ONE EVENING, Sole and a cousin of hers took us to the home of some English friends, an architect and an antiques dealer. The garden is very well tended, the swimming pool is a small oval affair, and the furnishings spartan. When we were at dinner and the atmosphere was relaxed, a young man who gave off a strong scent of rather spicy cologne started talking about sex, gambling, and homosexual friendships. At a certain point, a distinguished American lady alluded to Julian Sax and the conversation immediately switched to him. His turbulent past, moments of great debauchery, his vast brood of illegitimate children, his rebellious side, and his arrogance, were all subjects that triggered endless anecdotes. The English are puritanical, but they are mad about scandals and gossip. Sax’s model was Lord Byron. A great lover of horses, gambling, food, and women.
Sole’s cousin, at table with us, said:
“Every time she can, my mother lunches at Tony’s because she knows that Julian is there.”
“Does she know him?” asked the American lady.
“No, I don’t think she has ever spoken to him. My father is afraid of Sax. As a young man he frequented violent company, street thugs.”
José, a fellow who had said nothing until then, said:
“Julian is obsessed by museums, especially the museums of Madrid. Bacon had a passion for Madrid too. Besides, the pair of them were close companions for years, until Bacon broke with Sax and began running him down.”
Rossa said: “My husband is obsessed by Sax.”
José replied:
“He’s right, he’s a very special man. My friend lived for years near to Sax’s place. He knew his model.”
“Who? The black lawyer whose portrait he painted?” I asked curiously, aware that Sole would give me one of her ironic looks.
“No, another woman. Sax’s latest pictures are on show at the Wallace Collection and the curator of the exhibition had lunch with him. A few hours later, he wrote her a letter asking if he could paint her portrait. At first, she thought it was a joke. When she understood that it was true, she had no time to sit for him. She takes her work really seriously and he expects his models to give him unlimited time.”
Rossa said: “She certainly missed a unique opportunity.”
“Would you like Sax to do your portrait?” asked José.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“What kind of man is Sax?” asked one of our hosts.
“An inverted snob” said José.
“In what sense?” asked Sole, suddenly attentive.
“For example, a few months ago, a friend of mine was sitting next to Sax in church during a service and, running a finger lightly over the material of his jacket, which seemed threadbare, he asked him: ‘Is this cashmere?’ and Sax replied: ‘Yes’, as if annoyed by an obvious question. Do you see what I mean? Inverted snobbery is wearing a cashmere jacket as if it were any old rag.”
From Provence I called a Scots friend, a literary agent who smokes a lot of cigarettes—Player’s Plain—and drinks a lot of whisky. He is a friend of Sax. I told him of my useless attempts to meet and interview him, and the fact that—for one reason or another—I couldn’t get the man out of my head. He suggested not to interview him, but to write a novel about him instead.
I could begin the story with his death: Great artist found murdered in his studio. The novel becomes an investigation. Readers always love crime stories. Years after, people are still wondering about Pasolini’s death. “Who killed Sax?” I could look into the world of gambling or visit his many lovers, his illegitimate children, looking for some perverse, secret story … But was it possible that a controversial artist, censured, rich, famous, and even hateful in a certain sense, could be killed by someone who envied him? If the novel were a detective story, I would have to create the police inspector, describe the inquiry, his friends, enemies, family, the scandal, the inheritance … I will begin the story with Sax’s murder in Holland Park. I have all I need: the victim, the crime scene and a line of investigation sufficient to make the plot a complex one. But what bothers me is the inspector. I don’t want to invent an inspector because, however you describe him, he and the killer become the main characters, whereas all I’m interested in is Sax. I am interested in the artist, not his death. I am interested only in Sax because I realise I envy him, I envy the security of a talent confirmed by critics, collectors and market prices all over the world. The great, recognised artist is perhaps the only man who does what he wants, lives as he wants, while his life becomes a legend. Perhaps I haven’t really admitted this even to myself, but I’d like my life to be a legend too. Besides, I have always felt indifferent towards people who are not extraordinary. My attention is not captured by success, but by someone’s originality. I feel irresistibly attracted to those who are unique, solitary and always able to be themselves in any circumstances. It’s not a question of heroes, but of people who choose to live their lives outside the canons of convention, without feeling that they are a part of the herd or protected by a social class or a political group. Certainly, if a person manages to make his mark and attain success while remaining entirely true to himself, then he has my admiration. And my envy too, unfortunately.