes, of course. But not as much as last year. This year it’s the Brazilians and the Australians. They make ALL the parties.”

We posed for shots as we waited for the Silver Fox, who had coptered in from Rome the night before with his paramour, L’actrice. We lingered on the terrace of the island’s enduring and fabulous social hub, the Grand Hotel Quisisana, before heading down to the beach club.

“No one cares about them anymore,” said L’actrice as she adjusted her chic straw hat and movie star glasses on the scenic terrace of La Fontelina. “Fashion people, entertainment people. That’s where you want to be. Hire a PR person and you’re the new guard.”

“In what way?” I asked, twirling the homemade
linguine aglio olio
and looking out at the iconic Faraglioni.

“People believe what they’re told.”

“Which is?”

“Who is relevant, interesting. Important.”

L’actrice then referenced her brief, first marriage to the son of one of Hollywood’s greatest and most famous American musical stars from the 1940s.

“When I was married to Bradley (not his real name) I spent
a lot
of time with the old guard; they just revered his father, who was
very
conservative. Besides all wanting to sleep with me, I found them all very dry. No joie de vivre. Plus they all fly
coach
. No one in that crowd flies private.” She sniffed. “They’re just boring with a sense of entitlement.”

“How long were you married?” I asked, pouring her a liberal glass of Scolca Gavi di Gavi.

“Two years. I was so young. He was wonderful, but when there was a crisis he was always out duck hunting. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

“And now?”

“Now, I just hired a great PR agent from [notable, Hollywood PR firm] and it’s my time. I did the old-money thing in my first marriage, now I spend time with the new guard. It’s the changing of the guard, you know, and the old guard needs the new guard. No one cares about the old families anymore. They are done!” she declared. “One of the benefits of having money is being with interesting people, movers and shakers,” she went on, twirling her ring, at least ten carats of sapphires and diamonds. L’actrice, who also comes from one of the wealthiest and prominent families, can do what she wants and has no intention of becoming passé.

“So you really have no desire to be in that world anymore?”

“None.”

“But do you find the new guard courting you now?”

“Of course. And I hate to think that people just want to spend the weekend (at their seaside mansion) in the Hamptons or catch a ride on the plane,” she said. “But I do it. And some are very lovely.” She paused. “I like being with the exciting people now.”

She downed her glass. “When I’m dead, I’ll sleep.”

Each time I see the impressive ruins that Tiberius constructed on Capri, as I make the strenuous hike up to the Villa Jovis, I marvel at the level of ancient Roman construction, from seaside palaces to bathing systems that clearly cost a fortune and must have had lingering effects on Roman society. Besides living out his days in luxury and rumored debauchery, Tiberius was also known for throwing his wives off the soaring cliff when he tired of them. When he died, he did leave an impressive old-money fortune to his heir. Unfortunately, his choice of an heir was Caligula, who went right through Tiberius’s fortune of 2,700,000,000 sesterces, which according to historians eventually led to the decline of the Julio Claudian dynasty.

Well,
I thought, as I hiked my way up to the impressive and soaring Arco Naturale,
it does seem the quest for cash and the high life is eternal
.

3. RISE OF THE ART INSTA-COLLECTORS

Buying Big Names They Don’t Even Love

A NUMBER OF YEARS BACK
, I attended a dinner in one of New York City’s legendary apartment buildings, hosted by a now-divorced art-collecting couple. I was seated between a mogul’s wife and an actress known for her lewd mouth, wearing couture but desperately in need of a bath. The conversation turned to art collecting, one of the Upper East Side’s most popular topics after real estate and renovations.

“So are you a collect-uh?” Madame Mogul turned to me, looking over my shoulder as we chatted.

As the cater waiter served grilled salmon, she listed her current acquisitions and art fair events she and her husband had attended in recent months. Clearly, the couple had a voracious appetite, but not for salmon.

“And what do you collect?” she asked in the dutiful fashion of someone primarily interested in herself.

I politely revealed a few midcentury Modern names.

She looked at me wide-eyed, aghast that I hadn’t listed the trendy, contemporary superstars her peers collect. “Oh, so you collect dead people?” she asked.

“I hadn’t looked at it that way,” I said.

“Does anyone here collect syringes?” The actress laughed sardonically.

