I felt lost, but as luck would have it I was able to secure a position at the Australian Mission to the UN where I worked as a secretary, answering phone calls for the Ambassador, who was constantly drunk.
I thought it was a disgrace.
Calls would come in and I would find him collapsed on the toilet. I knew my time would be limited there. It had to be. I was looking for a mentor, some guiding factor that would help me stay on course.
At first, the city was scary, but once I got in sync with the rhythm and energy of the place I was able to handle its demands. It’s never a happy time when you’re broke and living in New York City. I lived in a studio apartment on 33rd and 2nd. The place was so small it gave me nightmares. But in my mind I lived in a villa and knew my hovel was only a temporary residence.
I told my parents that I was only going away for three weeks, and now it was a year later and my mother was pretty much beside herself. My father was running out of excuses for my absence, and so the rumors began.
“He is probably over there doing drugs and whoring around. Why else wouldn’t he be back here where he belongs?”
“He’s a cab driver, what else do these poor actors do?”
Well, I was living in New York where at times I could only afford an apple for dinner or a tin of ravioli. I would save for three months to buy a new shirt. I thought of my family often, how could I not? I missed the Australian meat pie, the aroma of my mother’s sweets and the earthiness of Greek peasant cooking—including calf’s brain with capers. When I would find Greek delicacies, not easy to come by, they were too expensive. Not on my piece-of-fruit-for-dinner budget. But in my head I was living a bigger life. And every once in a while I got a glimpse of New York grandeur.
One evening I was invited to an exclusive and expensive social gathering. A contact from Australia had suggested that I call upon some friends of his from Scotland, experts in ancient art. He thought we’d have something in common. I hesitated at first because of my shyness. But I was lonely. So I forced myself to make the call. I could not afford to buy even the smallest gift for the hostess. A tin of ravioli is not exactly New York chic no matter how you dress it up. And I hated the thought of showing up empty-handed (a nod to my Greek upbringing), so I strolled over to Park Avenue and cut some tulips that were growing along the center of the avenue. A perfectly normal thing to do, right? I looked upon it as my own garden and selected a dozen pristine white blooms, carefully wrapped them in newspaper and carried them to the cocktail party.
The hostess purred with gratitude and asked where I found such a striking bouquet.
“Oh, over on Park Avenue.”
I’m not certain if she was amused or appalled, but assuming she was amused, it was a great lesson on how to charm New York elite with just pennies in your pocket.
And what a great night that was.
During the evening I was introduced to an art dealer by the name of James Goldie, an expert in the field of Chinese and English 18th-century art. His business partner was Robert Ellsworth, at the time America’s leading expert in Southeast Asian sculpture.
Perhaps due to my accent and fairly vast knowledge of English history, James offered me a job as an apprentice in their gallery at seventy-five dollars a week. I accepted and gladly left the Australian Mission.
Ellsworth would have me read chapters upon chapters on the incoming inventory daily in order to make myself very familiar with their collection. Museums and private collectors were their clientele—and by appointment only.
I loved walking through the gallery and sitting upon the only 18th-century Queen Anne sofas in the United States. The gallery housed the best collection of Southeast Asian sculpture in America. I was surrounded by works of exemplary beauty and enjoyed immersing my mind into the books and art in order to gain more knowledge.
Claudette, Andy and Jackie
It was the end of my first year at Ellsworth and Goldie when just before lunch Ellsworth escorted the wonderful Claudette Colbert into the gallery. She was the first “star” I ever met. She must have been in her mid-60s at the time.
Growing up in Australia I watched Miss Colbert in many of her movies. She was graceful without any attitude, unlike Ellsworth who always had his nose stuck in the air.
After I stood to meet her, she smiled to Ellsworth and said, “Oh, Robert, please bring Thaao to lunch with us … he is so pretty.”
Ellsworth quickly dismissed the idea, saying I was needed to hold court in the gallery since his partner Goldie was out of town. Disappointed, I reluctantly bowed out but only after telling her, “It would have been a pleasure.”
