The High Cost of Luxury...$950 cocktails and $499,500 cars
“Take care of the luxuries – and the necessities will take care of themselves.”
- Dorothy Parker


Since Hurricane Wilma took everyone in South Beach totally by surprise, I have not written in my Blog. For the first time since I have lived here, the order to evacuate the beaches never came. And we stayed here in our condo for the hurricane, which was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

The unexpected black out resulted in an accidental fall that left me with some scrapes, a bruised face and four cracked ribs. And from a man not unaccustomed to pain, this has been a whole new kind of annoying unrelenting soreness. Nothing can be done for fractured ribs, except wrapping and bed rest.

So I have had lots of time to think and was wondering how to get back to the Blog writing again. In addition to my physical injuries, I have been going through some personal emotional challenges. When I am feeling this miserable, I can barely summon the energy for cogent telephone conversations with my longsuffering psychiatrist; let alone compose a creative and entertaining Blog entry.

But believe it or not, I already have fans of my writing (thanks to my devoted friends in Chicago and throughout Illinois). Any writer knows that loyal, avid readers are the beginning of any real writing career. Most of my material comes from my true life here in South Beach, where an odd mixture of glamour and grit permeates the warm tropical air.

Writing about pain and natural disasters is not that interesting to me. So I arose from my sick bed on Sunday to take a much needed outdoor walk with my partner Kerby (who does not like to be called my partner, but it’s the politically correct term). Our sweet little Maltese puppy Tobey also needed to greet his adoring fans on trendy Lincoln Road.

Much like our beloved little Perry Ellis, tiny Tobey would rather be admired and conversed with by people; than any other animal on the planet. If Maltese dogs have a tragic flaw, it is that they think they are people. Tobey's trainer Jason at his Puppy Obedience Class figured this out immediately. But then his Mother has a Maltese, so he knows the rare and gentle breed that is more content perched on a comfortable lap; than running with the other dogs in the park.

We strolled through the Flamingo Park with Tobey anyway and while we were out enjoying the gorgeous day, we also decided to go and view the big Auto Show at the Miami Beach Convention Center. And although I’m not a car aficionado; Kerby had spotted a luxury automobile there called a Maybach which was priced at an astonishing $499,500. To be honest, I knew little about the vehicle; but the accoutrements of the car fascinated me – a plasma television in the back, fold down teak serving tables and a place custom made for a champagne bucket; the ultimate luxury mobile.

And luxury, gentle readers -- is my specialty.

Of course, I already own a lovely silver champagne bucket, a gift from my beautiful fiance Patty for Christmas circa 1984. Like my friendship with Patty, who I could see tooling around with me in this Maybach drinking Moet from crystal flutes, the venerable champagne bucket has stood the test of time.

Real luxury always stands the test of time, and as my friendship with Patty, only improves with age.

But to make sure that I never look my age, my craving for luxury starts when I begin my day with the esoteric skin care system that I have been using for many years now -- Erno Laszlo. Way back then when I was in college, I had horrible oily skin – with pimples, blackheads and a constant razor irritation. I started asking everyone I knew with good skin what they used and my lovely ageless friend Brenda Hampton (who had flawless glowing skin) told me – and I’ll never forget her exact words “Greg, Laszlo is the pivotal line today, it will clear up your skin for good, darling…”

And Dr. Laszlo’s preparations and meticulous adherence to his principles did indeed save my skin (my checkered past would be revealed if I told you the few who have seen me in an altered state from alcohol and drugs, obdurately refusing to go to bed before doing my Laszlo nighttime ritual at 4 a.m.). When I was at my lowest financial point, I always found the money for my Laszlo products – I have even purchased the then $10 bar of Sea Mud Soap (today it retails for around $32) instead of a summer lunch at Harvard Square.

You see, besides keeping my still oily skin free from blemishes and its anti-aging benefits; the combination of the botanical based Laszlo preparations feels and smells wonderful. Erno Laszlo is a luxury I cannot do without.

Yesterday on the internet, I saw an article about luxury items and a $6,000 pashmina bathrobe. I enjoyed the piece and was intrigued by its premise – that Americans have convinced themselves that these luxury goods have to be better than average priced goods – and that owning them should be the right of everyone.

Even I draw the line at $6,000 bath robes, although my friend Mike sheepishly produced a mink bedspread that he said he bought for $8,000; and I used to cover myself from the chill of April in the New York and live out my “Sex in the City” fantasies. Mike has worked hard to get what he has in life, he still works very hard in the rough and tumble world of advertising; so he deserves an $8,000 mink bedspread if he wants it.

When I was in New York City this April with Mike, we visited the trendy “Jeffrey” where we observed that the luxury – along with perpetual cheer was -- for sale in the form of $350 Prada flip flops. The chic jeans are no longer $70, the Gaultier jeans we saw were over $650. Mike purchased a fascinating rug, swatches of an actual oriental rug enmeshed in vinyl; not a large rug probably about four feet by two, for $450.

At the Stella McCartney boutique, next door to "Jeffrey" I saw a $15,000 black taffeta gown that they were making just for Charlize Theron. I am so like Divine that I had to touch it's soft silky surface. This fall, I saw Charlize Theron in that gorgeous Stella McCartney dress and she made it look like $15,000.

Luxury is getting more and more expensive, but everyone wants it.

At the Auto Show, I was intrigued by the size and scope of the show itself (which by the time I go there next for Art Basel, the Convention Center will look completely different). Kerby knew exactly where the Maybach was located but I was shocked by the throngs of people pushing to get a glimpse of the Maybachs, Bentleys and Rolls Royces – cars they could never afford in their wildest dreams.

While peering intently inside the Maybach’s luxurious interior, a nice lady next to me said, “That car is worth more than my condo.” I smiled at her and said, “But it’s lovely, isn’t it?” She smiled back and replied, “It sure is lovely honey, and we can always dream!”

But some of these people at the Auto Show in old flip flops with bad teeth, who had never seen $499,500 in their entire lives, were gaping at those cars and actually wanting them. They are like the Miami women I see with just awful garish clothes, fake orange tans, rotten teeth and bad hair -- but they have a real Louis Vuitton purse. These kinds of people are an enigma to me -- I would spend the $1,200 on dental work and get a less expensive bag -- and better beauty products.

But Americans have convinced themselves that these luxury items are necessary to their happiness – and Americans have a collective unconsciousness that is hard to shake.

The Vuitton purse is no longer just a handbag, a personal item used by all American women to transport their necessities; the Vuitton purse has become a symbol of the accoutrements of luxury. The Duchess of Windsor carried only Vuitton luggage and today’s icons like Madonna carry the new Marc Jacobs Vuitton purse; so the masses will buy the Vuitton and somehow vicariously identify with the glamorous lives of the Duchess of Windsor and Madonna. Although I am quite certain that neither the Duchess nor Madonna ever had bad teeth or run down shoes.

Everyone knows how I feel about run down heels and running shoes, but I remain fascinated by the American urge to identify with the wealthy and famous. You would have to be Madonna to afford a $499,500 Maybach, but there were scores of people gaping at it. What fascinated me even more was that the real cars – Chevrolets, Chryslers, Fords, Toyotas, Hondas and even Saabs – automobiles that most Americans can afford; did not interest the many attendees of the Auto Show at the Miami Beach Convention Center at all.

I saw a line of at least 150 people waiting to receive a large complimentary poster from Lamborghini. It was a cool poster of a bright lipstick red 2006 Lamborghini convertible, but I wouldn’t wait in line for an hour to get a poster of a Lamborghini. The pretty women that Lamborghini hired to promote their cars simply could not keep up with the demand for the free posters (people in Miami will walk over a dying person to get anything free) and were rolling them up feverishly.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the pretty ladies were thinking what I was thinking as I observed the long line of pedestrians – that these people could never afford a Lamborghini in their wildest dreams.

But wild dreams are what the quest for luxury is all about and I saw yesterday a Red Ruby cocktail in my hometown of Chicago that sells for $950. Intrigued by what a $950 cocktail could contain and where one would find it, I discovered that the Red Ruby is served at the newest see-and-be-seen West Loop lounge Reserve.

The Red Ruby cocktail is a concoction of Grey Goose vodka, a cognac and vodka liqueur called Hypnotiq, pomegranate and orange juice and a splash of Dom Perignon. And as a bonus there is a gem – a one carat “A-grade” ruby – dropped into the bottom of the drink. Of course, for $950 you get to keep the ruby.