I was brought up to view art as inspiration, not a commodity to be traded like natural gas. When I was in my early thirties and able to afford my first real piece, I consulted a close friend’s father, a legendary collector whose name graces a wing at the Metropolitan. I asked for his opinion on an impressionist drawing at one of the auction houses. Later that week, I received his verdict.

“It’s not so much a fully realized drawing as it is a glorified signature. Better to wait for a good picture that you love,” he said in his lilting European accent. “A painting or drawing is like a woman. You must love her in the evening and also must love her when you wake up in the morning.”

Things have drastically changed since that conversation, owing to the rise of insta-collectors: art consumers motivated less by passion and more by ego, money, and social access.

“A dealer I know quite well who caters to this crowd used to call it big swinging dick art,” a reed-thin consultant told me over a salmon roll at Morimoto. She lamented that an art collection is viewed much the same as a stock portfolio.

“I’ve had clients who have no idea who the artist is they’re actually bidding on,” she said. “One couple who spent millions on a piece—I actually had to correct their pronunciation of the artist’s name. It’s like they bought a Givenchy and pronounced it Give-IN-chy and not Jzhiv-on-shee.” The consultant shrugged. “But I made a good commission on that one, and the piece has already tripled in value.”

At a top auction house like Christie’s or Sotheby’s, evening sales have the frisson of a courtside Knicks game, along with the seating hierarchy.

When I started to collect and immerse myself in the art world, a friend of mine, a well-known real estate magnate, kindly offered me his tickets for an evening sale he couldn’t attend.

I remember the sensation of arriving a bit late and being directed to my friend’s floor seats. “I know he collects, but I didn’t realize he’s at this level,” I heard a woman in Chanel exclaim as I navigated my way to the assigned seat. I was wedged between a poster child for plastic surgery and what appeared to be a South American bon vivant, given the French cuffs and frothy pochette.

It was both exciting and unnerving as the major lots were revealed. After a frenzied bidding war, the hushed crowds burst into applause. That people actually clap for the person willing to spend the most money was just one sign that art collecting has turned into a blood sport.

That’s partly because of the herd mentality surrounding it. Like fashion or décor, choosing art should be a matter of taste. But collections are so often dictated by one of an army of architects, art consultants, and decorators who have stepped up to help undereducated overspenders buy the same art everyone else has.

“People choose decorators the way the wife chooses a handbag. ‘You have so-and-so; I need to use them too,’” a seasoned collector said, shrugging over an espresso and a smoked salmon tartine at Via Quadronno. “Now all these people hire art consultants who procure the art. By the time the project is finished, there is very little individual taste. It’s like the way you see all these girls with flat-ironed hair, a hobo bag, jeans, and high heels.”

Dana and I were having Sunday brunch at the Park Avenue apartment of an art advisor who has hosted and advised some of Wall Street’s and Hollywood’s biggest names over the years. Our hostess pointed to the artfully set buffet. “Tuna? Salmon salad?”

As we ate, she recalled growing up on Fifth Avenue, when collecting art was less of a game. “They were a staid, older, intellectual group,” she said. “There were also few young collectors.”

She sipped her Earl Grey as she turned toward the seven-figure portrait presiding over her dining room mantel. “I’ve seen it go from couture to department store.”

A friend’s regal mother concurred. “Of course, the old-school collectors find the whole thing absurd,” she confided over high tea at one of Manhattan’s most discreet private clubs, housed in a belle époque mansion. Her blond lacquered hair, set in a genteel coif, recalled when women went to beauty parlors and not salons.

“I remember going to school in Paris as a young girl and spending weeks at the Louvre. It was divine. When my husband and I were first married, we went to an old-line gallery and purchased our first
nature morte.
While it was less expensive then compared to today, we still put it on a layaway plan. It took us a year to pay off, and we thought we were so daring. Anyway …” She took a spoonful of salmon mousse. “It was a different time. Today, it’s ‘I want it, and I want it now.’”

“Are you going to Art Basel?” That’s the question one hears up and down Madison Avenue in October and November.

Recently, I was having lunch with a public relations professional who puts together events for the annual Miami art confab. She explained how her clients go to parties while their consultants roam the fair, snapping iPhone photos.

“Sometimes they buy, but for the most part, they wait,” she said, nibbling on her Nova and bagel.

“For what?” I asked.

“To see if someone else is interested,” she said. “If this one or that one wants it or gives it the nod, then they’ll pony up the money.”

“And if not?”

“The key is everybody wants what everyone else wants.”

