Once Shelley Wanger’s appointment as Interview’s editor in chief was announced, I began to plot and plan to get over there. It was my belated New Year’s resolution for 1988. Although I had fooled around on camera for director Don Monroe—Fred was keen that I end up with a presentable TV screen test—writing was my new goal.
I wasn’t quite as bad as Richard Harris, who’d disguised himself as a waiter when trying to be recast as King Arthur in Camelot. Desperate to capture the attention of the musical’s director, Michael Rudman, Harris arrived singing and serving. Then again, I was pretty shameless with Shelley: dropping my mother’s name and Harold’s too. Had my five siblings been present, they would have been horrified. Naturally, I harped on about how much my mother had “loved” writing for Shelley at H&G magazine. But after the third time of mentioning this, even I felt mildly embarrassed.
Shelley was elegant, poised, and cool. Others might have been stopped in their tracks by her immaculate Agnès B. uniform of blouse, cardigan, and short pleated skirt, and by her general allure. Not me, because I was convinced that working for her would change my life. It did actually! But like a gun dog, I pointed myself in her direction whenever I could. It didn’t matter if it was a social event like a lunch at Kenny Jay Lane’s, where we were surrounded by Park Avenue princesses looking flawless in their gray flannel getups; I would barrel in and sell myself. Shelley didn’t mind my pushiness. As the daughter of film producer Walter Wanger, she was familiar with the “I can sing and I can dance” routine. I also made her laugh—Shelley is known for her sense of humor. Finally, she felt familiar. I was reminded of my parents’ friends, elegant literary types who were au courant and well connected but wore it lightly. They instinctively knew how to play intense at a dinner party and be frivolous too. A subtle art that I certainly lacked. That said, after my fifth or even seventh time of asking to move over to her side, Shelley agreed and took me on board.
Fred was positive about the move, as was Vincent. Brigid, on the other hand, stuck her nose in the air. I didn’t really care about her reaction. Brigid represented the past, I ruthlessly decided.
Nevertheless, joining Interview was a shock. At the Warhol Studio, I had been one of the office pets who sort of did what I wanted. Occasionally, an exasperated Vincent would say, “Natasha, what exactly do you do?” Then a Warhol dealer like Hans Mayer might arrive and save me—I excelled at welcoming and offering tea, coffee, or soft drinks!—or there would be a mini drama like the sudden appearance of Jerry Hall. Yikes. She came to be filmed for the final segment of Andy’s show. I hadn’t been warned. And, to the huge amusement of Vincent and Fred, I disappeared and powdered my nose for over two hours. There was also my very own version of Disney’s “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” when I attempted to change the water cooler outside the dining room. Unaware of the weight, the tank fell from my hands, cracked, and suddenly Fred was greeted with a river of water during a business meeting with Japanese clients. “Fraser,” he yelled. “Is that you?” He actually laughed. Whatever the circumstances, it tended to be active at the studio.
Not that it was dull at Interview. However, under Shelley’s reign, it became ordered and controlled. Before joining Condé Nast’s H&G magazine, she had earned her stripes at The New York Review of Books, where she assisted Barbara Epstein and Bob Silvers, renowned for their exacting standards. Such an attitude was certainly new for Interview, which, to quote Bob Colacello, had prided itself on its “Yes, we’re deeply superficial” stance and way of being “serious but so undone.” During Gael Love’s reign at Interview, I’d seen her and Marc Balet, her art director, going over the proofs of an issue. Essentially, they were correcting pages, but it didn’t stop either of them from eating chocolate-covered Häagen-Dazs ice creams as they did so. A splat of ice cream or chocolate and the page would have been ruined.
