9/20/23
Newsletter #464
The Crack of Dawn
As I chronicled in a number of earlier newsletters, my best L.A. buddy and moviegoing pal was my late friend, Rick Sandford. His long-time moviegoing buddy was Don Bachardy, who painted the portrait of me that I use on this newsletter. Don Bachardy was lovers with the famous British writer, Christopher Isherwood, who would, on occasion, attend the movies with us. For those who missed the earlier newsletters, Don Bachardy is a world-famous painter whose work is the Museum of Modern Art. He painted Jerry Brown’s official portrait as the Governor of California, which I know he doesn’t like so I won’t post it. He’s painted or drawn every movie star of the 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s. But it’s all copyright material, I won’t just take it (even though if you put his name in Google is all comes up).
Here’s how it worked back then. Rick went to the movies every single day, come rain or shine or famine or firestorm. He treated going to the movies like it was dialysis. He would call me the first thing every morning – having already read Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and the entertainment section of the LA Times – and would first tell me which old movie star had died. His theory, which time has proven true, is that if he informed me of, oh, let’s say, Joan Crawford’s demise (which he did), then any time I think of Joan Crawford I must automatically think of him. And I do. So, Rick would then inform me of which movies he was seeing that day and I was invited to join him. He never asked me what I wanted to see. I could either join him or not, but which movies were being seen was not under discussion. Rick would also invite Don, who would accompany us perhaps once a month. If the movie was really special – like, for instance, the annual screening of the nitrate print of Black Narcissus (1946) at the LA County Museum – Chris would come along, which was maybe three or four times a year. Chris was already about 80, so going anywhere was a big deal.
When I was in L.A. last winter I contacted Don, who is 88 years old (he’s probably 89 by now). He lives alone in the house where he and Chris lived for 40 years. Chris bought the house in the 1940s, and it’s astounding. There are very few like it. It’s located directly on the border of Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades, a few blocks from the ocean and completely and totally hidden. Even with the address and GPS it was difficult to find, and I’d been there a number of times before. But when you do find it, and it’s not very big or even the slightest bit opulent, it just happens to be one of the best locations in all of Los Angeles, with perhaps a 250-degree view of the ocean. The bedroom faces west, is entirely made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, and sort of gives you the impression that you’re floating above the ocean. The light in the room is so incredible that it’s where Don paints and draws his subjects.
He has painted three portraits of me. They were all created on November 27, 1994, in three, 2-hour sessions. Don only paints live people. He has the subject sign and date the portrait. I never really thought about it until right now, but I think he does that as though the signer is vouching for actually being there. In any case, he’s painted or drawn most every movie star in Hollywood, and they had to sit for him. His drawings of Bette Davis, Jack Nicholson, Fred Astaire, and everybody else, are amazing.
But here’s the thing: first he seats you very comfortably in his bedroom on an easy chair. This is the bedroom that seems like it’s floating over the ocean. Then, he sets up his easel right next to you — I mean, a foot away — which seems reasonable enough. Then he seats himself between you and the easel, facing in the opposite direction. Then, he puts his face one inch from yours and begins painting on the easel beside him. It’s extremely intimate. He’s so goddam serious it hurts. Each portrait took two hours. You’re theoretically not supposed to move it all. After three portraits I fell over and went right to sleep, like I had been lifting boxes for six hours. It was an intense, exceptionally worthwhile, experience. But it was hard, and it was also 30 years ago.
So, when I was in L.A. last winter, I called Don. He only has a hard line, and it’s the same phone number he’s always had, forever, and he answered in one ring. We immediately had a problem — his TV was way too loud, and he couldn’t hear the phone. He said in his distinctively weird voice, “Who is this? I’m eighty-eight years old, you know.” I repeated several times that I was Rick Sandford’s friend, but it was all too much for him to handle and he hung up. He might have collapsed, but I’m pretty sure he just hung up.
In any case, at about 8:00 the next morning I went over to his house. I took pictures going down the hidden pathway to Don’s wild house, and I don’t want to in any way give away his exact location, except that even with explicit instructions it’s always been impossible to find. Anyway, here’s a view from the walkway leading to his house.
When you get to the house, you can’t really see it. The front door is in the side of the house. The front of the house is fully exposed but affixed to the side of a cliff. The bedroom of the house is twenty feet above where this photograph was taken, and its view of the ocean is unobstructed.
Anyway, Don answered the door in his bathrobe, but very much awake as I knew he would be — we both get up early. I hadn’t seen him in over 20 years – for him from 68 to 88, which are, let’s face it, crucial years – but it was still Don Bacardy, just an incredibly old Don who didn’t have a clue who I was. I explained clearly that I was Rick Sandford’s friend, using his name over and over. Apparently, that rang a bell, and since he’s a gentlemen who wouldn’t just leave me standing in the doorway, he invited me in for coffee.
Don’s and my meeting and conversation was the point and what set this story in motion in my head, and alas, it’s taken me a thousand words to just get there.
To quote Scarlett O’Hara, “As God is my witness, I shall never be hungry again!”