Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent Read Online Free PDF Page B

insta-library,” he observed.
    “What’s your take on the collections?” I asked directly.
    “There is a greater possibility of seeing the piece back on the market.”
    “When?” I asked.
    “After the insta-divorce.” He offered the salmon roe sushi on a silver platter.
    “Do you truly love that?” I asked a high-profile collector who was giving me the tour of his impressive renovations, as we came upon a controversial work that could certainly be deemed pornographic.
    “It shocks. It unsettles,” he said.
    “Is it hard to live with?” I asked.
    “I would find it harder to live with what some dealers call an ‘over-the-sofa’ piece,” he said, mentioning an artist you see up and down the avenue in “starter” collections. “That would be more shocking to my sensibilities.”
    “But do you love it?” I pressed him.
    “ Love is a big word. All I can say is it’s for sale. If someone offered me my number, I would take it.” He shrugged. “Everything is for sale in my home, including my fiancée,” he said, giving a lascivious look to the semiclothed nymphette who floated by.
    “What do you say to the naysayers who don’t approve of your artwork?” I ask.
    “I have three things to say: They’re just jealous. They can kiss my ass. Let them laugh—I’m laughing all the way to the bank.”
    In another conversation, my friend, one of New York’s most influential, heralded architects, laughed ruefully at the state of the art scene as we ate alfresco on Houston Street. “I have never met more show-off wannabes,” she said. “They’re all full of shit. I have seen the entire arc from 1980s to 2013. I don’t know if you know in the ’80s I was an assistant to a great pop artist. I was in a micro-mini from Trash and Vaudeville.”
    “Really? What did you do?”
    “I gessoed his canvases. I answered the phone. I was seventeen and hot.” She paused. “I have always been connected to the artists. That’s the big difference. My clients care about art first, beauty first, soul first.”
    “And the rest?”
    “It’s become only about money. And of course they get to slum it. You know it’s about Bohemian Thursdays where they get to go to the studio. It’s a conceit; it’s become about vanity.”
    “More vino?” I offered.
    “Of course. Your poached salmon looks divine.”
    I glanced across the restaurant and saw a young international art dealer caress his model girlfriend’s leg under the table.
    “I just bought [one of the great artists] for [a high-flying real estate person],” he said, virtually shouting, impressing the young girl.
    “Do you want to go to Monaco for the weekend?” he added, stroking her leg carnally.
    “I would love to,” she replied.
    “Come back with me. I have a great painting to show you,” he said with a wolfish grin.

II.
    ON THE PARK

4. I GET NO RESPECT, JUST THE BILLS
    The Affluent Husband Is the Invisible ATM
    ONE KNOWS THE SUMMER IS OVER when the pumpkins miraculously appear overnight on Hamptons farm fields. As orange is now a fashion color of choice associated with champagne, cashmere, and luxury brands, one would hope the startling array of orange globes would be an advertising stunt or for propping a set for a Movie of the Week on Pilgrims. Despite the summer heat, there they were, though, bursting in full glory as people were still making their way to the beach.
    To prolong the summer- ish nights, my wife, Dana, and I journeyed downtown to meet Park Avenue Princess and friends at Miss Lily’s for a repast of spicy jerk chicken and reggae-infused rum (Blackwell of course!). As the women caught up on back-to-school issues and fall schedules, the husbands all rehashed how quickly this particular summer had flown, not to mention their own familial concerns.
    “It’s the craziest thing, ” Park Avenue Prince said. “I’m king in the office, but when I get home I get no respect.” He looked slightly out of place, holding a Red Stripe instead of