Reserve’s bar manager Pete Gungi invented the drink as a splurge item for customers on “their honeymoon or an anniversary.” The notion of a $950 cocktail seems like the kind of concept that Patty and I would have embraced back in our glory days in Chicago, when we were conducting an unofficial survey of the best cocktail lounges – and the most interesting off-the-beaten-path watering holes – in the city. And I could envision Patty and me making a big production over how to get the ruby set for her at Tiffany’s.

Tiffany’s is also a place where you never saw a certain kind of lower echelon person, but now Tiffany’s is crowded with frowsy women who are trying to buy anything they can afford – even a Tiffany’s key chain, which I imagine sells well in Bal Harbour – so they can carry that magic pale blue bag. For just a day, they can somehow absorb some of the luxury of Tiffany’s and be Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, who can never imagine anything bad happening at Tiffany’s.

My socialite friend Sugar in Chicago even had a diamond collar from Tiffany’s created for her first Maltese dog Fling, who was buried with her passport and in her custom Chanel coat. Actually, Fling was the first Maltese I ever saw and loved her looks and personality immediately. Of course, I wanted a Maltese myself and when I did finally own one, my beloved Perry Ellis (Maltese dogs own you, but that’s another story) it took my high-minded neighbors on Lake Shore Drive to inform me that I had a luxury dog.

I had never thought of my Perry as a luxury dog, just because he had a high maintenance coat (we always kept Perry’s luxurious coat as long as possible, which requires almost daily brushing; an assignment that Kerby graciously accepted). I am high maintenance myself, so I suppose I just identify with high maintenance people and animals. Sugar claimed Fling could tell the difference between the diamond collar from Tiffany’s and any plain collar; and would bark defiantly until the diamond collar was placed back around her regal neck.

Perry Ellis could tell the difference of any plain pillow (which I tried to foist on him) and my good Ralph Lauren down-filled pillows. He would just ensconce himself firmly on the large Ralph Lauren pillow (and I swear Perry would sometimes grin at me) and refuse to budge. He never liked hotel sheets much either and I suspect that, like his daddy; he had become accustomed to my 375 thread count 100 percent cotton Ralph Lauren sheets.

That kind of luxury – 375 thread count 100 percent cotton sheets – is a difference my Taurus body can feel in a second. I am like the Princess in the old children’s fable “The Princess and the Pea” – who can feel a pea under a hundred mattresses, because she is so sensitive. The Ralph Lauren label is immaterial (I actually like Calvin Klein bed wear these days) it’s the concept of luxury that I embrace.

Luxury is about making your senses come alive, so I am inviting you to go out and get yourself some luxury.

If you have never slept on 375 thread count 100 percent cotton sheets, you owe it to yourself to try them (Bloomingdale's and Macy's make great sheets that will not cause heart failure due to high prices, which can occur in the uninitiated at Ralph Lauren). Once you have tried really fine linens (that is called bed wear today, as I was informed several years ago by an uppity sales person at Marshall Field’s Ralph Lauren BED WEAR department) you will thank me for the rest of your natural life.

For $32 I can promise you that the Erno Laszlo Sea Mud Soap is the best soap you will ever discover. Your skin will feel smoother immediately and the Sea Mud Soap, when it is rubbed on your face and with the ’30 Ritual Splashes’ the soap is a natural exfoliater (if you are serious about using Erno Laszlo products, go to a Laszlo Representative at Neiman Marcus or Sak's or Nordstrom, get ‘clocked’ which is the Laszlo way of classifying skin types and DO exactly the ritual they prescribe, which is going to cost you much more than just the soap; but ask about the Ritual Kits for starting the system). You will join the ranks of classic beautiful people like Greta Garbo, Audrey Hepburn and my idol Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (now there was a girl who understood luxury) and today's icons Brad Pitt, Uma Thurman, Nicole Kidman and yes Madonna herself.

Or go and get yourself some really high quality bubble bath from Vitabath (the original Spring Green is still my favorite) or Kiehl’s and take a long, luxurious bath. I am like Ann Landers used to say that she was, I can think better after a good warm bubble bath. You won’t break the bank, but I you will feel like a million dollars.

Try just one luxury food that you have never tried before. I adore caviar and would eat it daily, but I am not talking about that stuff on the grocery store shelves. Real caviar is purchased by the gram at fine stores, if you cannot afford the Beluga, try the Sevruga or even Osetra. If caviar is not your luxury, try a dessert you have never had like a luxurious Tiramisu (I have a good friend in Chicago who amazingly had never tried Tiramisu).

The next time you celebrate, go out and buy the most expensive bottle of real champagne you can afford. Champagne is only made in FRANCE, children; that horrid Korbel you have been drinking is NOT champagne at all, it is sparkling wine. I recommend Moet Chardon or Tattinger, and if you can afford it; either Dom Perignon or Cristal. Trust me, there is a vast difference and your taste buds will notice it, as did Dom Perignon himself when he invented champagne and said, “I am tasting the stars!”

Champagne brings me back to the original topic of the $499,500 Maybach at the Auto Show; that Kerby knew I would love. He knows I am not that interested in cars, but he knows me very well indeed.

He knew that I would find a luxury car with a special place for an extraordinary luxury item that I already own – my famous silver champagne bucket from our dear Patty – almost as irresistible as the many magnifcent champagne parties of our misspent youth.

An Open Plea to Harriet Miers
“Fashion fades – style is eternal.”
- Coco Chanel


By now, I have expounded ad nauseam about my distaste for George W. Bush and his twisted exclusionary world view. But this latest nominee to the Supreme Court of his, this Harriet Miers woman; I just have to comment on this person. Because her own extreme right wing politics, frightening though they are to me, are much less fearsome than that HIDEOUS fashion statement she is attempting to make.

So this is my open letter to Supreme Court nominee Harriet Miers...

Dear Harriet, for the sake of American life and all that is sacrosanct -- please get some new clothes. This is clearly a case for immediate fashion intervention. So I will get right to the salient points here; girl, you are knee deep in OLD fashion doo-doo.

Update those raccoon eyes immediately (darling, they are screaming that you survived the 1960s; but your heavy caked-on eyeliner did not). Those eyes are scary, Harriet; you MUST update your make-up at once. Or risk being mistaken for a bandit or a mad drag queen.

And that repulsive hairdo, if you want to call it that; just yells out that once for ten minutes in the 1970s you MIGHT have looked good with that frowsy hair style. But honey, this is 2005, and that frizzy dated hair is a real fashion crime.

Don't even get me going on those tacky little pumps. Even Star Jones doesn't wear pathetic Payless Shoes in public; and neither should you. Have you never heard of Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik?

Where in the world does a woman even FIND a hideous sapphire blue suit, with HUGE shoulder pads? Oh Harriet, it may have represented power for Alexis on "Dynasty" but my dear, that was a soap opera and the television show AND shoulder pads died in the rubble of the 1980s. Harriet, are you trying to put the ‘yes’ back into ‘polyester?’

And what are ALL those crazy pins about? I am always suspicious of a grown woman sporting too many dumb pins. You appear to have encountered a demented pin seller held over from the 1990s on the streets of Washington – and you just couldn’t say “NO” to his horrible wares. Harriet, I applaud giving to street vendors, but your cheap looking pins are just as wrong as rheumatism to me -- and every bit as painful.

Oh Harriet, it is so obvious to everyone but the grateful blind that you are devoid of all fashion sense. You have managed to perpetuate the worst fashion crimes of the last decades.

The way I see it, you have two options here, honey. You can (and SHOULD) hire a stylist immediately; because you are in desperate need of the complete head-to-toe style, fashion and beauty make-over.

Or you can simply ask yourself, would Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis wear it in 2005? If the answer is “no” then I am suspecting your entire wardrobe would hit the Salvation Army donations box immediately. How I would even cringe to see a Hurricane Katrina victim wearing that pitiful blue suit.

In this unwise political environment, you will probably be appointed to the highest court in the land. So at least we have this to anticipate – maybe you will be donning a black robe and ANYTHING looks better than that 1980s power suit gone wrong that you’ve been strutting around wearing.

This is a fashion emergency and if you write me, I might even call you Harriet. Obviously, you don’t have any gay male friends. But I know style emissaries all over America who would rush to your aid post haste to correct your fashion mess.