“Which is?”

“That’s part of the game, figuring out what everyone else wants.”

“How do you do that?”

“To tell you the truth, there are, like, three guys deciding what everybody should buy,” she whispered. “Three guys.”

“Perhaps they all convene and decide at the diner,” I offered.

A few days later, I was having breakfast with a good friend in his Madison Avenue aerie, where the morning sun illuminated the Greco-Roman sculptures, Renaissance paintings, Georgian silver, and midcentury Modern furniture.

“When I go to Art Basel, I don’t see art collecting as much as I see competitive spending,” he said. “I see the same people who thirty years ago were at Studio 54 who are still behind the velvet rope. Only now it’s Art Basel, and the entrance fee to an A-list party is a hundred thousand dollars for a starter piece.” He offered me a serving dish of gravlax on toast points.

“Does that get them the piece and the invite?”

“Generally both. I’m not sure they know what they’re buying, but they want to be players, and they take a dealer or consultant’s advice. It’s like the
CliffsNotes
of the art world, and then they take the plunge.”

“Do they do any research?”

“That’s the thing about the art fairs. It’s the big-box retailer of the art world. You go up and down, aisle after aisle. Of course, there are reputable dealers, but, if you asked the collectors whether they got a condition report on the piece or asked about
provenance
, they’d probably say, ‘What’s that?’”

Shortly after that conversation, I was in the sleek, spartan gallery of one of the most respected blue-chip dealers, who sat with beautiful posture in a Mies black leather chair.

“Thirty, forty years ago, people bought and built collections slowly. Many of the great collectors even paid over time,” he told me. “They savored each piece, got to know and support the artists.”

Now, he said, “they’re having dinner at their new ten-thousand-square-foot loft and realize they need a collection. They’re often very nice people in a hurry. And of course, they get the collector’s bug and become insta-experts.”

“As in?”

“My consultant is better than your consultant. This gallery is better than that one. And it’s all backed with the insta-library. X linear feet of books on every artist. One cannot have the insta-collection without the insta-library,” he observed.

“What’s your take on the collections?” I asked directly.

“There is a greater possibility of seeing the piece back on the market.”

“When?” I asked.

“After the insta-divorce.” He offered the salmon roe sushi on a silver platter.

“Do you truly love that?” I asked a high-profile collector who was giving me the tour of his impressive renovations, as we came upon a controversial work that could certainly be deemed pornographic.

“It shocks. It unsettles,” he said.

“Is it hard to live with?” I asked.

“I would find it harder to live with what some dealers call an ‘over-the-sofa’ piece,” he said, mentioning an artist you see up and down the avenue in “starter” collections. “That would be more shocking to my sensibilities.”

“But do you love it?” I pressed him.

“
Love
is a big word. All I can say is it’s for sale. If someone offered me my number, I would take it.” He shrugged. “Everything is for sale in my home, including my fiancée,” he said, giving a lascivious look to the semiclothed nymphette who floated by.

“What do you say to the naysayers who don’t approve of your artwork?” I ask.

“I have three things to say: They’re just jealous. They can kiss my ass. Let them laugh—I’m laughing all the way to the bank.”

In another conversation, my friend, one of New York’s most influential, heralded architects, laughed ruefully at the state of the art scene as we ate alfresco on Houston Street. “I have never met more show-off wannabes,” she said. “They’re all full of shit. I have seen the entire arc from 1980s to 2013. I don’t know if you know in the ’80s I was an assistant to a great pop artist. I was in a micro-mini from Trash and Vaudeville.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“I gessoed his canvases. I answered the phone. I was seventeen and hot.” She paused. “I have always been connected to the artists. That’s the big difference. My clients care about art first, beauty first, soul first.”

“And the rest?”

“It’s become only about money. And of course they get to slum it. You know it’s about Bohemian Thursdays where they get to go to the studio. It’s a conceit; it’s become about vanity.”

“More vino?” I offered.

“Of course. Your poached salmon looks divine.”

I glanced across the restaurant and saw a young international art dealer caress his model girlfriend’s leg under the table.

“I just bought [one of the great artists] for [a high-flying real estate person],” he said, virtually shouting, impressing the young girl.

“Do you want to go to Monaco for the weekend?” he added, stroking her leg carnally.

“I would love to,” she replied.

“Come back with me. I have a great painting to show you,” he said with a wolfish grin.