After they left I noticed a shoebox that Miss Colbert had left behind, and seized both the shoebox and the opportunity to be in her magnetic presence once again. I closed up the shop and hurried to the French restaurant down the street. As I walked in I caught the eye of Ellsworth, who was staring at me furiously. He didn’t stand up. He rarely did. He loved every throne he ever sat in.
He immediately demanded, “What are you doing here? And who’s minding the shop?”
I ignored him, turned to Miss Colbert and said, “Madam, you forgot this and I thought it might be important.”
She unleashed a big smile and said, “Oh, Robert, he is so sweet, let him stay for lunch.”
A pointed “No!” was his definitive response. No room for negotiation.
Disappointed yet again, I left to guard the shop. I called my family to share the story of meeting a Hollywood legend. I felt it was a sign I was on my way. Everyone was genuinely enthused to hear of my brush with Miss Colbert, but the dominating question remained: When would I come home?
“Soon, soon,” I replied as always, appeasing them with shallow words, though my intentions were to stay in America and find my way. Somehow.
As I hung up the phone I noted a lanky pale figure checking his reflection in the glass window. He retrieved a comb and began to straighten his wayward but brilliant white locks. He stared into the window’s exterior and couldn’t see me inside because of the afternoon sun. I suddenly realized it was artist and filmmaker Andy Warhol. I wished I’d had a film camera on me as I observed this unique artist having a private moment of vanity. Or was it insecurity? Satisfied that everything was in place, he disappeared. Warhol was known for outlandish creativity and doing things his way. Was this a sign to forge ahead with my own alleged destiny? Or simply a glimpse into the life of a man whose shock of hair was a victim of a windy New York afternoon? And then a sinking thought crossed my mind: Could it be that I would always be on the inside looking out?
Sitting despondently at my desk, a knock on the door brought me out of my self-imposed stupor. As all visits were scheduled in advance, I rose to turn away whoever was interrupting my melancholy reflections.
I opened the door to say, “Sorry, appointments only,” and was astonished to see American history standing before me: An elegant Jacqueline Kennedy was apologizing for showing up without an appointment. I was elated but kept my composure. She told her two bodyguards to remain outside while she explored the gallery. I asked her if she would like some tea, and surprisingly she graciously accepted.
I quickly called upstairs to Masahiro, the Japanese houseman, and instructed him to make tea for a special guest.
He laughed and scoffed, “You joking. Apprentice like you not order such a thing, and with Ellsworth’s best silver? You crazy?”
As Mrs. Kennedy walked past the elevator, the door suddenly opened, revealing Masahiro standing in shorts. When he saw her he gasped, “Oh, my God,” placed his hands over his mouth and repeatedly bowed in apology. The doors closed as I escorted our distinguished guest to the back of the gallery to a room three stories high filled with the best private collection of Southeast Asian sculpture in the world.
The ceiling was made of glass and was designed to reflect the changing light of the New York skyline. It was still grey outside, making the large studio seem like a tomb. It was all meticulously lit by El
lsworth, who had a brilliant eye. Every piece told a story. Arrogant as he was, the man had phenomenal taste and was a greatly respected expert in his field.
Mrs. Kennedy sat in her element, coaxing me to tell her the origins of the ancient pieces. Masahiro brought a lavish tray filled with afternoon delights and tea. He must have raided the safe. Dressed in his proper costume along with his cool Asian manner, he poured the tea. As he was leaving he looked my way with scorn and envy as if to say, You lucky bastard.
I spent an hour with Jacqueline Kennedy. The knowledge I accumulated under Ellsworth’s direction was priceless. I told her that the Chinese always believed that the spirit of the artist was with their creation forever. That was something I had picked up from him during the “seduction” of a potential buyer. They were rare pieces from Vietnam, China and Japan dating from the Han period of the 2nd century BC to the Ming Dynasty in the 16th century AD.