Yet your slip is already showing, dear – your atrocious fashion statement is as out of touch with reality as your dated right wing thinking.


(c) Gregory E. Mansfield

p.s. Don’t you DARE put a flag pin on that black robe or sling a doily around your neck; I mean it, I will come right up to Washington with Joan Rivers in tow!

Lessons from Perry Ellis
June 3, 2005

“Life is a series of losses; we are constantly letting go.”
- Mia Farrow

After a year fraught with tragic losses –- first my Dad died in January and then my beloved Mom left this earth too soon in March; I thought that life could not get any worse for me. Then, on May 2 my adorable and irreplaceable Maltese dog Perry Ellis died here in our home.

Although Perry had been sick intermittently with a mysterious stomach problem since August 2004, and treated by the same inefficient veterinarian Oscar here in Miami Beach; the cancer that finally killed our beloved baby was not detected until April 27, my dear Grandmother’s birthday. Now, not only am I grieving for my lost companion, the one creature on this earth who demanded nothing from me but food, water and love; but we are fraught with guilt that we could have done more to save my beloved Perry.

If ever a dog cried out to be written about, it was Perry Ellis. Yet during the 11 wonderful years he was such a vital part of my life, I wrote very little about my sweet baby; probably because I would rather have taken him out for the daily walks he craved. Everyone thinks that their pet is unique, and they are to their owners; but Perry received more than 40 e-mails and cards in tribute to his gorgeous presence and lovable demeanor. Each year (except for 2003, when I was sick with an intractable painful kidney infection and feeling gloomy about my Uncle John’s death) Perry’s handsome face was always featured on our annual holiday card.

My nephew Aaron sent us a lovely orchid bouquet and my good friend Rhoda even wants to make a Memorial Contribution in Perry Ellis’ memory. Both my dear Sister Regina Marie and my former colleague and friend Pat, even made unique Perry Ellis art work in tribute to him (a great intaglio print and original photo art respectively). My friends and family all around the country knew that Perry was an exceptional part of my life.

I have heard it said that there are three days that you always remember in your dog’s life; that happy day, so full of magic and excitement when you bring the tiny sweet puppy into your home, the day your companion dies; and the day that you realize that your beloved friend is aging and that the vibrant puppy is no more.

One of the sad realities of life is the knowledge that you will outlive your dearly loved animal companion. I recall the day that I was first confronted with this understanding about my Perry. As usual, I had taken him to his remarkable veterinarian in Chicago, Dr. John Kasmersky (always “Dr. Kas” to those who trusted and loved him) for his yearly check up. Dr. Kas said to me tenderly, “Mr. Mansfield, your Perry is 7 years old now, in human age; in dog years, this means he is a senior. He will need two senior wellness exams every year now and he may be prone to some health problems, so with your permission, we will do blood work too to discover any potential illness early.” Dr. Kas always played happily with Perry during his exam and called him “Paree” and that day he said to me gently, “You love him so, don’t you?”

I was shocked -- my active, peppy little Perry was a senior? When I took Perry for his daily walks (he was spoiled, his daddy is a writer and I work at home; I often took a break in my work to walk Perry) people frequently stopped me and asked if he was a puppy. Maltese dogs are small and energetic, and the most affable breed you will ever meet. Perry, true to his bloodline, did not have a mean bone in his small body.

When approached by most anyone on the street, Perry began to wag his tail happily. If Perry did have a problem, it was that he never truly believed he was a dog. Other people always interested Perry far more than other dogs. Maybe it was because, in the early weeks of his ‘socialization’ period; he only spent time with people. Dr. Kas had strongly warned me not to allow Perry to walk outdoors and meet other dogs until sixteen weeks had passed, and he had received his entire series of vaccinations.

I will never forget the cloudy spring day in May 1994, when I brought the tiny little ball of fur home with me. My family always had great dogs when I was growing up, but Perry was the first dog I ever owned as an adult. When I was working as Public Information Officer at the Illinois Arts Council, I started my day at 6 a.m.; and often worked (attending gallery openings, the opera and theater events was part of my job) until 10 p.m. I truly love animals, but never felt it would have been fair to leave a dog alone for that long; so I dismissed the notion of ever owning a pet.

Of course, I discovered that you do not own a Maltese dog; they own you. At the time that I decided to get a puppy, I was seeing my irreplaceable psychiatrist in Chicago, Dr. Eric. I was working on dealing with many life issues and writing my first book, a vastly different daily experience than the frenetic pace at the Arts Council. For most of the day, I was alone and, after all that public relations work and forced interaction with people I could sometimes barely tolerate; I craved the solitude. My closest friends Linda, Joseph, Eddie, Mark and Larry had all died the year before and, although I didn’t realize it, I was lonely. But I was not ready to try meeting new friends and Dr. Eric, who loved and delighted in his Scottish Terrier Barney (Dr. Eric named him before the purple cartoon character) asked me if I’d ever considered owning a dog.

Of all the great advice that Dr. Eric ever gave me, and he provided me with so much weekly positive reinforcement that I will never truly be able to repay him; the idea of getting a puppy to keep me company turned out to be his most sage wisdom. Most people, who meet me, because I do possess a certain snap and verve with language, assume that I love to talk. In truth, although I adore lively conversation with my intelligent friends and family; I am a contemplative at heart, more happy staring out the window at the ever changing ocean than giving a speech to a group of 1,000 art affecianados. A puppy would not talk back, and the more I thought about it (and it is a colossal responsibility) the more appealing an animal companion became.

A friend of mine Sugar owned a Maltese dog that was simply the most engaging little dog I had ever met. And Maltese dogs are small (6-9 pounds) which makes them perfect for city dwellers like me; who will always live in a condominium. In addition to my numerous physical curses, I am in fact, allergic to dogs. My internist gave me the names of less allergic breeds, and the loveable Maltese was at the top of the list; because in spite of their long, luxurious coat do not shed or have animal dander. So I researched the ancient Maltese breed (they have been bred as human companions for centuries, Darwin himself placed the origin of the breed at 6,000 B.C.) and started actively searching for a Maltase puppy.

One day while running an errand for me, Kerby saw two tiny balls of fluffy white fur in a Pet Shop on Addison Avenue; where they promised the puppies were American Kennel Club (AKC) registered and the breeders could be contacted. When I phoned the breeder, she told me that the ten week old Maltese puppies (Kerby did not even know that they were Maltese pups, just that they were adorable) were ready to place in their new homes. His breeder, a good natured lady named Sophie, had also given me many instructions on his care. She suggested that I come by the shop (they took the puppies back to the breeder’s home at night) and see the puppies.

Sophie then “interviewed” me, asking several pointed questions such as; did I realize that a Maltese pup would be high maintenance? I responded that I was not exactly the low maintenance type (or so I have been told by the man who lives with me) and that regular grooming would not be a problem. The Maltese is renowned for its beautiful, silky coat; and Sophie told me to begin daily brushing of the pup right away. She also asked me pointed questions about my lifestyle (which initially put me off, but now I realize that all careful Maltese breeders do this; they do not want to place their precious babies in the wrong home). She seemed most relieved that I worked at home, she said she advised most new puppy owners to take a few days; even a week off work to bond with the newest member of the household.

When I went to the breeder’s place later that day to choose between the male and female Maltese puppies, Perry’s sister Maltese was outgoing and overly friendly. She was all over me like the proverbial cheap suit when she emerged from the cage. Tiny Perry sat quietly in the corner, checking me out; peering at me intensely with those warm dark brown eyes of his. I asked Sophie to bring Perry out and she said, “This little male is a little bit shy, but very smart; he will be easy to train.”

When I held Perry for the very first time, he just looked up at me; as though he were asking for me to take him home. That intense look, a knowing gaze that Perry maintained throughout his life, told me that he was extraordinary. Then, he gently put his miniature head close to my body, and that was it –- a bond that lasted 11 great years was formed that day. I recall thinking that his fluffy white fur was softer than any silk from Hermes.

I gladly paid the $100 for her to hold Perry, a part of the $500 that a Maltese puppy cost in 1994. I had recently come into some extra money and to steal a line from Fran Dresher, it was the best $500 that I ever spent in my life. Actually I believe now, that Perry chose me to be his daddy; as my dear friend Warren so correctly said later.

From the breeder I learned the basics of Maltese puppy care. She told me that she would separate Perry from his baby sister the night before; most good breeders will do this to begin the separation process for the puppy. Sophie warned me that Perry would still undoubtedly cry all night; and that he would probably want to sleep with me.