Such behavior would have shocked Shelley to the core. She was admired for her conscientious ways, and certain writers were so in awe of her they nicknamed themselves “Wanger’s Rangers.” No demand was too much, and since Shelley worked grueling hours, everyone followed suit. Sometimes her art director, Angelo Savaides, took it a little far. For his first issue, he actually slept in the office. Still, Shelley’s work ethic was steely and strong. Since Interview was a small magazine, it was family-like. On the upside, there was coziness, a united front and sense of belonging. On the downside, there was role-playing and dynamics: winning Shelley’s attention versus losing it. Occasionally, it was high school–like, but that didn’t stop me from joining in. Jeffrey Slonim was a quiet riot to fool around with. He was convinced that, because of her thick reading glasses, Shelley was really a spy. “Spy for who, Jeffrey?” I would say, but he was off imagining her in cloak and guise. Meanwhile, I had a powerful fast track via the Lady Cosima Vane-Tempest-Stewart, a post-Andy English Muffin hired by Fred, who had become Shelley’s assistant.
I began working for Kevin Sessums, one of the magazine’s top interviewers. Just as Shelley became a professional mentor, so did Kevin, although he managed to double as a life coach. Andy also had a weakness for the “Mississippi Sissy”—Kevin’s self-invented nickname and the title of his first autobiography. A former actor, he became a downtown Errol Flynn–style heartthrob when appearing nude in Equus. He had also worked in Paramount’s press department, where, true to form, he dared to tell Eddie Murphy, the studio’s box-office superstar, not to wear outfits showing his chest hair.
An “in ya face” outsider, Kevin was the first militant gay I ever met. Refusing to sport the then preppy uniform of most gays, he wore snug T-shirts, tight jeans, and biker boots. Since he had a well-toned body and a lovely shaved head à la Yul Brynner, he got away with it. There was also the wit. I remember asking if John Travolta was gay. “I don’t know about him, honey, but his boyfriend is,” Kevin said. True, Shelley hired me. However, Kevin was the first person to edit my copy and give confidence. He was also the first person to talk about gay rights, the need for the right to marry, and the Reagan administration’s cowardly attitude toward AIDS.
Fun was to be had via staff meetings. We would all squeeze into Shelley’s teeny office and suggest title headings. Much as I enjoyed the sessions, a lot of gossip was shared and the behavior could turn quite raucous. My contributions frequently missed. I was reminded of playing Scrabble during my childhood. The only time I scored was regarding an interview with Gore Vidal. I piped up with “the chore of being Gore” and it actually made the magazine.
As a consequence of the small staff and lack of funds, I was allowed to interview and write about young, upcoming stars like Julie Delpy, Christian Slater, and Patricia Arquette, who appeared in the front pages of the magazine. Despite the shortness of prose (read: extended caption), I took my research extremely seriously. Alas, this was absolutely the wrong technique. It led to long, overcomplicated questions on my part and a stunned silence or even “Huh?” from Patricia Arquette. Fortunately, the stunning photographs by Paul Jasmin and others made up for my occasionally dotty copy.
With so much new added seriousness in the magazine—for example, Germaine Greer interviewing Federico Fellini—Shelley decided some froth was needed. Both she and Mark Jacobson, the features editor, noticed that I was never off the telephone and was always off to a madcap cocktail party for an eccentric WASP or on my way to Nell’s for dinner or to stay with the film director Michael Austin at his house in Shelter Island, where a weekend party might consist of the actor Ian McKellen and the writer James Fox. With that in mind, I was given a monthly social column. Called “Anglofile,” it began in format as a personalized letter to my mother—the embarrassment, and naturally “Dear Mum” was delighted—but then, after six months, became a standard roundup of events.
At first, I was thrilled. Styled by Lisa Wolford, Interview’s junior fashion assistant, I was photographed by Chip Simons at Twin Donuts with an old-fashioned typewriter in front of me. Wearing a Donna Karan black dress with satin lapels and flaunting a large diamanté cuff by James Arpad from Beverly Hills, I felt extremely glamorous. Fame at last, I thought. But then I soon realized that hip people found my column rather lame. Make that extremely lame. So in characteristic fashion, I wavered between thinking this was wildly funny—a kind of “Yeah boo, sucks to you”—and wondering if I was a total loser.