As I joined her for tea, she inquired about my Greek heritage. I expounded upon the subject and spoke passionately about the culture from which I had escaped. She appeared to be really interested, an eager student of life.
She was beautifully dressed with that famous pillbox hat and possessed a truly sophisticated manner. It was easy to see why she had been a First Lady and was so greatly admired by her country. Our exchange took place in only one hour, but the timing was extraordinary, and it furthered my belief that I hadn’t made a mistake coming to New York. For the first time, I had a sense of success because I no longer felt like that Greek immigrant from Australia looking for the right path.
When Robert Ellsworth returned from lunch alone, he asked me if anyone important had called or come in.
“Yes, Jacqueline Kennedy,” I said, beaming.
He kept walking up the stairs, mocking me. “Sure, sure, sure.”
That day went along quietly until Ellsworth called me up to his office to tell me that the purpose of Miss Colbert’s visit was the need to duplicate two paintings, an Utrillo and a Monet. He said that the humidity in her Barbados home was beginning to damage her art. Over the next month I would watch both paintings come to life, and to the naked eye you could not tell the difference. The fakes were amazing. The originals were sold off at Christie’s and the fakes hung in her home, and no one knew until her death when her estate claimed them as the forgeries that they were.
Meanwhile, a call came in from Jacqueline Kennedy, interested in a head sculpture from China that I had shown her. To Ellsworth’s surprise—and dismay—she was only interested in speaking with me. He bantered on about who he was and how he was more equipped to handle the transaction. The former First Lady insisted on talking to the apprentice. And only the apprentice. His ego badly bruised, Ellsworth handed me the phone with contempt. I had my first sale.
Three weeks later Jacqueline Kennedy married Aristotle Onassis. The joke among my family and friends was that she had to meet up with another Greek to make up her mind to marry the shipping tycoon.
My time with Ellsworth and Goldie was ultimately cut short because soon after that spectacular first sale they announced the breakup of their partnership. I was sorry to hear that news, as up to that point it was the greatest piece of education I’d ever had. The knowledge imparted by Ellsworth still resonates with me today.
Goldie died a number of years ago, but Ellsworth is in his 80s and wheelchair-bound. The last thing I heard was that his great art collection was to be auctioned off at Christie’s.
Redford, Gielgud and Evans
I was blessed to have had those experiences in art and antiques and to learn as much as I did. But I wondered where the acting career was that Dykshoorn had predicted. I was determined to stay in the States and found my next employer—working with the renowned men’s fashion designer Roland Meledandri. He had a stellar reputation for quality, and his sophisticated shop on 56th Street in Manhattan was a gathering place for the art and entertainment world in the ’60s and ’70s.
I was in my twenties when we met, and Roland offered me a job on the spot. He liked the way I dressed and the way I sounded. He said I was ideal for the atmosphere he created. So I accepted and soon found myself working with producers and actors and, once again, New York’s elite.
Meledandri had a reputation for being very high-strung. He was known to break coat hangers in fits of rage. Our relationship had a great connection based on trust, and after a short time he gave me permission to work the register, a big deal in the Meledandri world as he was preternaturally distrusting.
Ralph Lauren had worked for him, and they began to form a partnership designing ties, but that failed when the Polo label was established and Ralph Lauren went on to become the legend he is today. I believe Roland was bitter. And that seed planted his inability to trust.
One time a regular customer came in to pick up a $3,000 suit, and two days later he returned, seething. I was the one who had given him his final fitting, and when I questioned him about the alleged issue with the suit, the customer flew into a rage. I knew that no finished product ever left the premises short of perfection. That was Roland’s style, and here his work and integrity were being questioned.
The customer stood in front of the mirror criticizing the tailoring. It suddenly occurred to me that he had gone elsewhere, had had it altered, and come back to ridicule Roland in front of his customers. I whispered my assumption in Roland’s ear. He just stared at me in shock that someone would do this.
