by Rupert Smith
But finally I was to meet my secretive lensman – and in the strangest circumstances. Larry, the barman from Rascals who had befriended me that first night, had introduced me to a members-only bath house over on West 18th St, the perfect place to freshen up after a hard night on the New York party circuit. I was relaxing in the steam room one evening, clad only in a towel, idly wondering where Larry had wandered off to, when suddenly I caught sight of a familiar face grinning in the doorway of my cubicle. For a second I didn’t recognize him – the absence of the leather jacket (of any clothes whatsoever, bar the skimpy strip of white cloth around his midriff) fooled me for a second. But then it clicked – the mop of curly, dark brown hair, the critical, quizzical gaze.
‘Mr Camera Man.’
‘Hey.’
‘So there are places where even you won’t take photographs, I see.’
‘Right. The steam fogs up my lenses. Too bad. You look pretty as a picture.’
‘But this one’s strictly for your eyes only,’ I jested.
When we emerged from the baths half an hour later, I had learned a lot about John Kinnell, photographer and native New Yorker. His fashion and celebrity portraiture had been seen in all the best titles – Vanity Fair, Vogue, New York Times. He was on intimate terms with the stars, the darling of the downtown party set. And moreover, he was completely and utterly besotted by me. ‘How old are you, man?’ he asked, staring up close at my face.
‘I’m in my twenties,’ I replied.
‘Cool. You look sixteen. That’s why they love you.’
Kinnell had a true artist’s eye, and had identified one of the key factors in my lasting appeal. I’ve always looked younger than my age; even when I first worked for Nick Nicholls, clients would slaver over the fact that I could easily pass for fourteen. What had been a curse in earlier life (I’d never forget the playground taunts of ‘Baby’ Young,’ ‘Young’ Young) had become a blessing in adulthood. Kinnell said I was like Dorian Grey. Did he think I had a portrait in my attic?
We walked to his studio, a ramshackle old meat warehouse down by the Hudson River. ‘I want you to come and see some pictures,’ he’d teased. It was the oldest line in the book. The huge room was empty, uncluttered (how different from Warhol’s Factory, that hive of busy little insects), brightly lit from the skylights and unfurnished save for a mattress on the floor where Kinnell slept. A stack of tripods, light stands and cables in one corner were the only clue to the occupant’s profession – until I looked at the far wall. There, stuck up all over the whitewashed brick surface, were dozens and dozens of beautiful black and white prints – all of me.
There was me on stage at Rascals that first night, my arms flung above my head, revealing my naked torso. There was me bleary-eyed at the bar, after one too many of Larry’s martinis, looking (as Kinnell put it) like a lost child. There was me walking in the park, attending a formal reception in black tie, dancing at a club. There was even one of me standing at a urinal, glancing over my shoulder (I vaguely remembered the sensation of being watched that night). And in the centre was a huge blow-up of my face, tightly cropped, the eyes half closed and the lips parted as if in ecstasy. I guessed that it had been taken during a performance, but without its context it looked exactly as if it had been snapped during the most intimate moment of a man’s life. The overall effect was shocking – and intensely exciting. I felt – I don’t know – violated ? Adored ? Did he care about me as a person ? Or was I just a shape in his viewfinder?
But there was something irresistible about Kinnell. He put down his camera, slipped an arm around my waist and kissed me on the lips. Before I had a chance to speak, he sat me down on his bed and tossed over a large, black leather-bound portfolio. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said, leaving me to peruse his scrapbook. Here were pages from all the top New York magazines, record sleeves, book jackets, portraits, still lives and even nudes – beautiful, tasteful, classic nudes, compared to the harshly-lit rubbish produced by some amateurs I could mention. I was impressed.
I was also confused. I’d let a man photograph me, caress me, even kiss me, without flinching. I couldn’t just shrug it off with a philosophical ‘When in Rome . . .’ There was more to it than that. I found John Kinnell powerfully attractive, that was the truth of the matter. It dawned on me with terrible, searing clarity. I desired him!
