Years ago, I rented a small flat on quaint Flores Street in the heart of West Hollywood.
One of my favorite past-times was to slip into the Nicholas Wilder Contemporary Art Gallery on Santa Monica Boulevard right across from Circus Books (stocked with skin mags, mostly) where David Hockey was often spied in the backroom flipping through racy gay porn.
Talk about the distance between high and low-brow art!
Wilder's gallery was an oasis in a vast cultural wasteland long before galleries opened their doors along Melrose, La Cienega, and La Brea.
After mingling with the likes of Jack Nicholson at an afternoon art opening, I trundled on down the street to the Posh Bagel where I planned to snack on a couple of their house specialties.
As I strolled down the strip, suddenly I spied Truman Capote sauntering along in my direction just up-a-ways. Obviously, he was a friend of Nick's, and on his way to take in the stimulating exhibition.
As we were about to pass on the sidewalk, Mr. Capote half-turned, eyed me appreciatively up and down, and exclaimed:
"Oh my!"
I chuckled, gave a little nod, and went on my merry way.
Later, I could of kicked myself.
I guess I should have stopped and engaged in a little idle chit-chat.
After all, the celebrated author was quite a remarkable intellectual, and a fascinating complex person, to boot!
Ah, but I still have the memory of our brief encounter!
One of my favorites quotes pertains to his hilarious observations about Tinsel town.
"It's a scientific fact," he slyly asserted one day.
"For every year a person lives in Hollywood, they lose two points off their IQ."
Portrait of Nicholas Wilder by David Hockney...
(Nick tried to set me up with the artist, being blond, pretty & all!)
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