For a brief moment, I thought about joining Lorne Michaels at Saturday Night Live. “The Lorne”—my cheeky term—had professionally pursued me and The Lorne could probably professionally tempt a nun. But ultimately the setup didn’t appeal: an assistant to an assistant, with my ego? After several meetings, negotiations fizzled out. Still, to experience The Lorne was to experience the smoothest of operators, with his apartment on the Upper West Side, country pad in Amagansett, private box at Yankee Stadium. His list of intimates included Paul (as in Paul Simon), Mike (as in Mike Nichols), Jack (as in Jack Nicholson), Mick . . . as well as his kingdom at NBC. Several times, the Canadian-born Michaels said how bored he’d been as a child, staring at the same piece of road. I wondered if a change of circumstances and a dull childhood would have led to my ruling the world with an Upper West Side apartment and so forth. But seriously doubted it.
After a few months, my “Anglofile” column improved in pace and tone. According to readers’ complaints, it needed to. Having been long on commentary and heavy with anecdote, it became more hard-hitting and easier to digest. Yet, flawed as the early columns were, they captured New York at a certain moment. A birthday party for Duran Duran’s Nick Rhodes at MK, Eric Goode’s new nightclub; a book signing at Scribner’s for Elia Kazan and A Life, his autobiography; the outrageous last-Thursday-of-the-month soirées organized by Susanne Bartsch at the Copacabana; the launch of Cher’s fragrance Uninhibited at the Plaza Hotel; the opening of Comme des Garçons’ shirt boutique on West Broadway; the Fête de Famille benefit held outside Mortimer’s; and the reopening of Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager’s Royalton Hotel, coinciding with the publication of Fred Astaire: His Friends Talk, compiled by Vanity Fair’s Sarah Giles.
Fitting for living my adventures in Warhol Land, a series of male admirers were in and out of my life at that moment. Mick Jagger would call from France and Japan. Pleasant until I heard that Jerry Hall was seeing a Scottish lord. Then I wondered if Mick wasn’t trying to get his own back. He, on the other hand, was going through his brief “Elephant Man” stage.
Having always been “relax max” about being recognized, suddenly Mick’s famous features were swaddled in scarves and he was playing mysterious and incognito. Apparently, this odd behavior was due to the disappointment of his second solo album, Primitive Cool, which had scored only in Japan. In my usual frank fashion, I did try to say, “What’s with the scarves, Mick?” but he didn’t really answer. Poor Mick, it must have been awful.
According to Bob Colacello, “Andy liked Mick but also thought he was incredibly cheap.” I never found that. I wonder if he and others weren’t threatened by the fact that Mick, away from the strobe lights, was relatively well balanced. His knowledge of music was also unbelievable. I was going through a jazz period and he always recognized Thelonious Monk or whoever else was playing at my home.
Malcolm McLaren returned, and surprised by claiming undying love. It had been the idea of Menno Meyjes, the screenwriter, that he should just be honest and voice his passion. There was also an Irish film director who was buzzing around. The gesture was more manipulative than attractive and it was fortunate that nothing happened. A successful journalist from Rolling Stone would have been more fun, but he was even more neurotic than I was. There was also Ramin—my platonic Iranian admirer—who had once telephoned Interview asking to speak to “sexy baby.” The magazine’s relatively green receptionist called out, “Sexy baby, sexy baby, who here goes by the name of sexy baby?”
And then there was the German-born and exquisite Nana, who’d fallen in love with my photograph published in Quest magazine and was convinced that I secretly lusted after women. On our one date we went to see the performance of her great friend Sandra Bernhard, the outrageous comedian who was the famous lesbian of the 1980s.