Poetic justice! All the coverage I’d received at home for my daring confession of bisexuality, the attention I’d always tolerated from homosexuals, the scandalous allegations that had been made about my relationship with Phyllis . . . all that had been lies, or at least distortions of the truth. But here I was, for the first time in my life, falling in love with a man. Yes, after less than an hour in his company, I was falling in love with John Kinnell. I saw the danger. This, after all, was a person I’d only just met. The pit opened up at my feet, and I jumped in willingly.
I leapt up from the bed, filled with a sudden energy – a piquant mixture of fear and elation. At that moment, Kinnell returned naked from the shower, his dark curls hanging damp and tousled round his face as he idly towelled himself. I threw myself on him and wrestled him to the ground. We made love right there beneath my giant portrait.
When I awoke in John’s embrace a few hours later, I had some serious thinking to do. I could feel my life literally splitting in two: there was the life back home, where I was not only Marc Lejeune, bisexual superstar, but also a family man, a husband to Anna and a son to my loving parents. Then there was the life right here in New York City, in this studio, in this man’s arms. More divided those two lives than the salty depths of the Atlantic Ocean.
For the rest of my stay – four all-too-short days – I was never out of John Kinnell’s company. We hardly left the studio, occasionally going for a walk in the park, for a picnic on Coney Island, or to visit the narrow little house in the Bronx where he’d grown up. I moved out of my Bleeker Street apartment and into the studio. I dropped my new friends, even dear Larry who’d been such a lifesaver when I arrived, friendless, in the city. I didn’t care that the phone was ringing with no one to answer it. Let them wait! I had more important things to do.
I was giddy with happiness! How far away they all seemed – Nick Nicholls, Pinky Stevens, Anna, Moska, Nutter . . . Even the memory of poor dead Phyllis and Janice no longer had power to move me. I was free of them all. But not for long. Even in the selfish daze of my first real happiness, I knew that I would soon be banished from Eden. I would have to return to London.
It came so cruelly soon, the morning of my departure. Kinnell drove me to the airport and kissed me goodbye right there at the check-in desk. ‘You’ll be back, lover,’ he growled, and was gone. I stood there watching him as tears clouded my eyes. Then I had to race off to the bathroom again.
The moment that Anna met me at Heathrow, I knew something was wrong. She was drawn, haggard. There was no warmth in her greeting. ‘Welcome back to England,’ said her shuttered, miserable face. ‘Welcome back to England,’ said the grey skies, the penetrating drizzle. My heart was in New York.
‘I’ve been trying to ring you for days, Marc. Where the hell have you been?’
‘In the studio.’ I wouldn’t lie.
‘There’s a problem.’
‘I thought there might be. What’s up?’
‘You’ll see. We’d better get home.’
I felt sick with apprehension. What fresh disaster had overtaken me ? What price was I going to have to pay for my few moments of happiness with John ?
We got ‘home’ – it was home no more for me – after an arduous hour in traffic. I put down my bags and breathed a sigh of relief. There was only one thing I was looking forward to: a proper English cup of tea.
‘I suppose you’d better sit down,’ said Anna. ‘Now try and stay cool.’ She thrust a magazine into my hands – a grubby little publication with the title Super Boys in wonky lettering above a picture of a grinning, naked youth.
‘What’s this ? A c
oming-home present ?’ Anna’s face was stern.
‘This is no joking matter, babe. You’d better take a closer look.’ I thought there was something familiar about the picture. It was me.
Nick Nicholls! I knew it before Anna told me a thing. Not satisfied with stealing half my earnings, now he was trying to exploit the mistakes I’d made in the past. My hands were sweating; the cheap newsprint came off all over my fingers. I flicked through Super Boys – the crudest, most unimaginative sort of filth. A couple of shots – the crudest of the lot – were of the unfortunate young man who had taken my place in Danish Blue and had now split with Nick (Anna told me) for a successful career in a popular television series.
It looked bad, very bad indeed. My immediate concern was not for myself, but for my parents. What if they had seen the magazine ? They couldn’t be expected to understand that a young artist will sometimes go too far to pursue his career. And what would the press make of it? Titillating bisexuality was all very well, the flash of a chest and a shapely backside in silver pants. But this kind of exhibition ? It didn’t matter that I’d been forced to pose for the pictures – practically raped, in fact. That’s not what came across.
