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Ava Gardner #1
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multuous love affair with screen siren AVA GARDNER, according to a new tell-all book about the legendary star.
Sinatra, then 35, married 29-year-old Gardner in 1951, making her the second of his four wives.
Celebrity author Tom Santopietro details the crooner's alleged internal struggles in Sinatra in Hollywood, which hits bookstores this month (Nov08).
In the book, Santopietro claims Sinatra cut his wrists in friend Jimmy Van Heusen's New York apartment in 1953, the year the pair initially split.
A publishing source tells the National Enquirer, "The author reveals that Van Heusen's unexpected return saved the singer from bleeding to death."
He adds, "Sinatra's first attempt at suicide had occurred a year earlier after yet another debilitating fight with Ava. He inhaled gas from the kitchen stove in a different friend's apartment.
"The book also says Ava had two abortions while they were together - without consulting Frank, saying that a sane lifestyle necessary for raising children just wasn't possible with him. "
The couple divorced in 1957.
multuous love affair with screen siren AVA GARDNER, according to a new tell-all book about the legendary star.
Sinatra, then 35, married 29-year-old Gardner in 1951, making her the second of his four wives.
Celebrity author Tom Santopietro details the crooner's alleged internal struggles in Sinatra in Hollywood, which hits bookstores this month (Nov08).
In the book, Santopietro claims Sinatra cut his wrists in friend Jimmy Van Heusen's New York apartment in 1953, the year the pair initially split.
A publishing source tells the National Enquirer, "The author reveals that Van Heusen's unexpected return saved the singer from bleeding to death."
He adds, "Sinatra's first attempt at suicide had occurred a year earlier after yet another debilitating fight with Ava. He inhaled gas from the kitchen stove in a different friend's apartment.
"The book also says Ava had two abortions while they were together - without consulting Frank, saying that a sane lifestyle necessary for raising children just wasn't possible with him. "
The couple divorced in 1957.
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AVA GARDNER, who was renowned for her natural beauty, narrowly avoided undergoing plastic surgery thanks to a doctor in Britain.
The actress would have been one of the first A-list stars to have gone under the knife had she not sought out Archibald McIndoe, a pioneering plastic surgeon who achieved worldwide fame for his work on RAF pilots disfigured in the Second World War.
In The Reconstruction of Warriors, a newly published account of McIndoe’s work, Emily Mayhew describes how the actress visited McIndoe at his hospital for the RAF in East Grinstead, Sussex, after a riding accident. In 1957, Gardner had fallen from a horse in Spain and smashed her cheek on the ground. A large haematoma, or blood blister, grew on her cheekbone and she became worried that her screen career would be ruined. MGM, her studio, sent her to Los Angeles to see its plastic surgeon, who believed she should have surgery.
Gardner, concerned that she would be scarred, went to McIndoe for a second opinion because of his repute for saving the faces of burned pilots.
“I needed Archie McIndoe,” she said. “I knew that in comparison to what was going on with those badly burned pilots, my little injury was of almost no consequence. But Archie was a man of enormous compassion and understanding.”
McIndoe said that with patience the swelling would subside of its own accord, which it did. The actress remained self-conscious, however, until McIndoe persuaded her to take part in the hospital’s annual fête, to which he invited press photographers.
McIndoe told Gardner: “I turned the press on you deliberately. I rang every newpaper editor in London and said, ‘You can come down to my fair and photograph Ava Gardner from as close as you wish from any angle. And you can see for yourself if any plastic surgery has been done, if any knife has ever touched that magnificent face’.”
AVA GARDNER, who was renowned for her natural beauty, narrowly avoided undergoing plastic surgery thanks to a doctor in Britain.
The actress would have been one of the first A-list stars to have gone under the knife had she not sought out Archibald McIndoe, a pioneering plastic surgeon who achieved worldwide fame for his work on RAF pilots disfigured in the Second World War.
In The Reconstruction of Warriors, a newly published account of McIndoe’s work, Emily Mayhew describes how the actress visited McIndoe at his hospital for the RAF in East Grinstead, Sussex, after a riding accident. In 1957, Gardner had fallen from a horse in Spain and smashed her cheek on the ground. A large haematoma, or blood blister, grew on her cheekbone and she became worried that her screen career would be ruined. MGM, her studio, sent her to Los Angeles to see its plastic surgeon, who believed she should have surgery.
Gardner, concerned that she would be scarred, went to McIndoe for a second opinion because of his repute for saving the faces of burned pilots.
“I needed Archie McIndoe,” she said. “I knew that in comparison to what was going on with those badly burned pilots, my little injury was of almost no consequence. But Archie was a man of enormous compassion and understanding.”
McIndoe said that with patience the swelling would subside of its own accord, which it did. The actress remained self-conscious, however, until McIndoe persuaded her to take part in the hospital’s annual fête, to which he invited press photographers.
McIndoe told Gardner: “I turned the press on you deliberately. I rang every newpaper editor in London and said, ‘You can come down to my fair and photograph Ava Gardner from as close as you wish from any angle. And you can see for yourself if any plastic surgery has been done, if any knife has ever touched that magnificent face’.”
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new statesman
Robert Hughes is not so much a grumpy old man as a furious one. He takes bad art as a personal insult and cannot believe that there is so much of it around. Ever since he arrived in 1970s New York - a town in which "Art" is normally the name of someone's limo driver - he has lambasted the over-hyped world with which he was confronted: Keith Haring the disco decorator, Jean- Michel Basquiat, the Chatterton of lower Manhattan, and the crockery maestro Julian Schnabel have all been on the receiving end of his well-bloodied fangs.