Still, I could not wait for the next day to arrive (I discussed owning a puppy with Kerby, but I did not tell John, our devoted housekeeper and friend). When I went to get the puppy, Sophie informed me that he had indeed cried all night. Sophie also told me that I should take Perry to a veterinarian of my choice for a physical examination to ensure that he was in good health; and to schedule the remaining series of vaccinations. She gave me a ball for Perry (which he kept for five years, until he lost it in a Cape Cod hotel) and a huge bag of Iam’s Puppy Food, which Perry had been weaned on; and said that she was not one bit concerned that he was healthy, but that I could return him in three days, if anything at all was wrong with him.

His AKC Registration papers said that his Mother’s name was Princess Ginger Snap and his Father was called Mighty Pee-Wee. I had seen photos of both and I was already mulling over names for our baby. His name, just like the precious bundle I was holding in my arms, had to be a perfect fit.

It was chilly that day, in Chicago it can be cold until June, and I was wearing a Perry Ellis coat that had a warm lining. Since it was morning (Sophie recommended picking him up early in the day to begin acclimating him to his new environs) and Kerby had our trusty Saab at work; I took a taxi home. The second we stepped out into the chilly wind, the tiny puppy shivered and I pulled him very close to my body; covering him with my warm coat. He looked up at me again, with that look that I will never get over missing; as if to say, “You are my daddy now, I know I can trust you forever.”

Imagine the sight -- I was juggling the large bag of puppy food (and the vitamins he was taking along with the white ball) and it was difficult to negotiate the side street to Ashland Avenue; where I knew that I could easily hail a cab. This was also no easy feat, because right away that miniature bundle of life became my first priority. But little Perry just snuggled closer and closer to me; he never took his eyes from my face.

I was in love, hopelessly and intensely in love; and amazingly this tiny creature appeared to love me already. How could I help but fall in love with him? We had already started making lists of potential names for the new puppy, but nothing seemed perfect; until after arriving home and removing my venerable coat, I realized the finest name was literally staring me in the face -– Perry Ellis.

Quite by accident, we had found the ideal puppy and the best name for an original -– Perry Ellis, whose classic, simple, but very chic and well-made clothes had been one of the mainstays of my wardrobe throughout the 1980s; when I had to invest in fine clothing. When your job in the arts involves meeting living legends like Kitty Carlise Hart (who was then Chairmen of the New York State Council on the Arts; and whom I was delighted to discover is as lovely and genuine as my own boss at that time, Shirley) looking as fashionable as you can is almost mandatory.

Perry Ellis, the talented designer, had died too soon from AIDS in 1986. With the exception of Linda, whose untimely death was caused by ovarian cancer; all of other irreplaceable friends had also died from AIDS. In my mind, I was paying tribute to the remarkable designer, my friends, that entire era and the affirmation of life; the designer was gone, but this magnificent puppy was very much alive.

That spring day when he was a bouncing baby Maltese, I never could have imagined how little Perry Ellis would change my life irrevocably and how many essential lessons he would ultimately teach me.


(C) Gregory E. Mansfield

My Mother: Thora E. Mansfield
Dear Readers,

Just seven weeks after my Father's death, my dear Mother Thora E. Mansfield left this earth unexpectedly on March 15. She was the most supportive, loving, caring, giving Mother that a man could ever have; and I will go to my own grave missing her sweet voice and unconditional love. My Mother was unique in all the world and she really deserves an entire book about her remarkable life.

Of course, my five siblings and I are still in shock. No one can ever replace our beautiful Mother. She was the joy of our Father's life; and as my good friend Sister Regina Marie wrote to me, it was almost as if he was calling her to be with him in heaven. We know they are in a wonderful place together now; surrounded by God's light and love, but loosing them both has been unbearably painful.

Without the love and support of my friends and family, and especially my partner Kerby who accompanied me to Illinois for the services and was also a casket bearer; I could never have made it through this time of great sadness.

I appreciate the Officiant and two eulogists at her funeral: Terry Holderread, Rodney Davis and Eric Stillwell; who so eloquently expressed the most important parts of my Mother's many faceted life -- her love for her family and home, her tireless volunteer work for political causes in which she believed, her career and daily inspiration that she was to the men who worked with her, and her little church that became her heart where she was serving as Pastor. She gave of herself so unselfishly and with an open heart; her congregation is now lost without their beloved Pastor.

I feel lost too; without the wonderful Mother who was with me from the beginning of my life. I cannot imagine my life without her now.

But I am going to continue writing this Blog; my Mother would want me to keep on working and keep on living. My best friend Mike has invited me to come and visit him in New York City; he is so generous and his invitation came just when I needed a place to get away for awhile -- and mourn the loss of the two most important people in my life, Mom and Ray (my Dad). So I am going to NYC to see Mike for awhile and I promise to resume writing this Blog more faithfully when I return.

For now, this Blog is on hiatus, in memory of my beloved Mother, Thora E. Mansfield.

Please continue to keep my family and me in your prayers.

Gregory Mansfield

In Memory of My Father
Dear Readers,
I have not forgotten my Blog; but this past January was a life changing experience for me. After a year punctuated by many serious illnesses and finally brain surgery and two strokes last October, my irreplaceable father Raymond B. Mansfield died on January 21, 2005. Although it was the most difficult task that I have yet to face in this life,I tried to write and deliver the following eulogy for him.(And just getting to Chicago in a blizzard was a fiasco of such unprecedented proportions, that the trip itself deserves its own entry) I succeeded in not crying, even though my sweet little Mom was so brave sitting in the front row; until I reached the last line of the poem.

Eulogy for Raymond Bremer Mansfield
January 28, 1931 - January 21, 2005

He always wanted to be called Ray, even by his children. Back when I was going to grade school, it was unconventional; but that never bothered him. But Ray wanted to remain forever young - and not being called "Dad" made him feel youthful; so we always called him Ray.

When I was small, Ray was young and handsome and dashing and fashionably dressed. I am told that, when I emerged as the first, a precocious child - with a definite snap and verve for language - Ray would take me to Rene's Drug Store downtown; betting everyone that a tiny kid could say words like; Constantanoble and ratification. To Ray's unabashed delight, I would always comply.

I remember Ray's own Father, my sweet Grandpa Mansfield with the clear blue eyes; who Matt and Nathan sadly never really got to know, buying me a brand new tricycle when I was only two. But my little feet could not reach the peddles; so Grandpa fabricated wooden blocks with straps, and then I could successfully ride the tricycle.

I recall how Ray lamented turning 30; and how he was certain his life would end when he was so old. Many years later, when I was 30 years old myself; he said, "Greg, I was so stupid. I used to think that 30 was old and now I wish I was 30, because you are really young at 30."

And we always had a running joke - Ray always said he hated me for keeping my 30" waist -- and I always said that I hated him for having such great low-maintenance skin. Ray used to always say, "Why couldn't I have been born rich, instead of good looking?"

With my beautiful Mother always at his side, Ray was engaged in living - he never failed to tell her how gorgeous she was; and he showered her with gifts and flowers on her birthday and Christmas.

He loved good food, especially if Mom actually made it for him.
He loved his good friends.
He loved good conversation and playing games.
Ray loved living and he embraced life.

And Ray really DID want female pall bearers at his funeral; he always said that he wanted Sharon Koonce and Marjorie Daniels especially. Well, Ray would be SO proud of his beautiful grand daughters today; Elizabeth, Heather and Holly, who all loved Ray enough to carry out his wishes.

Ray adored his grand children - he was so proud when Liz was born, then Aaron his first grandson. And later Heather, Holly and Regan, who all had a special place in Ray's heart. I am sad that little Melissa, who was born on Ray's birthday, January 28 -and Joshua will not have many real memories of their beloved "Pa Pa."

Ray was proud of all his children too; you all probably got tired of hearing about our accomplishments. He told everyone that I was Director of the Illinois Arts Council, when in reality I was Director of Public Relations; he was so proud when Brad graduated from Harvard University; he was so very proud of his "one and only" his lovely daughter, Brenda and her career as a teacher; he always bragged about Matt and his career in journalism and his success at the San Jose Mercury News; and Nathan's progress at college was reported to me in every phone call.

Ray was always a good provider; he made sure that we never wanted for anything in the world. He worked hard all his life, so Mom could have a comfortable and pretty home.