My instinct was to go straight to Nick and ask him, man to man, to cease publication. Surely there was some spark of fellow feeling in him ? Couldn’t I appeal to his better nature ? If it was a matter of money, that could be arranged: there was enough in my account to buy all the prints and negatives, the entire Marc Lejeune archive, lock, stock and barrel. But, said Anna, it was already too late for that. She’d taken matters into her own hands, with disastrous consequences. After a telephone conversation which had quickly degenerated into a screaming match, she’d threatened Nick with ‘a visit’ from some of her friends in the Hell’s Angels movement. Nick countered by calling the police, who had ‘busted’ the house and found Anna in possession of a quarter ounce of marijuana. The time for civilized negotiations was long gone. Why hadn’t she consulted me before stumbling into this farcical mess ? Of course, it was my fault, said Anna: I hadn’t picked up the phone. All I could do was try to limit the damage.
I phoned my parents to assess, discreetly, whether word of Super Boys had reached them. I was going to suggest that they might like to take a holiday in the sun, a cheap package tour to Spain, for instance. But as soon as Mum picked up the phone I knew it was too late.
‘It arrived in the post, the filthy . . . thing . . .’ she sobbed. ‘Your dad looked at it, then he went funny . . . He couldn’t breathe. His face went purple. I was so scared, Marc . . . He’s in the hospital now. They don’t know what’s wrong with him. Please come home, lad. Please . . .’
I knew I had to go home, to nurse my parents after this terrible shock. But fame is an engine that needs feeding, and I just couldn’t find the time: I was booked in the studio the next day to record my album. How could my mother understand that I wasn’t master of my own destiny? I still believe that she resented me, resented my career, for the rest of her life. But Dad was out of hospital by the end of the week, recovering from a mild heart-attack. Those years of smoking and bad diet had finally caught up with him.
Recording my debut album Both Sides was a nightmare. I’d planned it all so carefully: the choice of songs, the personnel, even the artwork. But we were dogged by bad luck. The musicians were churlish and slapdash, influenced by the negative publicity that had followed the publication of Super Boys. We ran badly over budget (thanks to a lazy producer who couldn’t be bothered to turn up on time) and had to dispense with many of the elaborate musical ideas that would have made the album really special. And, I’m ashamed to say, my heart wasn’t in my performance. How could it be? I was worried to death about my father, and when I wasn’t thinking about him I was miles away – in a studio in New York, to be precise. The final humiliation came during the photo shoot for the cover. I’d ‘art directed’ it myself: I would appear with half my face unshaven, rugged and masculine; the other half would be smooth, fully made up, the hair blow-dried and teased. It was a beautiful idea (one that would be copied many times over the years) but I was working with idiots. The photographer was a fool, a cheap snapper foisted on me by the record company, and he kept up a stream of lewd banter throughout the shoot. ‘Come on love, how about a bit of tit ?’ he kept asking. I stormed out of the studio almost crying with rage. John, where were you ?
Although I was disappointed at the time, Both Sides has worn rather well. It’s a concept album, the first of its kind. Side one contains a handful of up-tempo pop numbers, standard boy-meets-girl stuff, plus the big hit single ‘Bi Bi Baby’. Side two is a slower, darker set, with lyrics hinting at homosexuality, drugs and death. It was the perfect expression of my artistic self, the two sides of my persona, and a witty reference to my dual sexuality If it had been packaged and polished as I had originally conceived it, Both Sides would now rank in the top ten rock albums of all time.