I noticed that when the customer went to change he had taken some shirts and a briefcase in with him. When he came out in a huff I suspected he was also a thief as the merchandise was no longer in the dressing room. I unlocked his case when he wasn’t looking. He argued with Roland about never coming back, and as he lifted his case to leave, three shirts and a sweater fell out. Roland quietly told him to leave. The other customers were in shock, while the red-faced thief exited. I was embraced for revealing the truth.
One day Robert Evans, the outspoken head of Paramount Studios at the time, came in for a fitting. He had the most feminine walk I had ever seen. He would sashay in with great attitude. With the tailor present, and while gazing in the mirror, the legendary spoiled kid from Brooklyn proceeded to rip off the temporary sleeves. He said the tailoring was an insult to his eye. Evans threw what was left of the jacket on the floor and walked out.
Roland was at lunch when this drama occurred, and when he returned told me pointedly that because it took place under my watch I had to make it right. Nervously, I called the producer’s office. I hadn’t even started in the entertainment business and now I was in trouble with the head of Paramount Studios.
So I went for the truth and explained, “Robert, it’s just a suit; it’s not as if it’s as significant as the great movies that you have produced. Come in and we’ll have a private session with the tailor, and I give you my word you’ll walk out of here with perfection.”
He was convinced. I now realize that that training helped me deal with those ego-based tyrants who lord over the entertainment industry. Some you like, some you don’t. I appreciated Evans—he was a perfectionist and made some of the most brilliant films of the ’70s, including The Godfather and Chinatown. He came in aloof, but when he left, Evans was his charming self—and so was Roland.
Robert Redford was also a regular customer. His production office was conveniently located above us. He would walk in with a cold attitude and ask if Roland was in. On three occasions my reply was “No, but …” and Redford would walk out without further response. I didn’t find him to be the warmest individual, but then again he was an important star who had no time for small talk.
After getting advice from Roland I deployed a different tactic the next time Redford stepped halfway in.
“Oh, Mr. Redford, a beautiful suit just came in, and Mr. Meledandri insists that you try it on.”
He paused and then asked if anyone else was on the premises. I said no, then locked the door behind him, which he seemed to appreciate. Redford had great style an
d a wonderful talent. He was just not an easy person to approach, and that was okay with me.
I was twenty-six at the time and my head kept screaming Fuck, it’s Robert Redford!
I appeared calm, keeping my excitement at bay. I pulled out a brown velvet suit with ivory buttons that made my idol smile. He tried on the jacket that complemented his fair complexion perfectly. The usual routine was to slide your hands down the sides of the suit to give the feel of Meledandri’s fine cut. High-cut armpits and a button placed right on the stomach gave the client the illusion of being taller while cutting down on any protruding shape. That was his genius.
But as I touched the sides of Redford I came across a pair of love handles and swiftly said, “If you want to wear this, you must lose all this.” I grabbed his excess.
At that moment his mouth dropped open, as did mine for my unbelievable audacity.
Such a mouth, I thought.
He stared back at me, and after the initial shock dissipated, he flashed that spectacular Redford smile and said “You’re absolutely right,” and then broke into a laugh.
I remained a fan ever since, and happily for me Redford bought the suit. Ten years later at La Scala in Beverly Hills I spotted him sitting with Paul Newman. What a sight, to see the two of them together. La Scala was no stranger to Hollywood wattage, but this pairing was the mother lode. As they were leaving, Redford stopped by my table to say hello. My friends from Australia slipped into shock. “You know Robert Redford?”
“Yes, I do, but it’s a long story.”
One rainy morning Lillian Gish, the great silent screen star, came in to buy a gift for one of her dearest friends. She described him as a tall slim actor, and together they would celebrate his birthday in the South of France. She eventually selected a lovely pale blue silk shirt that I recommended, and we had it wrapped beautifully.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 2