And Ray loved the big old 14 room house on Main Cross, where we all grew up. It was his real home and he could never tire of us visiting. I wish now I had visited him more.

Ray could be funny and silly - and he loved movies and television. How odd that Johnny Carson should die so close to Ray, I recall him watching the tonight show often (and trying to remember Johnny's jokes.)

When Ray had his first heart attack, when I was living in Chicago in 1988; I took the first plane to Springfield to see him. I came straight from work, dressed like I am today. When I arrived, he asked to see me. And the first thing he said was, "Greg you look so good, everything matches and you just look great." And I said, "Well, Ray you must be hovering near death, because that's the first unsolicited compliment you ever gave me."

After that near fatal heart attack, Ray faced his own mortality for the first time. And following that experience, he always ended every conversation with me by saying, "I love you, Greg," At first, it was odd, but soon I found myself saying, "I love you too, Ray."

Now, I live in Miami Beach and Ray never really adjusted to me living anywhere but Chicago. Miami is populated by many Latinos and they are transfixed by my blue eyes. Hardly a day passes without someone asking, "Where did you get those beautiful blue eyes?" And I always say, "I have my Father's eyes." And Ray had his Father's clear blue eyes, so the Mansfield blue eye legacy continues.

Ray was present from the very beginning of my life and it will be difficult to imagine my life without Ray now.

You probably don't associate Ray with poetry. But poets are dreamers and Ray was a dreamer too. In his honor, I would love to read his favorite poem now.

Trees (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
- Joyce Kilmer

(C)Eulogy written and delivered by Gregory E. Mansfield

Light Show

"I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's clouds illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all"
-Joni Mitchell

Last night, a brilliant constellation of stars called Orion's Nebula was gleaming in the eastern sky over Miami Beach. Since my partner is a star gazer, he owns a really high-quality Celestron telescope, which we took out on the living room balcony to look more closely at the constellation. And it was one of those perfect Miami evenings, 78 degrees with a gentle breeze from the ocean.

During our many years together, he has educated me about the constellations. He doesn't usually summon me outside to look at stars through the telescope, unless he feels that the stars are particularly interesting. (He knows how easily I am bored.) But yesterday evening the dark sky put on a real light show.

What we observed was a spectacular color panorama of the center of Orion's Nebula, a star forming region located 1,500 light- years away in the constellation of Orion the Hunter. Scattered among the 500 stars in this sweeping mosaic, are several newly identified disks of dust encircling stars.

These discs appear as bright glowing clouds of gas and a star cluster associated with the nebula. Dark discs silhouetted against the bright background of the Orion nebula; that look like they are surrounded by clouds.

As part of the ever changing universe, the glowing clouds around the brilliant stars fascinated me. The cloud's shifting patterns in the region of the stars within Orion's Nebula created an array of pulsating, changing colors. What a dazzling sight this was, and if Orion's Nebula is still in the sky where you are tonight, I recommend viewing it.

We also saw the search lights over on Ocean Drive, making their own cloudy light spots as they circled in the sky. Signaling that someone famous must have been showcased over there at a big event; perhaps it was Cher. I hear that she is in South Beach right now. Since she is another of my idols, on another night I would have tried to find out exactly where Cher was, and attempted to go out and see her.

But last night, I was content to gaze at another kind of star, the brilliant constellation of Orion's Nebula. I didn't even have to leave my own balcony and I was spending time with my best friend, so it was actually a wonderful night.

Somehow Orion's Nebula reminded me of the sad condition of America today; and the clouds of erroneous leadership that surround us. Still, Orion's Nebula is a temporary phenomenon and its clouds will simply disappear in a season. And then the stars of the constellation of Orion the Hunter will be completely visible and bright again, teaching us that balance in the universe -- and if we are fortunate in our beloved America -- will always return.


(C)Gregory E. Mansfield

Art Basel: DAY TWO
"The visible world is a daily miracle, for those
who have eyes and ears."
- Edith Warton


In the last entry I wrote about Art Basel and the exciting art work there; I realize that I just casually mentioned that I had seen Yoko Ono, like it is getting to be a normal occurrence for me to see celebrities. I mean, she is Yoko Ono, a living icon, and I could have at least been more precise; to say that she was wearing Jil Sander and looks tiny in person. And her skin is still smooth, although she has some lines around her eyes, but she's not exactly young anymore either. I have no idea what skin care system Yoko Ono uses, but I do not think that it is my own venerable favorite Erno Laszlo .

You know, it's the oldest maxim in the world; be careful what you wish for or you just may get it. Well, believe me, since I landed in South Beach, I have seen more celebrities up close and personal that I ever dreamed I would. And I have more than a minor obsession with seeing how celebrities look up close; largely due to my own major obsession with perfect, ageless skin using the Erno Laszlo method.

Some day, I will write a whole entry about how I started using Dr. Laszlo's wonderful skin preparations when I was almost a kid; and why I still believe he knew the secret to ageless skin. That's the problem with writing about my real life; I am so prone to segue off into the design worlds of fashion, beauty and decorating, that the subject at hand evades me. Especially when I know that Erno Laszlo would clear up even the legendary pimples of Cameron Diaz -- and keep her looking younger forever.

By the second day of Art Basel, last Saturday, I was keenly aware of the celebrity presence; although I was still disgusted with myself for missing Tobey Mcguire (who I heard bought a plywood piece by British artist Martin Creed for $350,000). And with all those chic Europeans strutting around with their inimitable fashion sense, I decided to kick up my own fashion statement a notch. I wore a Jhane Barnes shirt with a pale blue and pattern (all her designs are computer generated), grey tropical wool Ralph Lauren slacks and again the Cole Haan loafers (from the fall City Collection; they are sleek and modern and are my current favorite shoes) without socks. And I insouciantly tied on a grey cashmere Ralph Lauren sweater over my shoulders, a fashion statement from years ago that has returned.

It was another glorious perfect 80 degree sunny Miami Beach day, and I had the taxi driver drop me off at the B Entrance Hall to the huge Miami Beach Convention Center, where Art Basel is held. My partner told me to go to that entrance and I would see some of my favorite artists right away. The first day I went to the A Entrance Hall, because that's where the Jamaican taxi driver took me (and he was getting real weepy about his young girlfriend dying from a crack overdose this Thanksgiving) so his whole sordid story of the Miami drug world distracted me. (Sometimes I think that I should have pursued my original goal and become a psychiatrist; because strangers will just start telling me the most intimate details of their lives, especially every aspect of their sex lives).

Anyway, my partner knows me, because hanging at the entrance to the B Hall at the Waddington Galleries of London was a large, magnificent Cy Twombly drawing in color. Most of Twombly's lyrical drawings are in black and white; and this color drawing was just brilliant. So I sort of eased my way into the Waddington Galleries space, because I just had to know the price of that terrific Cy Twombly color piece.

A very pleasant British fellow with grey thinning hair and a tweed jacket approached me and asked if he could be of assistance, and I inquired about the Twombly. "We're asking $275,000., but isn't it a beauty?" he replied, and I said that I adored it and as he was giving me his card, I literally bumped into Calvin Klein himself, who was admiring another nearby Twombly. I just said, "Excuse me, I'm captivated by the art, I guess." And Calvin Klein was very pleasant; he just nodded and smiled (and I noticed he has perfect teeth).

I have seen Calvin Klein in person before (in Key West in 1987, when we were both a lot younger); and I could tell a slew of salacious stories that I have heard from my friends who say that really knew Calvin, if you get my drift. But what good can ever come from repeating second hand gossip; and what would be the point of impugning him here? The real point is fashion, Calvin Klein was wearing a dark blue sweater tied around his shoulders, exactly like I was, with a crisp blue and white striped shirt and blue jeans. He looks good for a man his age, you can tell he works out; he's still trim, but up close he has a few lines on his face.

But you know me, as I was giving Calvin and his entourage another sideways glance; I started questioning my own fashion statement. I was glad that I decided on the sweater, it must be chic if Calvin Klein is wearing it that way. But I think that blue jeans may have worked better for me too; it would have been less formal for art viewing on Saturday than my Lauren slacks. I also have to tell you that I peered closely and Calvin Klein was wearing Levis, not Calvin Klein jeans. (I can blame my Grandmother for this too; she always hated it when I wore blue jeans, even Calvin Klein, because to her, blue jeans were only fit attire for farm workers or those in the rodeo).