After Sandra’s performance, we gathered at the Gold Bar, a place downtown where I was clearly the heartthrob of the night, since I was encircled by twenty women spearheaded by Sandra and Nana. A strange but not unpleasant experience. Just when I was thinking, “Thank God no one I know . . .” I heard the voice of Michael Austin—a dear friend but aka Radio Austin. “Darling, is that you?” he began. “And is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
Meanwhile, the son of a famous novelist became one of those permanent “Should I or shouldn’t I go there?” We met in the best Andy way possible—at a children’s party in the Dakota given by the granddaughter of a Warhol collector. After being introduced, he asked if I was a ballet dancer. Talk about a terrific pickup line. Actually, I was smitten, finding him both good-looking and intriguing. The problem was that, despite his claiming to have my number by his bed, he was the master of the disappearance act. If it was Nicaragua one minute, it was Nantucket the next, but just not Natasha.
With my unqualified magnet for fellow freaks and commitment-phobes, I was destined to attend all of my Interview column events alone, until one fateful spring evening in 1988. Wandering into the host’s kitchen, I found Richard Edwards, who was “sooo bored” that he was doing the washing up. Since he was chirpy with an infectious laugh, I quickly joined his side. And that was the beginning of the Nat and Dickie friendship.
Although he was a high-powered British-born lawyer from Herbert Smith, one of London’s top legal firms, Richard accompanied me checking out the latest diamond setting from Israel, attending a Sade concert at Madison Square Garden, and chanting a mantra with Richard Gere at a Tibet House benefit. An ideal companion, the Cambridge-educated Richard chatted everyone up—he pushed me onto Sean Lennon at Mapplethorpe’s Whitney exhibition and encouraged me to photograph Jasper Johns for my column.
After a few months, I began to add Richard’s name to the roll call of VIPs, which included Lorne Michaels, Calvin and Kelly Klein, and Barry Diller. Occasionally, Shelley would ask, “Who exactly is Richard Edwards?” and my response ranged from “a dear friend” to “someone who’s going to be deeply important.” (Richard is now the power behind the Baldwin Gallery and the Caribou Club in Aspen.) Both worked with Shelley. She was pretty tolerant.
Shelley also protected me from the wrath of Paige Powell. From a distance, no one was prettier. Each morning, she’d arrive at the office with her Dalmatian, whose black spots on white seemed to set off her enviably straight hair and bangs and colorful outfit by Steven Sprouse or other downtown designer.
I did notice that Fred had little time for Rage Bowel, and remembered how he’d groan about her lack of sophistication, and her self-importance, pushiness, and greed, mentioning that it was all starting to “grate on Andy’s nerves too.” Even Wilfredo Rosado, Paige’s friend, sensed that her relationship with the artist “was like an obsession. She felt like his wife!” says the jeweler. According to Vincent, “Paige went a little nuts. She was going to have a child by Andy.” Warhol’s diaries mention Tama Janowitz being in cahoots with the idea. His attitude being “What’s wrong with them? Can’t they see they’re barking at the wrong tree?” Professionally, Paige had also stepped on Vincent’s toes. “When I was doing the MTV programs, Paige could sabotage the shooting lineup,” he says. “We were working for the same organization.”
But that often happens with members of an erstwhile family: people behave bizarrely and not everyone can get along. So I was rather flattered that Paige liked my British accent, presumably thought advertisers might agree, and invited me to the occasional business lunch with her. During our halcyon days, she even arranged a discount on my pair of navy Belgian shoes. Then it was obvious that I talked too much, wasn’t scared of voicing my political opinions, and was quite happy to order dessert when no one else did. Whoops! So the lunches stopped, my column began, and then Paige organized an Interview party and invited only a few people from the magazine. I thought it was unfair—very unlike Andy Warhol in behavior (only to be corrected by Kevin Sessums that “it was oh so like Andy!”)—and called Paige to air my grievances. Suddenly her voice changed from passive Paige who articulated every word like a creaky old granny to a New York harpy. “Fuck off,” she snapped. Finally, I thought.
Somewhat miffed, Paige tried to take her revenge by getting me to handwrite all the invites for her future events. Her argument being that I was an assistant, after all. When the stack of invites increased to several hundred and dear Paige accused me of having “fucking attitude,” Shelley managed to intervene. With her habitual calm, she then declared, “Oh dear, she [Paige] has gone off her head.” And so my adventures in Warhol Land via Interview continued.