I have just spent five months making a BBC2 film with him, The New Shock of the New - a brief look at the art of the past quarter-century. Working with Bob has not always been easy because the phrase "he doesn't suffer fools gladly" could have been invented for him. For a start, there is not much point being in his company if you are a vegetarian or teetotaller. Political correctness is contemptuously dismissed.
The night I arrived, I took him out for a reassuringly expensive meal and told him I'd sat next to a rather glamorous art dealer on the plane over. He smiled.
"Did you fancy her, then?"
"Well, I did a bit."
"I bet you were up her like a rat up a dunny," he replied.
"Well, not exactly, Bob."
His use of language is extraordinary. He describes a red daub of paint on a Miro as being "like a spider's anus"; Bruce Nauman's work as "the faecal games of a backward child"; David Salle's drawing "has all the verve of chewed string". As for Britart, Tracey Emin's work is "sluttish housekeeping"; Gilbert and George are "image scavengers dredging the woods of an already decayed and pulped-out postmodernism"; Damien Hirst's shark "would be more impressive if he'd caught the bloody thing himself". Grayson Perry? "What can be more ludicrously lamentable than a transvestite potter?"
Bob takes the long view of art, thinking in centuries rather than decades. What counts, he argues, is not so much impact, but resonance; work that bears repeated viewings, that is the result of patience, hard looking and a deep engagement with the art of the past. The people who will survive are artists such as Lucian Freud, Paula Rego and David Hockney; people who can genuinely paint and draw and know that Picasso is a painter rather than a Citroen. "There's so much good art in the world," he argues, "and you have to wade through so much crap to get to it, that you should look long and hard when you find it. Life's far too short to spend your time looking at rubbish."
As I was finishing the film ("Christ, James, you've been busier than an earwig in an armpit") he told me that he was going to write about it all in a newspaper and asked: "What shall I say about you, then?"
I replied that Edwina Currie had once told me at breakfast (no, don't ask . . .) that she believed that you can be as rude as you like about a man provided you say he's good in bed. "So Bob," I said, "just tell them I'm good in bed."
He paused and said: "I'll just have to check that's true with my wife."
Hughes loves wine, women, fishing, meat and great art. He's had a full and, at times, a tragic life - marriage bust-ups, the death of his son, a debilitating car accident. But he still has a Rabelaisian aptitude for pleasure. I asked him whether he had any regrets. "Not really," he replied. "I just wish I'd ****ed Ava Gardner when I had the chance."
Robert Hughes is not so much a grumpy old man as a furious one. He takes bad art as a personal insult and cannot believe that there is so much of it around. Ever since he arrived in 1970s New York - a town in which "Art" is normally the name of someone's limo driver - he has lambasted the over-hyped world with which he was confronted: Keith Haring the disco decorator, Jean- Michel Basquiat, the Chatterton of lower Manhattan, and the crockery maestro Julian Schnabel have all been on the receiving end of his well-bloodied fangs.
I have just spent five months making a BBC2 film with him, The New Shock of the New - a brief look at the art of the past quarter-century. Working with Bob has not always been easy because the phrase "he doesn't suffer fools gladly" could have been invented for him. For a start, there is not much point being in his company if you are a vegetarian or teetotaller. Political correctness is contemptuously dismissed.
The night I arrived, I took him out for a reassuringly expensive meal and told him I'd sat next to a rather glamorous art dealer on the plane over. He smiled.
"Did you fancy her, then?"
"Well, I did a bit."
"I bet you were up her like a rat up a dunny," he replied.
"Well, not exactly, Bob."
His use of language is extraordinary. He describes a red daub of paint on a Miro as being "like a spider's anus"; Bruce Nauman's work as "the faecal games of a backward child"; David Salle's drawing "has all the verve of chewed string". As for Britart, Tracey Emin's work is "sluttish housekeeping"; Gilbert and George are "image scavengers dredging the woods of an already decayed and pulped-out postmodernism"; Damien Hirst's shark "would be more impressive if he'd caught the bloody thing himself". Grayson Perry? "What can be more ludicrously lamentable than a transvestite potter?"
Bob takes the long view of art, thinking in centuries rather than decades. What counts, he argues, is not so much impact, but resonance; work that bears repeated viewings, that is the result of patience, hard looking and a deep engagement with the art of the past. The people who will survive are artists such as Lucian Freud, Paula Rego and David Hockney; people who can genuinely paint and draw and know that Picasso is a painter rather than a Citroen. "There's so much good art in the world," he argues, "and you have to wade through so much crap to get to it, that you should look long and hard when you find it. Life's far too short to spend your time looking at rubbish."
As I was finishing the film ("Christ, James, you've been busier than an earwig in an armpit") he told me that he was going to write about it all in a newspaper and asked: "What shall I say about you, then?"
I replied that Edwina Currie had once told me at breakfast (no, don't ask . . .) that she believed that you can be as rude as you like about a man provided you say he's good in bed. "So Bob," I said, "just tell them I'm good in bed."
He paused and said: "I'll just have to check that's true with my wife."
Hughes loves wine, women, fishing, meat and great art. He's had a full and, at times, a tragic life - marriage bust-ups, the death of his son, a debilitating car accident. But he still has a Rabelaisian aptitude for pleasure. I asked him whether he had any regrets. "Not really," he replied. "I just wish I'd ****ed Ava Gardner when I had the chance."
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