And I still think that Calvin Klein is one of the most brilliant American fashion designers, I admire his simple lines and rich fabrics. His dress shirts and slacks are still some of my preferred wardrobe pieces. Calvin Klein is also a real fashion designer; he actually is trained in the art of fashion design, not like that hack Tommy Hilfiger, who I eschew, because he has no design training at all. (And you can tell, because only a demented clown would be attracted to his garish colors). Tommy Hilfiger is just a marketing phenomenon; and I often wonder if all the blind people who buy his hideous clothes even realize that he's not a genuine fashion designer at all.

So I started walking around Art Basel and it's really immense, you just have to start going into the over 250 galleries and looking at all the artwork. I was perusing some smaller wall size art pieces by Christo (who is more well known for his `wrappings' of large buildings) and suddenly I saw a gorgeous little Matisse; a real Henri Matisse oil painting. And what a delightful Matisse it was; a perfectly composed still life, done mostly in vivid reds and blues by the master colorist, with a very ornate mirror in the background.

Henri Matisse paintings are rarely seen outside museums, and I had been gazing at the wonderful small Christo pieces with a charming well-dressed lady; so we both had to know how much a great Matisse painting costs in 2004. I approached the gallery assistant (whose name tag said she was Laura) from the Annely Juda Fine Art gallery. She was very congenial and walked right over to the Matisse with us; and said brightly that it was $4.5 million. She told us a bit about the painting's provenance, its history, that it had come to the gallery directly from a private London collection. And she said that the Matisse had never before been seen in the USA. Laura also said that `a few' American museums had been interested in acquiring the Matisse. I know from my years as Public Information Officer for the Illinois Arts Council that very few museums have the budget to purchase a single $4.5 million painting (that is often the museum's acquisition budget for the entire year). But let me tell you, if I had Calvin Klein's money, I would have bought that Matisse on the spot.

I know that $4.5 million is a lot of money; but what better way to spend it than by owning a work by one of the most influencial artists of the 20th Century? And you would get to gaze at that brilliant painting every day of your life.

Right around the corner, I caught sight of a painting by another of the artists I most admire; Willem De Kooning. Something about De Kooning's painterly style and almost childlike abstractions, has always attracted me. This was a great early De Kooning; one of his "Woman" series and it was going for only $1.5 million (which is actually not bad for a De Kooning circa 1953).

And the French gallery assistant was a work of art herself; she had bright red hair pulled back in a simple cignon and her make-up was perfect. I noticed her white silk blouse was Chanel, (maybe even vintage Chanel) and her navy blue slim shirt and matching high stiletto heels; it is a correct tailored look, so often seen on French women (my good friend Candy tells me that French women spend more than any other females in the entire world on themselves; on their hair, grooming, beauty products and clothing, and I believe her).

By then, I was convinced that Art Basel did indeed have it all, when I walked into an installation of five or six boxes by Joseph Cornell. From the time I was a litttle boy going to the Art Institute of Chicago; the small wooden Joseph Cornell boxes have fascinated, intrigued and mesmerized me. At the Art Institute, there is an entire room of Cornell boxes; and I could never get enough of his original and nostalgic work. The mostly wooden boxes contain painted backgrounds, cut-outs and collages, and mysterious often slightly creepy, found objects. Once I discover an artist who knows how to portray the underbelly of society, the dark side we all recoil from naturally, yet cannot turn away from; and somehow make the work approachable and have meaning, I am a fan for life.

While I attended Harvard, there was a major exhibit of Joseph Cornell boxes at the Whitney Museum and I made the trek from Boston to New York on the train to see it. I wanted to know more about the artist who created these compelling boxes. Joseph Cornell was born on December 24, 1903 in Nyack, New York. In 1929, his family moved to Flushing, Queens in a house he shared with his mother and handicapped brother Robert for the rest of his life. He subsisted largely on a diet of candy, cake and ice cream; and it is widely believed that he never had sexual relations in his life.

During the day, Joseph Cornell worked as a woolen goods salesman and later as a textile designer. At night in the damp basement of the house on Utopia Parkway in Queens, with his domineering mother stomping around on the creaky old floorboards overhead; Cornell managed to produce hundreds of his magical wooden boxes. In many ways, I guess Joseph Cornell never really grew up; he lived with his mother, ate candy all the time and did not ever have sex. Yet maybe that is why the totally original Joseph Cornell boxes are so powerful and potent; he gave everything to his art, it consumed all his energy. Somewhere, even in his seemingly miserable life, Joseph Cornell found the creative inspiration to construct his enchanting boxes; which are now owned and displayed by some of the finest museums and private collections in the world. Joseph Cornell died in the ignoble house in Flushing, Queens on December 29, 1972 was cremated and -- according to his wishes -- buried in a small wooden box.

As with many of the artists I saw at Art Basel; artists whose work I have admired most of my life (it was one of the greatest favors my Mother ever did for me; teaching me to appreciate fine art at an early age) I am in awe of the work itself; the high monetary cost in 2004 is simply proof on Wall Street that the art is indeed something of great value.

When I am in the presence of any great art, I still retain the childlike innocence that I had when I was a little boy of eight; gazing at the masterpieces at the wonderful Art Institute of Chicago. What a great gift my beautiful young Mother gave me (she was only 20 when I was born, just a girl herself, and proudly married for two whole years). Every journey to the Art Institute of Chicago was a thrilling adventure; a trip from our small town to the big city, a promise of dining on gourmet food at restaurants with white table cloths and most of all, the whole Saturday spent looking at fine art, discovering the artists I still love.

The sense of adventure still stirs my soul, even though I am much older; the same magic returns when I view a piece by a beloved artist. Seeing the Joseph Cornell boxes, still so astonishing after all these years, instantly took me away from the razzle dazzle of Art Basel and back to my childhood. And the reason for looking at art in the first place, which has nothing at all to do with money, taught to me by my lovely Mother so many years ago now.

Art has the power to change you, to make you look at the world in a different way. Art is as close to magic as anything you'll ever find on this earth. I was so transfixed by the blue wooden box with a tiny dead sparrow and crucifix by Joseph Cornell, that I even forgot to ask its price.

Of course, I have known the answer to the question since I was eight -- real art is always priceless.


(C) Gregory E. Mansfield


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Art Basel 2004: Day One
"If truth is beauty, how come no one gets their hair done at the library?"
-Lily Tomlin

Just when I thought that the Philistines had taken over Miami Beach, Art Basel a huge and prestigious international contemporary art exhibition arrived last weekend. Art Basel (Basel rhymes with dazzle) was the very best cultural event I have attended since I came here from Chicago last year. And I was totally dazzled by the entire showcase.

If you've never heard of Art Basel (and I was amazed at how many Miami natives did not know a thing about it; they must be in a coma) go to www.artbasel.com and read all about the exhibition and its history. Art Basel Miami Beach is a sibling of the enormous and prestigious art festival that takes place every June in Basel, Switzerland. Art Basel Miami Beach is in its third year and has achieved its stature because of the rigorous jurying process used by its Swiss progenitor. Because it is an international exhibit; mingled in with all the blue chip contemporary American artists, I was delighted to see the works of many newer current European artists.

From the second I arrived at Art Basel, I knew it was going to be a totally new experience. First of all, it is vast in size and scope alone; nearly 175 of the world's leading galleries are represented. Throngs of collectors, art dealers, curators, museum directors, artists, designers, architects and academics; and tens and thousands of local art enthusiasts eager to enjoy what has become one of the most prestigious exhibitions of contemporary art in the United States, were flocking to the Miami Beach Convention Center for Art Basel on opening day.

The famous (Toby McGuire was among them, but I was too busy gazing at the art to even look for him) and the not so famous, all came either to buy or sell or simply stare at all the amazing art. Yoko Ono was there (she wrote a performance piece) and I did see her; she is very petite in person and was wearing big black rimmed sunglasses and a simple black linen shirt and slacks. I missed Jon Voight, who I heard bought a six figure painting from a Miami gallery.

One of the most compelling and outrageous performance artists I have ever seen presented their eccentric art act immediately; they call themselves Eva and Adele.

The pair - male and female respectively - was dressed in matching pink dresses, fuzzy pink cashmere shawls with shaved heads. Eva, who was obviously the more masculine, says their matching outfits, make-up and hair styles (or lack thereof) are designed to blur gender boundaries.

