Carole Mallory

PICASSO’S GHOST

Chapter One.

“I want you both to meet Claude Picasso,” Princess Diane Von Furstenberg said to my husband, Ron, and me. We were seated at a crowded table in the trendy discotheque, Hippopotamus, on New York’s upper East Side. Richard Burton’s wife Sybil owned this club. It was the fall of 1971 and Diane was throwing a party.

Whenever Diane entertained, it was a lavish affair. In her sprawling Park Avenue co- op decorated in a wine colored chintz fabric she gave catered dinner parties. The dining room would hold the buffet. Waiters would take your orders for drinks while the entire candle lit apartment, even the bedrooms, were used to entertain. Giving a party in a discotheque was unusual for Diane.

This past summer Ron and I had been separated and now were trying to repair our marriage.

When I looked into Claude Picasso’s deep brown eyes, I wondered, “Why?” I knew I had fallen in love. Claude looked just like his father, Pablo Picasso, except he had hair--masses of black, straight, shoulder length hair and like Pablo, a receding hairline. He had thick Frank Zappa-like sideburns that reminded me of handlebars. His eyes were bolts of energy that possessed me with their magnetism.

Claude extended his hand. When I touched his flesh and looked into his eyes, I wanted him. Only him. There and then. Forevermore. He was danger. I knew. I had read about his tortured relationship with his father. Claude’s love was surrounded by mine fields of hate protecting his Andalusian heart. He would hurt, could hurt, but underneath that emotional barbed wire was the most tender man I would ever know who would hide his vulnerability in flash. Bright colors. Sideburns like Frank Zappa., A turquoise ring the size of a quarter, a purple rabbit skin coat.

“Do you want to dance?” Claude said.

“Of course,” I said. My husband didn’t dance. Besides he had heard Claude’s last name. We were both impressed by fame. But it was Claude’s bold good looks that would haunt me.

Claude was Picasso’s palette. His raw canvas. His living brush strokes. His father’s defiance. The anger in Guernica was in Claude’s eyes for Pablo’s rejecting him all those years. Claude wore that defiance.

As we walked to the dance floor, Gloria Gaynor sang, 'I Will Survive.'

I took in Claude’s small but sexy body. His tight leather trousers and matching rose colored t-shirt showed every taut muscle. Claude didn’t care. His anger was his passion. Spanish after all.

And we danced. With my purple and red ankle length dress, I followed Claude’s lead. I felt like we were in a coliseum. The people at cocktail tables were spectators at the bull fight. I was the toreador and Claude was the bull. His buttocks swayed with the rhythm and he was proud of it. It was a fine ass. Beautiful. Firm. A Picasso ass. A defiant Spanish ass. In the years to come there would be nights when we would lie in bed that I would study the splendor of his naked buttocks.

And he was a great dancer. Passionate. He would embrace me in time with the music then would let me go as my skirt would fly in the air and my heart would follow. All eyes were on us. I didn’t care. I liked the attention. I wanted witnesses to this moment. It was surreal. No, cubist! Things were askew. Nothing was as it should be. I had no guilt about being a married woman showing my repressed feelings of longing for Claude as he held me tight and smiled. He flashed his beautiful white teeth that cabled his pleasure in touching me. In front of everyone.

All his flash, rose leather pants, turquoise ring, purple rabbit skin coat, the soon to be heard quotes from Henry Miller, Celine, the shits!, Merdes!, fucks!, hid the soft, tender, lost little boy I would come to love. I wasn’t going to allow Picasso to destroy me like he had tried to destroy his own son I thought while Gloria Gaynor sang, I Will Survive!

And I danced…

And I could feel us falling in love.

The music ended.

“Too soon,” I said.

“You’re a wonderful dancer,” he said. “And so beautiful,” he said. “Thanks I needed this,” he said.

Then Claude returned to his wife, Sara, and I returned to my husband, Ron.

That night I dreamed of Claude and his muscular body touching mine when the body I was touching was that of Ron Mallory. Fantasies about Claude persisted. Ron went to Milan to have a show of his recent sculpture and we decided to separate again.

* * * * *

I had been proud to marry the artist, Ronald Mallory, known for his hypnotic chemical art. David Rockefeller, The Whitney, The Nelson Aldrich Museum and the Museum of Modern Art had collected Mallory mercury sculptures. Mercury and jet engine oil were combined then encased in plastic and motorized. When the mercury descended through the oil, the movement was erotic. The speed of descent depended on the weather. If the mercury fell into an air pocket, the effect was orgasmic.

Because of our friendships with other artists such as Rothko, Richard Lindner, Christo, Andy Warhol, we had a modest art collection. Not only did talented Ron charm the rich, social, status conscious collector, but sometimes he sold his sculptures directly to them.

Marriage to Ron Mallory was fun and introduced me to a world I felt unable to be a part of without him.

We sailed from St. Tropez to Capri on Errol Flynn’s yacht, the Black Swan, owned by Felix Mechoulam. Felix treated my husband as his son and called him ‘Ronaldito’ and made his millions by selling brooms to Mexicans. At Capri we stayed in Felix’s villa though he owned the Quississana Hotel where we dined on langouste and fruite de mar.

In Palm Beach we had dinner at philanthropist Patrick Lannan Sr.’s museum like home as he had been a collector of Ron’s sculptures. Most people were afraid of billionaire Lannan’s temper. I liked him. He was an elegant, strapping man who enjoyed reciting Dylan Thomas when he entertained.

On the beaches of St. Tropez Ron and I lunched with Bada Muller who was the son of the King of Kuwait and whom Harold Robbins immortalized in his novel, THE PIRATE. Bada had invited me on a date, but I preferred Ron Mallory which caused a great deal of tension for Ron and me socially in St. Tropez.