But this was a rush job, recorded and released within three months. Even before it came out, I was sick of it, sick of England, sick of my life at home. Since my return from New York, Anna had changed from a loving wife and a capable manager into a strident, demanding harpy, obsessed by money and utterly unconcerned about my personal problems. And that wasn’t all: I discovered to my horror that she had been unfaithful to me. Returning from the studio earlier than scheduled (the producer hadn’t shown up that day, and the musicians had all got drunk) I discovered her naked on our giant bed, in flagrante, with another woman. It was like a sick joke, a publicity gimmick that had come back to haunt me. And Anna didn’t even have the decency to hide what she was doing. ‘Care to join us, babe?’ she laughed, as her companion (a surprisingly attractive and feminine woman) lolled provocatively at her side. I slammed the door and left the house. How long had this been going on behind my back – in the house that 1 paid for with the sweat of my brow ? I felt disgusted and betrayed.
I had few friends left in London. When I tried to cheer myself up by getting a haircut at dear old Willy Frizz’s, I was curtly informed by Monsieur Frizz himself that there were no appointments available. It was no great loss: Willy had long since lost his cachet. New York stylists were infinitely superior.
I couldn’t wait to get back to Manhattan. The one thing that kept me sane during this horrible homecoming was the daily (or rather nightly) phonecall from John, who heedlessly ran up enormous bills telling me in graphic detail the treats that he had planned for me ‘once you get your ass back over here’. As my career had hit a sticky patch, his was taking off: a prestigious midtown gallery had offered him a one-man exhibition, in which he planned to show my portraits. There were my two lives in a nutshell. At home, photographs and photographers only brought me shame, disgrace and heartbreak. In New York, they brought me glory – and love. Can you wonder that I decided there and then to return to America, to make my home in the one place that I really felt at home ?
There was one more factor that hastened my decision to leave, something that I still find hard to talk about. Despite my pleadings, Nick had continued to publish more and more photographs, each set more damaging than the last. Who cared that some of the worst ones weren’t actually of me ? Nick would put my name on any old filth, and people believed him. (One of his most notorious photographs, showing a young boy doing something unspeakable with a banana, was widely assumed to be of me. In fact, it wasn’t; the face is partially obscured, and anyone who cares to look can see that the model’s teeth are jagged and uneven, unlike my famous ‘toothpaste’ smile.) It seemed that there was a new magazine every week, each tackier than the last, an endless string of smutty little titles – Young and Restless, Playboys, Hard Boys. And somehow each one found its way to my parents.
This constant campaign of terror finally took its toll. As I lay awake one night, still aglow from the two-hour conversation I’d just enjoyed with John, drifting into dreams of our life together in New York, the phone rang. It was two o‘clock in the morning. I reached out for t
he receiver, expecting to hear John’s silky voice teasing me with yet another sexy suggestion. ‘Hellooooo’ I crooned.
‘Marc?’ It was my mother’s voice.
‘ Mum ? What’s wrong?’
‘You’ve been on the phone for so long, Marc. I’ve been trying and trying. I’m so sorry . . .’
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘It’s your father, dear. He’s dead.’
Within two days, I was on a flight back to New York City – on a one-way ticket. I left everything and everyone behind me. I couldn’t even face my father’s funeral. Anna was furious and shocked, but was anybody thinking of my needs? For once in my life, I put the demands of others in second place, and did what I had to do for myself. It was a question of survival.
The euphoria I experienced when the plane took off was extraordinary. No more fear of flying: once I was airborne I felt the cares slipping away from me, and a sudden rush of excitement at the thought of what was waiting for me when I arrived. Throughout the last weeks, I’d been hanging on to just one thing, the only good thing in my life: my feelings for John. It took guts to turn my back on my career and my family in England, but I believed that nothing should stand in the way of love.
I dozed for much of the flight, enjoying happy dreams of how John would meet me at the airport, perhaps with a huge bunch of red roses (he loved these operatic gestures), whisk me into town and treat me to dinner, or simply take me back to the studio that would now be my – our – home. Time flew. The anticipation was delicious.
How I survived the tedious waiting in line at the immigration desk, the slow torture of baggage return, I don’t know. But finally I was free, with just a suitcase and two pieces of hand luggage – all that remained of my life in three bags. I rushed through the gate into the arrivals lounge, where a crowd of eager faces strained to see their loved ones. Any second now, he’d leap over the barriers and sweep me off my feet. I dawdled down the walkway listening for his ‘Hey!’ The smile was freezing on my face. He wasn’t there.
