High life
Off the wall
Taki
Athough I'm no longer speaking to Sotheby's after their shabby and unfair treatment of a Swiss lady friend of mine, I found myself in their main galleries last Sunday inspecting the art being auctioned for Russian Week. My father's favourite Russian painter, Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky — the Russki Turner, but for seascapes — was being exhibited, so I thought I'd have a look. As they say in Brooklyn, I shoulda stood in bed. Before I go on, a short background. I believe I inherited my addiction from my old man. He certainly suffered from it throughout his life — in fact it got worse as he got older — and it became obvious I was hooked on it the moment I came into some money at the age of 33. Dad's and my addiction has something to do with Christ- mas, but much more with alcohol. The moment he got drunk he would give things away, mostly paintings off his walls and precious icons. Mind you, only to friends and women.
In my case it was worse. Sixteen years ago I gave to Sebastian Taylor, an acquain- tance, a very good early Van Dongen, which now is the piece de resistance in his ritzy Knightsbridge flat. I was drunk and Sebastian was complaining about his lot and . . presto. To be fair, he rang me the next day and offered to give it back, but we Greeks have lots of false pride so I refused.
Things got worse after my daddy's death in 1989. In his will, he left me all his per- sonal belongings including all the art. Father was a serious collector of Byzantine icons and Aivazovskys, which meant there were enough to go round. The first one I gave away was the largest and best of the Russian artist. The good news is it went to my brother after I dined with him and downed a couple of bottles of Greek retsi- na. Then came the bad news. I entertained a couple of Russian ladies of the night up in my daddy's magnificent penthouse, and suddenly one of them began to cry. It was just after the Armenian earthquake and she was worried about her family. I was completely out of it, so off the wall came a small but beautiful Aivazovsky and into her waiting arms. She stopped blubbing although I almost started when I thought I recognised it on Sunday.
Where the icons are concerned, it was even worse. Some were given away like fris- bees to women, some coaxed from me by women. Others still given away to close friends. Christie's are also having an impor- tant icon sale this week, and the good news is I recognised none of my ex-ones. Need- less to say, I'm not complaining. I still have about ten Aivazovskys left, but, if I had to do it all over again, I think I'd change the recipients.
I use the past tense because I am now free from my addiction. The mother of my children put her foot down sometime last year and I went cold turkey. My art is stay- ing put even if Ava Gardner were to come down from heaven and make goo-goo eyes at a painting. I know it's not very Christ- masy to announce this now, but enough is enough. One should give books to one's friends, despite the fact that most of mine are illiterate. Kenneth Baker has just sent me his irreverent history in political car- toons of prime ministers, a real joy. It makes a very good Christmas present.
The other good news is that Princess Michael disapproves of the poor little Greek boy. She heard I was seated one away from her hubby at dinner last week and told a friend of mine that she would never have allowed him to go if she had known I'd be there. The reason I say it's good news is because had she not been against me all these years (mind you, with good reason; I've slaughtered her in print) imagine how few paintings I would have left. Knowing the lady's reputation, she would have even accepted my Damien Hirst. Just kidding. I'd rather dine with Princess Michael any day than own a Damien Hirst. To all Spectator readers, have a very happy Christmas.
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