Eva and Adele, who use only their first names, say they have dressed exactly alike every waking minute for the past 15 years. "It's a permanent performance piece," says Adele, who does most of the talking for the pair, "wherever we are is museum." I could hardly pry myself away from the scores of shutterbugs (and you were not supposed to bring cameras to Art Basel, but everyone snuck them in) at the booth of Galerie Michael Schultz of Berlin, who represents Eva and Adele. And both of them were parading around Art Basel in bright red high heels and all that heavy make-up, with long earrings and perfect scarlet manicured nails; now that's what I call dedication to your art.

I'm sure that Andy Warhol would have been madly photographing Eva and Adele too; if he were alive. And even more gratified (Andy loved to know when his paintings appreciated in value) to know that a large Andy Warhol silkscreen painting of "Flowers 1965" was going for $4.5 million. (Back when I became interested in Warhol's work, when he was still alive in the early 1980s, the painting would have sold for maybe $150,000.). And it even wigged me out of my mind when I saw a Warhol Campbell's Soup can (I'm talking about a real old, ragged looking soup can with a ripped label; and if I know Andy Warhol it probably still has the chicken soup in it) that was $325,000.

Most of all, Art Basel is a contemporary art sale and its product happens to be the greatest art of the 20th and 21st Century. But it actually sort of annoyed me that the art gallery owners were cruising everyone for sales; like the entire show was all about the money. I will admit that I did sport a cool outfit for the first day (a blue Prada shirt, black Donna Karan slacks and black Cole-Haan loafers, sans socks, of course). I must look rich, because those owners were all over me like a cheap suit. Do I really LOOK that rich? Or is it because I actually know something about the art; and how to pronounce the names of Jean-Michel Basquiat, Wayne Thiebaud and Josef Albers (I cringed when I heard the local Miami natives mispronouncing all of them).

A small Wayne Thiebaud caught my eye at the John Berggruen Gallery ; it was a classic Thiebaud theme, a still life of books in a line on a shelf. Colorful and the composition precisely right, it was a very good Thiebaud. And the pretty gallery assistant (who was so flattered that I noticed her beige Marc Jacobs ensemble; he is my favorite American designer for women these days) would have been delighted to sell it to me for $345,000.

If I did have millions to spend on art, the choice would have been difficult, because all my favorite artists were represented at Art Basel. I saw a gorgeous small Helen Frankenthaler painting on paper(I would love to own a Frankenthaler) done in vivid tones of blue and pale pink, in her inimitable fluid style, that was only $95,000. The same gallery also had a wonderful black and white Robert Motherwell painting and collage for just $70,000. (Frankenthaler and Motherwell were married for awhile, I wonder if they are still friends?)

Sam Francisis one of my all time beloved abstract expressionist painters; and his bright, exciting work was well represented. One of the owners, Eleanor Acquavella Dejoux of the Acquavella Galleries represents him and she really was so delightful and engaging, taking me around the exhibit space to show the fantastic collection of Sam Francis paintings. I fell in love with a splendid watercolor, done in many shades of bright blues "Untitled 1959" that was $275,000. And Ms.Dejoux also had a Mark Rothko(whose beautiful work you rarely even see on sale, since he died long ago and made few paintings); a small, but stunning, purple and deep reddish brown painting with his trademark floating strips of luminous color that was $2.5 million.

As I gazed at these masterpieces, I started to wonder, did Sam Francis himself when he was painting this superb watercolor back in 1959, probably in his cold, drafty studio in New York City; ever in his wildest dreams think that it would sell for that much money? Would Mark Rothko still have committed suicide, if he knew that by 2004 he would be a very rich artist? But then, would owning a Rothko still have the same allure; if he had not tragically died so young and created so few paintings?

Some famous artists themselves also attended Art Basel; both Robert Rauschenberg and James Rosenquist. I visited a London gallery owner that exclusively represented Rauschenberg in the United Kingdom; and he had three, large glorious silkscreen and painted panels that had never been exhibited in the USA (priced at $227,000 per panel). He was an amiable fellow, so I asked him if he had seen Rauschenberg himself at the exhibit. He smiled slyly and said, "Oh yes, Mr. Rauschenberg was here." And, you know me; I pretty much interview everyone, so I asked him if Rauschenberg had anything to say about the exhibit. "Yes," the gallery owner said in a conspiratorial voice, "he told me, he would have hung the panels a bit lower."

In another life, I was a Gallery Director and artists always have an opinion about how their work should be displayed. After four hours, which passed very quickly, my eyes and feet were weary from looking at all that art. I'll write about Day Two of Art Basel tomorrow.

But I must report that I did not see one single pair of plastic flip flops at Art Basel.

(C) Gregory E. Mansfield

World AIDS Day
"I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and new."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson


Psychiatrists say that the average person has only six really close friends; I'm not talking about acquaintances or business associates, I mean real friends, with whom you share your life and heart. Although I cling to the notion that I am anything but average, during the years from 1990-1992, I lost five of my closest friends in the world. I was so devastated that I did indeed seek psychiatric help; and I will always be indebted to my gifted psychiatrist Dr. Eric in Chicago, who helped me learn how to grieve for my lost loved ones.

Today is World AIDS Day; every year, you hear less and less about it. With the exception of my dear friend Linda, who died from ovarian cancer, the other four of my closest friends died from AIDS. I think that when you meet an exceptional person in life, like my friends who died; Linda, Joseph, Larry, Mark and Eddie, you are obligated to continue remembering them.

The four men who died from AIDS and Linda are never far from my memory; but especially today I am thinking of them all. When I recall them now, I have only the happiest memories, before the plague, when life smelled fresh and new. I remember the pungent scent of Eddie's signature Gucci cologne; the embers from a pile of burning autumn leaves at Linda's cabin near the lake; bright fragrant pink roses from Larry's patio garden; Mark's perpetual cigarette smoke curling as we listened to disco music and little Joseph's steamy tea spiked with Black Velvet.

I recall the scents and also the bright Midwestern light, with a seamless blue prairie sky, like looking up at a huge bowl turned upside down. Sometimes, the yellow evening light raking across the cornfields seemed melancholy to me.

Now, I think of all the things that they missed, dying so young. They never owned a personal computer or even heard of the Internet. None of them ever had a CD or CD player. When they were alive, movies were still on video cassettes, DVDs had not been invented. My friend Larry would have loved to own a Hummer, which had not yet been introduced in 1991. How Linda would have adored a Digital camera and camcorder.

My friends were not the old fashioned types, so thinking of them frozen in time 14 years ago is odd. I wonder what they would think of the preponderance of reality shows on television. Linda was ahead of her time, she used to say that she craved the idea of following me around with a camera, photographing my every maneuver. I actually told her then that no one would ever be interested in watching a person's real life.

I remember evenings spent just riding around in cars with my friends. And I wish now, that I had relished each second more. I think that I took it all for granted; having five close friends who would do anything for me. The hours that I spent in their presence now seem like gold; but it is a powdery gold that just slipped through my fingers.

Besides paying tribute to my dear departed friends, the point of today's entry is this; December 1st is World AIDS Day. I knew four wonderful, charming, handsome, intelligent, creative men who died of a virus that none of us had heard of when we all met in college. AIDS affected my life on a very deep and personal level.

They all had names; Joseph, Larry, Eddie and Mark. And they all had families and friends who still think of them lovingly. I think it is a dirty gyp that they, and so many other creative people, had to die from AIDS. God takes Perry Ellis and leaves us with Pat Robertson; you really have to wonder.

My irreplaceable housekeeper and friend John died of AIDS too, in 2000. So people are still dying of AIDS; and there is more work and research to be done. You can contribute to the American Foundation for AIDS Research (amfAR) directly on this web log (see the DONATE button below). For more information about amfAR and the excellent work they do, please visit their website at www.amfar.org .


(C) Gregory E. Mansfield

I cover the waterfront
Topic: Life in South Beach
"All my life, I've been surrounded by people who are not in my league."
-Judy Garland


1:00 p.m. Writing on Sunday from the beach...

South Beach itself, the actual stretch of white sand beach and turquoise ocean across from Ocean Drive, is frequently named one of the most beautiful beaches in America. Since it only a few blocks from my condo, I go there often for the sun and water, but mostly for the people watching pleasures.

Sunday on South Beach is S&M day; and here in SoBe, it's not what you're thinking. In supermodel conscious SoBe, S&M means to stand and model. And there's a lot of standing and modeling going on in South Beach on this perfect 82 degree sunny afternoon.