As guests Ron and I were invited to villas, on cruises and to castles in Verona, Italy and Spain. We vacationed during winters in Megeve and during summers in St. Tropez or Sardinia. At the King’s Club of the Palace Hotel in St. Moritz we drank and danced with the Shah of Iran. In Manhattan we dined with Julie Christie and Warren Beatty who introduced himself to me at a party and within a few sentences propositioned me. “If you ever want me, just call the Carlyle,” he said. “Some nerve,” I thought feeling he was rude and conceited.

In Porto Cervo Ron and I were guests for a dinner at the Aga Khan’s home where I spilled red wine on his white carpet and silently went to another room hoping not to get caught. We danced in discotheques in St. Tropez along side Brigitte Bardot and partied there with Romy Schneider, Dominguin, Pierre Salinger, Allesandro Onassis, Spyros and Phillip Niarchos, Roman Polanski and Prince Juan Carlos De Bourbon of Spain who would become King.

Then one summer Ron, and I were invited on a cruise with Austrian born art collector Sam Spiegel who was well respected for producing LAWRENCE OF ARABIA and ON THE WATERFRONT.

Sam had seen me on the beach of St. Tropez walking topless out of the water dressed in a black bikini bottom and bullet belt slung on my hips, then the rage. The beaches of St. Tropez were like cocktail parties. Screenwriter David Newman who wrote BONNIE AND CLYDE introduced us to Sam and minutes later Sam asked if we wanted to go on a cruise with him the next morning to Corsica.

“Be on board at 6 AM,” Sam said sternly. “Don’t be late or we’ll leave without you.”

Five days later after meeting a witty and charming Kirk Douglas in the port of Cap Ferrat and dining with a quiet and sullen David Niven in the port of Portofino, we found ourselves gazing at the splendor of the Corsican coastline while thinking about the impending surprise luncheon and wondering who would be the mystery guest.

“It’s Princess Grace!,” I said to my husband Ron about the woman with a battered straw hat, a one piece suit and red rubber thongs who stepped off the rubber raft. “And there are Prince Rainier with Princess Caroline and Prince Albert,” I said, peering through binoculars at guests who were coming on board Sam Spiegel’s 110 foot yacht, The Melahne.

Sam was producing NICKOLAS AND ALEXANDRA and wanted Princess Grace to star as Alexandra. In true producer style Sam had kept his rendezvous with the royal family a secret.

Though middle aged Princess Grace was no less a beauty without make up. She was natural in appearance and in her unpretentious personality. I was wearing a white bikini which could have sparked jealousy in women, but she was without this emotion, instead she was warm and gracious.

Close up Prince Rainier was handsome. He was not photogenic. When he spoke, he had no airs. No pretensions. He was down to earth and aware of other people’s feelings. I had the impression that besides being charming, he was kind.

Nervous about protocol, Sam did not know how to seat his guests for the luncheon so Prince Rainier helped Sam by offering to sit by my side.

Wine was poured in abundance. Sam wasn’t the only one nervous, I thought, as I drank my first glass of white wine. During the lunch, I finished a bottle.

Princess Grace was intimidated by Sam and was quiet throughout the luncheon. I could tell by her aloof manner when she addressed Sam that she had no interest in returning to films.

“We almost capsized in the storm last night,” Prince Rainier said to Sam. I wondered why their sailboat was only thirty feet in length.

“Glad you didn’t,” Sam said. “Have some filet mignon or fresh langouste.”

There was a great deal of silence so to pierce the somber air I asked Prince Rainier, ”What sign are you?”

“Gemini and you?” he asked with a half smile.

“Capricorn and I’m from Philadelphia,” I said, smiling at Princess Grace who let out a chuckle.

“I’m from Philadelphia, too,” she said. “What part are you from?”

“Springfield, Delaware County,” I said, staring into her beautiful eyes.

“I’m from Lower Merion. Thereabouts,” she said, in her lilting voice.

“I used to teach school there. Art to 7th graders. Welsh Valley Junior High.”

“I know it well. Sam, it’s good to see you have some culture and education on board besides the film industry.”

Sam’s eyes glistened. He rarely smiled. Sam had been raging for the entire cruise until we met the royal couple. I knew his temper was his fear of approval. I wanted Her Serene Highness and His Serene Highness to like me, too. That was part of the reason I drank.

After lunch we all retired to the top deck. Rather tipsy from the wine, I lay for a few minutes trying to sunbathe then we began discussing exercise. Prince Albert was doing push ups on a mat in front of us. In an attempt to join in, I found myself doing push ups at Princess Graces’ feet when I fell on my face.

“Je suis mal eleve,” I said which translated meant I am badly raised.
Princess Grace laughed at my bad pun and for a moment I felt the love I longed for from a sister.

When the Royal family left our yacht, sadness overcame the Melahne. Sam’s dark mood returned as our vessel sailed back to St. Tropez. But Ron and I would never forget these few hours.

When Princess Grace died, I wrote Prince Rainier with my condolences. In his letter to me he expressed his gratitude for my having written and fondly remembered our cruise.

Each winter when Ron Mallory and I returned to our one bedroom apartment in Manhattan, Ron seemed to think that I was a great hostess to some of these people. Before each dinner party I would clean wine glasses with Windex.

Despite our glamorous lifestyle, as strange as it may seem, there was hollowness to it all. I felt a lack of purpose. Unfulfilled. Because I felt inferior to these celebrities, I developed the habit of drinking heavily in their presence. In the fall, I realized part of the problem was that I no longer loved Ron.