Two gorgeous men, built and buffed, are standing and modeling on the shore. They look exactly like the striking male models from photographs by Tom Bianchi or Bruce Weber. Their biceps and triceps are perfectly chiseled; you could bounce a quarter off their rock hard abs. Each of them is sporting an expensive, but revealing swimsuit, probably Dolce and Gabanna. One is wearing a black box cut bathing suit; the other is sporting a tight grey and black bikini number. And these guys even look alike; they both have light brown hair, cut short.

The two handsome men, pretending to talk to each other, gaze out and survey the crowd like their heads are on a swivel. Obviously, they are into S&M too, and they are not moving. Maybe Bruce Weber is on the beach today. Perhaps Tom Bianchi is looking for his next calendar boy.

1:25 p.m.
Now, I am looking at four pair of naked breasts of various sizes, in which I have no real interest. I am a boy from the Midwest, the heartland; where ladies keep there breasts covered. But a French woman with her platinum hair pulled up insouciantly in a knot on top, wearing a hot pink bikini, is lying under a huge black umbrella; her rather large tits to the afternoon ocean breeze. Beside her, she has a small blue cooler filled with Glaceau Vitamin Water, a stack of magazines including "Paris MATCH" and a bottle of Bain de Soleil bronzing oil.

A perky freckled young girl suddenly emerges from the water, proudly displaying her tiny mosquito bite boobs. This one appears to be from Ohio, she is wearing a dated flowered bathing suit bottom and I absently notice she does not have a Brazilian wax job (there is a waxing salon on every block here); which is de rigueur in SoBe. And the tourists from Ohio always show up snow white one day and burned scarlet red the next; they have no notion of the South Beach sun's potency.

Nearby us (it is almost beach blanket to blanket people today) a large lady with messy salt and pepper hair, who has no business displaying her sagging mammilla, is arranging herself on her beach towel like she is Heidi Klum. I instictively turn the other way.

A young attractive couple is lying in close proximity to us on white rented beach chairs and the pretty blonde is also reclining topless; but she has the only decent looking pair of breasts I've seen. They also have Hermes towels (hers is orange striped, his is blue) and she probably has a new Prada strapless dress to wear to a party tonight and she does not want hateful tan lines. Neither of them has stopped talking on their individual silver cell phones since we arrived. The man, tan and handsome, looks over at her occasionally and flashes a smile of perfect teeth; the way you might make a silly grin at your dog or a small child.

The two S&M men are still standing and modeling; posing by the shore like matching Greek statues.

1:45 p.m.
A blonde tan guy, with a California surfer look, has appeared, quickly stipping down to a black thong bathing suit. The appearance of a thong, with the guy's full rear end hanging out is also quite common here. While the surfer arranges his towel, a gay couple is creating a custom beach environment for themselves, complete with matching purple striped beach chairs and coordinating blanket. They are both tan and good looking in that ubiquitous gay way, like central casting requested a 2004 gay character with perfect hair and wardrobe. Both of them are sporting bathing suits straight out of the "International Male" catalog. The taller, better looking guy is wearing one of those `tan through' bathing suits that has a paisley print and he's slowly walking toward the water. His friend is carefully removing stemmed wine glasses and a bottle of wine, encased in a chiller, from a hefty Williams Sonoma bag.

Under three bright yellow, red and orange umbrellas, a posse of French people is congregating and setting up for the afternoon. They are soon having a little lunch, passing around enormous bags of Doritos and Baked Lay's Potato Chips, raving on in French about how they love American snack food. I can't quite place their dialect or accent; it's not Parisian French, maybe they are from Belgium or Quebec. And to be honest, this bunch doesn't have the style that I associate with natives of Paris. The zaftig woman with long curly hair in an `out of the bottle orange blonde' color who is commanding the group is wearing a faded blue bikini, and she has a large belly with cottage cheese fat.

Suddenly, a helicopter is flying low over the beach; it could be the paparazzi who often circle SoBe. Cher is in town and I bet that a photo of her topless would be worth several thousand dollars. But she's never going to bare her breasts out here like these other commoners. I remember hearing that several other celebrities are in South Beach this weekend, but Cher is the only one I recall. I know for sure the paparazzi isn't chasing Paris Hilton, because she always just stops and poses for them.

Everyone is looking up at the helicopter, even the lifeguards have come out of their colorful station to stare at the bright blue sky. The helicopter makes a leisurely circle, coming in closer to the shore. I wonder what it would be like to have the job of the actual paparazzi, idly waiting for Cher or Madonna or J-Lo to do something, anything that would make a good photo.

The two handsome men near the water front are still standing and modeling; but they look upward when they see the helicopter. They are careful, though, not to break their poses. Bruce Weber wouldn't be in a helicopter, so they are not unduly concerned with its noisy presence.

2:30 p.m.
The beach is quickly filling up now; I'm glad we arrived when we did and procured a good spot. It's literally blanket to blanket people, a great many of them are gay men. Finally, the boys have arisen from their afternoon naps freshened up with their favorite Kiel's skin care preparations and are ready to face Sunday now.

Unfortunately, not everyone near my Ralph Lauren beach towel is a good looking gay man or a beautiful woman. I love to see a slim, elegant woman, who is well groomed and impeccably dressed. But I glance to my left and see the opposite, a lady whose rear end is so large you could park a Hummer on it. And she is wearing a tight hideous, flesh colored bikini, with little red square shaped buttons on the sides. Where did she ever find such a thing?

I look away from her and observe a guy with the longest blonde hair I have ever seen in my whole life. I mean it; this man's hair is way down past his butt, almost reaching to his knees. This is something you don't often see, which is the kind of thing that will mesmerize me every time. He is just leisurely walking along with that long, long streaked blonde hair blowing in the warm breeze.

More men in thong bathing suits have arrived; a chartreuse thong catches my eye. A well built man with a black crew cut is wearing it and he is shamelessly exposing his muscular buns as he turns over on his blanket. He pretends to chat on his cell phone, but he's well aware of the appreciative gazes nearby.

I now see a sweet little man, he must be at least 85 and he's wearing red and white striped boxer trunks and one of those odd pointed rubber white swim hats. He is simply adorable and is probably only five feet tall; but here he is out on a gorgeous day, smiling and enjoying himself. The diminutive man is coming back in from swimming in the ocean; he's not chubby, so he must take good care of himself. I suddenly realize that he is my favorite person to observe on the beach this Sunday. I admire the small older man who isn't afraid to face the South Beach beautiful people on a crowded day. He knows that his body is no longer firm and appealing, but he wants to relish the sunshine and take a swim and I say, God bless him.

The two S&M characters are still posing by the water's edge. And then it happens, the moment they have been waiting for this entire afternoon. A married tourist couple, probably from Iowa or Idaho; approaches them and timidly asks if they may take their photos. The S&M pair is delighted to accommodate them and they grin like Cheshire cats at each other. The gangly pasty white man from Iowa(he is probably either a closet homosexual or is taking the photos for his wife, because believe me this guy is no eye candy) asks them to pose in the water.

Happily, they accommodate, posing is why these boys exist. They pose standing close together, their muscular arms on their hips; their perfectly shaped chests thrust forward. The skinny guy from Idaho is really getting into the photo session; and he asks them to pose with their arms around each other. Of course, they would stand on their heads in the ocean if asked, so this is a small request and they wrap their arms around each other. Now, I am pretty sure that this scrawny man from Idaho with the timid little wife is a closet gay and he's taking all these photos for himself.

But it doesn't matter to the S&M boys; they have had their session in front of the lens this Sunday, even if it was a cheap disposable digital camera and not Bruce Weber's Nikon. To them, it might as well have been Bruce Weber, because they got a great deal of attention from the emaciated tourist from Idaho.

They quickly gather their belongings and begin to leave the beach. Possibly Tom Bianchi will be on South Beach another day and they will most surely return to stand and model again. For now, they have a good story to tell their other handsome friends tonight over cocktails at Score.

And I will have more stories to tell from South Beach too; where the famous and gorgeous mingle with tourists from Wyoming and aspiring models that will spend an entire dazzling Sunday afernoon just standing and modeling on the sea shore. Another day will bring with it a whole new cast of esoteric characters.

Meanwhile, I cover the waterfront.

(C) Gregory E. Mansfield